Ensouled Proboscis Simian Humans

These utterly stunning dream experiences occurred on Thursday, February 16, 1989, whilst the Moon transited both Cancer and my second house.

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I was on a street and just beyond the other side of the street was the edge of a cliff; it looked down into a distant valley.  It was very sunny out.  I was seated in front of a house. On my right was a man who had come home from work in a car.  He looked very Italian except that he seemed to be very hirsute – as though he had quite dark skin. However, on closer inspection, he turned out to be rather hirsute.  A little later on, he came outside again.  His neighbours were looking at him, kind of strangely, like they weren’t already accustomed to looking or reacting to him in a strange manner.

He sat down next to me outside, on the neighbouring bench to my right, both of us with backs to the neighbours.  He turned and looked at me and his face was rather ape-like. It was the colour black and his hair was quite different.  This man had a long widow’s peak and his face was literally the colour black.  It was quite ape-like.  He said nothing.  More than that, he seemed rather friendly and nice. Along that street, there were kids when a car had pulled up.  They were very teenage kids – all boys.  A boy came out further along and returned to join one of his companions.

Then it turned out that his companion was in a car that was black and seemed to move, as it were, on air-cushioned rubber wheels.  This black car of his was rather aerodynamic. After his friend took off, he then – this is the little blond timid guy – went over towards the cliff.  Directly in front of the hirsute ape-like man, who was seated to my right, the blond guy went into the bushes. The young guy turned out to have been his brother – that guy who looked like a twin of his or resembled a brother.  They hung out together and then he went moving on.

As he passed me, going from right to left, a friend of his was coming down the road.  The road had a curve in it and went steeply up a hill.  The hill, in fact, looked like the hill at Toronto’s Prospect Cemetery on the south side of Kitchener Street. His friend came down and he was wearing a helmet because he had been on some sort of vehicle.  He removed the helmet, carrying it in his right hand, as they greeted each other. Strangely, they greeted by grabbing each other around the hips and rubbed their crotches together, joked and laughed.  In essence, they engaged in clothed frottage.

I thought it interesting that two males would engage in open sexual play, however, this seemed the natural standard way of greeting in this culture.  Clearly, this was a sign that this was not exactly Kansas. I had the distinct impression that the twin blonds had gone into the gorge to do drugs.  As they were blissing out, only the crown of their golden mops was visible. They were using the very intense lushness of the rolling hills, in the valley way below, as a stimulant.  Everything here was so pronouncedly healthy, even the star that shined seemed more intense and pure than Sol. I carefully looked at some of the trees and realised that they were bonsai, furry, mossy centuries-old plants that seemed to hum at a frequency higher than their arboreal counterparts on Earth.

I was able to zoom into the plants in the valley way below and experience them in intimate close-up.  Of course, this I accomplished whilst remaining seated on the bench where to my right on another sat the über-poilu, intensely warm, handsome ape-like man. The helmet was the same black, light, metal-plastic alloy material as the car.  It seemed to have the ability to absorb the intense sunlight, which was not scorching, and cool the interior. The blond who greeted his Italian-looking helmeted friend – they were all, incidentally, the same hirsute ape-like stock as the jet-black man seated to my right – had patted the car as he moved around its rear into the road to meet his dark-haired friend. He had patted the car much like one would a trusted horse.  At that, the car had hissed and lurched to the road from its hovering stationary position a foot off the ground.

 Later on, in the second dream, I was still on the same street.  There were all these little kids.  They were on skateboards.  They came down about four, five, six, of them – little guys. One of them was Black.  He was quite light-skinned.  They were from a high social class.  They were very friendly and nice and I warmly interacted with them. However, they were quite reserved and it wasn’t as though they weren’t friendly.  As I was a stranger, for that reason, they kept me at bay. On the lower part of the street, where I was with them, it was clearly a cemetery.  As far as cemeteries go, it was quite different an arrangement.  It had quite large tombstones in it – monuments.

There was one woman there in black who was seemingly Italian.  She was carrying on; she was grieving by this one monument.  It had on it a very interesting design and some of the graves were fresh. I explained to them, the little boys, that this was where one went.  However, then one came back from there and was able to live a life again like they were now living. I explained to them in those terms, however, I did not force them to look at funerals.  People’s focus on funerals as the end and fear of death was the trap, I explained to them.

In this the third dream, I was under these hugely tall trees and was working at the time.  Clearly, I had been working for someone like Pete Wilkens or someone like him. I had left a shovel around.  The shovel had been left about and from a long, long time ago.  This was on the grounds of a park-like setting where there were lots of skeletons about. The skeletons were covered with a whole bunch of ants.  It was strange because it seemed as though the bones were the remnants of lunch and had just been eaten. They seemed like the skeletons for fish except that the head bone of the fish – skull – was quite flat. 

The head had three sides to it and the skeleton was again a narrow filament that had two identical spines that trailed the unusual-looking skull. The skeletons were quite white and were flexible like the white cartilage of a chicken breast.  There was a bunch of ants all over them. I might also add that these flexible, double-spined, fish-like skeletons were covered with ants that were quite feathery and lumpy.  These ants were almost like miniature tarantulas because they were so bulky, dark, rich and, in a way, nice to look at.

There was a shovel sitting about and I realised that I had left it there, when I worked last time which was some time ago, last season.  However, nobody had actually moved it because it meant that it was my responsibility to have moved it. So I ended up moving a couple of rakes – they were, in fact, more like pole saws.  When trying to clear the space, I took them from one area to the next. I must say that I was quite struck by the face of that particular man that I did see, whilst he sat on the neighbouring bench to my right, in the initial dream.  Even here in another dream entirely, I kept seeing him in my mind’s eye.

 The fourth dream found me going back to an apartment where Merlin and I were living together.  There were ants all about the apartment. I told him, “You have to get out and go away for a while so I can clean away the ants.” I then went about disinfecting the place and got rid of the ants.  I was even disinfecting beneath the floorboards… everywhere. Owing to his being full-blown with AIDS, I did not want Merlin being exposed to the harmful chemicals in the disinfectants.  That, certainly, could have resulted in horrific consequences on his vastly compromised immune system.

With the fifth dream, I was in a large department store.  There, I saw Isis da Braga who was there to buy a scarf.  At the time, I was with two males; it was a Gay situation. Owen Hawksmoor was talking to someone who had a very large nose.  The man to whom Owen spoke was Black.  He seemed like we vaguely knew each other.  He seemed, in fact, like Don Baxter. However, the face on this man was black and had hues of red in it.  Not the colour black but as Black people look.  More than that, such that it looked like the nose of an animal’s would like an aardvark or some such, the nose on this man was more like a snout. He wore white; both he and Owen did.  There was some function, that one had to go to, for which Owen had complimentary tickets.

These two people, whom Owen and I had encountered, were saying that they did not know where their complimentary tickets were.  I said that I knew I had mine.  Anyway, Owen left them and went back up a flight of steps. It was quite light out, up the staircase, as though there was a skylight hung high overhead.  Owen moved on and I went in search of Isis who had passed by.  She was quite embarrassed, in fact, at seeing me with my arm about a Gay person. She went in and picked up a scarf and the scarf was worth 52$, I think, because she was putting down the balance of the money – the other half – 26$.  She was there shopping. It was a black scarf and it had beautiful… the borders were red and green designs.  It really was quite nice.  I came and leaned on the counter and said hello to my sister.

She was reserved, cool and detached.  She turned to me and was beautifully made up and looked very young with beautiful, flawless, flawless skin. She spoke about the fact that she did not go shopping with me anymore.  She insisted that my accusation that she did not go shopping with me anymore because I was with men was not true. She was wearing a beautiful mustard-coloured jacket and a scarf about her neck.  Indeed, she was quite well-off.

*The thing about these unusually droopy noses is that they looked as though this was a race of extra-humans (extra-terrestrials) which had evolved from simian mammals who were descended from proboscis monkey stock rather than not.  It is a race of primates native to Borneo and the faces of those simians are rather human. This is how this man and others in this dream would appear.  However, it was more than that look.  END.

In the sixth dream, I was in an office that was like an indoor greenhouse.  If you like, it was a mausoleum rather than greenhouse.  It was sky-lit and there were a lot of caskets about.  Some of them had flowers and some of them did not. When you came in, you went down some stairs and into a more open area.  There you saw a burial crypt.  It was an indoor burial crypt.  There was a man about as well as a grand piano. Whenever the employees of the place came in, there was a woman standing about and she would excitedly say, “We have to go out, we have to go out.” I was with those little children, from the earlier dream, who were skateboarding and whom I had instructed earlier about the whole idea of reincarnation.  These children were mostly White.  We were also being hustled out of the place.

The woman then said, “What is he doing?  There is not another service.  Why is he trying to start up that piano?” The man at the piano was large and bent over and he looked somewhat out of place being there.  Before we could be ushered out of the place, I managed to run up and put some flowers – some yellow flowers, on one of the brown caskets that was there.

*He was inordinately tall and hence drooped over a lot.  Whilst seated at the grand piano, his towering height made it look as though an adult seated at a dollhouse piano.  Too, he was inordinately pale…  END.

As we were going out, the procession was coming in and people were being hustled in.  It was quite a fast procession.  I stuck around and tried to see the place and see why there was so much hustling. There and then, it turned out that I saw the casket.  It was very flat and plain and I thought, ‘Well why is it being hustled out?  If it’s a funeral why would the relations be so ecstatic?’ However, it turned out that because the burial box was so flat I thought it was going to be cremated.  It turned out, however, that it was for the office.  There was going to be a surprise party.

It was actually a cake.  It was covered up in wonderful, colourful wrapping paper.  There was going to be a celebration and those were all the workers from the company.  The atmosphere was quite nice and friendly.

 In this the seventh dream, I was in a very, very large and busy restaurant where I ordered myself a bowl of soup.  I was going to go upstairs to the bathroom but I had my bowl of soup in my hand. It was very Gothic-styled.  It seemed, in fact, like the inside of a château.  It was in the Gothic style except that the walls were rose granite – rose-coloured granite.  It was, however, rather smooth-surfaced. I then accidentally spilled my bowl of soup.  The waitress who had come to my aid was dark-haired – short, dark hair.  She looked like a dancer who danced with the Winnipeg Contemporary Dancers when I was living in Winnipeg – the one who was Lebanese and had had a back injury.

Anyway, this waitress went off and I was waiting there being quite embarrassed.  I was trying to rush to the toilet.  I asked someone where the toilet was and they said, “No, no, not upstairs.” It turned out that the washrooms were, in fact, to the rear.  So off I went to the bathroom and I was quite embarrassed. I tidied up myself and I came back out and my white cotton pants – nice, beautiful trousers; they were baggy but they came in tight and folded in a pleat at the end at the hem – were quite stained by the soup. It was a dark sort of pea soup.  A dark brownish fare, like a lentil soup, it was.  However, it was not like a lentil soup because it was red.

I was trying to ask this man to move, in order to get by him, en route to the washrooms.  There was a couple behind a man and they were very lovey-dovey. The man had to ask them to get up to let me get to the bathroom.  He did not want to get up or anything like that but he finally realised he had to get up.  So he basically moved and he was quite unusually blond. Everybody in this place was very unusual-looking.  They had extraordinary features about them.  They were excessively good-looking but they had an outstanding feature that made them seem Thothesque. Again, noses here were very long, droopy and bent over.  Their noses were almost beaklike in that sense.  That was the extraordinary thing about that jet-black skinned man, in the initial dream, as well as this blond man who had the same feature.

Humanoid with exact nose as this Proboscis Simian

These persons were all exceptionally tall.  They were each on the other side of seven-plus feet.  Also, they were so über-poilu, it made it look like they were either jet-black when Black or yellow-white for being blond. Finally, he did move and when I was leaving, I looked at him.  He was looking down at me because I was out of sorts, out of place, being there.  Standing before him, he really did tower over me. Clearly, these persons were EHs – extra-humans or ETs. Another person had come by and tidied me up.  He busily got me back to where I was seated.  Then he had mumbled something like,Why don’t you get out of here real fast?”

So I went out into the vestibule and I was waiting and waiting for the waitress to come by because I wanted to pay her for my bowl of soup.  I think it was going to be $3 or something like that. Isis just said, “Why don’t we just get out of here?” We were waiting out front and it was busy so I finally got out.  However, I was arguing and said, “That’s not the point of it.” I strongly felt that I should be paying my way.  So I thought to just go back and put down my money on a table somewhere – I would feel better. However, I did finally leave, after having been more or less harassed by Isis without having paid.  She was asking, “If you can save the money, why not save it?” that was her attitude.

When we were leaving there was a tall, enormously tall, man.  He was White.  Again, he had the same beaklike nose and there was something about his face that I found immediately sexual.  His face was intensely sexualised. I was going to indulge and not leave because I so wanted to explore this man.  However, Isis hustled me out of there.

Dream eight found me in the streets.  I was walking with a baby – a little Black baby who was light-skinned.  I carried the baby on my shoulders. It was rather nice.  This time, out on the street, it was dark out and it was night time.  This place we went to, that was quite busy, was bustling with lots of wonderful, wonderful people. It was very cosmopolitan here.  A brief dream it was too.

I next found myself in a ninth dream experience that had a great deal of uproar and tumult to it. There were figures in black who were part of some sort of religious sect.  These persons were just alarmingly fanatical. They were terrorists and they wore black.  They had some sort of insignia on their bodies.  As a matter of fact, they were looking for me; there was no mistaking that fact. I was in what would be Catherine Angelica Montpelier’s yard.  I was trying to hide out there.  There were, somehow, attempts to get me out. Then there was this truck which the people who were like security guards used.  I was told where to find them and where they weren’t.

So I went into this yard and it seemed like part of Catherine Angelica Montpelier’s property and the neighbourhood in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  However, it was differently set up here. There was an Indian-looking girl – Amerindian-looking and not Dravidian.  She, too, had a beaklike nose and I tried to explain to her, “Well look, you know I’m being pursued…”

“Oh yes!” further, she made reference to the fact, “Oh yes, you’re the one who killed Bob… or somebody.” Up on the roof was like Bob’s brother, whoever Bob was, but it wasn’t a name that I recognised.  His name was Bob, however; it was Patrice Wellesley, of all people, who was keeping a lookout. He was supposed to notify the guard-like people.  I intuitively knew that on the far side of the wall, of the place where I was hiding out, was a guy and a girl.  She had very long black hair and was quite militant.  They were looking out for me and talking.

I was telling the Amerindian-looking girl with the Thothesque nose, who was talking to me and dropping pieces of information, to just shut up and calm down, “You don’t need to say everything and carry on and on.” However, she still kept on blabbing away. I then managed to go around the side of the house.  She was with her sister and they were playing some sort of game.  So I thought to actually go around, to the front of the house, to ask her who her sister was. I then went around to the front of the house and there was her sister who seemed like Diana Nottingham – with whom I modelled at OCAD and did that pose with her at OCAD that Olaf Nordstrom had painted.

Anyway, she was quite wonderfully made up in whiteface.  As though she were a Kabuki actor/actress, she wore white pancake makeup.  She was, in fact, an actress.  She was waiting to go on and perform a role of hers. It was quite interesting because she was, in fact, filling me in on what was going on, “In point of fact Arvin, you know, basically someone died because in self-defence in a rumble with them… it was just a lazy man about town, an idler and a drifter.” He apparently ended up dying because, during some sort of attack on me, as I was defending myself he was accidentally killed.  As a result, I was on the run and there was a plot – the militant group was out to get me.

Immanuel Methodist Church, Sandy Point, St. Kitts

She told me that what I could do was go behind the Methodist Church in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  The place, however, was set out as if a mélange of Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts and elsewhere. So she told me to go across the railroad tracks.  On coming around, I would be able to come home free to my home in Crab Hill.  However, she pointed out that all along the route there were the same guards – militant fanatics. However, I just had to play it safe.  She confidently assured me that they could be headed off.  I was grateful for her advice and took her directives to heart. Well, low and behold, the girl – the militant sibling – came around the yard and caught me.  When she caught me, I fled in escape.  I went and hid behind the wall. I am not referring to Diana or one of the two sisters who had been around the backyard but there were two other sisters.  These other two sisters were part of the militant group that was on the hunt for me.

The girl pulled out a weapon and it had a little blade on it.  It was quite deadly and I kept hiding myself trying to extricate myself out of the place.  I did so by holding up one of the sisters, in front of me, as a hostage. Someone got spliced in the left hand.  I don’t recall that it was me or if it was me, I simply did not feel any pain when attacked.  The vicious-looking wound had self-healed right away.  I had focussed my light energies on the wound and caused it to instantaneously self-heal. Anyway, I was able to push the sister onto them.  I then made my way around to the back of the house.  By this time, the brother was coming around the house from the other direction.

When I say I went around to the back of the house, it was where I had originally encountered the two militant sisters.  By that point, she had already called for help from the guardsman.  He was somewhat ecstatic as he came around.  However, this was my chance to flee. So I climbed over the fence and immediately there was a lot of plastic on and all over everything.  When I climbed over the wall it was, clearly, what in the waking state would be the very back end of the Methodist Church estate. It was covered with a heavy plastic and there was a lot of wood.  There was scaffolding everywhere.  I climbed along the wood and the sister – the white-faced, actor of the two sisters – had told me that I could get immunity by saying that I was coming to work on the grounds or some such.

Next, I crawled along the scaffolding and looked to my left.  However, this being a dream, it had semblances to being Sandy Point but it wasn’t really Sandy Point either. I realised that there were apartments, tiny apartments, which were glass-enclosed.  They were all quite in disarray.  People lived there but nobody seemed to be home. Here I was trying to make my escape and if anybody had seen me, of course, I would be squealed on.  Then I finally jumped down, out of the ceiling-like area, because there were crates and boxes and a straw-stuffed bed under me directly below the window. I came down to an open area and there I saw a much darker version of Artemis da Braga, my niece.  She was sitting wrapped with a telephone cord about her as she played with the phone. I greeted her but I did not want to get her excited because I wanted to flee the area.

Sentient Alien Land Rover

Next, in dream ten, I came out of this beautiful house and came out into a wonderful backyard.  Immediately, whilst there, I saw another of those vans.  There had also been a van in the earlier dream that showed how these people, the militant people, worked. They had a van and it had another little van on the inside when it opened up claw-like.  It appeared that the top and the bottom, the back rather, could open up.  Inside it revealed another vehicle that was covered in a brownish greasy goop. The most interesting feature of this entire affair was that, although they looked human enough, the militiamen were not human.  They were extra-human.  So too was the machine which, from its goopy fluids, was sentient. It was an EH species which they were using to capture and feed one to.  It seemed that the machine-like EHs were, in fact, in control of the militia-type EHs rather than the reverse.

It seemed more creature than a vehicle and, somehow, this was what I was supposed to be put in when captured.  These two Black men, who were guarding the house and who let me know that they were guarding the house, were saying, “Aha!  Now we’ve caught you.” You know, I thought about it and there was just no way that I was going to let them capture me. ‘I’ve got to get away,’ I thought. At the time, one of them was taking a pee – both these men were Black.  They were quite casual about having caught me.  They apparently were going to get their supervisor who would take care of me.

The supervisor came and he looked like the guy from Trinidad who had worked as a chef at the Underground Railroad Restaurant when, long ago, I worked there.  He did, at least, seem like that man. This man, who was their supervisor, was also Black.  He had the semblance, the air about him, of that chef but he did not so much look a great deal like him.  He was rotund and fairly light-complected. He lived in the house.  Rather, he did not live in the house but he was staying in the house as a caretaker.  I thought, ‘I’m not going to be captured.  I’m not going to be caught.  I can disguise myself.’

Rendering Self Invisible by Increasing Light Vibration

I immediately started accelerating my energies and, as a result, I was able to transform myself.  As I upped my frequency, I heard an increase in the universal hum. I looked down at the backs of both my outstretched hands, keenly observing the intense sunlight react to my skin in a glowing sizzling manner, until my aura intensified and became visible about my body. My aura’s light grew brighter as my skin actually glowed with increasing intensity.  It continued until the skin, throughout my entire body, was indistinguishable from the rest of the intense morning sunlight. When they went down the hill and came back with the guy, I was standing there right in front of the house.  It was this particular, large wooden house.

It wasn’t large, for being a bungalow, but the door was large.  This house was definitely not part of the landscape in Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  As I looked on, the guards came bearing the portly gentleman. I was aware from the way he – the supervisor, Zen sage – was talking that he was aware that I was there.  Perhaps, he could see me but the other two – the militant guardsmen – couldn’t see me. I realised what I had done: I had made myself light so that I blended in with the landscape and couldn’t be seen.  I had rendered myself invisible!

I then decided that I could further transform myself.  Next, I made myself into this little white piece of what seemed like string.  However, it was more like nylon.  It was like shiny waxed dental floss. Such that half way there was a loop in it, it was tied in a knot.  It was doubled on itself so that it was, I would guess, three to five inches long at the most. I obviously was astrally projected to another world where, rather lucidly, I was dreaming and interacting with extra-humans.  The dental floss-like string was the cord of light which keeps one’s astral body connected, to the waking state body, when astral-projected during sleep.

The Light Umbilical Cord Connected to Astral Body

Immediately, the caretaker guy took the cord – the wax-like cord – which was my transformed-dreamer self in his hand.  It was my astral body’s cord which was left rendered visible whilst I remained invisible. He began giving the two guardsmen a walk-through of the house in which only he should have been.  It was a house that was no longer lived in.  It was wooden all about and very organic. It was a house that allowed for natural light to pour in.  There was a skylight.  The house was low in the sense that it was dug in.  The house was built such that it was somewhat half-buried below the surface. In that way, it was kept cool because it was partly below-ground.  All about, on either side, as you walked in every part of this beautiful, sprawling bungalow were every manner of cactus.

These were cacti that were shaped like trees that had leaves.  Absolutely stunning and incredible, they enlivened the house throughout. He gave me a tour of the place with the two guardsmen, who could not see me, in tow.  As he walked them back to the front door he said, “So you see, he really couldn’t be here.  You go off and look for him.” He tossed me or what was my representation – the wax-looking string or my astral body’s umbilical-like cord of light – from his right hand sending it through a doorway of the house.  He then went about his business and showed them to the door and got rid of them. At this point, I rematerialised back to my regular dreamer self in this dream and I was able to let on to him that I knew that he knew of my being invisible.  So I called him, on another phone in the house, and I remained absolutely silent. I then telepathically shared my thoughts with him.  I inferred that I knew that he was aware that I was present in the house though invisible to most.  Of course, he knew that I was there but he was just not going to acknowledge my being friendly with him. The fact is that he knew that I was in trouble.  He was just trying, out of the goodness of his heart, to help me out.  However, he wasn’t going to befriend me or anything like that.

Sprawling Partially Submerged Bungalow

So anyway, on my own I began exploring this beautiful, beautiful labyrinth-like bungalow.  The walls of it were wooden.  It was a reddish wood like redwoods normally look.  It had a shiny hue to it because it was polished. I was talking about it to someone, later on in the dream, and it was in fact the same guy – the caretaker – who had accompanied me at one point.  I said it seemed like it was built by Frank Lloyd Wright and he said, “No.  Not really…” It seemed like it but it was a different style altogether; however, it was more or less like Frank Lloyd Wright.  Seriously though, it was a totally different style. So I went about exploring the place.  I went in this one room that was clearly a bedroom.  I opened the door and went in – it was a glass door.  I went in and on the left were shelves.

There were tiny, tiny, little cacti in pots and some of them were large and some of them were blooming.  They were heliotropically craning over to one side. This place had been abandoned for quite some time.  However, all the cacti in the place had managed to grow quite large.  They were big, bulbous, beautiful and wonderfully lifelike. The spread to the bed was turned down and discarded.  It had been left just as when last used by the owner.  There was a bulldog; it was not a live one but a statue of a bulldog. This person had a great deal of style and was quite successful.  I realised that the owner, the former occupant, was Black.  I saw the face and I can’t say that I can recall the face but, somehow, I got the impression that the face was a face of mine if you like.

Bungalow’s Debonair Former Occupant

It was interesting because when I saw the face that is basically the information that I got from looking at the face in the photo.  There was a tiny time-faded photograph of a face.  It was of a Black man. This was the sense that I got from it, that it was me, in fact. There were beautiful trousers about.  As well, there was a large armoire with tons and tons of beautiful, silk robes that I had worn in that life. They were worn around the house by the former occupant.  There were, on the bed, some clothes.  Too, there was a table beside the bed. Everything in this bungalow was very organic: the bed was very organic, the desk was and even the fixtures were very organic.  As well, the cloth was very organic – by organic, I mean that it wasn’t inanimate.

It was organic because it was lifelike.  More than that, it was organic because it was breathing.  That’s why it had lived so long because it was quite some time since last occupied by the owner. However, it was very much so still alive.  The sheet and bedding, on the bed, were woollen and greyish-coloured. The only reason why I had entered the room, in the first place, was I wanted to roam – to see if there were any signs of underwear… there was.  There was tons of underwear on the shelves behind me. I wanted to check and sniff his underwear, to see if he had masturbated.

Anyway, when I got into the room, that little adventure had totally evaporated.  For having seen the photograph, if you like I was quite interested in exploring the place and getting to refamiliarise myself with the place. The bedroom was just absolutely beautiful.  Off to the left, rather behind the shelves and straight ahead, was the closet and the bed was to the right of the door.

Down this long hallway that was sky-lit were the tables and tables of clothing.  There was a door past the shelves, on the left, and it looked into more and more clothes. I then came out of there and I went about exploring all over.  This time, I went to explore all the cacti in the place.  There were tons and tons of them. Shortly thereafter, I was joined by Carl Leroiderien, Merlin and someone else who seemed like Mario of Paris – Mario D’Agostino, however, it wasn’t him. I had a sense of Maxime Gascoigne-de Montigny being about and Carl Leroiderien had seemed like a custodian of the place.  Carl was a caretaker or curator of the sprawling bungalow which now seemed like an historic site. When he was excitedly walking everyone through the place, to show them the place, he was referring to the owner.  I was there but, again, none of these people had any awareness that I was there – not even Merlin.

He was sort of filling them in on who the owner was.  From what I could see, Carl was doing a good job of it. There were cacti that were tall.  There were also red ones.  There was one cactus that was tall and it had needles on it.  It had large, large leaves and two or three leaves like those of a royal palm’s. Most of it was like a palm tree but it was like a breadfruit leaf or some sort of leaf like a maple leaf – albeit an extra large maple leaf.  It was, however, cactus. Everywhere there were plants on either side of the skylight hallways.  The bungalow was a series of long halls that were all connected and veered off in different directions.

However, it was a house that had basically become a living garden such that it was organic.  The cacti truly were the lungs of the house.  The air was really nice and it was cool. The humans were able to live with the cacti because it was a totally self-sustainable dwelling.  As the light came in heliotropically sustaining the various cacti species, it added breath, depth and dimension to the space thereby making it equally organic. Too, because it was partially submerged belowground, there was a lot of moisture from underground that kept these plants alive.  The cacti were quite happy and they had grown so beautifully. It was as if they were bonsai cacti.  It was quite incredible how they were all over the place throughout the house.

Then I went down some steps to another open area of the bungalow.  Again, there were more cacti.  We moved off and came to an area where Carl said, “Oh let’s go downstairs, I can show you the basement.  You can see all these wonderful things.” When you looked out the skylight area, it was of the street, the pathway into what would seem Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  So I immediately was afraid to be seen yet I was assured by Carl as he stilled my nerves telepathically saying, ‘Oh, it’s okay… it’s okay.’ I was concerned about the people, who lived across the street, reporting me to the militia-types.  There was bamboo, organic bamboo if you like, that was made into a fence. It seemed like the backyard of what was the neighbour’s house and they weren’t there.  I was told it was quite safe that it was okay.  The neighbours weren’t there to squeal on me.

Before you went down the steps, into this other area, there were all these beautiful, beautiful organic works that are quite common in the Orient.  For example there were many objets d’art. These were objets d’art which were beautiful temples and totems.  They were all made from the ivory of elephants’ tusks.  It was all beautifully detailed and in miniature – all the miniature designs were made of ivory. That was the sort of stuff.  This particular objet d’art was large.  It was square-shaped so that it wasn’t like an elephant’s tusk.  More like an obelisk, if you like, it was. They were more so little temples.  They were shrines and Greek temples if you like.  What was truly fascinating was how incredibly detailed they were though scaled down versions of the real architectural gems.

We moved on and now we came to an area that had nothing but wares.  There were lots of baskets everywhere because this was where the ornaments were kept.  They were all stored therein. Carl was the caretaker of these things.  He was quite familiar with every item and, again, there were bamboo basket-like wares and objets d’art. I was told that this was, in fact, like a wine cooler.  It was so delicately and intricately made.  Also, the item was collapsible.  It could open.  The objet d’art was like a valise and it could open up. Merlin went and opened it and was prying into it.  It had two African skulls or heads on it and it was quite beautifully detailed as a matter of fact.

We then moved on and came into the downstairs area.  This place was like a cellar.  Somehow, copious rays of sunlight made it to this part of the sprawling, multi-levelled bungalow. Even though we were further underground yet, somehow, the sunlight came in.  However, I soon realised that it wasn’t sunlight.  It was just this light that was white and somewhat diffuse. It was quite soft and nice to the touch.  Among the many stored wares, there was something that had a white bamboo-like coil.  This thing had a piece of string attached to it with two yellow sticks or shoots like chopsticks.

You could insert it and it was, in fact, quite sexual.  The Mario D’Agostino character immediately grabbed it up.  Whilst simulating sexual play, he was playing around with it. He was making noises filled with sexual innuendo and then said, “Umm, get undressed and put it on your cock because that’s what it’s made for.” Oh he was so happy to perform and went off to try on the item.

*Here now, some further comments set in the dream in the beautiful house.  Here, the atmosphere in this house was one of serenity and it was a reflection of that particular life that one had led whence the proprietor was Black. Tall and very erudite, he seemed a man of the world.  He was well-travelled.  He loved beautiful music and he had a collection of things in his bedroom that were totems from his travels. He was obviously tall because there were lots of khaki and white summer pants which all gave a sense of his height.  When I had first entered into the room, there was also a rack that I had bumped into. I hadn’t noticed it because it was suspended from the ceiling.  It was racked with leather suspenders and an enormous collection of belts: broad belts, narrow belts, as well, skinny belts.

There were all kinds of beautiful belts.  They were very expensive and they were also very organic and ancient.  They weren’t brand new any of them. It was all a reflection of the person’s spirit.  You never met the person but you knew the person through the house.  It was beautiful and wonderfully planned out. The sprawling, organic bungalow was so multidimensional; it went off in all these directions and avenues because that was who this person was in that lifetime.  In a box to call home, he was not contained or restrained. The organic house constantly veered off.  It had many apartments and veered off and had many cul de sacs.  There were areas where he could go and be removed from all the other areas yet be surrounded by plants.

At all times, he was surrounded by life itself and it was healthy… quite nice. Whilst at the restaurant having the lentil-looking soup, the reason for the extra-tall, obvious extra-human being impatient with me was more subtle than one may assume.  With their sophisticated proboscis, it is safe to assume that smell was the most developed of this extra-human race’s senses rather than sight as is the case for we humans. Likely, there was something very off-putting to my pheromone makeup which left the seated extra-human uncomfortable.  I don’t think that it was a matter of my race, Black, but my species, Earthly human, which made the über-poilu, blond extra-human uncomfortable.

As I was in his home world, he naturally felt put upon for having the unfavourable aspects of my pheromones anywhere near him.  At the end of the day, he was an incarnate ensouled fragment who is one of seven soul types and with the same selection of overleaves as any Earthly human.  Any Earthly human would have similarly responded to having someone of outré pheromone and species in their midst.  

A very serene dream it remarkably was.  END.

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Groovin’ High, Dizzy Gillespie 1955

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

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©2013-2023 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

More Insights to Elizabeth Departed…

Queen Elizabeth II 21.04.1926 _<>_ 08.09.2022

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

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

Body type was Venus/Lunar. 

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

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

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

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

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

*Elizabeth is an entity mate of both Prince Harry (5th mature Warrior soul), his wife, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex (mid-cycle mature Artisan soul); these three souls have a bond that is both unshakable and unfathomable to the unaware eye.

Queen Elizabeth II, April 2021

During the early hours of September 10, whilst her body remained at Balmoral Castle, I had a lucid dream encounter with the departed Queen. Clearly, it was set on the astral plane and might even have been set at Balmoral or Holyrood House. The dream was immensely lucid and brief. She was sat in a tiny enclosed area where the walls were at least ten feet high, old stone that were time-blackened and moss-saturated in the cracks. I came to in the dream in mid-stride and realised who it was as I slowly progressed from the interior to the enclosed tiny courtyard that was no more than ten square feet. Sat, she wore a dark, pine green shawl loosely about her drooped shoulders with a predominantly white, flower-enlivened scarf well back from the crown of her head. Her lips were parted and her compacted bottom teeth were visible. Her arms gathered about her, she noticeably shivered and immediately said that it was cold. I did not find it remotely cool and it was, though beautifully lit here, not daytime out. looking off to the right, I saw a large woollen, light blue blanket; I stepped away from her and picked it up, still having said nothing.

Queen Elizabeth II

As I approached anew, I noticed that as she sat on a stone seat in the middle of the tiny courtyard, all around her a thick viscous fluid bled away from her body. It was bronze-coloured and the same thickness as motor oil. The bonze-coloured liquid seemed almost as if possessed of a dull light but a light it was, which was undeniable. Approaching her right side as she sat facing me, I reached around the blanket and was mindful to infuse the blanket with the same intense energy as when laying my hand on actor, River Phoenix’s back during our encounter within 48 hours of his passing in 1993. Frail, shrunken and withered, Elizabeth the departed Queen’s teeth could be heard as she increasingly shivered. Placed fully about her shoulders, I began stepping back away from her and she looked truly grateful. Looking at her aged blue eyes, they slowly began transforming. The Queen’s pupils began expanding, until there was neither blue nor white left to her eyes. Her hair, too, changed colour, becoming brunette with few silver hairs. Readily, I employed a tried and convenient technique. I blinked as she looked directly to me and with that, I effortlessly, lucidly awoke in the blink of the eyes.

https://dreampoetica.com/2021/11/15/homecoming/

Again, here is the dream of Queen Elizabeth’s homecoming on the astral plane. It was had on the eve of HM King Charles III’s November 14, 2021 73rd birthday. It has been my experience that when I have such awakened dreams of persons’ homecoming on the astral plane that person will pass within the year, as has proven the case for Queen Elizabeth II. I am pleased that I took the time to share that dream last November on this blog; I instinctively knew that she would pass within the year. Why pray tell would I dream of her, apart from the fact that she was the most famous human on the planet; we share 6 past-life associations which is considerable since we aren’t even from the same pod. The reason she appeared to be in her mid-to-late 40s when her metamorphosis began to the astral body is that Queen Elizabeth was a third mature slave soul.

Name Entity Cadre Greater Cadre Pod Soul Soul Age

Queen Elizabeth II 1 6 7 418 Slave Third Mature

Meghan Duchess of Sussex 1 6 7 418 Artisan *Mid-Cycle Mature

Prince Harry Duke of Sussex 1 6 7 418 Warrior Fifth Mature

Ennio Morricone 2 6 7 418 Artisan Seventh Mature

Lilibet-Diana 2 6 7 418 Sage Third Mature

Frederik Pohl 2 6 7 418 Sage Second Old

Doria Ragland 3 6 7 418 Slave Fifth Mature

Lionel Richie 4 6 7 418 Sage Fifth Mature

Yukio Mishima 5 6 7 418 Warrior Second Mature

Archie M-Windsor 5 6 7 418 Priest Seventh Mature

Prince George of Wales 5 6 7 418 King Fourth Mature

*All mid-cycle mature lives are extremely difficult, both Meghan, Duchess of Sussex and Marilyn Monroe are classic examples on the world stage of such lives. Mid-cycle only ever occurs at the mature soul age cycle and it always falls between third and fourth mature soul age. As it is difficult, this cycle lasts on average 2-3 lives, though, it can span up to 4 lives. This is where the soul truly divests itself of young soul-focussed consciousness. There is no going back after this cycle and it cannot be made clear enough that these are difficult lives that are lived at mid-cycle mature. Incidentally, like Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, HM Queen Camilla is also mid-cycle mature but a scholar soul. This is why HM Queen Camilla always seems a bit uneasy, at times neurotic, in public but true to her scholar disposition, she is ever going to be associated with literacy and instrumental with the Man Booker Prize.

Front Row L-R: Prince George (fourth mature king), HM King Charles III (seventh mature warrior), HM Queen Camilla (mid-cycle mature scholar), Princess Charlotte (?). Back Row L-R: Catherine, HRH Princess of Wales (fifth mature warrior), Prince Louis (?), HRH Prince William, Prince of Wales (sixth mature warrior), HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex (fifth mature warrior), Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex (mid-cycle mature artisan).

Catherine, HRH Princess of Wales <10> and HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex <9> are both warriors and they are both fifth mature warriors; there is positively no way that these two would not get along; one of the reasons why Catherine, HRH Princess of Wales majored in art history is that more of the brain is used at fifth mature and onwards – it is where the realms of dreams and creativity become pronounced. Each soul level is uniquely focussed in the life lessons undertaken. Someone who is seventh mature, like HM King Charles III <?>, is vastly more old-souled than HRH Prince William, Prince of Wales <6> who is sixth mature; the difference is as vast as if Charles were late mature, which he is, and William were late young – though obviously not. Conversely, William is vastly more mature-souled than both Henry and Catherine who are fifth mature. In the above photograph here is how the Windsors stack up with regards the agedness of soul. HM King Charles III is seventh mature and thus the oldest soul of the lot, though, to be fair as neither HRH Princess Charlotte of Wales <?> and HRH Prince Louis of Wales <?> overleaves are known by me, we work with the others in the photograph. HM King Charles III is older-souled than HRH Prince William, Prince of Wales, who in turn is older-souled than both Catherine, HRH Princess of Wales and HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex. Those two fifth mature warriors are in turn, older-souled than HRH Prince George of Wales <4> who is a fourth mature king soul. Prince George in turn is older-souled than both HM Queen Camilla <10> and Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex <4>, who are not only both mid-cycle mature, they are also both on their third life at that level. Third-level lives attract a lot of animus by nature. Incidentally, HRH Prince George of Wales is an entity mate of the Sussexes’ firstborn, Archie. Archie is a seventh mature priest soul <6> on his second life. I cannot state enough how immensely radiant of inner beauty Archie is and he will always have an uplifting effect when he walks into a room. It is a testament to the Sussexes’ love that Archie’s soul chose to be their firstborn. Regardless of anything else, for being entity mates, Prince George will also relish Archie’s counsel and find true guidance when they commune; entity mates are truly family. Priest souls are rather rare only less rare than king souls and they leave a strong impression.

*<10> as in the case of Catherine, HRH Princess of Wales, such numbers in arrow-shaped brackets represent number of past-life associations shared between that person and me. HM King Charles III is in pod 404; I requested his overleaves when learning that he was an entity mate of artist Robert Bateman (seventh mature king soul) with whom George Hawken (first old artisan soul) had collaborated and often spoke highly of. Though I have high enough past-life history with HM Queen Camilla <10>, I have never once dreamt of her – it is important to note that each time I sleep, I recall anywhere from 6 to more than a dozen dreams in detail-rich lucidity. Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh (fourth mature warrior soul) <14> is a member of pod 408; dreams encounters with this man were always engaging, unpretentious and usually telepathic. Incidentally, dream encounters with Catherine, HRH Princess of Wales are also usually telepathic and three days after The Queen’s state funeral I dreamt of her – see below.

Catherine, HRH Princess of Wales

She was in a courtyard being focussed, competitive; she wore a extra thick black bodysuit that was like a scuba diver’s suit. Catherine carried a white, slightly scooped paddle and played alone with a heavy, smaller version of a medicine ball. As this was a dream, whilst she played, we telepathically communicated with me always to her left rear. She would strike the black ball quite forcefully, wherever it struck the wall, the ball would become stuck to the hard blackened wall; this gave the sense that both wall and ball were magnetised. Then without warning, the ball would be ejected with great force; the ball seemed as though a perfectly round ten-pound kettlebell. Catherine never missed the ball and she was having to duck and weave as though a tennis player, who is close to the net and therefore having to stretch, leap and quickly recover. It was always impossible to anticipate where the ball would go, it could return directly to her, actually curve away or go diagonally to the side as when a tennis player goes for an ace to the side of the court. Catherine, however, was throughout intensely focussed and would not miss a ball, thereby betraying her warrior soul steeliness. I guess at some point in the future, this game will be invented, in the meantime, the Princess of Wales was using it as it engaged and worked every muscle group in the body, which is why she wore the extra thick and tight body suit. Throughout, the suit contained ribbing that looked and behaved like the ventral grooves of rorqual whales; when the grooves expanded the rubberised-looking suit revealed white folds. When any muscle group expanded, the suit’s grooves would expand but just as readily contract back into place; this enabled the Princess of Wales to be always keenly aware of what muscles were being used or ought to have been better used – truly intelligent design. Catherine, HRH Princess of Wales here was just as powerful an athlete as Serena Williams. Catherine wore thick black gloves and equally bulky footwear that looked like shortened Wellington boots. Similarly, she wore wraparound protective eyewear that resembled a diving mask. Here, in this rather lucid dream, Catherine, Princess of Wales wore her hair gathered back from her face in a ponytail and her hair was just a bit longer than shoulder length.

Here is a list of famous priest souls and you can see that theirs is a radiance of spirit and leadership that is unsurpassed; they are all about uplifting one’s spirit: Mahatma Gandhi (seventh old), Nelson Mandela (sixth mature), Jessye Norman (first old), Barack Obama (seventh young), Yehudi Menuhin (second old), Lucian Freud (fifth mature), James Baldwin (fourth mature), Malcolm X (sixth mature), Louis Farrakhan (fifth young), Hermann Hesse (second old), Nina Simone (sixth mature), William F. Buckley (sixth young), John Lennon (second mature), Gustave Flaubert (fifth old), Gord Downie (sixth mature), Camille Paglia (second mature), Leonard Cohen (fifth mature), Marvin Gaye (sixth mature), Martin Luther King Jr. (sixth mature) – you shall know them by their voice! Obama is a young priest but his message was about hope a very uplifting priestly worldview. Priests have the most radiant and most intense eyes and they tend to be almond-shaped, regardless the ethnicity. Priests are not always all good, Hitler was a young priest because when a priest is bad, they is no soul more extreme.

*Not only are they both priest souls but Canadian musician, Gord Downie and Martin Luther King Jr. are entity mates.

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What I did not mention in the last blog was the importance of Queen Elizabeth II’s soul type and soul age. Slave souls make up roughly 25 percent of all souls and as such are the most populous soul types of the seven, which are: slave, artisans, warriors, scholars, sages, priests and kings. Slaves are the salt of the earth types; in my experience and from the hundreds of Michael overleaves that I have had channelled, Slaves souls are to be avoided at all costs. For me, a seventh level mature artisan on third life cast in 6th (priest) position in third (warrior) cadence, third (warrior) greater cadence, entity six (priest) cadre one (slave), greater cadre seven (king) pod 414, I simply do not, as a sceptic and with a chief feature of impatience, have time for slave souls and their manipulative, small-mindedness; it is also my third (warrior) life at seventh mature, which means I am more warrior than most and will be brusque about having persons honour my boundaries, especially so when I have master numbers of 11. All the ‘drama’ and brutalising “hazing” as Christina Oxenberg refers to this trial-by-fire of wives of Windsor who marry in, rather than being blood princesses, originated and was triggered by HM Queen Elizabeth II. She was a slave soul but she was also in dominance with a mode of perseverance and with a chief feature of stubbornness. The Queen, for women who married into the royal family, was exasperatingly difficult. It would have taken herculean patience to deal with her, if one were a family member and definitely if female and wedded into the Windsor dynasty. Most of all, all persons with a primary chief feature of stubbornness are shit-disturbers and they love interfering and pitting others against each other.

Entity Mates: Harry (warrior), Meghan (artisan) & Queen Elizabeth (slave), all mature souls

Of course, no one can say that Harry is fabricating when he has repeatedly stated that he shared a close bond with his grandmother, The Queen. Entity mates are family at the level of soul. Cadre mates are cousins. Greater cadre mates are like second, third cousins and in-laws, and pod mates are like the extended family scattered across the globe. The bond is less intense for pod mates as it is with the warmth and solidity of entity mates but it still exists. For instance, if the Sussexes were to attended a Lionel Richie concert, they would come away, feeling uplifted and warm. The reason incidentally why Harry & Meghan are always criticised for holding hands in public, is not only are they solidly bonded entity mates but this is their 21st lives together; they have reincarnationally been every possible relationship to date. There is no way that they would not handhold. It is part of the way that they engage the intense telekinesis between them and keep it active; they are basically melding their auras and forming a fortified, stronger forcefield around themselves. Though entity mates with high past-live contact, Harry and Meghan are, however, not task companions. If anyone of the persons listed above from cadre six, greater cadre seven, pod 418 were to read a Frederik Pohl novel, they would bond with the written word on a deeper level than say someone from pod 129.

Queen Elizabeth Queen Mother – Second mature Slave soul.

Speaking of pod 129 and in keeping with the previous blog where the Victorian misogynist persona was explored, let’s look at Queen Elizabeth, Queen Mother’s overleaves. She, too, was a slave soul like her mother, which afforded both – along with Queen Mary whose overleaves I do not know – the focussed attack for maintaining the Victorian misogynist persona. Pod 129 is a trawler’s bountiful net, straining at the seams with famous persons. I will list all the famous persons from entities one through seven of cadre one, greater cadre four, pod 129, into which Queen Elizabeth Queen Mother’s soul was cast.

Bowes-Lyon, Elizabeth 4/8/1900<O>30/3/2002 (4.3.4 = 11, same numerology as Meghan)

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

Body type was Venus/Lunar. 

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

The fragment Elizabeth is seventh-cast in fourth cadence; she is a member of greater cadence three.  Elizabeth’s entity is two, cadre one, greater cadre 4, pod 129. 

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

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

There are 4 past-life associations with Arvin and 9 with Merlin. 

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Name                                      Entity    Cadre *G. C. Pod     Soul                Soul Age

Mikhail Baryshnikov              1             1          4       129      Artisan           Seventh Mature

Robert Mapplethorpe           1             1          4        129      Artisan           Fifth Mature

Amedeo Modigliani              1              1          4        129      Artisan           Second Old

Marilyn Monroe                    1              1          4        129      Artisan         *Mid-Cycle Mature

Judith Jamison                      1              1          4        129      Artisan           First Old

Gerald Clayton                      1              1          4         129      Artisan           Seventh Mature

Art Tatum                              1              1          4         129      Artisan           First Old

Charlie Parker                        1              1          4         129      Artisan           Fifth Mature

John Travolta                         1              1          4         129      Artisan           Sixth Young

George Lucas                         1              1          4         129      Artisan           Fifth Mature

Steven Spielberg                    1             1          4          129      Artisan           Fourth Mature

Stevie Wonder                        1             1          4         129       Artisan           Sixth Mature

Barbra Streisand                     1             1          4          129      Warrior          Fifth Mature

Karen Kain                               1             1          4          129      Warrior          First Old

George Harrison                     1             1          4          129      Scholar           Seventh Mature

Dave Brubeck                          1             1          4          129      Scholar           Fifth Mature

Benjamin Britten                     1             1          4          129      Scholar           Fifth Mature

*Georgia O’Keeffe                   1             1          4          129      Scholar           Seventh Mature

Kelly Preston                           1             1          4          129      Sage                (John’s *TC)

Queen Elizabeth QM              2            1           4          129     Slave               Second Mature

Jessica Tandy                           2            1          4          129       Slave              Second Old

Joni Mitchell                            2            1          4          129      Artisan           Fifth Mature

Jon Faddis                                2            1          4          129      Scholar          Sixth Mature

Whoopi Goldberg                    2            1          4          129      Sage               Second Old

Frank Sinatra                            2            1          4          129      Sage               Seventh Young

Count Basie                              2            1          4          129      Sage                Sixth Mature

Fernando Bujones                    2            1          4          129      Sage                Sixth Mature

Samuel R. Delany Jr.                 3            1          4          129      Sage                Third Old

Mighty Sparrow                        4            1          4          129      Artisan            Fifth Mature 

Whitney Houston                     4             1          4          129      Artisan           Sixth Young

Lorne Greene                            4             1          4          129      Sage                Seventh Young

Tom Cruise                                4             1          4          129      Sage                Fifth Young

Dexter Gordon                          4             1          4          129      Sage                Sixth Mature

Robert De Niro Jr.                     4             1          4          129      Sage                Sixth Mature

Gord Downie                             4             1          4          129      Priest              Sixth Mature

Martin Luther King Jr.               4              1          4          129      Priest              Sixth Mature

Shirley MacLaine                       5              1          4          129      Sage               Fifth Mature

Wynton Marsalis                       5              1          4          129      Sage               Seventh Young

Kamala Harris                            6              1          4          129      Warrior          Third Mature

Yo Yo Ma                                    6              1          4          129      Sage               Second Old

Nina Simone                              7              1          4          129      Priest              Sixth Mature

Yehudi Menuhin                        7              1          4          129      Priest              Second Old

*In a prior life, Georgia O’Keeffe was Spanish painter, El Greco. Also, a member of entity one is American scholar, Carl Sagan; I am not conversant with his role or soul age.  Incidentally, it takes roughly five to seven thousand years to go from your first life on this planet as an ensouled human being as a first infant soul to seven old soul.  Your soul type never changes and anyone claiming to have been alive in Atlantis has simply got an active imagination or have done too much drugs.  Christ was a seventh old king on his last life; he is never coming back.  Why?  No one is responsible for anyone’s choices.  The most famous seventh level old soul on their last life, recently experienced by human civilisation, was the scholar soul, Stephen Hawking; his soul will never again reincarnate.  He did not need a hot or a fully functional body as he was chiefly focussed on dispensing all the knowledge that he had acquired over the course of lives lived, which is why his was such a brilliant mind.

*G.C. – Greater Cadre.

Task Companions: William, Sixth Mature Scholar. Catherine, Fifth Mature Warrior

*TC = Task companion. The task companion is a soul to which you are uniquely bonded. That soul is always in your entity and they are always never the same soul type as oneself. Merlin and I are task companions, he a seventh mature scholar soul and I, a seventh mature artisan with very strongly cardinal warrior casting – and I am also on my third (warrior) life at seventh level mature, which gives a very brassy “do not piss me the fuck off” bluntness.

Merlin & I Niagara-on-the-Lake, at Shaw Festival with actors, Wayne Robson & Lynn Woodman, 1987

Not only are Merlin and I task companions but that seven-year relationship in fin-de-siècle New York City and Toronto was the forty-third time that our souls had gotten together whilst incarnate. Also, Merlin reincarnated in 2006 in Amsterdam. Female, reincarnated Merlin is the last of three children with two older brothers. Female Merlin was reborn in 02.12.2006 year of the Dog. Numerologically, 2.5.4 = 11. As you can see, reincarnated Merlin now has two numbers in common with myself 2 & 11. My life was study for his soul whilst between lives and that energy body of two affords him an abundance of creativity and the master numbers of 11, indicate her (reincarnated Merlin) need to be a singularly focussed lone wolf of sorts. Born August 02, 1960, my numbers are 2.1.8 = 11.  I would suspect that TRH Prince & Princess of Wales have had at least 30 past lives together. John Travolta is an artisan soul and his departed wife, Kelly Preston his sage task companion. Similarly, for task companions TRH Prince & Princess of Wales, Catherine is a fifth mature warrior and William a sixth mature scholar. Warriors like king souls are always the dominant partner in any relationship; William will also yield to her in a heated row – and yes, task companions will row anywhere any frigging time. Catherine is balls tougher than William any given Wednesday. Also, Wanda Toscanini and Vladimir Horowitz, like Catherine and William, are warrior and scholar task companions respectively. Task companions are always close in soul age; for this reason it is safe to assume that sage soul, Kelly Preston was a young soul sage to her task companion, John Travolta being sixth level young. You will never have one task companion a young soul and the other an old soul. Classic example of the task companion focus, is the Prince & Princess of Wales; the nature of the bond is to undertake a shared task. In this case, the Prince & Princess of Wales are focussed on stewardship of the environment, maintaining and perpetuating the Windsor dynasty.

Duke & Duchess of Sussex

Here are how past-life contacts affect one during the course of a lifetime. Take the Duke & Duchess of Sussex. Meghan who had previously been Margaret Beaufort, matriarch of the Tudor dynasty, my soul has had 4 past-life associations with her soul. As this is a relatively low past-life contact rate, for this reason, I have never once dreamt of her; further, she is well-fortified as well she should. Meghan, Duchess of Sussex is, after all, the most hated Black woman in human history. In the case of her husband, Prince Harry, as we have shared 9 past-life associations, I dream of from time to time.  It is not uncommon to have astral plane dream encounters with persons with whom you have shared past lives; however, with 1-5 past life associations, it would be rare that you would dream of such a person. 6-10 past life associations and there will be dream contact but not with any appreciable consistency. 11-15 such persons you will see in the dream time with fair regularity; they would be like someone in one’s part of town whom you see fairly regularly, though, you never directly interact or if so rarely and not intentionally do so. 16-20 and these are regular dream companions with whom you are likely to have healthy sexual contact (in dreams) and who are likely to be cadre if not entity mates. 21-25 flying dreams and other spiritually elevated experiences with commonality is the norm here. Apart from sex, they may be entity mates with whom you will continue the relationship, if known, after they pass on. 26-30, definitely entity mates with whom you will dine, fly, physicalise and also explore past-life experiences. Anything above 31, you are likely to spend time with them when they pass on, to assist with their orientation to the shift in experience/focus.

River Phoenix

The rules are not rigidly applied for instance within 48 hours of his death by overdose, I had a rather lucid astral plane dream encounter with River Phoenix. He is an artisan in my greater cadence and for being an entity mate with 18 past-life associations – though we did not meet in this incarnation – I was called into action to be of service to facilitate much needed energy alignment with his sudden transition. The link to that dream with River Phoenix is in the link that follows.  

https://dreampoetica.com/2019/08/27/go-in-peace-energy-transference-with-recently-departed-famous-entity-mate/

As with the above dream because River Phoenix was newly refocussed on the astral plane, I was there and for not being an astral plane habitué, had the ability to fly.  Also, in that dream from 1993, I ran into extra-human (extra-terrestrial/alien) persons who though likely perfectly disguised in the waking state, appeared in the dream time in their natural state.  

__________________________________________________

Thembi, Pharoah Sanders 1971

Pharoah Sanders 13.10.1940 _>O<_ 24.09.2022

Sweet and blissful dreams shamanic kindred spirit. I love you more….

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

_________________________________________________________________________________________

©2013-2023 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

I Remember… Plus, Dream of Queen’s Passing.

Looking Southeast from Sentinel Hill into Vancouver’s Stanley Park, West End and City.

ACT ONE

Mere days after having relocated to Vancouver on a job transfer, I bumped into Ken, very late at night at the Club Vancouver bathhouse. Our spirits purred on rekindling positive past-life associations. Of course, he wanted to know if I would like to join him at his place, his lover was there, and thus began a magical relationship with two very beautiful souls. The drive through Stanley Park lazily drifted from bucolic and then into what proved the most magical journey to the top of Sentinel Hill. There their glass-walled living area, for sitting highest on the hill, gave a commanding view of Stanley Park beyond Lion’s Gate Bridge, the West End and the rest of Vancouver. At the time, I was staying at the funky Niagara Hotel a block away on the same street as the Club Vancouver on West Pender Street.

Niagara Hotel 435 West Pender Street, Vancouver

Readily, I accepted their offer, after a night of wanton passion and exquisite pleasure. I was having very bad luck in scoring a place that I wanted. I would call up and make appointments and finally on presenting, not having sounded a thing like I looked, Black, the place had just suddenly been rented out. I wanted to live in the West End and nowhere else. Finally, Les, Ken’s remarkably handsome of spirit lover found me a place when posing as my partner and getting the place into which we would be living, chiefly myself. The things one has to do at times to get by in what is supposed to be a civilised world. In the meantime, I spent almost three weeks living with them and it was both memorable and pleasurable.

Though they wanted me to live with them and take over their basement, which was the back of the house on the slope that made it anything but a basement, I declined the offer. I had moved out to Vancouver with my art collection and had had my home in storage since months after Merlin’s passing in November, 1989. I needed to breathe, to grow, to have my own space and walk about in open capes, naked in a pair of six-inch, black patent leather stilettos whilst listening and singing along to either Jazz or opera. Though, I moved out, I spent most free weekends with them, going for long hikes in North Vancouver’s foothills, walking around the seawall in Stanley Park, making dinners together and most of all, having great threesomes to the most glorious music.

Where Ken was soft, warm and laid back, Les was though diminutive, a towering force of nature. His was laughter that I had never nor since encountered. It was truly operatic and like great music, it was possessed of positively no bile or hostility. Les’s laughter was a pure, unfiltered distillation of his beauty of spirit. Learned and fluent in multiple languages, apart from being the chief librarian at UBC, University of British Columbia, he was also of note in Vancouver’s choral societies. Always there was great music, creating the just-so magical ambiance in their divine home. Nowhere in the universe was more harmoniously zen than a dinner party at Les and Ken’s Sentinel Hill home in November, when it had been raining almost imperceptibly for the last 3 to 6 days as is often the case in autumn. At such times, there would be mist rising off the crowns of Stanley Park’s stately Sitkas as autumn set in and winter was never going to be no less than 10 degrees Celsius.

878 Gilford – Top Two Windows on Left Were My Suite

Les knew a wealth of persons and many from Vancouver’s well-heeled Gay community; they were all music lovers. On Sunday mornings, after we had been in bed a tangle of arms, tongues and legs doing what wanton sinners do best, we would go for a hike in North Vancouver’s foothills. Ken and Les always said hello to everyone encountered on their walks. This one Sunday morning, there was a very handsome, dark-haired man, taller than Ken and me, who was ruggedly handsome in spades. As it was obvious that the attraction was mutual, he leaned in and kissed me then invited himself to dinner later; nothing is ever more sexy than confidence.

1915 Haro Where Pedro & I Watched Gianni Versace Funeral Coverage on CNN, July 1997.

Pedro became a casual sexual partner; for one thing, he was legendarily hung like the famed Rubirosa if not more so and the girth on that bad boy… Lord Jesus. We saw each other whenever he happened to be in town. He had expat South Africans from Cape town, who lived on the Sunshine Coast to the west of West Vancouver whom he visited from time to time and another couple who lived in the British Properties; most definitely, that meant that I was neither invited along nor could give two fucks about being in the presence of such blasted dreck.

Sunshine Coast British Columbia

As I was then living in my own apartment in the West End, we would get together whenever he was in town and phoned wanting hot mansex as he liked calling it. His watch was the first time that I had seen a Panerai and loved it and he always smelled good; dark piercing eyes were free of guile as he forged into his late 50s with a sexual stamina foreign to most men 30 years his junior. Once after intense fucking, we talked afterwards and remarking about aspects of his colouring, I asked him how many people ever asked or even knew that he was of Black blood. According to him, no one ever had before though he shared that his maternal grandfather was light-skinned Black Brazilian with one of the many names that attest to Brazilian colourism.

British Properties West Vancouver

That grandfather had been the result of a love affair of a local doctor and the family had gone to great lengths to protect his Black heritage and it was facilitated by his having been an only child. The fact that I had broached the subject had left him always calling whenever he was in town. He also found it widely fascinating that each time that he slept over that I awoke, grabbed a tape-recorder and began bringing forth my dreams; Pedro shared that it was a gift that his mother had and was always convinced that it came from her maternal grandfather’s bloodlines.

Sting, Anna Wintour, Trudie Styler, Karl Lagerfeld, Diana, Princess of Wales & André Leon Talley.

In late July, 1997, I was packing up my West End home with days to spare before moving to Montréal. At the time, Pedro and I sat around on the floor, propped up against boxes and trucks, looking at CNN as the funeral and all the circus around Gianni Versace’s murder unfolded over a couple of weeks. Pedro was talking about how dangerous persons like Andrew Cunanan, Gianni’s murderer, were. He thought that it was bad news to not stick within a tight circle of known and trusted friends and lovers. In any event, at the time, we were watching reports of Gianni’s funeral when Pedro began speaking of Diana, Princess of Wales. According to him, she was secretly seeing a very wealthy Arab and Muslim and it was likely that they would marry. The only thing, at the time, I remember about the names that he mentioned, was Khashoggi; apparently, whoever Diana was seeing, was the nephew of Adnan Khashoggi’s and his father was an obvious billionaire. Pedro said that not only would they be married but Diana, would definitely convert to Islam and bare him children as a way to get back at the royal family. Said he, they had deliberately given her a divorce settlement that was way less than she ought to have received. He said it was because The Queen was both cheap and spiteful.

This left Diana, Princess of Wales in a position, much like Jacqueline Kennedy, Pedro stated, of having to marry for money to maintain the lifetime to which she ought to be kept, much as Jacqueline marrying Aristotle Onassis. Pedro thought that The Queen was a vile, nasty person. Then Pedro said, sadly for Diana, they will never let her get away with it and definitely not twice. When asked what he meant by twice, said he, Diana realising that Charles did not love her and was with Camilla, had an affair with the King of Spain and it resulted in her firstborn not being fathered by Charles. They will sooner kill her than have her marry a Muslim, convert to Islam and set up a rival dynasty. Diana is daring enough… but also stupid enough, said he.

Diana, Princess of Wales Funeral, 1997

Exactly a week later, after watching the funeral with Pedro in my Haro Street, West End apartment, I was on a plane flying to Montréal and almost spat out my tea when the clown behind me requested of the attendant, “de thé, s’il te plait?” The male attended curtly shot back, “du thé, Madame…” Four years later, I was returned to Vancouver, chiefly to buy Haida art, attend pow wows, see Ken and Les and of course my oldest friend, who lives in Victoria and who in an illustrious past life was the painter, Sir Anthony van Dyck. It goes without saying, there were long nights of reckless abandon spent in Stanley Park, the world’s largest bathhouse au bois, getting lewdly carnal – as I had with Pedro; many were the times I found him there, not realising that he was in town. After having made some good art purchases, I spent time with Ken: Les was away at the time of my visit. When we dined one evening as I spent three days at their new North Vancouver condo and I mentioned how strange it was that just about everything that Pedro had said about Diana, Princess of Wales a month before her passing, was eerily almost prescient.

Althorp House, August 2022

Ken told me that was because Pedro was the lovechild of a Spanish duke with a South American actress and he had also, for years, been the lover of another Spanish duke. Ken assured me if anyone would know high society gossip, it would most definitely be Pedro; also, said Ken, Pedro knows and always speaks the truth of high society goings on. Ken confirmed that Pedro had shared that Prince William was not fathered by Charles but King Juan Carlos, adding if anyone ought to know, it would be the very well-placed lover of a relative of the King’s. As we dined on a cold soup and the most exquisitely prepared salmon, Ken was a sublime cook, Ken said, ‘Of course, she was murdered. Diana, did not take her enemies as seriously as obviously they took the threat of her. Nothing will ever come of it. She was put down by The Queen and who is going to prosecute The Queen. “Precisely,” I replied. Ken, of course, I would learn from his lover, Les, when we first met was of Polish nobility and it showed in spades. Ken was not a snob but he was well-bred as West Indians say; more than that, after dinner Ken and I took to bed and he performed magic better than most. Holding his head in place, I writhed facedown in the pillow as Ken’s tongue feverishly kept pace with my twerking, pleasured arse.

Clueless. Conceited. Stubborn.

ACT TWO

Actions filmed betray the truth, every time… Just look at that blasted clueless man! There is not a sage soul who has ever incarnated, who would not have gotten into that carriage and stood there, open his chest, raise his chin and gallantly extend his gloved hand to his new bride and duchess, future Queen Consort, future King Mother then sit after she was sat. Instead, we get blissfully self-absorbed, selfish, totally unaware and conceited as all fuck, Bastard Bourbon Billy, sitting with his back to the horses, then not only does he completely ignore his new bride and sit, barely helping her in, but he keeps pushing her dress off his uniform when she was finally sat. Never once did he think to stand up and assist, welcome his wife into the carriage. And just remember, he is sixth mature, all persons living sixth mature lives are ever bereft of drama all of their own creation thanks to their self-karmic issues for one.

Just look at this woman, born with coalmining soot lining her lungs, which explains her addiction to cigarette-smoking, openly shunning a Black woman. This occurred during her first royal tour to a predominantly Black commonwealth nation, the first in her nearly twelve years of marriage. Lord only knows, it would not have happened if she and her racially predatory husband had not driven his brother and his Black wife out of the monarchy; they would have been tasked to undertake those utterly detestable tours to the wretched, overpopulated dirty people regions of the commonwealth. She recoils by flicking her hair and standing back when the Jamaican minister of sport reaches out to take her hand. She then defensively holds her hands together and actually pulls back her hands rather than take the cabinet minister’s hand. Catherine then reluctantly saves face, and still holds her fingers together, thereby allowing the forthright minister to take her left forearm. Next, she shoves her held left forearm at the cabinet minister when wrestling her arm away from the otiose, undesirable, Black thing’s sullied hand. None of this racist bigotry, as you can well imagine, was once mentioned, discussed, and afforded multiple articles by the vile British tabloid press.

Kiss-Arse Bigot

Numbers never ever lie. Catherine’s energy body is 9. She would not be her bigoted self if she had not reacted that way to the Black Jamaican cabinet minister. Protocol my arse! You do not see her behaving that way towards Jews and she certainly didn’t stand there at the Buckingham Palace garden party and hold on to her umbrella with both hands whilst grinning her disingenuous, fuck you, fake-as-all-hell smile at ‘them.’

Just look at these blasted ninny goats; how quickly they fall into line and like the media hacks in North Korea, whatever BBB (Bastard Bourbon Billy) decrees when going nuclear, they readily change tune and do as commanded. His reign will be a nasty business, scandal-saturated to the gills, what with that fourth number of 5. If that woman, who seems incapable of reading the room and sensibly taken leave with Philip, were to live to be 106 years, which is not impossible, by then Charles will have long passed without having acceded and at age 50, you can damn well bet Bastard Bourbon Billy would gladly eliminate her and justify it as revenge for his mother, Diana, Princess of Wales, having been murdered by her. It is what royals do, what royals have always done. Needless to say, the somnambulant of the island realm would never question the obvious, as most definitely they did not at Diana’s assassination; instead they audaciously claimed that Prince Philip and the MI6 were the ones who had Diana murdered and not HM The Queen.

Princess Blackamoor with the Two Black Sheep Named, Venus and Serena

Just look at them: Dan Wootton and Piers Morgan, speaking truth about Princess Michael of Kent, at the announcement of Harry and Meghan’s engagement in November, 2017, which would come to pass as she stepped out wearing the blackamoor brooch the following month, yet there was no investigation into allegations of racism within the royal family or royal households.

Princess Blackamoor in blackface (Obviously, I am no photoshop wizard)

Princess Michael of Kent wearing the blackamoor brooch is no less racist than if she had turned up that Christmas lunch at Buckingham Palace in blackface. Somehow, these fools the world over would like you to believe that there was nothing racist about the brooch and once again, Blacks are being overly sensitive and paranoid. When it pleases HM The Queen to act that she does, as when she tore her arse in the kingdom’s face and insisted that her lovechild, Andrew, escort her into Westminster Abbey at the service of thanksgiving for the life of the Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh.

So in a bid to kill the hot rumour of Billy going next-door for the real honey pot, the same blasted media sycophants who sang Meghan’s praises on the announcement of the engagement in 2017, Dan Wootton and Piers Morgan and others, course-corrected and were let loose on Meghan, Princess Henry of Wales by none other than William with the tacit agreement of HM The Queen. Naturally, The Queen would go along with the media smear of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex as all Sovereigns are above reproach and should never ever be sullied by British tabloid media; besides, HM The Queen had her own reasons.

Well off to the pound with you, BBB (Bastard Bourbon Billy) for raiding the Savage Rock chick inn. And wouldn’t you know it, just like his Bourbon father, Billy goes off and breeds with another man’s wife. That precisely is why he has been made to relocate to Adelaide ‘Dog Pound’ Cottage with only one of his two daughters in tow. Some consolation that; Bastard Bourbon Billy was not allowed to ditch the family embarrassment, Damien, for the Bastard Princess of Norfolk.

Look At Risible Control Freak, Bastard Bourbon Billy Getting Pussy-whipped by Ben Ainslie’s Lover.

Who pray tell the fuck are you, to go pulling away from the hand of the Jamaican Minister of Sport and you think there is nothing for it? Soot-lunged arriviste! At the end of the day, we all shit and piss and crawl into a casket, by whatever means ours or someone’s doing. That said, you don’t like Black please, please go lie your tired arse on a beach somewhere in the Sun, get cancer and crawl the fuck in your casket. Ever, I will be most fuck-all indefatigable in my support and defence of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex and her family: Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex, Archie Harrison, Lilibet-Diana and Doria Ragland.

Not that she could give a rat’s arse, for there she was for all the world to see, being Big Ben Ainslie’s yacht girl. Whether being a goddamn bigot with the Jamaican minister of sport or openly flirting with the knighted yachtsman, she knows damn well that just like with Meghan, she will never be held to task for her conduct. After all, Meghan has been reduced to the most ridiculed, reviled, hated fugitive from justice for having had the temerity for marrying Diana, Princess of Wales’ son. To illuminate Meghan, Duchess of Sussex’s words as she articulated during her interview with Orpah: if you love Catherine, you don’t have to hate me and if you love me, you don’t have to hate her. Well, sadly, that is not how the White tribe’s collective psyche works. There always must be a threat to defend oneself against and there is always an evil in the world, which never ever could be oneself, regardless what the empirical evidence indicates.

Diana, Princess of Wales Adorned In the Spencer Tiara

To paraphrase Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, if you love Diana, Princess of Wales, you don’t have to hate William and Catherine; conversely, if you truly love Diana, Princess of Wales, you don’t have to hate Harry and Meghan. 

Please Standby, The Palace Diaries Are Yet to Be Published

Meghan has now emerged as the most reviled, hated and lied about woman in human history. The fact that she is Black is no coincidence and certainly, the fact that she had the audacity to call Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge a liar on Oprah, along with all her other enablers, was the declaration of war. Thus far, myopic British media have no awareness that their reach is not total in America and at the end of the day, when Meghan does speak her truth, very few Americans are going to want to countenance a royal family and Britons whom they damn well dispensed with 246 years ago.

Henry, Duke of Sussex

Every day, there is another story, in which these venal arse-wipes… every single last one of them, go on bleating on and on about Meghan, telling every lie imaginable and inciting anti-Black racism, go on and on and blasted motherfucking on, making a liar, failure, clown of both Meghan and Harry. Fuck every last one of you. The easiest thing to do on this planet, is to tell a lie on someone Black. As ever, one will be believed and there will most certainly never be any repercussions for doing so. If there was ever a single possibility of finding oneself “Rushied,” every one of these snake-bellied bigots would never once move their hideous lizard lips to say a single word against Meghan… and Harry.

Honest to fucking god, what is little flat-arsed, soot-lunged, adulterer going to say that she is not racist and she never made Meghan cry? Yeah, right… just like she never refused to shake hands with some blasted bipedal simian bitch in Jamaica. Sooner or later, every dog will not only lick itself but will also eat its vomit and never ever, should you be either shocked or surprised by that. It is in the nature of dogs to do so, just as it is in the nature of far too many Whites to hate, lie and vilify Blacks for positively no fucking reason. Of course, they will ever say they have nothing to do with slavery and may even glibly apologise in their best insincere “fuck you, get over it” banter as when William did just that in Jamaica and again at the unveiling of the Windrush sculpture at Waterloo Station. It means absolutely nothing when you know that this is the same dolt who had the temerity to protest, the day after the Oprah interview aired, claiming, “We are very much not a racist family.” Seriously, were it not for the subjugation of Chinese and Indians and the gross enslavement of Black Africans, Britons today would be no better off that miserably poor-as-fuck Albanians.

Archetypes: A Happenin’ Joint on Spotify.

A strong woman walks and does more than survive, she damn-well thrives. Most definitely, she does not keep breeding, to keep an adulterous man and thereby end up with superfreak numero un, Damien, that’s who. That’s right, Karma does not lie. You no more want to be near the ailing Queen by moving to Adelaide Cottage, than does The Queen want your fake arse anywhere near her. You are both equally treacherous and despise each other in equal measure, the world has long seen this and even before Meghan appeared on the scene.

As that blasted island kingdom is clearly overrun by semi-feral hyenas en chaleur, it has long become evident to anyone not obsequiously rimming the royals’ collective arse that the predators have moved from fox hunting to nigger hunting with fever-pitched intensity; when is being racially predatory not sport for Whites who choose to be so focussed and engaged? Everyone of these pretentious boors are ever ready to gnarl and bark at Meghan. Just look at that god fugly oxygen thief, talking shit about why give them (Meghan and Harry) oxygen? How about you crawl the fuck in your casket. People talk and all she ever was for many a Hollywood moon, was just another casting couch whore. Don’t recall her having received an Oscar. She has been more jizzed on than a urinal cake in Penn Station during cruisy evening rush hour. Let’s make it perfectly fucking clear, any jackass and his shadow is ever ready to openly hate Blacks, please know that we are not all prepared to sit by idly and suffer your hideous arse or bullshit. If for a nanosecond people do not think that this constant open animus against Meghan, Duchess of Sussex is not racially motivated and, more importantly, that it does not affect the lives of Blacks going about their daily business, you are truly not focussed in this reality. Rimming Warren Beatty like a drunken manwhore at a bathhouse and where pray tell the fuck were you in Shampoo or Heaven Can Wait That’s right, just another cumrag at a Hollywood circle jerk. All that pouting and vamping for just as many decades as Liz and it never got you a blasted Oscar. Just like Princess Blackamoor, both raising your rabid rear right leg and whizzing par-fucking-tout. Please just stop with the BS about Diana told you when exiting Harry’s Bar that she just had lunch with the most boring king in Europe; either you know bugger all or it was another attempt at throwing shade. Either way, what does it matter, your you-know-what smells like a crate of rotten oranges and your shadow is beyond bored, having to suffer you being a fugitive from your casket 1.5 decades and counting. Go on, take a clue from Lilibet, stop stealing oxygen and crawl the fuck in your casket. Not a single goddamn acting award because there are no awards for casting couch whores and a damn Golden Globe has as much cache as a frigging BAFTA.

Sharon Osborne – The Talk

This woman got her arse booted from an American talk-show where all she ever did was cuss off Meghan in her typically racially predatory, poseur Toff British bully persona. Just won’t do. For one, one of her co-hosts was Julie Chen Moonvez, whose husband, Les Moonvez was the CEO of CBS. These things matter and the whole culture of Americans associated with showbiz, though both Moonvez were no longer associated with the show and network by the time of Osborne’s departure, it still had an impact. The fact is, Sharon and Ozzy became social pariahs as Americans simply have no countenance for Britons playing holier than thou and treating Americans like crap.

Yet another displaced otiose Briton, Cara Delevingne squatting in America as though either welcome and doing nothing more than taking jobs from Americans. Just look at this blasted crack whore and you can bet your bottom dollar for not being Black, she has managed never to have had a run in with the local constabulary.

HM Queen Elizabeth II 21.4.1926 Tiger 08.9.2022

ACT THREE

I began writing this blog as the 25th anniversary of Diana, Princess of Wales assassination approached and because it had me revisit that time leading up to her death, when I was relocating from Vancouver to Montréal in late July, 1997. I also wanted to address the unrelenting, racially predatory hunt of Meghan from all quarters and watching Vanessa Feltz that smug sow, who seems so pleased as muddied swine that she was getting Black cock that she just couldn’t help turning her racial hatred in Meghan’s direction. First of all, no honey, fucking a nigger makes you a goddamn nigger; in case you’ve not noticed niggers and Blacks have nothing in common but what would you know? As if? There is not enough money on this planet to pay a Black man to piss on you… blasted sow. Thankfully, Holly Willoughby took her to task as she sat her fat, flat arse all over Meghan’s name. Her mea culpa of sorts occurred days later as she broke into the most transparent display of crocodile tears as she announced on-air the passing of HM The Queen. Nigger please! The other trigger was that washed up casting cough whore spewing off; how ungrateful are this ever burgeoning ghetto of Brits in Hollywood that one then has to be reminded of their stinking racial animus towards Blacks when the casket fugitive mouths off.

https://dreampoetica.com/2022/08/01/tea-time/

Here’s is the link to a dream of HM The Queen’s passing on the eve of HM King Charles III’s birthday in 2021. With The Queen’s passing, especially so after HM King Charles III’s speech to the kingdom, you could sense that there was a deep vibrational shift begun within the realm.

With The Queen’s long overdue departure, things can now open up and with Catherine and William now becoming Prince and Princess of Wales, they don’t need any longer to feel the gross insecurity and prejudice that saw them run to the Fleet Street abattoirs and have Meghan slaughtered at the tabloid altars. Some strange white voodoo that… but it damn well works that’s for frigging sure.

The Grand Canal With Santa Maria della Salute Looking East Towards the Bacino

Oil on Canvas

50 x 80

1744 Canaletto

Provenance: Royal Collection Trust, St. James’s Palace

Will you just get a load of that Canaletto in St. James’s Palace throne room? Phenomenal!

HM King Charles III First Speech on Death of HM The Queen

As HM King Charles III made it clear, Harry and Meghan are focussed overseas. So please by all means, now that you are Prince and Princess of Wales with just as fractious a marriage as Charles and Diana’s were, please do shine and show the world what megastars you are as you are, after all, royal rather than celebrities. Get out there and show the world your uneclipsed love; maturing into expected titles is not a sign of a successful marriage. William will always cheat and as Diana and her adultery were outed in a get-back by Charles, don’t expect Catherine’s whoring with Ben to be touched with a titanium javelin anytime soon. That’s the really sad part because thanks to the iron-fisted reign of Elizabeth over the family rather than firm, Windsor men sadly are all castrati in varying degrees.

I do believe that had HM The Queen exited the stage long ago, likely before Meghan’s arrival on the scene, ‘Megxit’ would have turned out differently or simply not have eventualised. As it is, yet again, here was another example of The Queen turning her back and not giving a damn, stubbornly she even dug in her heels as if to protest the claim of racism against Princess Michael of Kent by deliberately having her attend the Sussexes wedding and this after having Angela Kelly, snubbing Meghan for a tiara fitting. Then on their return to court for the Jubilee celebrations, Princess Blackamoor was sat close to the former Prince and Princess of Wales (Charles & Camilla) and the current Prince and Princess of Wales, (William and Catherine). Go on, go run up and down the planet, grinning your best “fuck you, die” smile with HM King Charles III, serving as new peace envoy.

As the seating at St. Paul’s Cathedral during the Platinum Jubilee revealed, it was all about HM The Queen’s stubbornness. She saw nothing wrong in what HRH Princess Michael of Kent did in wearing the blackamoor brooch to her Christmas lunch in December, 2017. As far as The Queen saw it, Meghan was offensively ungrateful. £35m spent on the Sussexes’ wedding and an expectation of conducting the overseas commonwealth tours that the then Cambridges had no desire of undertaking. Look at Catherine, HRH Princess of Wales in the preceding video. She turns around, sees where the Sussexes are sat and says wow, which was a comment on the stern impertinence of HM The Queen.

Duke & Duchess of Sussex with Oprah Winfrey

Do not ever underestimate the power of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex and her astute awareness of her power. Her appearance on Oprah was all strategy. Meghan plays the long game. When she mentioned the threat of the slimmed down monarchy and Archie and Lilibet not being afforded their HRH status when The Queen passes and the Prince of Wales becomes HM King Charles III, it was an implicit threat. Meghan at any time has the right and can and will reveal what really went down that precipitated their departure and this the monarchy fears more than anything else. As long as the tabloid media keep braying and vilifying her and Harry, only steels her resolves.

HRH Prince Archie of Sussex, Harry, Duke of Sussex & Meghan, Duchess of Sussex

Meghan had to mention that as it was a threat to the family and Sovereign. If HM The Queen were to pass after Charles, which has not transpired, Meghan was making it clear that she fully expected William would never afford her children this honour. Also, should Charles survive his mother, there was no way that he would want the devastation of Meghan going nuclear with her truth and not the lies proffered by the media on the HM The Queen and Cambridges’ behalf. Well, Charles is king and her children are now HRH Prince Archie of Sussex and HRH Princess Lilibet Diana of Sussex, the first royal princess of the UK born in America.

News9 Australia Camilla Tominey Waleses & Sussexes ‘Mind Completely Blown!’

So just as I was wrapping up this blog as it is well into September, the car pulled up at the Cambridge Gates at Windsor Castle and out stepped TRH Prince & Princess of Wales accompanied by TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex. Naturally, Camilla Tominey who broke the story back in November, 2018 of Meghan having made Catherine cry, which began the white-hot opening of Nigger hunting season, was called on by News 9, Australia to comment on the Wales, Sussex Windsor Castle, long walk walkabout.

HM The Queen has died and now a new era, a course correction is begun.

I rather love this commentary by ITV’s Chris Ship and company. They have always been deferential and professional in their coverage of the Sussexes.

At the end of the day, this reunion and public display of entente cordiale could not have occurred whilst HM The Queen lived because she was damn set on avenging herself of Meghan, whom she perceived as truly ungrateful. Meghan took a stance and was right to have done so. There is positively no way that royal householders were not being racially predatory towards Meghan as Princess Blackamoor gave them license to be openly racist towards Meghan. Fact of the matter is, when you have wronged someone, it bears heavily on your conscience and it is never the wronged person who makes an overture seeking resolution and restitution of your integrity, which had been violated. William texted Harry because William and his team fed the Sussexes to the Fleet Street abattoirs to protect the former Cambridges’ marital scandals. It was a betrayal and has mightily upset Harry as much as it has because he was wronged. She is an American. She is Black and they will all of them, household staffers, be rude towards here. Even Angela Kelly was in no way reprimanded by HM The Queen when she did not show for a tiara fitting with Meghan during build-up to royal wedding in May, 2018.

HM The Queen tells off HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, December, 2020

This is HM The Queen rudely dismissing the then Duke & Duchess of Cambridge because she damn well felt like it. Obviously, neither the then, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales could have acted as they wished, along with the then Duke & Duchess of Cambridge, with regards to the Sussexes, as long as The Queen was being punishingly cruel towards the Sussexes. I always thought it odd how, despite outward appearances both Harry & Meghan spoke rather highly of The Queen. Whatever HM The Queen was during her prime, at the time of Meghan’s marriage into the family/firm, The Queen was older, stubborn and likely already sick with bone cancer as has been disclosed on her passing. And please don’t blame Meghan for fuck-all anything. When The Queen turned 90 in 2016, she suddenly developed a large sore on one of her shins; it was a going concern for just about everyone. That clearly was an early sign of her cancer, which was long before Meghan appeared on the scene.

Queen Elizabeth II Oil on Canvas 9.5 x 6.0 Inc Lucian Freud ©2001

This Lucian Freud oil on canvas perfectly encapsulates HM The Queen. All the world’s a stage and the longer you stay onstage without properly reading the room, you soon turn Icarus and lose altitude. Soon or later, if you stay too long in any game, you end up looking like Wayne Newton and just as clueless. Old, grasping and cancerous, Elizabeth was less patient to keep up the façade of the sweet, little old lady with the heart of gold – I never bought it. Nonetheless, when you are damn cheap as all hell, look what pittance Diana, Princess of Wales was afforded in her divorce settlement, you are going to be really pissed when you spend £35m on a goddamn bride only to have her runaway within two years. Indeed, you are going to be pretty damn pissed, and feed her to the Fleet Street abattoirs, you damn well will. Truth be told, in the parlance of the deposed, buffoon Semite, Meghan proved the most expensive prize paid for a slave, who then turned around and ran away in under two years. Goddamn it, that kind of money, Elizabeth can justify spending on the gee-gees but damn well not a bloody slave. Meghan was bought to work the Pickaninny circuit of the predominantly Black commonwealth nations – heaven only knows the 9-centric former Cambridges now Waleses were intent on doing no such thing.

Viscount Severn, Duke of Sussex, Major Jonathan Thompson, Duchess of Sussex & Duke of Gloucester.

The Queen racked with cancer then showed her hand by having Princess Blackamoor sat close to Charles & Camilla, William & Catherine and ahead of the former Wessexes now Duke & Duchess of Edinburgh. Indeed, there were the Duke & Duchess of Sussex sat directly ahead of Major Jonathan Thompson, The Queen’s equerry as spy or whatever, who temptingly kilted is now HM King Charles’s equerry – oh what savoury tea this. Just look at the racial predatory hyena in the blue pillbox hat, ain’t nothing like the height of Nigger hunting season… vraiment.

Meghan So Desperately Needed That Hug, Just Look At Her Hands Holding On
Love Heals All Wounds… Amelka Hugs Meghan, Duchess of Sussex Soothing Her Soul

Not only were the Sussexes booed at St. Paul’s Cathedral in June, 2022 but it was tough watching Meghan being denied by the locals along the long walk at Windsor Castle on September 10, 2022; they refused to either acknowledge her or shake her hand. Then the most incredible thing occurred, Amelka asked Meghan for a hug and stated after to media that she wanted the Duchess to know that she was welcome in the United Kingdom.

Duke & Duchess of Sussex’s parting so long to his Commander-in-Chief.

Lightness of Being Photo Lithography 45.25 x 44.7 Inc ©2007 Chris Levine

Well Darling Elizabeth, look at that, you proved human after all and crawl into your casket you most damn well have. Well, guess what, you already conceded defeat by the spiteful seating and walk of shame at St. Paul’s Cathedral at the Platinum Jubilee thanksgiving service, which cancer and or cowardice had you miss out on, as Harry and Meghan were sat as they were and that was that… all that over £35m. Of well, guess what, Meghan won and will be sat at Westminster Abbey, on Monday, September 19, 2022, alive and thriving.

Come On Everybody, Time to Shake Your Tuchas!

Well, you fail to adapt and move with the times and before you know it, audience admiration fast turns to ridicule. No! It was not just a damn brooch, for crying out loud, it was a racist attack. To have done nothing, was to have condoned both Princess Blackamoor’s actions and that of the royal householders. Where was the investigation into racism from minor royals and royal household staffers? As is obvious, Rihanna was not amused by the blackamoor scandal and the way it was unsatisfactorily addressed and just like that, you, Elizabeth were removed as constitutional monarch of Barbados. Indeed, you were not the only Queen.

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Gerald Clayton in Concert July, 2021

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

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©2013-2023 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Tea Time!

HM The Queen. 21.4.1926 Tiger 3.7.7 = 8

All sevens can see beyond the veil and they are always without exception very refined, reserved and do not do uncouth nor drama. Why is that you ask? At the core of their being, such persons are callously amoral – they do not care… they do not empathise. So then let’s peer beyond the gullible small-islanders’ inability to look beyond the rigorously maintained façade of the major players of the BRF and, in particular, relative to the Duke & Duchess of Sussex.

Diana, Princess of Wales 1961 <O> 1997

Why would HM The Queen take so long to present after Diana’s death? She did not give a damn, the woman was an inconvenience and she was not going to honour her by appearing before the little people, who clearly loved Diana above all others in the kingdom. She detested Diana. She also had to come to terms with the fact that Diana was eliminated and clearly a lot of atoning had to be done to eventually face the public. Her appearance with the windows of Buckingham Palace open was a cold, ugly affair. Don’t ever forget, PM Tony Blair had to beg HM The Queen to come forward and address the very pained public.

HM The Queen’s Tribute to Diana, Princess of Wales

Apart from this utterly saccharine speech, there were moments captured of HM The Queen outside Buckingham Palace on the family’s return from Balmoral. Whilst Charles, William and Harry attended The Queen and HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, the Queen’s reaction to the grieving subjects was a cold nasty affair. There was one point where someone reached out to her in their moment of grief and despair at Diana’s death and she simply shuddered and moved on with a smile that was the fakest most mechanical movement of facial muscles imaginable. Regardless what she said in that speech, this is the same woman who did absolutely nothing as Diana emotionally and mentally fell apart whilst the rest of the BRF and staffers abused Diana. Of course, it goes without saying, Diana was struggling with the fact that she was not loved and they all knew that Charles and Camilla were true lovers – especially if that child sequestered in Australia is the adulterers’. Nonetheless, they could, none of them: HM Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother, Charles, Philip, Anne and the entire ghoulish cast, have given two fucks how mightily Diana suffered. Tough!

Diana, Princess of Wales & Dodi Al-Fayed

Regardless what one may think of Mohamed Al-Fayed; there is very little to suggest that the man was just a grieving father. He had the means to have had the truth of the matter rigorously investigated. The classist, racist British establishment and the BRF did not want the disgrace, as they perceived it, of the mother of a future king of the realm being wedded to an Arabic, moneyed Moslem whom they thought of as being too brash and having bought his way in, when in fact he was not especially wanted. There was a price to pay.

Dodi Al-Fayed 17.4.1955 Goat 8.3.5 = 7

Dodi and Diana had two numbers in common, 8 & 7. For both of them, theirs was a 7 in the fourth position; this placement of 7 is more often than not the sign of public assassination – and not just merely assassination. Numbers do not lie; Mohamed knows the truth. Besides, as a father, he would have had countless dreams after Dodi’s passing in which he would have been enlightened as to what really took place and who the source of the assassination order would have been. The Duke of Lancaster would not have been unaware.

Duke & Duchess of Sussex, St. Paul’s Cathedral June 03, 2022.

Just remember, what is past, is present, is future. Everything that the Sussexes are being put through, is precisely what Mohamed Al-Fayed experienced from the British Establishment, aristocracy and BRF. Of course Mohamed Al-Fayed certainly had no qualms about telling them all to go to hell and did, as well he should have. They crucified his son for having the temerity to seek to join the BRF by proxy.

Mohamed Al Fayed 27.1.1929 Dragon 9.1.4 = 5

They would have been spied on by Mi5 and CIA and obviously, the very day that Dodi went out and purchased a 700$k engagement ring for a known expectant, Diana, Princess of Wales, they incredulously perished in a car crash. Of course, Diana survived; however, she was not meant to have survived so she was then put down. It takes a copious dosage of morphine or whatever else they did, to have Diana finally stop being a goddamn pain in the arse. Never forget that she had provoked their ire by producing a firstborn with decidedly Bourbon markers. In all of this, of course, was Mohamed Al-Fayed whose numerology coupled with his wealth, assured that he did not give a damn and called it as he saw it, which is to say that he was and remains spot on about what went down.

Diana, Princess of Wales

Diana’s appalling treatment by the senior royals, of which HM The Queen was keenly aware, was savage in the extreme. One should not be in the least surprised that Meghan, a Black American self-made woman with more charisma, intellect and eloquence than the slovenly broodmare who gave birth to the blasted freak, Prince Damien, was racially preyed on and driven out of the kingdom. Good fucking god, how in high hell do you explain that hideous woman, Princess Michael of Kent being at Meghan’s wedding after she had worn the blackamoor brooch to The Queen’s Christmas lunch, 2017. She then was sat closer to the Prince & Princess of Wales (Camilla rightfully should be called the Princess of Wales because she literally cannibalised Diana, Princess of Wales; calling her Duchess of Cornwall is too good – she should be labelled as what she is) and the Duke & Duchess of Cambridge at The Queen’s platinum jubilee service of thanksgiving at St. Paul’s Cathedral on June 03, 2022 than even the Wessexes, whilst the Sussexes were sat across the aisle and behind the Wessexes and next to the disgraced Duke of York’s two daughters and their admirable spouses. All this would have been with the tacit approval of HM The Queen, yet I certainly hope that the Sussexes do not see the monarch as being in any way an ally of theirs; she is not.

Lord Snowdon, Princess Michael of Kent & Mark-Francis Vandelli

Per the ubiquity of a fly on shit, there has been Princess Michael of Kent aka Princess Blackamoor, partout. She was forever holding holier-than-thou court in the royal box at Wimbledon 2022 as if the point needed to be stressed further, beyond the seating at St. Paul’s Cathedral on June 03, 2022. But lapping it up in spades, she most certainly was. Less than a month prior, there was Lord Snowdon, who sat like the Kents, close to the Cambridges and next to that aesthetically challenged buffoon with the mannish spouse, and on leaving St. Paul’s Cathedral, made a point of completely ignoring the Sussexes as they waited at the top of the stairs for their ride. Snowdon, at the time, snickered and went to chat up the clown, who had been seen embraced and his loyalty assured by William recently photographed for effect, hugging him, as they smugly telegraphed to the world their collective snub of the Sussexes. Of course, there sat Snowdon in the royal box at Wimbledon, who had been found being intimately same-sexed, which male royal never does, sat next to that blasted classist boor, minor TV thespian and snob, legs crossed and his mangina’s anal verge likely just-so softly plush for being filler-saturated. Of course, it goes without saying, his plush bussy was also likely waxed and bleached. Charmant. Sooner or later, Princess Blackamoor will crawl the frig into her casket and when she does, she most definitely will rot the fuck in hell with Idi Amin sat on her god-fugly face – the vile racist swine. Rule number 1, you don’t like Black people… fuck you! As Merlin once remarked, “What good is Black rage if it’s kept in a Ming vase on the mantel?”

Martina Hingis & Duchess of Cambridge at Wimbledon

As if it were not enough to drive home the fact that the Cambridges are really hyper-obsessed with putting that BBD – no, not big Black dick, Black Bitch/Diva, Meghan, in her place, Catherine just had to invite Martina Hingis to the royal box. Not as if she had won multiple grand slams at Wimbledon or something, like the Williams sisters.

Prince William day after the Sussexes’ interview with Oprah Winfrey aired.

Of course, Hingis was notorious back in the day to have alleged that there was no racism in tennis and she had no clue what the Williams sisters and their father were going on about. Always, the racists give themselves away by readily opining about the non-existence of racism.

Lady Gabriella Windsor-Kingston

Princess Blackamoor’s daughter who always looks like the sporty buffoon’s very mannish wife’s twin brother who’s recently fully transitioned. Surprise, surprise, though Princess Blackamoor feigned approval, in the end her ambiguous-gendered spawn came to her senses and married a perfectly sensible WASP, rather than the Dravidian, who though not Black, is not White.

Olivia Bentley

Of course, the only one who was both elegant and the epitome of class, was the very stylish, acerbic Olivia Bentley of Made in Chelsea, who obviously does not hang around with grifters whose baby daddy has of late been dropping soap and being somebody’s bitch. This was at the recent service of thanksgiving for a loved royal confidante.

Michael Fagan

So strange this tale and, of course, whatever you want to believe of what was said to have actually occurred, you are free to so choose. Asking for cigarettes is certainly telling.

Philip, Anne & Elizabeth.

Here’s a little insight into HM The Queen’s amoral 7thness; she returned to London from Malta, gave birth to HRH Princess Anne, Princess Royal then returned to Malta sans new-born mere days later. Naturally, it was the nannies’ duty to care for the new-born. Why should any Queen have to be a mere mother, indeed. Back to Malta she returned to her favoured stallion.

Of course, 8 years later after some obvious froideur, along comes what would in her tenth decade prove her own nightmare and Jeffrey Epstein’s prized blackmail, sex-crazed royal addict, whose second offspring bears an uncanny resemblance to the much favoured steed, Porchy.

As with Mohamed Al-Fayed, the Windsors and their organisation have got all the power to act like a unchallenged crime syndicate. Just as Mohamed was dismissed by the media as being a cuckoo, grieving old man for asking pertinent questions at the death of his son, Dodi Al-Fayed and his new love, Diana Princess of Wales, so too they have managed to have Meghan, Duchess of Sussex eviscerated in the media. Too bad for them though that they do not control American media and Meghan is an American and has power players in her corner who will always matter. Just look at the power of the Windsors. Lady Colin Campbell has never been able to write a biography about the Duke & Duchess of Cambridge. Obviously, this is because Prince William, a tempestuous stubborn customer, has made it perfectly clear to all the royal rota hacks and more importantly all the heads of the book publishing houses that there is to be no permission or approval of biographies of either him or his dull-as-dishwater wife with an equally violent temper.

Eleven years into their marriage and the only biography to have been written about either the Duke or Duchess of Cambridge has beenWilliam at 40″ by Robert Jobson. Lady Colin Campbell writing her scathing tomes on the Sussexes is all about income stream for her. In the long term, she is hoping that this puts her in favour with the Cambridges, who see her for the gutter-sniping fraud that she is. Just think about it, the Poundland Countess, with her very own castle, has never written a book about Camilla, Charles or William and Catherine. How free is the press in the kingdom, if one cannot write about some members of the BRF? As such, it is a land of flagrant propaganda and little else as the pantomime rolls from one generation to the next as it has from one millennium to the next.

Moreover, when it pleases the Windsors and the firm to be oversaturated in the media, there is always a sacrificial lamb proffered. Diana was never liked by her husband, even less so by his mother, who knew all along that she was a convenient cover for Charles’s dalliances and Australian-disposed baggage, all of which would be conveniently covered up with Diana being skewered in the media. There are two things that the modern BRF do with predicable élan: royal weddings, which sell the fairy story and then the scandals follow thereafter. Charles and Diana, the wedding of the century, followed soon thereafter by Sarah, Duchess of York being fed to the Fleet Street abattoirs. Of course, as we have now come to see, “Fergie” was the initially proffered lamb, as it turns out, it was so much smoke and mirrors to cover the Wales’ toxic sham of a marriage, which was coming fast undone.

Lady Colin Campbell

There is a part of me that secretly likes this woman because at the end of the day, she is Jamaican and there is only one word which does not exist in Jamaican patois… shy! Guaranteed, you will laugh loudest when with Jamaicans!

Lady Colin Campbell Books:

Publication Order of Standalone Novels

Empress Bianca(2008)It’s been pulped and I’ve a copy

Publication Order of Non-Fiction Books

Lady Colin Campbell’s Guide to Being a Modern Lady(1986)
Diana in Private(1992)
The Royal Marriages(1993)
A Life Worth Living(1997)
The Real Diana(2005)
Daughter of Narcissus(2009)
The Untold Life of Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother(2012)
The Queen’s Marriage(2018)
People of Colour and the Royals(2019)
Meghan and Harry(2020)

Voilà! Not a single biography of adulterers Charles & Camilla. So too none of Prince Philip, HM The Queen, HRH Princess Anne, Princess Royal and, of course, none of either William and Catherine, together or alone. How in high hell can the most deliciously scathing biographer of the realm not once have put pen to paper and written from Porchy to Rose Hanbury and all the juicy tea.

Penelope Knatchbull, Countess Mountbatten of Burma

Furthermore, where is that biography of Prince Philip and Penelope, star-crossed lovers? Indeed, Penelope Knatchbull, Countess Mountbatten of Burma was not only well-sat at the Westminster Abbey service of thanksgiving for HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh but also, she was the only non-Windsor family member in attendance at HRH Prince Philip’s funeral in April 2021, ‘trusted confidante’ of the late prince as she was… take a sip dears. God only knows, it is not as if, Lady Colin Campbell has another 50 years of living and writing to go; certainly, the recent passing of the elegant Lily Safra should have given her pause. Stop inciting hatred for dollars on YouTube and get to writing! Just look at the wealth of material: Porchy, Penelope, Camilla, Tampon-Prince, their Australian-sequestered love child… and obvious others.

Meghan, Duchess of Sussex & Henry, Duke of Sussex

Speaking of biographies… I will not include herein a picture of his fucking ugly face; however, suffice it to say, no other group are possessed of need to incite anti-Black racism as are some Jews, in particular Ashkenazi. Of course, such persons are always, as is the cultural norm, readily believed and their word seen as divine law. As I am Afro-Sephardic, I could not give a goddamn whom so fuck-all takes offence. This man has written a scathing biography, which is lauded in all quarters because god only knows, not only does he clearly walk on water but he obviously farts Skittles.

15/9/1984 Rat Henry, Duke of Sussex 6.6.1 = 4

4/8/1981  Rooster Meghan, Duchess of Sussex 4.3.4  = 11

6/5/2019 Pig Archie Harrison 6.2.5 = 4

4/6/2021 Ox Lilibet Diana 4.1.6 = 11

In numerology there are no lies… as in dreams. There is perfect synergy between Harry’s and Archie’s numbers, just as the same is true between Meghan’s and Lilibet Diana’s numbers. According to one of many lies being peddled by this charlatan biographer, who is just loving inciting more hatred for Meghan for having stepped out of her pre-ordained line – some people – Meghan could not have been born in 1981 and clearly is possibly as old as 46. Well, I have run the numbers and each child will numerologically have at least 2 numbers as the parent with whom they have a parenting bond. Obviously, as with Archie & Harry, Lilibet Diana would have to have been born with master number 11 like Meghan for there to be that harmony. Also, Lilibet Diana would be born with master numbers when it is so closely bonded a family; it is literally them against the Windsor’s world, which is considerable.

Meghan, Lilibet Diana & Mrs. Misan Harriman and Kids

4/8/1981 Rooster Meghan Markle 4.3.4 = 11

4/8/1975 Rabbit Meghan Markle 4.3.7 = 5

4/8/1976 Dragon Meghan Markle 4.3.8 = 6

4/8/1977 Snake Meghan Markle 4.3.9 = 7

4/8/1978 Horse Meghan Markle 4.3.1 = 8

4/8/1979 Goat Meghan Markle 4.3.2 = 9

4/8/1980 Monkey Meghan Markle 4.3.3 = 1

Archie, Harry, Meghan & Lilibet Diana

The only numbers which makes sense vis-à-vis Lilibet Diana’s and Harry’s, for that matter, are those of August 4, 1981, year of the Rooster. That leaves Meghan with master numbers of 11, which always denotes a life of destiny and such people are incredibly astute, come fully prepared for the journey ahead. If Archie and Harry are so simpatico, then clearly Lilibet Diana would have to be equally simpatico with her mum, Meghan and that she is to a mum born, August 4, 1981. End of discussion. Of course, like Orly Taitz herr Schmuckface just knows that for having his head so far up god’s ass, he speaks/writes the truth. Well, of course, the children do not exist; they are invisible, Meghan was never pregnant, it was a pillow. And on and on and fuck-all, on and on.

Boris Johnson Bigoted Warts And All…

Of course, he it was who had some rather bigoted choice observations, unsolicited, of President Barack Obama. But enough about vile buffoons, biting off infinitely more than they can chew – the Skittles-farting clown. This is the thing about some Jews, they are always being given a pass when they are racially predatory towards Blacks. And this is where BRF-sanctioned, character assassination biographer du jour, who has already been called out for having appropriated persons quotes and used as sources and warped their quotes in his vendetta against the schwarze shiksa, proves himself just another anti-Black racist. As though, only Jews are supposed to have ever experienced persecution, just as with Tina Brown (not Jewish), Mr. Schmuckface writes a 300-page plus book and never once mentions Princess Michael of Kent’s blackamoor brooch, which has been the biggest exposé of the racism to which Meghan, Duchess of Sussex was subjected. Since then as if to drive home the point, that blasted flat-arsed, hideous Rhino-legged racist swine, Princess Blackamoor, has been upfront and prominently placed at every opportunity.

Just Who Made Who Cry, Definitively Answered

Honest to frigging god, do you think that herr Schmuckface would have written a biography about a Jewish fiancée of Harry’s, who had been subjected to anti-Semitism when a minor royal showed up at HM The Queen’s Christmas lunch, wearing a swastika brooch and claiming not to have known that it was offensive and in this hyperbole, claiming that it was a Hindu cross brooch. Though it is true and even an Ethiopian and Navajo cross, we all, the world over, know that a damn swastika is a symbol of hideous anti-Semitism. Herr Schmuckface is a vicious coward; he knows that all he has to do, is go out there and say that Meghan made Catherine cry and that settles it. He is after all a Jew – it must be so. He is a damn bigot and a liar. The proof that Catherine made Meghan cry is validated by her behaviour at the March 2020 Commonwealth Service of Thanksgiving at Westminster Abbey. Catherine had been rude to Meghan in the lead up to the royal wedding about the bridesmaids’ tights. Catherine is an insecure woman, who was threatened by Meghan’s greater charisma, intellect and eloquence. The proof that Catherine made Meghan cry, is validated when she came up to take her seat at Westminster Abbey and though Meghan waved her right wrist that was placed on a her lap as she pointedly smiled at Catherine, Catherine refused to look at or acknowledge Meghan. At that point, the world was convinced that Meghan had made Catherine cry, which is all the more reason, Catherine deliberately ignored Meghan to perpetuate the lie, thanks to Camilla Tominey’s exclusive warped version, in the Daily Telegraph in November 2018, of what occurred after the Sussexes’ successful first tour in the South Pacific.

Catherine Meeting Jews at Buckingham Palace Garden Party

Most of all, Catherine is a White female who happens to be prejudiced towards Blacks – energy body of 9 – and she does not give a damn that it came to this. She will be Queen Consort and has given birth to the future sovereign… she does not have to give a damn what anyone thinks. To hell with the yank imposter and a Black one at that. Catherine, William for that matter, favour Jews and she has time and again demonstrated unease around Blacks, though, at this point, she has been made aware that optics are more important than personal bias. End of discussion.

Prince Damien holds court with his racially predatory kin

Just like that yenta, Angela Whiny-whatshername, and Tina Brown, there must never be any discussion of anti-Black racism with regards the BRF’s senior and minor titled royals. They have gleefully torn their flat arses in the negro from Compton’s face since that day in December 2017 and as recently as the thanksgiving service at St. Paul’s Cathedral on June 03, 2022, yet there is no connection to racism neither are the BRF racist. Just like Tina and the two Jews in question, the time is long past to stop cutting HM The Queen slack. She has been aware of this hideous racism all along and done nothing; indeed, it has gone on like a bad joke month after month, after month. The best way to condone repugnant behaviour is to ignore it and do nothing about it. Herr Schmuckface has lied about who made whom cry and he has a serious credibility issue when he runs his ugly head off in excess of 300 pages and never once mentions the blackamoor brooch; talk about a clear-cut case of bias. To hell with the lot of these BRF-bought or purely sycophantic biographers.

Listen to Catherine in the background; in the original version – long scrapped from YouTube – she accuses the amateur photographer of having stalked them and seen recently doing so. All this triggers William who is her task companion as well as the ordinal partner in their pairing. The poor man doesn’t stand a chance, she said that he was there and that is that. Of course, it behoves William to at all times have security tracking with them… anywhere… at all times. There are no excuses. William sounds so vulnerable and pained; it is also an image of the Cambridges that must not be seen. When you are going to go to such great lengths to demonise your own brother and his Black wife; you cannot have it both ways. At the risk of stating the obvious, it takes two hands to clap.

TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge, 2011

Now we come to the modern age, and time to throw another fairy story wedding. William was finally presented to the realm and as stupid can only be expected to do stupid, there was he got into the carriage and sat with his back to the horses and then remained sat whilst his new bride entered the carriage. Neither his brother nor father sat their arse down until their new wife was sat in the carriage – no uncouth, unaware dolts, Charles & Harry. Of course, from day one, the Cambridges openly rowed in full view of everyone on the ride back to Buckingham Palace and again on the balcony, they hissed at each other. Far be it from the blind to have taken notice of anything so obvious as truth. Of course, this wedding occurred long after the inconvenience of Diana was dealt with once and for all and she was put down… truly off to the abattoir she was sent and conveniently so in a tunnel where none of the many street level surveillance cameras could have caught anything.

TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex, 2018

Now the fairy story needed to be updated and the Windsors prove themselves progressive and inclusive; the Commonwealth after all is not exclusively Caucasian. It is one thing to talk the talk but you have got to be able to walk the walk. As HRH Prince Charles and Doria Ragland returned to the quire after having signed the registry, there was HRH Prince William openly ridiculing Meghan and her culture before her mother, Doria. This he also did before his embarrassed father, the Hollywood players across the quire aisle, HM The Queen and the entire world. When the Sussexes proved too popular and eclipsed the Cambridges, the bigoted Cambridges had to sabotage the Sussexes. As in the past, after a fairy story wedding, time for scandal. Without a sacrificial lamb delivered to the Fleet Street abattoirs, the pantomime and the Windsors lose their lustre… their very appeal. What better way to annul the very existence of the Duchess of Sussex and her marriage into the BRF, start a campaign to vilify and demonise her. Of course, though not dissimilar to North Korea in its jaundiced coverage of the Windsors, the Fleet Street abattoirs keep offering too much grizzle and shank. All this, as was the case with Sarah, Duchess of York and her fall from grace, is to cover the scandals within the thorny marriage of the Cambridges.

Interesting isn’t; then again, there are no coincidences. The official portrait of the Cambridges has Catherine wearing a green dress. The night that actor, Will Smith slapped comedian Chris Rock, his wife, Jada Pinkett Smith was wearing a green dress with yards of train. Green is the negative colour of 9/toxic energy; Jada has four 9s in her numerology. Catherine was not comfortable, sat next to Meghan in the royal box at Wimbledon and thus wore green and had her sister-in-law sat between her and her sister, Pippa Middleton-Matthews. Persons with 9 are more toxic, bitchy and vile for wearing green. Catherine studied art history and she knows the vibration that clothes and jewellery effect; she is subtle, vicious but does not go unnoticed by those with eyes to see. Green, of course, represents nature, life, moss, arboreal splendour and its negative aspect is reflected in all things that are venomous, acidic, toxic.

Duke & Duchess of Sussex & Oprah Winfrey
Margot Robbie Accepts for Brad Pitt 2020 BAFTA Awards

What these sorry saps did not factor into the equation, was Meghan collecting her rock, Harry, and saying, “life is not a dress rehearsal and I don’t do Prissy. Let’s get the hell outta here!” Like Sarah, Duchess of York, Meghan was supposed to have stuck around and been walked all over by the BRF and Fleet Street. And this is why the Sussexes have won, from HM The Queen on down to that blasted buffoon, to say nothing of the many dalliances exposed and whispered about.

Just as William did not attend Wimbledon on the same day that Lord Snowdon was sat his Athenian arse next to the minor thespian put-through, so too he is very careful to never have James Middleton show up at Wimbledon and definitely not sat in the royal box whilst he is there. Naturally, one would not want to have persons start entertaining the thought that James has been ridden like a prized polo pony for many moons now. There is a reason why, James is kept safely out of reach, if only to pop up time and again, doing his best Saint Francis of Assisi… a right sissy that one… to be sure. So as much as they would like to have wanted the Sussexes about being shat on by Fleet Street and the rest of the realm, to serve as foil for the Cambridges’ fractured, messy marriage – exhibit Prince Damien for one – they have got no end of thinly veiled scandals percolating just below the surface.

Duke & Duchess of Sussex Enter St. Paul’s Cathedral, June 03, 2022

What the whole debacle in St. Paul’s Cathedral on June 03, 2022 revealed at HM The Queen’s platinum jubilee service of thanksgiving, is how weak the Windsors are next to the Sussexes. The Queen deliberately did not attend because she wanted to have the Sussexes embarrassed before the world without her being present and looking as though complicit. What… no shit, pigs don’t fly! She has spent the better part of ten, eight in an official capacity, decades pulling the wool over the eyes of the somnambulant clowns of her island realm but few else are duped by her and her clan’s antics. Why even go so low as to have the Sussexes sat where they were but then to top it off, just as her being at the Sussexes’ wedding, Princess Blackamoor was sat within fart-sniffing distance of the Prince & Princess of Wales as well as the Duke & Duchess of Cambridge. They have no power; when the Sussexes exited the island sanatorium, the Windsors lost their power to thoroughly fuck with and manipulate them. They have upped their attacks by having a spate of biographies printed; however, everyone of them fail to mention the blackamoor brooch incident because, clearly, all these biographers are sanctioned and directed on how to focus the narrative of the runaway slave, Meghan. To not mention the blackamoor brooch incident and Princess Blackamoor’s subsequent prominence, does one thing and one thing only; it exposes the fact that the Windsors are die-hard racists. All the nonsense of Commonwealth unity is a damn farce.

Reptilian Spawn, Prince Damien Born to Toxic 9 Energy Body Mother

Don’t you worry your sweet little head, you’ve got scandal aplenty with Prince Damien chomping at the bit to get on with life and cause you no end of dread and embarrassment. As for Prince Damien, two other royals had a fourth number of 7 and they were both assassinated: Diana, Princess of Wales (1/7/1961 Ox 1.8.7 = 7) and Lord Louis Mountbatten, Earl of Burma 25/6/1900 Rat 7.4.5 = 7). It is very possible that either of his parents will choose to have Prince Damien put down for being a royal pain in the arse; it is what they do and have always done.

HM The Queen at 96

HM The Queen’s reign has been possessed of her amoral nature; it has had a cycle of abuses that show utter disregard for human decency, compassion, as well as, both emotional and mental wellbeing. During her reign there has been one consistency, no care for senior royals wellbeing if they are not in line to be future sovereign. From HRH Princess Margaret, her sister – whose emotional and mental health she ruined by her ruthless inconsiderateness. Not just her having abandoned the new-born HRH Princess Anne to return to HRH Prince Philip in Malta, in later years, she would turn a blind eye and allow the utter abuse of Diana, Princess of Wales who had been simply used for approved heirs, to say nothing how Sarah, Duchess of York has been abused and kept around like a despised corgi just so that one can kick it at every opportunity.

Do Drink Up… Backstory Time.

Lady Diana Spencer & Camilla Parker Bowles, 1980

Diana was not a stranger to them. As the preceding photograph attests, seven years into her marriage to Andrew Parker-Bowles, (who incidentally was also a lover of HRH Princess Anne, Princess Royal), there was Camilla, clearly having an affair with HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, whilst grooming Lady Diana Spencer to be Charles’ approved concubine; how not unlike Ghislaine Maxwell was the very married Mrs. Camilla Parker-Bowles. All of this, HM The Queen would have been intimately aware of and clearly approved of. So a barely legal, Lady Diana Spencer was being squired, groomed and proffered by Camilla who by that point had sequestered her lovechild with HRH Prince Charles to the colonies in Australia. Obviously, HM The Queen had a direct hand in the lovechild being removed from the scene; there are simply some scandals that cannot be tolerated. The scandals that spring from the Fleet Street abattoirs do so with the royal seal of approval by none other than HM The Queen.

Diana, Princess of Wales & King Juan-Carlos de Bourbon

Diana, for being a mature soul artisan, was no pushover. She was a quick study, when she saw that she was merely a convenient, acceptable womb and that Camilla, her handler, would never stop meddling in her marriage to Camilla’s true lover, like any artisan-soul worth their adventurous, dramatic salt, Diana went off and engaged in revenge lust with the continent’s biggest royal lothario. That dalliance is precisely why HM King Juan-Carlos of Spain, father of Diana’s lovechild, was disinvited at the last minute to the royal wedding of HRH Prince Charles of Wales and Lady Diana Spencer. What was HM The Queen to do at that point, Charles & Diana were already set to be wedded and she, after all, had long abandoned Philip and been besotted and sired by Lord Porchester – and you can bet that she did not give a goddamn what anyone thought. As Charles ignored and carried on with Camila immediately after his wedding, Diana simply resumed relations with King Juan-Carlos and a pregnancy was expected so who would be any the wiser. Meanwhile, she knew damn well that as Queen, she could rip off Porchy’s clothes and mount him on the Buckingham Palace balcony at trooping the colour and not a single damn fool on the island realm would have seen any such thing. Period.

Royal Wedding, Duke & Duchess of York, 1986

Well, of course, Porchy’s boy, HM The Queen’s favoured lovechild was going to have a full 5-star wedding at Westminster Abbey. Another royal wedding, means more tourists after all and more merch income. Pretty soon, though, the fairy story started turning into an abundant flock of lambs for the Fleet Street abattoirs. Toe-sucking and pretty soon, Fergie was cast into the wilderness; not in direct line for the throne anyway, which afforded her to be diversionary scandal. Then faster than a sneeze, there was Diana making perfectly frigging goddamn clear that she was done playing along or playing nice. Never mind that before Penelope Knatchbull, there was HRH Princess Alexandra of Kent, yet HRH Prince Philip made it perfectly clear that he did not ever want to see Sarah, Duchess of York in the same room as him after her divorce. To that end, she was not invited to William and Catherine’s wedding and Meghan and Harry insisted that she be at their wedding; however, she was sat across the quire aisle from the rest of the royals. Incidentally, the Sussexes should not have been surprised at their placement at St. Paul’s Cathedral on June 03, 2022 as this was what HM The Queen decreed. Nonetheless, HM The Queen also made sure that Princess Blackamoor was placed close to the Waleses and Cambridges at St. Paul’s Cathedral on June 03, 2022.

James Hewitt & Diana, Princess of Wales

Diana started taking lovers. Naturally, to toss off Diana and begin her character assassination at the Fleet Street abattoirs, HM The Queen in a move to protect and avenge her honour, has the notion of HRH Prince Harry being Diana’s lovechild with James Hewitt floated. What a very convenient arsenal to draw on, as she was so intimate with this development two decades early with the lovechild with Porchy; simultaneously, it goes a long way to make the notion of Charles & Camilla more feasible in future, which like a turtle she has managed to live to see that PR rebranding of the adulterous Camilla the Ghislaine Maxwell-like groomer and Charles the Tampon prince. Naturally, James Hewitt was just another lamb proffered by HM The Queen and her syndicate, to protect Prince William’s true parentage and thereby get back at Diana for having fucked with not just Charles & Camilla but herself, HM The Queen, by fucking HM King Juan-Carlos of Spain. Of course, in due course as Charles was off loving Camilla and many male lovers, Diana, Princess of Wales wasted little time, taking lovers married or not as has always been the royal way.

After HM The Queen went out and had her lovechild with Lord Porchester, who turned into a real karmic tsunami, Philip for near five decades openly lived a life of passion and companionship with the very married Countess of Burma, Penelope Knatchbull. Just like Porchy’s lovechild, they do as they please and do not give a damn what the little islanders think. Of course, Philip lived to see the day that he was avenged for having been humiliated by a lovechild being in line to the throne ahead of his daughter, HRH Princess Anne, Princess Royal.

Of course, well before there was the very married Penelope Knatchbull, Countess of Burma, there was HRH Princess Alexandra of Kent, HM King George V’s granddaughter and daughter of HRH Prince George, Duke of Kent. Princess Alexandra’s numerology: 25/12/1936 Rat! 7.1.2 = 1. Philip’s affair with Princess Alexandra is what caused the rift in the sovereign’s marriage which resulted in HM The Queen’s affair with the Porchmeister and eventually their passion produced the rather barrel-hipped porchfest, Prince Andrew who exposed the lust and passion that produced him in the debauched affair that saw Jeffrey Epstein, Ghislaine Maxwell and Virginia Roberts-Giuffre being more than tangential bit players and infamous persons known the world over, one to whom they had to pay hush money. This is where it now gets interesting, after Andrew’s birth there was no going back and soon it was Penelope Knatchbull, the very married Countess of Burma with whom Prince Philip was passionately consumed. Penelope’s numerology is most interesting: 16.4.1953 Snake. 7.2.2 = 11. Both women are 7 energy bodied, you can’t get more amoral than that – they can also see dead people, auras et al. The more excitingly fascinating of the two royal mistresses of Prince Philip’s would hands down be Penelope; she has master number 11. These persons are inordinately charming and incredibly powerful and exceptionally gifted in the sexual arts. Moreover, Penelope is born in the year of the Snake; they can be monstrous, which is why Chinese traditionally avoided having babies in the year of the snake for fear that they would give birth to a female. For Princess Alexandra, a Rat, she was just in it for the adventure and with amoral 7 energy body, it was damn great sex and she was not going to not get her fix. Again, it is what the royals have always done.

Harry & Meghan Engagement Interview BBC

One of the most important things that HRH Prince Harry said in his engagement interview, occurred when he corrected BBC host, Mishal Husain by stating, “Or they think they know!” If HM The Queen wants the realm to know, it will be filtered via the abattoirs on Fleet Street. Everything else will be smoke and mirrors and the standard, “Never explain. Never complain” rules the day. Indeed, when you’ve much to hide, so say you.

Royals and their lovers indeed. HRH Princess Margaret, Countess Snowdon 21/8/1930 Horse 3.2.6 = 11

Margaret was possessed of master number 11; she did not give a living shit and said and did as she pleased. She was also innately talented and exceedingly charismatic. She had three lovers of note and only one of them did she share 2 numbers in common. This would have been her one true love, Peter Townsend (22/11/1914 Tiger 4.6.3 = 4). Peter, however, was divorced and his wife was still alive, which means that as the Governor of the Church of England, HM The Queen could not have sanctioned Margaret’s marriage to her true love and divorced spouse. With two numbers in common, it is very likely that there was a high degree of past-life connection between Margaret and Peter Townsend. He was shipped off to Belgium so that she could not have her star-crossed lover on the side. As karma would have it within ten years of Margaret being bitterly separated from Peter Townsend by his relocation to Belgium, Prince Philip was ploughing Princess Alexandra and before the decade was out, HM The Queen had her lovechild with Lord Prochester, HRH Prince Andrew, Duke of York and we know damn well how all that karma turned out, Epstein, Maxwell, Roberts-Giuffre. All the more reason why it was callous in the extreme to have dispatched Peter Townsend to Belgium. Margaret could have wedded whomever and kept Peter as lover, open or otherwise; this after all, is what both HM The Queen and Prince Philip did… it is what the royals have always done.

Margaret having been told to suck it up and get on with living, then settled for Antony Armstrong-Jones, 1st Earl Snowdon. It is hard to see what had these two walking down the aisle, unless Antony Armstrong-Jones (7/3/1930 Horse 7.1.5 = 4) was hung like a prized steed. Margaret and Antony did not a single number in common share; she had to have kids and if he loved being pegged by strap-on or cock, he would not have been the first royal male with same-sex proclivities. Finally, having had enough of playing at happily married, Margaret dispensed with her pegged hubby and cut to the chase. She took Roddy Llewellyn (9/10/1947 Pig 9.1.4 = 5) as her lover. She needed to be well-ploughed and often and when that is the order, no one fills the role better than a Pig. Pigs are loud, lusty, sexually obsessive souls who will happily fulfil themselves and partners as often as possible. Soused on drink and nicotine all Princess Margaret wanted was damn good sex and that is just what Roddy would have provided. Like the Earl Snowdon, Margaret and Roddy had no numbers in common. At 17 years Margaret’s junior, Roddy was merely a throbbing sex toy and knew his role.

Please, Switch to Elderflower; It Is Most Soothing…

Catherine Bullies William at James Bond Premier

Catherine has mastered the art of cussing behind clenched teeth whilst smiling that ever-present smile of hers. Her 9 energy body here is toxic in the extreme and that is why for most of the time, William’s face is warped into a pursed-lipped silence. William is a submissive; he is a bottom who loves being bullied by his wife and it is part of their psychosexual dynamic. Catherine is a dominatrix. Who again made whom cry?

Look at the Froideur Between Cambridges at No Time to Die Premier

Catherine peppered William with abuse common to dominatrixes whilst smiling and looking his way; just look at her exasperation at the 40 second mark. On arriving at the top of the stairs, Catherine looked across to William who had still not made it up. She cuts the eye at him and does not give a damn who the world over noticed.

Bottoms Up! Now we learn where best fake-toothed, bald, submissive Billy likes to wear his crown jewels! If that is not rich…. of course, it has always been there. You can even see it in the way Catherine triggers William in the clip of them out bike-riding and encountering an amateur photographer. Of course, William’s mum, Diana, Princess of Wales was 1 energy-bodied and that is the sign of the dominatrix/bully. I have also known four women along life’s journey and everyone of them had men whom they utterly controlled, emasculated and pussy-whipped their every breath. Heck, two of those women, with energy body of 9, loved using a strap-on on their lovers/partners.

#PrinceofPegging

Perhaps, indeed, he loves being pegged by James Middleton, Earl of Insolvency. Again, William’s fourth number is 5, it signifies male sexual fluidity, submissive behaviour, sexual excess, sexual scandal; furthermore, William is moving centred and all such persons are highly sex-focussed individuals. 5 represents excess – excessive submission. All this has happened throughout the history of the royal family; now, we live in an age where very little goes unnoticed.

Just look at William in both photographs on separate occasions; his lips are pursed and he is self-contained, emasculated and submissive. William is also jealous as hell but there isn’t a damn thing that he can do about it. A woman loves whom she loves and that’s that! Meanwhile, Catherine (9/1/1982 Rooster 9.1.3 = 4) does not waste time in telegraphing her heightened sexuality when focussed on Ben; she is all over and into Sir Ben Ainslie (5/2/1977 Dragon 5.7.4 = 7). This has been going on at least since 2014 and always, no one ever makes mention. In light of what we know about Prince Philip and HM The Queen, in this generation, we also do have a parallel dynamic. Catherine has made it perfectly clear, time and again, that William is a goddamn irritant. Not to be overlooked, is the fact that Dragons and Dogs do NOT get along; there is no way that William would ever feel comfortable around Ben and will be consumed with jealousy rather than not with regards Ben; Catherine intuitively knows this and plays it up even more. Make no mistake about it, there is more than flirting at play here. What’s poor Willy to do but go self-peg or cocksuck a couple of fags (British version or is that a pun?).

Catherine openly flirts with Ben and what does it say about their relationship when he adjusts her helmet; it is the most bold display of their intimacy. Of course, on the day of this Commonwealth invitational sailing event between Britain and New Zealand – Britain won – Catherine could not have bothered nor would she have dropped the sailing event, to attend Wembley Stadium with her husband, William, whilst the ladies England team squared off against Germany in the Ladies Euros 2022 finals, which they won. There was William alone and unattended by his wife, Catherine, who was in Plymouth openly flirting with her very intimate friend, Ben Ainslie.

Sir Ben Ainslie and Wife, Royal Box Wimbledon 2022

More important for Catherine was spending sportive quality time with Sir Ben. Well, of course, Sir Ben is married but so too is Penelope Knatchbull and Princess Alexandra wedded when they were the open lovers of Prince Philip’s, HM The Queen or no queen, to say nothing of the rest of humanity. But did anyone ever notice or write biographies and harp on as though the sky were imminently about to collapse?

Honestly, though they only have one match numerologically, there may be a strong past-life history between both Ben & Catherine or they may well be entity/cadre mates; either way, she is a warrior and all warrior souls whether male or female are very highly sexed persons, for whom there is never any shame in their game when they want to be sexually satisfied. Catherine is no different and she has the perfect partner. More sex workers and street walkers are warrior souls than any other role… so you know.

You definitely do not see Catherine ever looking this downright maudlin when in the company of Sir Ben Ainslie. “Lady sings the blues. She’s got it bad…” Sing it Billie Holiday. You wait, Billy, she’s gonna peg you good. Take a sip and breathe dears… exhale; isn’t Elderflower superb?

William is an insipid, foul-tempered man-child, who does find ready support in the court buffoon, whose wife is as equally dominant as is Catherine. He, too, likely does love being pegged. This could have been such smooth sailing; however, you just had to go tempting karma by being nasty little upfront racists towards Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Now that she is gone, you’ve blown your cover… from Prince Damien to personal preference on how to wear the crown jewels, are truly unmasking.

It’s Okay, Take A Minute…
The Camera Never Lies!
Marquess & Marchioness of Cholmondeley, Earl & Countess of Rocksavage, Houghton Hall

If you going to reincarnate and work as a team on a life devoted to stewardship, this remarkably august pair would be as fine a blueprint as you could hope for. I don’t know if they are task companions or essence twins but what I do know, is that they are without doubt august mature souls with a strong past-life history. They do a remarkable job of not just maintaining an estate, Houghton Hall, they have handsomely adapted it to survive and thrive in modern times.

David 27/6/60 Rat 9.6.4 = 1 Marquess & Rose 15/3/84 Rat 6.9.4 = 1 Marchioness of Cholmondeley

All four of their numbers match; this is a bucolic reward incarnation for both and it has to do with a lifetime, which was chosen at the level of soul because they had richly earned/deserved it. As the 7th Marquess of Cholmondeley his 9 energy body is vastly different to Catherine’s. For one, he was born into the aristocracy and for another a woman with 9 energy body is vastly more acerbic, predatory than a male with 9 energy body; Catherine was also not of aristocratic birth, which only steeled her 9 energy body’s exoskeleton. Rose’s 6 energy body means that as also of aristocratic birth, she is all about being grounded, family-focussed and eschewing drama. This couple so get each other that it would not be surprising if they regularly finished each other’s sentences, experienced a strong degree of telepathy, most definitely communicate rather actively in dreams and when they are together can effect magical stillness when in a room. They are quite remarkable. Life is a business; they get it and run a business they do. As any good rat knows, life is about balance and duality. They indulge and when they play, they lose themselves.

Cambridges & Rocksavages

Much has been whispered at tea about this pairing of couples. Honey, I don’t read tea leaves. I am inclined to believe that Catherine wanted Rose frozen out, simply because Catherine is a warrior soul and all warrior souls are quick to do battle, anywhere, anytime, with whomsoever with enemies real or imagined, many of whom prove the latter. Catherine, as with Meghan, is easily threatened. In this case, Rose’s aristocratic birth would be reason enough to look to freeze her out.

The Rocksavages are mature souls and as Rats, they could give two frigs about trifling drama; they are far too sophisticated to get caught up in that. They are aristocratic; one does as one has always done. It is the spouse’s duty to accept and live with it or suffer the consequences. William’s fourth number of 5 means that as there has been smoke, and copious amounts, I might add, I say there most definitely is a raging fire… hey, blame it on climate change.

Fortnum & Mason Elderflower Tea

Wasn’t that sublime? It’s remarkably elegant and sensual. I find it also induces the most languorously lucid dreams. Always good to take the time for tea. Cheers. Speaking of dreams, I think the link to this dream almost 30 years ago, is a fitting metaphor for how the BRF, Fleet Street and the island realm dwellers relate to the Sussexes. Don’t, like the dog in this dream, be like the aforementioned: BRF, Fleet Street and island dwellers of the realm.

Go on, let them yap… soar higher still.
Buster at My Birthday Dinner

Saturday past, as it is a holiday weekend here, my spouse and I crated Buster and took him to my sister Pandora’s. There we had too much Moet, can you possibly ever have too much champagne, and had an early birthday dinner with luscious raspberry-covered cake ahead of my 62nd on Tuesday. 2/8/1960 Rat 2.1.8 = 11. Buster sat on the desk, looking out the window because since Pandora and hubby moved back to town from Ottawa, her two cats – mother and daughter – can’t seem to make heads or tail of him. Buster scurries about and now it’s gotten to the point of a hiss there, a hiss here. Either way, he calms himself by taking to the window and gazing up at the Aura condominium, which towers higher still than those across Bay Street.

Miles Davis Quintet, 1964 Live in Milan

Miles Davis – Trumpet

Wayne Shorter – Saxophone

Herbie Hancock – Piano

Ron Carter – Bass

Tony Williams – Drums

Ron Carter 4/5/1937 Ox 4.9.2 = 5

As this is the 65th anniversary of Ron Carter’s career as Jazz bassist extraordinaire, I thought this concert a fitting tribute. Jazz is the magical language of Black love and spirituality. From Emmett Till to George Floyd, honestly, how can you possibly expect us to suffer the repugnant affront of you, seeking to cancel Jazz, cancel Black culture by your grudging ubiquity? You will never do.

One of these days, Buster’s gonna catch a pigeon.

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

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©2013-2023 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Why No Spencer Colouring?

More and more, the hideous burrowing larvae at this rotten artichoke’s core becomes exposed. Respect is earned and never a birthright. When incarnate anywhere in the physical universe, the most important asset to possess, is intellect. So you don’t like blacks, and who pray tell are you to the people for whom Jazz is culture, high art and everything?

So never mind Archie’s skin colour; what about his hair colour? All along the Sussexes have cleverly hidden from view Archie’s hair colour, indeed his true identity; he was photographed being returned home from preschool, wearing a large toque. Also, at Christmas 2019, he was photographed with his proud pa whilst on Vancouver Island, wearing a toque to coverup his flaming Spencer mop. He was filmed on Oprah Winfrey’s interview with his parents in a manner such that much of the colour was edited from the film, making it appear as if filmed in black and white.

Royal fans expressed their annoyance over not seeing Archie's face again after Meghan Markle and Prince Harry released a new picture of their son to celebrate his second birthday (pictured) in May this year
This photo of a pregnant Meghan in March 2021, was another example of when the Duke and Duchess of Sussex decided to not show Archie's face to the public
Last year, the Duke and Duchess of Sussex opted to share an illustrated Christmas card - leading to some disappointed fans calling for the couple to show Archie¿s face (pictured)
However, in 2019, the couple appeared more than happy to show their son's face, making it centre stage in their festive greetings image
On his mental health series The Me You Can't See, co-created with Oprah Winfrey, Harry showed several new images of his two-year-old son, seemingly showing his front
While on Ellen, Meghan decided to share one showing Archie's back
Prince Harry and Archie pictured in Canada in 2019. The Duke and Duchess of Sussex's son's face can be clearly seen in the photograph, shared in an end-of-year review by the couple in a 2019 clip
Prince Harry (pictured) has once again showed how well he's embracing his relaxed LA lifestyle by going barefoot in a trendy Christmas photoshoot
Heavily pregnant Meghan Markle pictured taking son Archie to school (photos)

Last Christmas’s card was an illustration where the colour was a smeared auburn. Archie was filmed in sepia holding ballons which yet again, left his identity ambiguous. Then after having dropped the race bomb on the Oprah Winfrey interview, Archie’s shock of red hair is finally revealed. Just as Meghan executed the most elegant display of controlled anger, during which time in her sit-down interview with Oprah Winfrey, she never once mentioned Prince William, she went one further and subtly taunted Prince William by having HSH Prince Alex Lubomirski reveal to the world Archie’s true ‘colour’.

George Edmund McCorquodale - Genealogy
Meet Prince Harry's cousin Louis Spencer - the man who will inherit Diana's  childhood home - Mirror Online

Not only does Archie have the Spencer redhead gene – like his cousins George McCorquodale and Louis Spencer Viscount Althorp – but unlike William and his three offspring, Charlotte having the same hairline and forehead as her uncle King Felipe VI’s two daughters, Charlotte unlike Archie is not a redhead. Archie’s freckled mother, Meghan Duchess of Sussex, has the redhead gene as well as his father; and both Archie’s maternal grandparents are likely carriers of the redhead gene.

William being the obvious Bourbon lovechild that he is, only has the Spencer redhead gene; he did not inherit said gene from his father, King Juan Carlos of Spain – notice King Felipe VI and his offspring do not manifest the redhead gene. Sadly, William’s bullying, emasculating wife, Catherine, does not have the redhead gene to pass on. So in the end, Archie by being born, further revealed William for the Bourbon lovechild that he is.

Just look at all this staged tomfuckery, passing for good old-fashioned, wholesome family togetherness…. mon blasted cul!

There’s a “good person” alright.

Indeed, on recently watching the Oprah Interview during the holidays, I realised that by conspicuously never once mentioning William, Meghan thereby outed him. Elegantly, Meghan unmasked Catherine for the monster that she is by clearing up the lies of just who made who cried. Of course, it was Catherine, she of the 9 energy body with a task companion husband, William, who has a 9 attitude – toxic specimens to the core.

Sarah Ferguson reveals who really invited her to Prince Harry and Meghan  Markle's wedding | HELLO!

The tabloid medium vilification of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, speaks to William’s grudging, petty, malicious nature. At the time of William’s wedding April 29, 2011, the media spun the story that Sarah, Duchess of York was not invited to William’s marriage to Catherine because HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh did not speak to Sarah and did not want her present. Seven years later, HRH Prince Philip was still alive, yet Sarah, Duchess of York attended Harry’s marriage to Meghan because Harry wanted Sarah present; it was after all his wedding and not HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh’s. Of course, if now what we know of Andrew, Duke of York’s sexual proclivities and legal troubles were then rumoured, William damn well would have seen fit not to have Andrew attend his wedding in April, 2011.

Princess Beatrice and Dave Clark out in London. | Princess Beatrice and  Princess Eugenie Have a Night Celebrating a Very Different Queen! |  POPSUGAR Celebrity Photo 8
Did Queen Elizabeth Forbid Prince Harry From Marrying Long-Term Girlfriend Chelsy  Davy?

It was William who told American, Dave Clark that he did not approve of him and would not be permitted to wed, HRH Princess Beatrice of York. Indeed, conveniently enough, as he wished not to be overshadowed at his wedding by Harry, Chelsey Davy was told to get lost. Indeed, she could attend the wedding, just not as the fiancée of Harry’s. This is how controlling and petty William is… indeed, how all 9s are. All true to his numerology and second number of 9, his mindset, William is snobbish, prejudiced, interfering and obstinate.

The Middleton family showed their support for the Duchess of Cambridge this afternoon as they arrived to watch her host a Christmas carol service at Westminster Abbey
Pippa Middleton Wedding: Spencer Matthews with William and Harry |  PEOPLE.com

In another of William’s moves, there was Pippa Matthews at 2021’s Carol Service at Westminster Abbey; however, she was not accompanied by her spouse James Matthews. William would never want him there, since Matthews senior, David, is legally accused of sexual assault, involving a minor, in France. To say the least, it was also obvious that William has never suffered his wife’s brother-in-law, Spencer Matthews as he was flatly dismissed at Pippa’s wedding to Spencer’s brother Matthew in 2017.

Jamaican- British author Lady Colin Campbell, 72, was briefly married to Lord Colin Campbell - the son of Ian Campbell, who was married to Margaret
Meghan Markle 'did not contact father for his 76th birthday', claims  half-brother - Mirror Online
Piers Morgan Cleared for Criticizing Meghan After Oprah Interview - The New  York Times
The Queen and the royal family have a reason to celebrate! | HELLO!
Mrs. Kingston, Lord Frederick Windsor (9 & William confidant), Princess & Prince (9) Michael of Kent.

True to form, William has used an arsenal of fellow 9s to do his dirty work of sabotaging and bullying Meghan out of the picture. Little did the Bourbon dolt know against whom he was dealing. From Lady Colin Campbell, HRH Princess Michael of Kent, Piers Morgan and Thomas Markle Sr., they all did his dirty work whilst he hid, like the wizard of Oz not too well, out of view. Without doubt, they have all been sanctioned by William, in his obsessive animus towards Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, as they are all possessed of 9 (save Princess Michael of Kent) as are he and Catherine. Everyone of these nines, like all nines, are the most blasted conceited boors imaginable. Quelle fuck-all joie indeed. Good god, who in their right mind but a toxic 9 energy body (just like Catherine) like Thomas Markle Sr. would be obsessed with sabotaging and slandering their own child? Remind me again when Doria Ragland was out vilifying her own blood. Everyone of these people, Thomas, Lady Colin – that blasted big-handed, dick-tucking, Trenchtown jaggabat, Piers Morgan, both princely Kent males et al, are merely manifestations of both William and Catherine’s well-guarded true nature in all their 9 toxicity.

Chief weapon in William’s arsenal is the listless, inarticulate, talentless, gurning, hyper-competitive ghoul, who will stop at nothing to try and outdo Meghan, especially since Meghan so elegantly outed her by stating that, she is a “good person” (ha), as in William most certainly the fuck is not. Stay tuned, like all racially predatory, obsessed-with-blacks white females, look for Catherine next year to release a Jazz album… Lawd Jesus! Of course, this little mad turn of hers, even more risible than Diana, Princess of Wales’s dance with Wayne Sleep, had been pre-taped because god only knows, there must have been 2 million and 9 takes to get the blithering off-key errors edited and enough gurning captured. This staged bit of madness only deftly illustrates how utterly small-time Catherine truly is, to say nothing of shit-disturbing, petty and sabotaging. So, Catherine, you lamely banged on a keyboard, well, so too my dear could Michael Jackson’s chimpanzee, Bubbles, who also gurned throughout.

HM The Queen tells off Prince William.

Of course, as the BBC currently is at war with William and Catherine, trust royal correspondent, Nicholas Witchell to take a swipe at William as HM The Queen does not let slip the opportunity to tell off William as they were gathered last year at Windsor Castle. This was a report by Mr. Witchell on Christmas Eve 2021, which included at the 01:19 mark an outtake from HM The Queen and family on the steps at Windsor Castle during Christmas 2020. At the time, last Christmas, this was not aired; however, if you are going to come out and act as though you are already sovereign, the BBC is swiftly going to put you in your place as damn well they ought to.

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Naturally, the unflattering clip, which brazenly lays bare HM The Queen’s dismissive rage at that damn incompetent fool Bourbon dolt, was beautifully edited and immediately followed by a glowing review of the Sussexes’ Christmas card for 2021, which was released the day prior as was their card for 2020 also released on December 23. With 2 & 5 in William’s numerology, sooner or later infamy and dark secrets of a sexual nature will be whispered about; however, as with BBC’s interview with an implicated Prince Andrew, the BBC will not think twice to ruthlessly go after William.

Prince Philip's coffin lowered into Royal Vault in never-before-seen TV  moment - Mirror Online

That’s right William and Catherine, you may control the narrative vilification and slander of Meghan through the sleazy tabloids; however, you will never win in war against the BBC – they are real journalists, who will not think twice, just like HM The Queen to put you in your damn conceited place. Sooner or later, William’s body will be lowered through the floor at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle. Starting that day, history, which is callously unforgiving, will cease being sparing with the truth of just who this stubborn, controlling, pernicious, interfering and petty human, William, was.

Meghan and Harry in new royal split from William and Kate | Metro News

There was William sat such that he could have an unobstructed, hawkishly predatory view of Meghan so that later, back at Kensington Palace, he could lace into her about every blasted thing that she said and did as a mature scholar soul with a chief feature of stubbornness and an attitude of 9 can be expected to do. Naturally, it is precisely because of William’s volatile toxicity why Meghan made it perfectly clear to Harry that they were going to have to move to Frogmore Cottage rather than live next-door to the perpetually rowing Cambridges with their toxic 9 numerology.

If equally self-toxic Catherine can’t stand William, why indeed should the Sussexes have moved in next-door to them at Kensington Palace, let alone remain in the kingdom when HM The Queen does not have another 20 to 40 years on the throne.

Provoked, the BBC will not pussyfoot in a fight with William. Respect is earned and with no discernible intellect, you can bet your bottom dollar that the BBC will not be threatened by a bully to say not of a damn fool. Sycophants do not abound at the BBC. As royals happen to be human, the BBC is keenly aware that William too shall pass and as such is no threat to the fourth estate, of which the tabloid media are not members.

Blind with prejudice of a people, how can a fool ever be expected to perceive the beauty of all humanity. Go on, sit there openly ridiculing before the entire world and time itself a very people, you damn Bourbon fool; history is never kind to those who know nothing of truth. Jazz is the very essence of a people about whom you know nothing and can never be expected to perceive their humanity.

Diana-Princess-of-Wales-Nelson Shanks 1994 oil on canvas

I share here the above dream, which was dreamt in July 1997 of Diana, Princess of Wales. It was the eve of my move from Vancouver to Montréal and a month before Diana’s tragic death. At the time of the dream, which was set on the astral plane, Diana was clearly resigned to her fate. Also, as is obvious from her concerns for William’s safety in the dream, as she was imminently about to pass, Diana was worried that anything should happen to her firstborn, William. Naturally, if Charles were not William’s father, there was a real danger that Diana’s firstborn could altogether be removed from the picture. The moment, mere weeks later, that I heard of Diana’s car crash, I knew that she would perish; I knew then the meaning of the above dream.

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

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©2013-2023 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

The Scarf… There’s the Culprit.

Scarf moment 2018

Without doubt, though the most reviled black woman on the planet, I knew that though cited as the instigator in the tabloid media, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex could not have been the cause of the obvious rift between Diana, Princess of Wales’ sons: HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex. When someone is guilty of having wronged, denigrated or slandered another, that guilty party is always acutely uncomfortable in the presence of the subject of their animus. This past Christmas church service at Sandringham, HRH Prince William unwittingly unmasked himself as the guilty party. I never for a moment believed that Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge was the instigator.

george-prince-william

In September 2017 when HRH Prince George of Cambridge was widely photographed attending his first day of school in Battersea, one thing stood out in the reporting at the time: his father’s very close friend and cousin, Lord Frederick Windsor’s daughter Maud by actor wife, Sophie Winkleman also attends the same school. This is the same cousin whose cocaine addiction had caused HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales to put an end to the close relations his sons enjoyed with their cousin; however, HRH Prince William remained close to this cousin.

Engagement photo

One of the things that struck me is the interviews given after their engagement was announced in late November 2017.

Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall was her usual adroit, eloquent self, and her husband,

HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales was the second most upbeat.

At the time, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge was less upbeat, did not mention Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex; rather, he essentially characterised his brother as a thief.

Similarly, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge spoke of their happiness but never mentioned Ms. Markle and this came a day later after her husband; indeed, it was as though, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge had been tasked with doing damage control after William’s snub of Meghan by nmentioning her name.

Princess Michael of Kent with the blackamoor brooch

A month after the engagement announcement, though not yet a royal bride, Meghan Markle was invited to attend HM The Queen’s traditional Christmas lunch with her especially enamoured fiancé, HRH Prince Henry of Wales. So as not to be mistaken, the continental put-on wore a starkly white coat such that her blackamoor brooch would not be properly photographed on a dark coat. At the time, there was justifiable furore in the press and the narcissistic twit was made to issue a rather disingenuous-sounding mea culpa. Clearly, she could never in a million years have acted on her own.

Xmas 2017

Later that month, Christmas Day, 2017, again Meghan not being from Britain was invited – though not yet a royal spouse – to HM The Queen’s Christmas Church Service at Sandringham. On looking at the video, it was clear that there was tensions between the two senior royal couples. By that point, there was widespread open animus towards Ms. Markle and though it was never directly addressed and always vehemently denied, her race was the source of the vitriol. Whilst entering the church, there was smugness from HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge towards Ms. Markle. As they left the church, there was no denying HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales’ open affection for Ms. Markle and in the above photograph, he is beaming directly at Ms. Markle, making her feel welcome whilst the keenly onlooking HRH Prince William in the rear was tense-looking.

William, Kate, Harry and Meghan at the Royal Foundation Forum

A couple of months later, when appearing as the ‘Fab Four’ charter members of the Royal Foundation, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge spent most of his time crouched forward; his posture was predatory and he was keenly eagle-eyed as he monitored Ms. Markle’s performance. As ever, HRH Prince Henry of Wales looked nervous, Ms. Markle was poised though her chief feature tended at times to get the better of her – more on that later. I shall do a thorough overview of these major royals’ Michael Overleaves, which were channelled by two authentic Michael channellers and by none of the ever burgeoning scores of two-bit charlatans.

William cruising Ben Mulroney

Finally, the big day arrived for Diana’s younger son; and what a wedding it would prove. There sat HRH Prince William displaying those urges for which a life at public school leaves one possessed of certain proclivities. In the above photograph, William is eyeing Ben Mulroney – well, because he can – at the time neither of his inner circle chums (Thomas & Charlie van Straubenzee) were present in the quire. At least on two other occasions, William openly coveted Mr. Mulroney during his brother’s nuptials.

the betrayer

On her arrival to the altar to join her husband, Meghan looking more confident and radiant than most brides was being suspiciously eyed by her brother-in-law in his role of disproving, to say nothing of delusional, final arbiter.

no wave william

As the newlywed TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex departed St. George’s Chapel in the Ascot Landau, all the members of the Cambridge family at the top of the west steps waved off the couple save, of course, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge. He kept holding George’s hand and the order of service in the other.

 Senior members of the Royal Family appeared impressed as the array of aircraft flew over Buckingham Palace

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

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

Body type is Lunar/Mars/Saturn.

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

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

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

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

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

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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 body type is Saturn/Mercury/Venus.

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

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. ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

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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.

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

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

Meghan’s body type is Venus/Solar.

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

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, 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.

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Windsor, HM Queen Elizabeth II 21/4/1926 London, England

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

Body type is Venus/Lunar.

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

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

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

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

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

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Mountbatten, Prince Philip HRH Duke of Edinburgh 10/6/1921 Greece

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

Body type is Saturn/Mars.

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

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

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

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

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

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Frances, 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.

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Windsor, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales 14/11/48 London

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

Charles’s body type is Mercury-Saturn.

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

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

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

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Windsor, Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall 17/7/1947 London, England

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.

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Now for the esoteric Michaelese breakdown of what all this means. All told, there are 9 major players chosen here; of them warrior souls predominate with four such persons: Catherine, Henry, Philip and Charles. Two scholars: William and Camilla. Similarly, there are two artisans, Diana and Meghan. Lastly, there is but one slave, HM The Queen, who happens to have the strongest overleaves of them all. As HRH Prince William is the subject of this blog, I shall explore his overleaves lastly.

First and foremost, there are only two ways to approach all of life, either from a place of fear or a place of love. That having been said, there are both positive and negative poles of all overleaves. Similarly, just because an individual is an older soul does not mean that they are a more evolved human being and is all good. Of all these 9 royals, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, is the oldest souled member with Diana, Princess of Wales having been the youngest soul among them. Bear in mind, too, that some of these persons are if not entity or cadre mates, at the very least are pod mates. I am going to go through these nine souls in order of soul age and though Charles is the oldest of the group, I will discuss William’s last even though he is the second oldest soul.

The Diana, Princess of Wales
Diana: Second-level mature artisan; she lived the charmed life, great overleaves. She had the great goal of acceptance, which incidentally so too do William, Charles and Meghan. There was considerable Maya involved and she created a ton of drama out of sheer boredom and also as a way of fighting back when realising that she was in a loveless marriage and nothing but a pawn. No idea, if she is yet reincarnated.

Queen Elizabeth II attends a service for the Order of the British Empire at St Paul's Cathedral on March 7, 2012 in London, England. (Photo by Geoff Pugh/Getty Images)
HM The Queen: A third-level mature slave soul, she is on her second life at that level and is in dominance. This is as close to perfect and positively manifested the overleaves of anyone within that family or elsewhere. These are great overleaves, which are positively manifested.


Camilla: She is a mid-cycle mature scholar soul and a pragmatist in growth. This woman is a solid and as gracious a scholar as you can find. No surprise that she focusses on literary charities and organisations and hosts the annual Man Booker Prize awards. She is a scholar’s scholar and does not do drama. Camilla is another BRF (British Royal Family) member who gets it right and is manifesting in the positive pole of her overleaves like HM The Queen.


Meghan: Like Camilla, the Duchess of Sussex is also mid-cycle mature; however, like Diana, Princess of Wales she is an artisan. As is obvious from her overleaves, she chose to reincarnate to do something. Where she is is precisely where she is supposed to be. One does not end up with body-type of Venus-Solar and do nothing and does not become a major player on the global stage. Incidentally, usually only one life is passed at mid-cycle mature; it is a bridge lifetime between third mature and fourth mature and it is the only soul age where this occurs – there are exceptions to everything as this is Meghan’s soul’s third life as mid-cycle mature. At the end of fourth mature, more of the brain is used going forward and there is greater complexity to the persona. Meghan, having been Margaret Beaufort in a past life when she was the most pivotal Lancastrian woman during the War of the Roses, matriarch of the Tudor Dynasty, cousin of King Henry VI, mother of King Henry VII, beloved grandmother and mentor of King Henry VIII and great-grandmother to HM Queen Elizabeth I. Furthermore, Meghan is an entity mate of both HM The Queen and her husband HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex. They form a troika that is unshakeable. She is an idealist in acceptance; she will always be emotionally and empathetically open and mature. Sadly, though, the fact that this soul chose to be black in this lifetime has meant that she has become the most reviled black woman on the planet for having married into the BRF and its most loved prince. Incidentally, her husband, HRH Prince Henry was black in his immediate past life. Meghan’s primary chief feature is that of self-deprecation which is never attractive and this leaves her copping the shy smile routine and in particular placing her hand over her mouth. Your chief feature is a cactus never to be cradled… that said, this soul who as Margaret was first wedded before the age of two and had four husbands will be striking it out of the park in this lifetime again.

The Duke of Edinburgh has undergone a successful hip replacement
Philip: Fourth mature warrior in dominance, this is an equally solid soul as is his wife, HM The Queen. A warrior’s warrior to the core.

Prince Harry
Henry: A fifth-level mature warrior; this man is the most interesting and underrated royal. First of all, at fifth-level mature, he is more complex than any of the other royals thus far; he is also a sceptic and the only other of the nine being the rather shrewd Prince Philip. This means that he is all 9 parts intellect, sees straight through everything and is able to think outside the box. Fifth-level is also synonymous with the goal of acceptance; therefore, this man will always have great appeal within a group dynamic. He is also thoroughly unpretentious and in growth. As a warrior, he inputs on one channel as do scholars and kings. Similarly, as a warrior, Henry will never forgive disloyalty of any kind; a betrayal of any kind is unforgivable.

Catherine Duchess of Cambridge
Catherine: Like Henry, Catherine is not only also a warrior but she is also fifth-level mature. These two are rather simpatico and there is no way that they would never get along; there would be nothing but mutual respect and understanding. Fifth-level mature is also a time of incredible creativity, especially among warrior souls. Catherine also happens to be not just an entity mate of her husband’s but they are also task companions, which is as close a relationship at the level of soul that you can have as is possible. Task companions are like oxen sharing the same yoke; they get things done and Catherine also has a goal of growth like her brother-in-law, Henry but she is in perseveration mode. Catherine is all steel and will endure much and scale any mountain to get the job done. Admirable lady.

Prince Charles
Charles: the fourth of the warriors, he is also the oldest soul of the senior royals. Dream encounters with this man are truly evolved. Naturally, as a seventh-level mature warrior issues of stewardship of the planet would be paramount among his concerns. He is also a warrior in acceptance and lives a life that is truly a positive expression of his overleaves. Kind and inclusive, he is understanding and truly accepting. Like every warrior there ever was, he does not forget or forgive disloyalty.

Prince William
William: He is the second scholar soul and also the second oldest soul of the group. Sixth-level mature, William is at that all unforgiving sixth-level where those lives are all about paying back karma and having to work in the larger arenas of life and providing stewardship. William, born on the summer solstice, was also born with a stellium in his astrological chart which among other things means that he is prone to being very narrow in his focus; more importantly, it indicates someone who cannot see the forest for the trees when expressed negatively.

Though William has a goal of acceptance, he also has a chief feature – no chief feature is ever positive – of stubbornness, which means that he is rarely regardless of his perfected persona ever either at ease or accepting of anyone. Moreover, when a scholar is not in the positive pole of its role – as Camilla is – then that scholar will be an obstinate (stubbornness) negative and prejudicial (acceptance’s polar opposite rejection goal).

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This is why it is almost 100% likely that William not only knew of HRH Princess Michael of Kent’s intention of wearing the blackamoor brooch to the 2017 Christmas Lunch at Buckingham Palace but he likely was the one to have sanctioned it. William is very close with Frederick who with his Jewish actor wife spend lots of time in Los Angeles where there is inordinate racial animus towards blacks.

Wearing the blackamoor brooch to HM The Queen’s Christmas Lunch was tantamount to wearing a swastika to said lunch the first year that Sophie Winkleman attended, knowing fully well that Lord Frederick Windsor’s wife is Jewish. The idea that somehow Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is behind a rift between both princely brothers or is contentious with Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge – who as a warrior is more likely to be openly hostile towards Meghan than the other way around – couldn’t be further from the truth.

James Middleton roasts Tom Bradby

I think that it is safe to say that the Middletons have become rather high and mighty with themselves as evidenced when James Middleton was seen being socially hostile towards ITV’s royal correspondent, Tom Bradby outside St. George’s Chapel at the royal wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex.

Here are further examples of HRH Prince William being rejecting, obstinate and plain rude. William and not Meghan refused to have Sarah, Duchess of York attend his wedding. William and not Meghan sat in the Chapel at St. George’s Chapel and openly ridiculed Reverend Curry to his father, HRH Prince Charles. It was William and not Meghan who decided after the birth of HRH Prince George of Cambridge that the infant’s paternal grandparent would not be afforded access to his first grandchild. William rather than Meghan told Dave Clark that he was not desirable as a husband for his cousin, HRH Princess Beatrice, thereby putting an end to a relationship that was no business of his.

One of the most disarming things to know about HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge is that he is basically stupid and lacks awareness. This is how he always comes off in very lucid dream encounters. Furthermore, like all scholars in the negative pole of their soul/role, he is given to being discriminatory and readily judgmental. As a scholar with a chief feature of stubbornness, William is not given to being open to change and has an inordinately corrupted, almost delusional, sense of self. There is high conceit when dealing with this man. Indeed, he has taken his brother Henry, with an attitude of sceptic, none too seriously and definitely not as an equal; however, HRH Prince Henry does not – for being a sceptic – take this man too seriously nor does he take personally his hyper-inflated sense of self.

engagement interview 2010

During their engagement interview, Catherine sat on the edge of the sofa; only once did they touch and it was her initiating. William during the interview self-congratulatorily referred to his great sense of humour – blind conceit. Catherine’s hair almost covers her eyes so that she can remain tunnelled in focus and not become overwhelm by William’s intimidating nature. Catherine’s mouth is pursed and turned down at the corners, betraying her discomfiture for being in William’s presence; this suggests an unpredictable nature and a violent temper. Frankly, Catherine looks as though she fully expects to be slapped at any moment and with some regularity.

Catherine enters Abbey

Catherine as she appeared on entering Westminster Abbey and being greeted by the Dean of Westminster. Her smile is warm, relaxed and she radiates her inner beauty; indeed, it is uneclipsed.

Vows2

Catherine, now in the presence of William becomes clenched, clipped and her radiance lacks its lustre. All this because of the unpredictable nature of the man she is about to marry. This very man is also her task companion; however, his perfectly good overleaves have become corrupted and are not positively expressed in the least.

gloves

William the none-too-bright finally figures out how to properly fasten his gloves.

carriage entry

William enters the carriage and sits with his back to the horses drawing the carriage; he had even looked back over his shoulder to the horses, yet still sat down in the improper position in the carriage.

readjusted

William in this photograph has now changed seats after having been instructed to do so by the footman, wearing the white-plumed hat; the footman did so under his breath.

footman & pipa

In this shot, after having told William to properly sit, facing the front and not the back of the carriage, the footman could be seen looking at Pippa Middleton and she looks at him with a knowing and dismissive look and smile. This interchange between both the footman and Pippa indicates that it is common knowledge by those in the know that William basically is stupid.

Observant Henry

A keenly observant HRH Prince Henry on entering Westminster Abbey with his older brother on the day of William’s wedding. This is the look of someone with an attitude of sceptic. He knows that he has to hang back and take everything with a grain of salt as basically, his brother William is dense and unaware.

Dismissing Henry

While being hosted by the dean of Westminster, Henry ventures a comment and like a scholar in stubbornness and who has been groomed to always be deferred to, William in essence tells his brother to shut up with a dismissive remark. At all times, like a person in stubbornness, William’s body language is rigid and controlling with his hands ever clasped, the same few remarks and the same loud vacuous laughter and of course that ever present smile that is evocative of his mother Diana, Princess of Wales.

fighting

Scholars in the negative pole of their role/soul can be the biggest bores; ever, they are a font of useless information and often unsolicited. Here the newlyweds ride up the Mall to Buckingham Place; at least three times on the ride from Westminster Abbey William became impatient with Catherine and they rowed. Here, he is shouting at her and telling her to be observant; she like the warrior she is, anywhere and anytime, she will sound off and protest without so much as thinking twice. Love her!

rowing on the mall

Do not be fooled by Catherine’s smile; he is grilling her and she is fighting back. This, of course, is a healthy part of their relationship as long-term lovers and also for that matter for being task companions.

Catherine truce

After the harsh words, naturally, William was a sulky petulant bore. Warrior to the core, Catherine leans in and nudges him with her left shoulder and gets him to get out of his funk. Catherine is one of the strongest royal women going.

balcony deflection

Once on the balcony, William becomes a right bore with the endless drivelfest of observations. On more than one occasion, one captured above, Catherine simply dismisses the ennui that is William by pointing instead towards the Canada Gates whilst he was directing her to look down the mall towards the approaching planes taking part in the flypast. And at all times, Catherine maintains equilibrium with that Cheshire cat grin.

William simply assumes because he is destined to be king and is never challenged, he could do as he pleases and attack his brother’s lover without there being the slightest repercussions.

engagement interview 2017

Newly engaged, Henry and Meghan openly displaying their love for each other and both possessed of emotional intelligence that speaks to their reincarnational history, their being entity mates and the fact that as a yogi who has mastered the kamsutra, Henry is a happy camper. Xerxes, a seventh-level mature warrior friend sums up the warrior’s motto thusly: feed me, fuck me but do not annoy me.

Henry winks

Here, Henry on taking his vows and slipping the ring on Meghan’s finger with the most sexually suggestive intimacy, then winks at her. This is a couple completely and thoroughly besotted, in love and passionately consumed with each other.

Now there is a happy warrior; Henry deplanes when on first tour of the Commonwealth with his serenely pregnant wife, whilst sporting a chubby.

the kiss

William, who is inordinately so a control freak, is threatened by his brother’s wife who is not a controlled, plus one and subservient wife. Meghan has style and is not a blank foil to allow the blood royal spouse and only the blood royal spouse to shine at all times. I don’t, though, agree with Meghan’s inability to strictly follow royal protocol and walk behind her blood royal spouse.

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Sussexes

Henry made sure to have a wife who would be for him what his father never was for his mother; a lover, companion and equal team member. Meghan is forthright, articulate. Like every artisan soul, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex inputs on five channels (the most of all the seven soul types) which means she can evoke mood and inject that certain “je ne sais quoi” into what she wears. Artisans are said to be atmospheric; just slipping into an item of clothing and it is as though we shift personae and become as well as project the right mood into the environment. Artisans are atmospheric; we set the mood by just being.

Most of all, this appearance by Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex at the 2018 British Fashion Awards is why William fears her. Hatred is nothing but fear and to be obstinate and conspire with the Kents for Frederick Windsor’s mother to wear the blackamoor brooch only points to how much William fears his brother’s wife; to fear someone is to readily reveal how miserably you have no power over that someone. Onto that stage, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex walked and had the room in the palm of her hand. William knows that Catherine his wife could never have that command of an audience; what’s more, Catherine is a whimpering mousy little thing as compared to eloquent, confident trained thespian, Meghan.

In the 21st century, Brand Windsor needs an ambassador who is media savvy and can walk out onto a stage and deliver like only Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex does. That awards ceremony at Royal Albert Hall would have been a room with more than 60 per cent artisan souls whereas artisans make up 22 percent of the population of souls cosmically. In Meghan, the fashion worlds of couture, design and jewellery have one of their own – she is akin to a patron saint. This was the same effect that Diana, Princess of Wales also had for being an artisan soul.

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In Meghan, William is having to endure some self-karmic issues; you own no one and cannot push around anyone as you please. Thus far, he has irreparably damaged his relations with two strong warriors – his father and brother. Long before Meghan arrived he had sabotaged his relationship with Charles for not approving of Camilla, blaming his father for his mother’s death and denying his father access to his first grandchild. With regards Henry, he has done Meghan a big favour for with his open animus and hideous bigotry vis-à-vis the blackamoor incident, William has lost Henry’s trust and it will only forge the love and loyalty between him and Meghan.

Duchess Kate and Prince William's togetherness was discreetly on show as she placed her hand on her husband's leg at an official welcoming ceremony on day one of their 2016 royal tour of Canada. Photo: Karwai Tang/WireImage

Thus far, William and his family have twice been to Canada on royal tours; they have also been to the U.S., Singapore, Australia, New Zealand and the Pacific Commonwealth nations and India; however, William and his family have yet to set foot in a predominantly black Commonwealth nation. There are no coincidences. Persons in stubbornness are the most difficult people to deal with as they are pigheaded in the extreme and relish being difficult. As he clearly has no interest in being on tour in a predominantly black Commonwealth nation, this is why TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex were appointed as Commonwealth Youth Ambassadors. Far be it for William to become Sovereign where more than half the countries in the Commonwealth are peopled by blacks. As ever, tabloid media will blame Meghan the unsuitable black woman for the rift; truly, one need look no further than William, who is not in the positive pole of acceptance; rather he is in the negative pole of its opposite, rejection, which makes for the scarf incident, the blackamoor incident and all the other deplorable things he’s gotten up to: Sarah not at his wedding, Charles having little to no access to newborn George, froideur towards Camilla and now Meghan. Too bad for his scheming, though, because within a year of marriage, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex will be mother to a royal child which further solidifies her staying power.

As ever, don’t let fear and chief feature get the better of you as so clearly it has HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge. Just straighten up and fly right… especially when lucidly awakened in the dreamtime. For your ongoing support, I am inordinately grateful. Happy New Year and here’s to the very best in 2019.

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©2013-2023. Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Homecoming… EIIR 1926 (-0-) 2022

Last night, on the eve of HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales’s 73rd birthday, I dreamt the most spectacularly lucid dream in long decades. In the evening of Saturday, November 13th, 2021 when I don’t even know the lunar phase and have not audio-cassette recorded my dreams since 1997 when then living in Montréal, I simply had to share this dream. I awoke from the dream being saddened that I had to come to so soon.

HM Queen Elizabeth II

Since then, of course, as of today, September 8, 2022, it is obvious HM The Queen, Queen Elizabeth II is on the cusp of passing, so I reissue this here. Similarly, after having published this in November, 2021, I did recall that there were on a high hilltop a mighty army of bagpipes creating a most glorious sound.

At once I was come to in the most lucid dream set on the astral plane. Astral plane dreams are possessed of lighting that is uniquely found there and nowhere else. Vibrationally, it always feels in such dreams as it does between 0400 and 0600 with the intensity of this magical time being closer to 0500. In any event, I was in the midst of a flying dream above what can only be called the boulevard. It was a street wider than any in the waking state. The focal point of the dream, in this astral metropolis of at least 3 billion souls, was the gates to an ancient church, which was set back from the boulevard at the end of a long narrow straight pathway. It was exactly as the Anglican Church in the parish of St. Anne in Sandy Point St. Kitts. It was a church which was millennia old and all along the path to the foreboding wrought iron gates were clergy – all male – of the Anglican faith. As at the Anglican church in Sandy Point on either side of the pathway between the church and the gates were graves with the most ancient tombstones imaginable. There was a lone grave which was open, the earth on either side black and rich. There were clergymen at the grave concluding their business. As I alighted and took my place along the boulevard, HM The Queen walked alone in a green crew neck woollen dress; it was the same colour as a young artichoke, green fig or green guava. She carried no handbag. There were no corgis; about her neck was a single strand pearl necklace which was so ancient that its nacre had become diffused, time-yellowed and on the very cusp of looking like browning rotting teeth. She was reserved and poised and as the rear of the giant Rolls Royce faced the gates of the church and cemetery, she walked around to the right rear door and entered; her hair here was beginning to grey but predominantly brunette. There was no foot person to open the door. She got in and was seemingly in her late forties to early fifties, which is more in keeping with her soul age, that of being an early mature slave soul.

Myself for not being an astral plane habitué, had the ability to fly on the astral plane and, of course, though the habitués themselves could, they of custom chose not to. I was for being an observer referred to by the habitués as a visitor. On exiting the grounds – just as in the Sandy Point, St. Kitts arrangement, there was a crescent in which the massive Rolls Royce sat with its rear facing the open gates to the cemetery and church. The car carrying the arrivée Sovereign was expected and eventually did turn right onto the ridiculously large boulevard where the astral plane throngs along the boulevard’s route were as claustrophobically packed in as it must have been at St. Paul’s Cathedral for the Duke of Wellington’s funeral. Here the atmosphere was electric.

What had initially drawn me to this marvellous place, was the distant sound of several bugles, playing the rouse. I knew instantly what it meant. On my arrival, there were hills all around this sector of the astral plane metropolis; this seemed to a very layered astral plane London where different epochs in the city’s history simultaneously co-existed. On one particular wooded hill were the largest stags imaginable – they looked almost sentient whilst regally standing in small mobs. They had majestically arrived to the top from the other side, stood there for a long while then en masse sat down to onlook. Along the route, there were the most massive black steeds and when they walked and stood along the route, they were buried in the astral landscape such that the underside of their bellies were submerged.

The arrivée astral plane habitué Sovereign was then taken on a celebratory parade. The wood was an exquisitely polished oak that framed the exterior of this astral plane version of the Rolls Royce that seemed to have been from the late 1920s to early 1930s. On pulling out onto the boulevard the slow-moving single vehicle motorcade turned right and went down to the shorter arm of the boulevard. Along the right, as it were, of the boulevard and on either side were the most opulent, massive astral plane replicas of each and every stately home in England. The closest house on the right on leaving the cemetery was Blenheim Palace This astral plane version was easily 30 storeys tall and at least 15 millennia older than its waking state counterpart; I suppose that they were this massive as they served as suites for past Dukes of Marlborough as with Blenheim Palace. Even the stately houses which were demolished at the end of the empire, which saw families that didn’t marry robber baron Americans to stay afloat, were here represented. Longleat House, Althorp House, Highclere Castle, Knole House, Hampton Court Palace, Kensington Palace, Mapperton House, Waddesdon Manor, Wilton House, Castle Howard, Chatsworth House; you name it, they were all here behind wrought iron fencing and they stood side-by-side without massive ground anchoring each. This astral plane Blenheim Palace counterpart had sapphire-blue cupolas at the towers and center; every astral plane counterpart was here replete with sapphire-blue copulas. The walls of each house on the astral plane was made of marble that was time-yellowed, betraying the multiple millennia it had existed on the astral plane. Just as the skyscrapers on New York City’s Avenue of the Americas from 42nd to 57th Streets are tall and easily in excess of 30 storeys, so too was each of these astral plane counterparts for familiar English stately houses.

All along the route, which was teeming with astral plane habitués, there were different sections that towered up for several storeys. Directly opposite the gates to the church and cemetery from which the astral habitué Sovereign Elizabeth II emerged alone, was regally sat Sir Winston Churchill; he was surrounded by all the astral plane habitué Prime Ministers who had served HM The Queen. Here, there was a section reserved for astral plane-focussed English aristocrats; one recognisable such habitué was Gerald Grovesnor, 6th Duke of Westminster. At no point, however, did I ever see the following habitué relatives, HRH Prince Philip Duke of Edinburgh, HM Queen Elizabeth Queen Mother, HRH Princess Margaret, Countess of Snowdon or Diana, Princess of Wales. Constantly, persons were arriving to take their place, even when the parade was begun. This dream was so vivid, so electric, so lucid that the stimuli was so overwhelming that I times, I had to alight to ground myself. Indeed, at times, it proved laborious to try and fly where the amount of stimuli and the outréness of this astral plane milieu proved overwhelming on my ability to stay aloft to project myself whilst astrally projected into this utterly rhapsodic dream. As this dream was set on the astral plane, there were astral plane habitués here who wore the dress of the age in which they lived when incarnate. I readily assumed that these were past-life personae with connections to HM The Queen from past lives.

As I soared in flight into the astral plane air some three storeys above to get my bearings, I saw a phalanx of swashbuckling courtiers, progressing down the boulevard to take their place. They had all the swagger and style of dress as King Charles I in the masterful van Dyck tableau, Charles at the Hunt, which hangs at Musée du Louvre. They walked down the boulevard which housed the stately houses on either side, and well ahead of the habitué Sovereign’s Rolls Royce, which glided along the boulevard as if in bucolic slow-motion.

Still, there was a section of the immensely long boulevard which seemed as if longer than New York City’s Fifth Avenue, which on either side housed waking state visitors who were in attendance. Naomi Campbell, who was recently made Commonwealth ambassador to replace the Duke and Duchess of Sussex on their departure from royal duties, was here present. She was there in an enclosed section where all the waking state guests were kept. Also notable was fellow supermodel Kate Moss. I found it utterly fascinating to hear Ms. Campbell speaking in flawless Jamaican patois as she was gobsmacked by the beauty of this astral plane ritual. Taking a break from the laboriousness of dream flight in this particular dream, I had sought refuge in the glass enclosed stands where incarnate persons were focussed. These stands existed opposite each other across the ridiculously wide boulevard.

Once returned to flight I soon realised the immensity of the life that HM The Queen had lived. Here along the astral plane boulevard, on which I suppose that the Circus Maximus was modelled, were habitués who had lived during HM The Queen’s long life and reign and who had immensely admired her. These spanned the range of human civilisation with not just every racial stratum of Commonwealth member states but all other humans who had so immensely admired this extraordinary human being. Here were astral plane habitués from the 1930s, 1940s, 1950s, 1960s, 1970s, 1980s, 1990s, 2000s, 2010, 2020s. From her earliest years of being the much admired Princess of York to becoming the young Sovereign and onwards, there were adoring astral plane habitué admirers. Absolutely everyone was here represented. It was simply overwhelming to see so many tens of millions of persons focussed in one place and all experiencing rapture at the arrival of someone in whom they had focussed much of their admiration, respect and love. This was a truly remarkable dream.

Pushing of again and exploring more of the unique dreamscape, I flew slowly in the opposite direction of the habitué Sovereign’s parade down the boulevard lorded over by palatial astral plane counterparts to known English stately houses. In one section there were humanoid creatures whose look suggested that these were animals which were long extinct long before animals were documented in earnest. One particular creature was pure white with liver spots markings. This large-headed male was singing whilst perched on a floating dais. Cloaked in a white ermine robe, the three to four thousand pound male creature sang with a range that went from whale song to counter tenor bravura. His voice was simply healing. Light seemed to emanate from beneath his skin and in varying intensities based on his emotions. His performance was so powerful that I had to alight again just to gather my energy reserves as flying does take considerable focussed energy.

Further along the boulevard, as every corner of the Commonwealth was here richly represented and this was a celebration of the life of the arrivée Sovereign, there were African women in colour garb, singing and dancing with jubilation written all over their cul-de-sac of the astral plane. From time to time, feeling the spirit one or more African woman would step into the boulevard and let their spirit jubilantly soar whilst in trance from singing and dancing their souls out.

The further along the boulevard one explored in flight to the left of the cemetery gates and to which the arrivée Sovereign had yet paraded, I explored whilst flying. Eventually, the lone Rolls Royce would come past a section of the boulevard where the astral plane habitués though humanoid, had heads that were akin to those of many gods from the Egyptian pantheon. Still, there were those who closely resembled Kiwi bird-headed humanoids. As astral plane-focussed dreams go, this contingent of totemic beings was not that unusual a sight. When the arrivée Sovereign’s motorcade of one turned to return and tour past the cemetery, I took to the air again and this time soared higher than usual. This enabled me to fly more swiftly than when lower to the electrically charged activity along the boulevard’s route. I returned to the far end of the boulevard to a stately house which sat at the end. Inside this royal residence, there truly was a battle royal underway. At the centre of this feud was Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Here, her voice was a booming commanding business. She was powerful and was settling scores. When she spoke, the walls of the stately house cracked, glass and art flew off the walls. Eventually one of the stately house’s cupolas cracked and eventually collapsed. It was a noisy, violent business.

The last time that I had dreamt of an astral plane-focussed dream wherein the past was being prosecuted, involved the recently passed Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis and Maria Callas. That, too, was a battle royal where scores were being settled. That dream is as follows:

*As per the urgency of this dream, I rather suspect that HM The Queen may already have passed by the time of the 2021 Remembrance Service at the Cenotaph; however, London’s hotels would have to be cleared of the Veterans and tourists before the death announcement would be made.

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

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©2013-2023 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Pink Chair I & II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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©2013-2023 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Oh quelle fuck-all joie ça!

Well isn’t that just marvellous! Look at little Billie Bourbon Flatfoot! Pussywhipped by the dominatrix fakester from Bucklebury. Go on, yada yada all the blasted frig you want but ever bliss eludes this sorry pantomime one decade and counting.

Horowitz, Vladimir 1/10/03 Kiev<O>5/11/89, NYC

Michael: This fragment was, in his immediate past life, a mid-cycle mature scholar in passion mode, with a goal of growth, a pragmatist in the moving part of emotional centre. 

Vladimir had a Mercury/Lunar body type. 

Vladimir’s was a strong primary chief feature of arrogance and a weaker secondary of stubbornness. 

This fragment was second-cast in his cadence and his cadence is fifth in the greater cadence.   He is a member of entity five, cadre two, greater cadre 14, pod/node 449. 

He and the fragment who was Wanda Toscanini are task companions, both now discarnate.   The fragment who was Wanda was a fifth level mature warrior. 

Vladimir’s essence twin is a scholar and is incarnate on the physical plane, is female, age seven years.  There are plans for them to complete the mother/son monad in Vladimir’s next incarnation, which will probably occur during the third decade of the next millennium. 

So here was an artisan-cast scholar with a great deal of sage energy, most of which was expended in his personal life.  This fragment’s relationship with his task companion was passionate, explosive and mutually satisfying. 

This scholar’s demeanour in public contrasted greatly with his behaviour in his private life. 

It is interesting to note that this fragment has had only one other life as a practicing musician and that was as an organist at the Chartre Cathedral in the early part of the nineteenth century. 

However, this fragment has a long stage history, beginning in Greece during its Golden Age. 

This fragment also built harpsichords during the latter part of the eighteenth century and actually built one for Leopold Mozart. 

As a highland warrior in the latter part of the seventeenth century, this fragment distinguished himself both on the battlefield and in fashioning bagpipes. 

He was an exemplary soldier in many lives and many guises. 

However, the place where this fragment was most at home was on the stage or behind the scenes. 

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What I love about the Horowitzes is how much so they are like Felipe VI’s step-brother and his dominatrix frau. Both Wanda Toscanini Horowitz and Catherine are fifth mature warrior souls who were/are married to their scholar task compaanion – Vladimir Horowitz and William the Bourbon pretender.

Just like the Horowitzes for being task companions the Bourbon-Bucklebury duo are a combustible, combative couple, who’ve openly rowed and cussed sotto voce in public their entire marriage but alas who is going to be so daft as to break from fairy story to either perceive or acknowledge the truth of this sorry pantomime?

Wanna know what Catherine & William are really like, take a long hard look at two more intensely soul-bonded lovers, Elizabeth Taylor & Richard Burton – they are essence twins, in Mike Nichols’ “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.” Like Martha, Catherine also is a heavy cigarette smoker.

They, el duque y la duquesa Bourbon y Bucklebury, are a rivetingly complex but utterly volatile couple – all task companions and essence twins are; however, for the British tabloid media to pretend that they are all that is risible in the very least. They both have 9 in their numerology and all such persons are archly self-toxic, which therefore dictates how they relate to everyone. Want to imagine what the Cambridges worldview is like, just listen to Lady Colin Campbell and Piers Morgan speak. They, the Cambridges and the aforementioned two media personalities, are argumentative, scathing, fault-finding, abusive, manipulative and bigoted… all 9 persons are.

Their contempt for their subjects notwithstanding, the Bucklebury muggles are also stressed to the gills from the perpetual rowing they witness when around their oh-so-tightly-wound-to-saccharine-perfection-fake parents.

It should be noted that during several dream encounters with HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge that I’ve had – as someone who dreams lucidly and recalls dreams each time that I sleep, it is not uncommon to dream of persons known or unknown to me – when he sits, he favours doing so with his legs gathered and folded. I remember the first time that I made the connection when visiting a friend’s family in the Eastern Townships on the drive from Montréal whilst en route to a long weekend in Québec City. Not only did the co-worker’s cousin exclusively sit with his legs gathered beneath him all times when sat; however, he was made ever acutely and openly hostile by my presence. Like another co-worker at another job whose stepson was on the spectrum, that man was also acutely uncomfortable in my presence and sat with legs gathered beneath him whenever sat. Like William, all these persons have a vacant look about them; though, William has been intensely groomed to be normal, he is normal simply because there is so much vested interest in how we perceive him.

He is a prince. He is Diana’s boy. He is the future king. We collectively are at once somnambulantly caught up in the fairy story and in his tightly choreographed outings, he is deftly able to pull the wool over our collective eyes. However, when he is challenged, like all 9s and spectrum-focussed persons, he will go off-piste and betray the intransigent stubbornness at the core of his being as a scholar in stubbornness and a spectrum-focussed human being. William betrayed his spectrum-focussed prejudice and oafishness by lacking sophistication when stating, “We are very much not a racist family.” Merely, by his statement’s ambiguity, its basic double negative, William thereby betrayed the racism rife within aspects of the BRF. Full stop! Alas, whatever is a trapped spectrum-focussed oaf to do? Stayed tuned, there is yet to be a sequel, this one in future will be deemed, the Madness of King Wills.

Ten years of rowing on the way up the Mall from their wedding ceremony, to all the private hissing, to the dominatrix brush off of the tedious spectrum-focussed oaf whom Catherine at best is damn sick and tired of having to babysit, especially when it cannot damn well stop pursuing his bits of roughs on the side and one should never rule out his male relative – no, not King Felipe VI rather his violent wife’s brother; there is a reason why James is never photographed anywhere near William. Just look at these two photos released to mark their 10th wedding anniversary, Catherine does not once look at William. He is an oaf and what she prominently displays is Diana’s engagement ring. That’s right, I am the one possessed of the womb, which brought forth the future sovereign, I don’t give a damn and if I made the little negro cry…. so damn fucking what. I am a bitch… deal with it.

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

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©2013-2023 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

See You Soon… 30 Years On, Merlin’s Magical Departure.

Almost instantaneously, as the Moon transited Leo in my third house, my lungs besottedly drank the warm and dank, dark air.  Thus I effortlessly drowned into sleep.  Whilst wintry winds howled outside the window, this cold early Saturday morning – November 18, 1989 – my lucid focus seamlessly shifted into the dreamtime. 

I readily knew that I was dreaming. 

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Here, just as moments earlier whilst awake and meditating, Merlin was uppermost in my thoughts.  I could sense his presence.  The shift from one dimension to the other was seamless.  Lucidly self-aware, I was immediately come to in a dream that was set in the bedroom where I slept.

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I was in bed with the artist Olaf Nordstrom – a source of loving support at present in the waking state.  I was lying in bed, leaning on his bony chest, as he sat up in bed.  It was obvious from his body language that he did not want to be in bed with me.  I felt a still and quiet vibration to this dream.  The moment was truly serene and peaceful.  This was not a sexual or post-sexual interlude.  We were both reflective.  It was obvious that we were on the cusp of something momentous.  It was the sort of vibration that signalled that something extraordinary was about to unfold.

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Olaf behaved as if he was uncomfortable being there – it was a grave moment.  He wanted to be there, however, to merely lend his support.  It was obvious that he was wary of my clinging.  Clinging, however, was not my intention.  The moment together was brief – just a preparation for things to come.  With that we parted.  It was time to get up and participate in the events of whatever was to unfold.

This dream was possessed of inordinate lucidity; its every detail and nuance my faculties absorbed with acuity beyond the norm.

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In the second dream, this cold Saturday morning, I found myself in the familiar territory of the Cabbagetown streets where we lived.  I went into a store which does not exist in the waking state.  It sat just south of the Pet Menagerie store, on the east side of Parliament Street, between Amelia and Winchester Streets.

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It was a tailor’s shop that carried rather high-end fabrics.  I was there to pick out some fabric because I had a definite idea of what I wanted to wear to Merlin’s funeral.  I knew that the only way, to get the look that I wanted, was to make the outfit myself.  The kindly, gracious salesman was trying to get me interested in a rather conservative plaid fabric but it simply was not to my liking.  My aversion was not because it was plaid; rather, the tone was too sombre.

He was not insistent but let me know that it was appropriate.  However, I would have none of it; I simply did not like the fabric or the colours.  I simply was not going to have it.  Unable to make up my mind and not wanting to make a decision about fabric, as there were so many ramifications to what it all meant, I left the store stepping into the light of day.  It had been a very dimly lit, nicely wood-panelled, stately shop.

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Once outside, I became acutely aware of Merlin.  I was now returned to the yard of Cabbagetown’s 20 Amelia Street, where we lived, and Merlin was present with me.  Thoughts of Merlin, on leaving the store, had me immediately posited in the front yard of 20 Amelia Street where I happily joined him.  We were watering the lawn even though it was wintertime.  Next door at 18 Amelia Street, where at this point Club Monaco designer Alfred Sung no longer lived, there were lots of potted plants hanging from the lone, purple-leaved, sugar maple tree.

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Merlin was telling me to water the plants.  He then began telling me, rather matter-of-factly, that I had to start taking care of the apartment – I had to make it a home again.  Merlin asked me to start preparing things.  He meant that this was not the time for procrastination.  Of course, moments earlier in the prior dream, I had been procrastinating when down on Parliament Street to pick out fabrics to wear to his funeral.  By avoiding the matter altogether, I had chosen instead to forego the purchase.  As Merlin spoke to me, I became so aware of him that I completely became self-aware – both in the dream and in my sleep whilst in bed at 20 Amelia Street.

I was standing there very intently looking at Merlin.  He, too, was very intently looking at me.  Whilst we were unflinchingly looking into each other, I thought aloud with quiet resignation, ‘Merlin has died.’

I knew, too, that Merlin had heard my thoughts in the dream.

At that moment my sister Pandora da Braga, with whom Merlin enjoyed the best relations of anyone else in my life, suddenly became a presence in the dream.  She never fully became physically manifested but her energies became overwhelmingly strong.  Her energies were just to my rear as she played a loving and supportive role.

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Suddenly, introspectively, I recalled a dream which I had had earlier in the week.  With everything moving so quickly, in the waking state – with little time to collect my thoughts, let alone overlong time to record any dreams- it had slipped by unrecalled on awakening.  However, now it was not merely being recalled, it was being relived in its entirety.  I stood there and as I recalled the dream, rather seamlessly, I actually entered the dream which was being reanimated as it was being holographically recalled.

Within the reanimated dream being recalled and relived, I was again on the lawn at 20 Amelia Street in the warmth of the Sun’s rays.  Just as in today’s dream, I was on the front lawn facing due north and the house with 18 Amelia Street on the left to the west.  As Merlin and I were visiting in the outer dream of today, I had turned my body.  Being in the same physical position had triggered the recall and reanimation of the dream from the past week.

To my left, I saw an incredibly ancient-looking, wise being who progressed across the lawn.  The slowness of his progression was so measured that one’s experience of time, in the reanimated and recalled dream, progressed outside of time itself.  It was simply magical to experience the progression of the very ancient and mystical being.  The millennia-ancient figure progressed across the lawn, of 18 Amelia Street, heading towards our home at 20 Amelia Street.  The being was male and small in stature; he was hobbit-like.  His head was large, disproportionately large, compared to his tiny, frail-bodied frame.

He could not have been more than four feet tall.  His head was absolutely massive.  His forehead arched up and was high like an African’s.  Too, his head was elongated in the back, reminiscent of Pharaoh Akhenaten’s skull.  More striking than the majesty with which the august being progressed outdoors, towards our home at 20 Amelia Street, was the look of his face.

It was simply magical.  From beneath the translucent skin, soft yellow-white light escaped revealing his very visible aura.  Nothing but pure love, along with the same nonjudgmental look that ever peered back from Merlin’s eyes to mine, radiated from this being.  The love radiating from the being towards me was awesome, immense – intense.  The great being’s progress was purposeful.  He was on a mission; he was unstoppable.  The process had begun.

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I was struck by the uncanny resemblance, which the face of this being bore, to the planet-being in the skies of Sandy Point, St. Kitts in a momentous dream during September 1983.  It was a dream whose potency and beauty would lay unfathomable for years to come.  The being progressed as though levitating mere millimetres above the rather zingy, extra-green grass of the lawns at both 18 and 20 Amelia Street.  Though he did not pause as he progressed, the radiant being did turn and look at me.  As though he was familiar with me, he acknowledged me by slightly nodding.  However, he continued on towards our home.

He moved past me as I stood there, still and silent, drinking in the majesty of the experience.  At soul-centre we were familiar to each other.  I knew him.  He knew me.  I stood, alone and awestruck, in the front yard being refamiliarised by the vibration of his beauty as the effect of his potent powers spatially affected the dream.  As he moved past, I was reminded of the film The Dark Crystal, by Jim Henson – with whom Merlin had worked, directing two episodes of the Fraggle Rock television series in its inaugural season.  This movie would for several months, after we saw it together in New York City, be our favourite film.

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Thereafter for several weeks, whenever we looked at each other – even when not being intimate, we had hummed at each other as the rival beings in the film did when communicating.  The being here was much like the good beings in the Jim Henson film The Dark Crystal.  The being progressed up the few stone steps, to the wooden veranda at 20 Amelia Street, and began making his way inside the house.  As I watched him ascend, from the lawn to the veranda, it was clear to me that he was levitating.  Though it was a dream and I too could have levitated and flown, he though had a power which surpassed mine.

This august-souled, mystical being clearly originated from a dimension which vibrationally and spiritually was of a higher plane than the astral, where the dream occurred, and the physical in which I am incarnate.  Indeed, the same physical plane from which Merlin was rapidly taking his leave – it was that discernible.  The moment the mystical being entered our home, being lost to view, I came to from the inner holographic dream which was a recall and reanimation of a dream that I had experienced within the last week.  As I came to, I was about to go indoors to see what had become of the being that had clearly entered our home.

It was then, having returned to being fully focussed in the outer ‘shell’ dream of today November 18, 1989, that I saw Merlin anew.  He was standing at the front door looking out at me.  I stood there, in the front yard, transfixed whilst the bright daylight bathed my body throughout.  The look on Merlin’s face was purely transcendent.  He was perfectly still and perfectly radiant.  Merlin stood in the midst of a nimbus of dazzling, blue-white light.  As he lovingly glowed out at me, this splendid light only intensified.

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Merlin was transformed and as his face lovingly lit up, at me, the light grew to more completely envelop his body.  Whilst lovingly glowing at me with the warmest, most familiar knowing smile, Merlin slowly brought his right hand up with the palm facing me and more completely smiled.  The radiance of his smile soon became lost in the glow of his aura’s light.  The nimbus, enveloping his transformed body, radiated even more intensely at that point.

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I was blown away.  Arrested, I readily knew what I was experiencing; I could feel it.  I knew that across dimensions, in the waking state, Merlin had just died.

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However, as is my wont, I protested.  I dropped the hose which was still bleeding its nurturing water onto the frozen, wintry lawn at my feet.  I stood – paralysed.  Determinedly, I then bolted for Merlin.  I headed up to the veranda as my lover, as my mentor, as my friend stood transcendent in the doorway to what had been the most beautiful sense of home ever experienced.  “Merlin!” shrieking in protest, I yelled out his name.

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(Detail of oil on canvas by my sister Pandora of Toronto’s Mount Pleasant Cemetery where Merlin is buried.)

Suddenly, the thunder of my protesting breath abruptly drew me from sleep.  I sat upright in bed, my arms outstretched and beyond, after having crashed back into my body and no longer astral-projected.  From the foot of the bed both cats – Zora and Whoopi – knowingly, silently looked up.  I was arrested by the frozen horror-struck face staring at me from the mirrored closet doors across the room. 

In the near-darkness of the bedroom, a few rays of early morning light made it past the blood-red, velvet drapes heavily hung at the windows.  Those rays starkly cast light on how horribly desolate my life now was.  Merlin was gone.  His spirit had taken leave from this world.  It was that discernible as my world, my very universe, had experienced a massive vibrational shift. 

I had been abruptly displaced from the astral plane.  I had been lucidly dreaming a dream within a dream.  I was being told so long as Merlin, transitioned from incarnate to astral plane habitué, bade farewell to our magically glorious union on the physical plane.  I was heartened by the peace and knowingness in his transcendent face because I knew that it was a, “See you soon…” parting, for now. 

I knew that there would be dreams aplenty up ahead.  Just as he had pledged, he would magically weave in his indelible promise to me, before departing from the physical plane.  There was such a cold silence, a stinging finality to the moment, as I sat there in bed.  After having looked back at myself, silently waiting, I placed a call to the eighth storey nursing station at Wellesley Hospital. 

I was immediately aware that the tone of the nurses, with whom I was by now long-familiar, had changed.  In very little time, it was official… Merlin had indeed passed.  Truth be told, it was not a surprise; I could sense it on awaking.  He simply was not there.  As always, I had reached out to sense him on awaking – his energies – just blocks away at Wellesley Hospital.  Now, there was nothing. 

Then, as if needing further proof, I thought about Merlin calling each morning.  He would do so, to lovingly say hello and thereby, to lovingly wake me up.  Merlin would then lovingly ask for a call-back, after I had audio-recorded the dreams.  Merlin had, thus far, not called.  Once again, I saw the stillness of my reflection across the room.  I knew then, really knew…  Merlin was gone.  

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support but if you really want to make me levitate then do buy my books!

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