Homecoming…

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.

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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©2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

House of Bourbon-Bucklebury…

As there are no fugitives from gossip, what better way to hide a secret than in plain sight. So as the Duchess of Sussex is again with child, you have to wonder why they were sequestered to a far-off land… among other things, so that the famille Sussex could no longer fall prey to the petty, vindictive Bourbon imposter and his maudlin commoner with Bucklebury muggles in tow all defended by a racially predatory gutter press.

So as the Bourbon imposter grew and the genetics manifested, Diana was made to play the loose woman, who would have an affair – the date of which was questionable – with a redheaded stud, never mind that Harry looks exactly like his redheaded maternal cousin.

Of course, people never see the forest for the trees. When the little Bucklebury muggle made his inaugural trip to Western Canada, those knock-kneed, flat-footed images not only harked back to his large-headed, bald father but one spent long moments trying to place where previously one had seen this smattering of genetics. As the snobbish little flat-footed imposter heir gave Fidelina de Castro the cold shoulder as the silly Mr. Selfie made more of an ass of himself, trying to shake a toddler’s hand, one was reminded of that hot gossip of Fidelina, roughing it hand-in-hand, naked with Rambutt O’Toole whilst kayaking in the Yukon. But enough about closeted fare in the colonies.

Strange isn’t it that Juan Carlos the royal lothario, who had pursued and conquered near every aristocratic virgin on the continent, got himself unceremoniously uninvited to Charles’s wedding… the first one. Of course, no one believes an obvious lie, Juan Carlos being insulted about Maltese politics… as if. No, Juan Carlos got himself removed from the list for overly pursuing the young virgin bride-to-be whom it was a known fact, in the right circles, that Charles had no intention of bedding when the seasoned Rottweiler was such delicious sport. Soon enough, on seeing the hand dealt her, Diana, like every early mature artisan soul prominently placed at chosen birth, had no intentions of being dicked with. So whilst Charles’ fetish was decidedly canine with his open and continued relations with the Rottweiler, Diana took the reins and cantered off with prized equinely blessed fare and before you knew it, whilst Charles had yet gone near Diana, her water broke at the summer solstice, producing a decidedly Bourbon rather than Saxe-Coburg-Gotha heir.

With all that has come the tell-tale Bourbon legs: long, knock-kneed, hyperextended-kneed and most of all flat-footed. Just look at the Bourbon bastard’s large cranium, it is, right down to the placement of the ears, a genetic replica of Juan Carlos’s. Also, unlike Charles and Henry (Harry), Diana’s firstborn does not have the large fleshy ears that fan out from the cranium, rather his are the classic small-to-medium ears, which in the genetic Bourbon style do not distractingly hang away from the cranium.

There are three times of year that I always look forward to seeing Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge; these are the times when she truly excels as a warrior soul in essence with a need for power no less. Balcony at Buckingham Palace at Trooping the Colour, the balcony at Whitehall on Remembrance Day and when handing out the shamrock with the troops at St. Patrick’s Day. She is always in her element, poised and never disappoints – these are the milieus wherein a warrior soul excels and she does in spades. Make no mistakes about it, however, she is a 9 energy body and she like all 9-energied persons is a shit-disturber, petty, controlling, fault-finding, combative and never misses an opportunity to sabotage whomever she as a warrior soul deems the enemy to be. Initially on becoming a royal, Catherine’s look was yet to be perfected; however, on becoming a mother, future Queen mother, her hair was always swept up – as always it ought to have been on those occasions and god she looks phenomenal on those occasions. This is where warriors excel; the limelight is not where warriors excel and the Duchess of Sussex like Diana, Princess of Wales for being an artisan soul excels at those moments of being on and articulating the message….whatever, the artisan soul deems that message to be – Meghan is more skilled for being a trained actor at articulating the message than Diana ever was. Both women though for being artisans souls are/were possessed of the charm offensive/charisma in spades which make them readily appealing and loved by their audience.

Regardless how that Trenchtown Jaggabat and the industry of charlatans who claim to be royal experts or to have inside access dismissed Meghan, Duchess of Sussex as being a hustler, she is a self-made woman, who did not have to parade a catwalk in a camisole, looking to all with eyes to see as yet another Buckleberry ho.

Genetics is a many-tributary mighty river, which little changes… no matter the bends, rapids and generations. From the veneer of undeniable dwarfism in her close-ups on her wedding day to her proudly exhibited scoliosis, genetics are never eclipsed. In Meghan, the House of Windsor had a golden opportunity to ensure HM The Queen’s cherished legacy, the Commonwealth, would endure beyond her passing. As has been obvious year after year, the Cambridges do not give a living damn about undertaking tours to predominantly black commonwealth nations and they have not in a decade. The British gutter press in their treatment of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex have ripped off a nasty scab, which reveals the ugliness that is Britain. Indeed, Britons have been unwittingly revealed to be even more racist than Americans. And in all of this, why exactly is American cinema’s Oscars crawling with Britons? Why are there more Britons with voting power than black Americans, Latin Americans and Asian Americans – it is not an Anglo-American award and neither are the Oscars an international film festival.

A racist cabal of press persons – that’s not journalism nor are they journalists – have fiendishly, unrelentingly lynched Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, Harry’s wife and mother of his children without a single member of the royal family speaking up and taking action. Not only would the same gutter gang of racist boors never think to go after a Jewish, Chinese or East Indian wife of Prince Harry’s as they have Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, never in a million years would it have done so. Action would have been taken… indeed, the British press would simply never have gone there.

Sadly, both the royal family and the media assumed that Meghan would sit there and take the abuse, the lynching, the hideous racially predatory baying. Well, she did not. She is American… she is a black American and in a move that betrayed her having been the mother of King Henry VII, grandmother to King Henry VIII and great-grandmother to Elizabeth I, and matriarch of the Tudor Dynasty, Margaret Beaufort in a celebrated past life, she said, “This is bullshit, let’s get on with living.” And good for her… good for them, the Sussexes; perhaps, if she were British born, she could be expected to sit there and take it – this benefitted no one but the petty, grudging Bourbon bastard and his boring but viciously boorish wife. The Sussexes’ departure neither the royals nor the media had anticipated. Just imagine the unrelenting racism to which the Sussexes were subjected as when Princess Michael of Kent very smugly and confidently, went public and showed up to Buckingham Palace in December 2017 sporting the blackamoor brooch. Clearly, that incident was not an isolated event.

So whilst the Sussexes move on and regally tell you small island, small-minded people to go to hell with their Oprah Winfrey interview, there are infinitely more pressing matters for British media to consume themselves with paedophilia, bastard heir apparent et al. Stop pussy-footing and tell the damn truth and be just as rabid with the truth as you’ve been with lies and the unrelenting, racially baiting bullying of the Duke & Duchess of Sussex.

Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge was a most radiant bride; however, they rowed all the way up the mall to the palace and on the balcony. This has been the tenor of their marriage and something, which the media is hellbent on ignoring.

Nothing was more beautiful than the way Harry looked at the mother of his children walk towards him being escorted by his pa; even more beautiful, was the sly wink with which he expressed his love and passion as he slipped the ring on his wife’s finger.

Clueless & frigid. Never were royal nuptials more insipid… boring.

If only this royal wedding were televised. Here, is Prince Dusan of Serbia, hands large, powerful, holding the supremely confident, beautiful mother of his children, Valerie Demuzio. Look at that long swan-like neck totally exposed; she is a woman truly in love… their sexual tension and the sensuality of their magic is palpable. Truly, it was sublime theatre that they weaved with their magic that day and likely long beyond.

As the genetic shrapnel betray, the British royals do not perceive themselves to be mere mortals and do not give a damn what one suspects or thinks…. regardless the irrefutable veracity of genetic evidence. One other thing should be perfectly clear, the people who invented Jazz have no time for persons consumed with hatred towards us… why should we; you clearly are not human.

Like fiction, at the heart of all gossip is truth. The Oprah Winfrey interview with the Duke & Duchess of Sussex just might see the dissolution of the Commonwealth.

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©2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

4.3.4 = 11

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Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has the most masterful numbers. She does, indeed, have master numbers: 11. Look at those eyes, the eyes of Queen Mother, to HM King Henry VI, grandmother to HM King Henry VIII and great-grandmother to HM Queen Elizabeth I. She has staying power, thanks to those double 4s and with an attitude of 3, she is renowned for being most articulate and a skilled communicator of the message.

4 – focussed, solid, self-made, resolute, inner-directed, reincarnated with an agendum.

3 – attitude of 3 – gracious living, the great communicator, when one speaks others listen. There is only win-win, failure is never an option for these persons. Incidentally, Ben Mulroney is an attitude of 3, which is why he is a gracious interviewer – non-confrontational. Also, I have noticed that a lot of persons who planned a life in the public sphere tend to have 9 and 3 in their make up, as in both HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and his lovely wife, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge. Incidentally, these three persons, Ben and the Cambridges would have been very relaxed in each others company and true to her 9 energy body, Catherine would likely have made a dig at her husband along the lines, ‘He certainly has a great head of hair…’ As it is perfectly naturally for straight men to be attracted to each other, they would not be human if they did not, both men would have been pleasantly warmed by the other’s make-up with their similar 9 and 3. Catherine and Ben both are 9 energy body; they would have found each other more than passingly fascinating. Catherine is a warrior which means that she will always be steely; as for Ben, don’t know his overleaves but I am guessing that he is more so on the expression axis rather than not – an artisan or sage soul. In my experience, whereas 9 women can be extremely rude and dismissive, 9 men are reserved and not given to readily passing judgment.

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There is also the matter of Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge being in perseverance mode, which is as unrelenting a foe as you can ever imagine, on top of which she is a warrior. This woman was born to be Queen Consort and that’s the end of that, there will be no Camilla rewriting the script. Interestingly enough, both Diana, Princess of Wales’ sons are wedded to very strong women – as well they should be. In both cases, both couples are entity mates, which is as good a partnering as one can hope for. Meghan, however, with double 4s and master number of 11 is here to rule as when previously she had as Queen Mother and Tudor dynasty matriarch.

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Not only is 11 a master number but it also leaves all such persons lone wolves, regardless how popular they are. This explains why Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex will faster-than-a-sneeze dispense with persons when need be. And yes, she has every damn right to be done with the blasted dreck that do not know the meaning of family: honour, fealty, discretion. I am, where the master number 11 is concerned, just such a person… 2.1.8 = 11. Of course, like Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge that attitude of 1 means that I am more inclined to be shy and reserved than ‘on’. At least that was the rule when Merlin was incarnate and we were together. Now, more of the 11 comes to the fore and I simply give two-fucks and sound off loudly and most articulately.

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Recently, owing to a host of prickly transits, to say nothing of the mercury retrograde, I have found myself beset with some entanglements that have provoked the less polished side of my Venus/Uranus conjunction. This all began around the time that I wrote the blog about that blasted tarbaby frog finally showing his true colours. I had no less than 8 French Canadians getting up in my business, demanding that I delete aforementioned blog and that these were the indiscretions of youth. Bitch please! After having lived in Montréal for seven years with the best task companion/comrade-in-arms an equally seventh level mature soul, though, she a warrior, we gave as good as we got. Of course, said warrior became my wife at Palais du Justice on Bob Marley’s birthday in 1999. Today, we remain the best of friends and she now he, has a fully beard than I have ever sported…. alas, I digress. A couple of weeks ago, I was being regaled by my sister who lives in Nevis about my mother’s cousin whose funeral it was that day. She died at age 107 and was attended by quite the turn out with le tout Nevis’ elites in tow. Though I have never met, her great-granddaughter was part of the descendants who eulogised the grand dame; that great-granddaughter was Mel B (Scary Spice) of Spice Girls fame. I have though several times met my fathers cousin, the inimitable and truly regal, Cicely Tyson, wife of Jazz genius, Miles Davis a man who did not gladly suffer people who hate him or his race…. as well he damn ought to have.

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As I entered the little school in my neighbourhood, a spry spirit who always is good for a laugh, beamed on seeing me as he sat on his scooter with equally situated mates and inquired, “And who will you be voting for?” to which I shot back, “You can damn well bet it won’t be for no blasted motherfucking, cocksucking tarbaby-arsed frog!” raucous laughter peppered the air as I went in and voted conservative for the first time in my life. Enough of that sissy-arsed twat, who is nothing more than Modi’s pappishow with his displaced femme au foyer, fag-hag frau, Madame Plotte-Visage herself, who looks more and more each day like Tammy Faye Bakker. You don’t like black people… go fuck yourself… god only knows, you did not invent Jazz!

Days earlier en route home with my little suitcase in tow, I got up off the bench to take the Wellesley 94 bus eastbound to my art-filled lair. The bus pulled in and queerly parked such that the back door was a good three feet away – I have never seen the appeal of metric… nothing beats knowing whether you are dealing with 9.5 or 10.5 inches! Though my suitcase was too heavy, I was prepared to step off the platform to make for the rear doors, yet, the doors did not open. Finally, I joined the Dravidian male who had been waiting to board the rear doors as well. When I got to the front door, noisily pulling my suitcase, I looked up stunned as the doors slammed shut just as I was getting ready to board. The doors then opened after the driver looked at me with a smug smirk creasing her lizard-lipped face. I got in and as ever, I said thank you. As I progressed towards the double seats by the rear door, the bus suddenly broke, causing me to lurch forward. Taking it all in stride, I opted not to assume anything by this trio of events which most blacks would see after the third incident as being racially provocative. Up the couple of steps I got with my heavy suitcase; this only made me realise my advancing years as suddenly the urge to pee came on. I had switched from Bleu par Chanel a couple of years back when senior leak suddenly meant that after five minutes Bleu fades and gives way to god forbid that most malodourous of bouquets: loud-smelling, dribbled piss. Now it is Christian Dior’s Sauvage as the scent lingers and dissipates any provoked thoughts of raunchy water sports.

Having made my way to the back seat, there were all told less than a dozen souls on the bus. On arriving at the first stop from the station, the driver got up at Church Street. I thought that there must be someone wheelchair bound, trying to board, hence she got from her seat to assist. As I was otherwise engaged in thoughts libidinal and what I’d like to do with that burly mesomorph at work, whose woman just upped and left him, I remained focussed on artisan channels 3 to 5 instead. Just then, I noticed the bus driver step up the two steps and make it towards me, seated at the centre of the bus’ long back seat. Leaning her, her nasty-looking perm straight out of the 90s, she gruffly barked at me in a manner that suggested that couth had ever been foreign to her. “Look, everybody has bad days okay. There’s no need to swear at me.” I said nothing, looking instead past her as the thought occurred to me that the bus was being driven by duppy incarnate. Since my name ain’t Shaneequa, I remained calm and looked up at a face warped uglier by rage, which I also found uncomfortably too close. I was hemmed in. “Get off my bus or I call the police!” As I chose to say nothing or move a single muscle, she got even more incandescent with irrationally unprovoked rage, “That’s it get off my bus now, I’m calling the police!” As she turned to walk away, it gave a good look at her flat-arsed, no-calved god fugly hideousness and I got up and began making it for the bus’ front doors. As I slowly strode for the front doors, I expertly memorised her bus ID and every detail of slender hipped, extra-vertebrae-looking alien body and realised that she was likely trans; either way, just then a definite non sequitur. For once, I said nothing on exiting and as I really needed to pee, thought of hailing a cab when noticing another bus directly in back of the scene of my misadventure. I got aboard, said hello to the driver, a guapo Filipino and grabbed a seat on the even less populated bus. Also, I memorised the ID information associated with his bus. On exiting the bus, as per usual, I said thanks and exchanged pleasantries. As soon as I got situated at home, with Buster on my lap purring away, I took to the TTC’s site and chose the tab that allows for filing complaints. In exquisite detail, as well you are I shared what occurred and confidently knew that at no point would any of the bus’ cameras capture me saying anything to the female driver. She is, as per her contract, never to leave her seat nor confront a passenger. I have never seen her since.

Well in the grip of Mercury retrograde, I strolled into one of many little joints which I love frequenting as I like chatting with the proprietors and in the process, giving them my business. On close to a decade of frequenting this particular store, where I picked up a lottery ticket or two, my bike was leaning against the row of sugary treats, I turned just in time to see an old weathered hag out on Yonge Street beadily gawking in and cutting her hateful eyes at me. Possessed of some right afforded her by god only knows fuck-all whom – the blasted motherfuck, she bounded into the store, well into her ninth decade and looking and smelling of ill-health and poverty, “Get that goddamn bike outta here.” I was wearing my helmet with lights attached front and back in broad daylight as one does. Without so much as missing a beat, I launched into her with a ferocity, she likely had never before encountered, which is why she felt perfectly entitled to take such liberties. “Get your fucking ugly arse out of here, go the fuck to Wal-Mart make your way to the back of the store and tell them I sent you to put a down paying on your fucking casket as you are obviously too fucking poor to afford to die all this time…” Never having had her racially predatory behaviour challenged before, she stood there suddenly catatonic. “Go on, here you go, start that fucking down paying today…” with that, I tossed the few coins in my pocket at her feet and barged on in full throttle loud, vituperativeness. “Pick it the fuck up, high time your fucking ugly, broke arse and casket were lowered into the ground. Come in here opening your motherfucking lizard-lipped mouth, barking at me. Pick it the blasted motherfuck up and crawl the fuck in your casket.” She tried to weakly say something to which I kept up my defense against being racially preyed on, “Shut up and die, go on… scoot. There’s no need for your fuck-all ugly, broke arse, smelly cunt hanging around… get the fuck off the planet.” Never ever during a mercury retrograde will this venus-uranus leo hold his tongue when being racially preyed on. Faster than the loudest sneeze, I rammed my fist up her rotting arse, yanked and ripped at her calcified soul, pulled it out, wiped arse with it, then slapped her silly in the face before making her gag on a soul being held hostage by her useless maudlin existence. I have become so less inclined to tolerate this perpetual abuse which we as blacks endure on a daily basis yet pretend as though it does not exist. There are, though, times when you need to protest. Back in 1988 after meeting Wayne Robson’s firstborn, as I moved south down the west side of Bond Street to go visit Merlin at St. Michael’s Hospital who was suffering his first bout of AIDS-related pneumocystis, I screamed at the top of my lungs at an old Caucasian female who on noticing me began hurriedly crossing to the east side of Bond, “I don’t want your fucking handbag…” Never ceases to amaze the arsenal of behaviour that non-blacks project onto us as they get their racially predatory fix: sniffing, outright ridicule, dragging feet, yawning, bumping into you, blowing cigarette smoke in your direction… those are the passive racially predatory acts. More often, it is like that act in the convenience store, so racially obsessed that one feels oneself perfectly entitled to project that ignorance in a malicious, accusatory, bullying manner towards blacks. Indeed, ever notice the inordinate number of overweight blacks; they like all persons who were sexually preyed on in their early years more often than not develop eating disorders.

With Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s lynching daily in print media, social media and just about everywhere else, I have become increasing intolerant of any and all such BS. Do not because I am black start, apropos of fuck-all nothing, braying about how much you hate and can’t stand that Meghan bitch as if the blasted fuck these arsewipes know the woman. Out of the blue someone whom I thought had long made the only logical move viable to her sorry arse and crawled into her casket, called up trying for the nth time to get me to start today and join that pyramid scheme of hers for which she is ever travelling to some rah-rah seminar and on the cusp of getting rich yet still ain’t and needs you to join this very day; this, I can assure you, is about as appealing as trying to get me to bed some moneyed old fuck with a micro penis and bad breath. Nah… I’m all about the dharma.

Last summer everyone called up, demanding to know if I were not going to the Raptors championship parade. Hell no! Crowds you say… not happening. The day of the parade, I kept being called up by excited friends, asking me if I was watching and wasn’t it phenomenal. Very matter of factly, I declared to one, “When these fucking Goys do Yom Kippur, they certainly do know how to go all out.” Of course, after having explained myself days later at a dinner party, the point was well taken. This is a country with soft ethnic cleansing of blacks: negative immigration and population growth, a entrenched history of employment discrimination, which sees blacks being ghettoised in casual positions in the work place, especially at crown corporations (government-owned) – I have worked at two: Canada Post and the Toronto Convention Centre; in the case of the former, I arrived in Montréal from Vancouver to find myself the first full-time black in the work place; as fighting is nothing but foreplay in my books, I organised a lone Haitienne and got her to file a Human Rights complaint which she won. This resulted in back pay and all the mostly Haitian blacks awarded full-time and back pay where they had served as casual for 5, 10, 15 years. Naturally, the messenger/lightning rod always comes into someone cross-hairs. At one point, where they tried firing me the local union president told me to go to hell and go back to Canada; thus, I ventured into my firing interview with a lawyer in tow – had never happened before and was not then fired after multiple frantic calls to Ottawa to find out how to deal with him. Before being fired, that blasted porcine pequiste fucker decided to avail himself of my tax dollars by running in the federal election, thankfully he did not win but when he tried two years later, I wrote to Jack Layton who had frequented our Cabbagetown home in the 80s when we lived next door to a rather parvenu and highly snobbish Alfred Sung and informed Mr. Layton that if he did not withdraw that vile racist, my lawyer and I would go to the media and expose him – the letter of course was cced to all the other federal party leaders. In the end, the Bloc Quebecois thanked me for the letter and ran a black Haitienne in the riding from which the union head was summarily dropped and that Haitienne, Ms. Bardot won her seat, only to be replaced in Papineau riding by that blasted, racist tarbaby-arsed frog… but I digress. Two million persons cheering on black excellence when this is a country that actively eradicates any participation of blacks in its cultural fabric – hello JazzFM where you would be dismissed as stupid for thinking that Jazz is black culture. Sure, there are window-dressing blacks in the TV medium but they are not the norm. Not a single prominent Canadian protested and demanded that the vile racist politician resign when his blackface past emerged. Naturally, his people stridently argued in his defense. Would that these ungrateful fucks who hold the country to ransom would finally fuck off and leave. No one outside of Québec, who does not work in the government, is remotely bilingual. Seven years of living in Montréal made one thing perfectly clear: theirs, by its sheer ubiquity is nothing more than a northern confederate flag… and they certainly are possessed of unapologetic xenophobia. The only people deserving of having a party in the Canadian parliament, which not all Canadians can vote for, are the First Nations and Inuit peoples.

Back in late 1982 whilst Merlin and I held up in the Trockadero loft in Manhattan’s Chelsea on Sixth Avenue below 23rd Street, I got in one evening after looking at rehearsal of the Nanette Bearden Dance Company, to find Merlin having dinner and strategising with Jim Henson. As they shared the same agent, Joyce Ketay, they were prepping and throwing around ideas for how to thematically film the series, Fraggle Rock which would be shot in the coming new year in Toronto at CBC’s studios. Merlin had made his favourite dish a chicken paprikash which John Hirsch had taught him. Joining them, I dug in to what was my favourite of Merlin’s prepared meals. I will always remember Jim saying, “first you start with a compliment and then you hang back and listen, listen to what’s said but most of all, what is not said…” Sage advise that I have always followed. What I love about us artisan souls is that we always reveal our nature and the fact that we input on five channels whenever we speak. Listen to Naomi Campbell in her acceptance speech for the CFDA Icon Award. Straight out of left field in the tenth minute, she remarks, “God my lips are dry… sorry.” No other soul but an artisan soul would shift subjects so abruptly so seamlessly and carry on without so much as missing a beat. This quirk of ours, mine, Naomi, Meghan and every last artisan soul who has ever breathed, makes for a master tactician and someone not easily understood or shaken. With a destiny number that proves master numbers like Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, she is a 11 – she is a diamond through and through and why HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales refers to her as Tungsten.

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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©2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Surprise! The Predator Blames the Victim…

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After a royal tour of Africa, the adorable famille Sussex, returned home and got down to the business in hand. Naturally, the venal hate-mongering, bullying, racial predator, Piers Morgan, had nothing to vent and spew the usual hatred about. Then like fresh meat, he pounced at the announcement of legal action against he and his venal, racially predatory rag, DailyMail.

I am so happy that Piers Morgan has blindly engaged in his campaign of open hatred towards Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. Now it has gotten to the stage where an American does what can be expected of an American; she sues. Americans are not bullied! What Piers and his arrogant island of boorish prats have not realised in all this time, is there has already begun a campaign of retaliation against their bullying of Americans. The British media and public campaign of racially predatory bullying of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex has been unrelenting from the word go and has continued unabated.

Little has Piers Morgan and his ilk realised that the 2019 Academy Awards was American retaliation. After all these years of watching Brit after migrant Brit waltz in and grab another Oscar, which is not an international competition; the Oscars are not the Cannes Film Festival – it is an American award. That’s right, finally, the people who built America, blacks, were finally being acknowledged as never before. There was Barbara Streisand handing off the Oscar to a fellow New Yorker from Brooklyn, Spike Lee. For the first time, there was a record number of blacks who won Oscars. Even in costume and design, there were black winners.

So there sat that thoroughly effete prat bore, boor – take your pick – Richard E. Grant, virtually knighted in British media as winner of the Best Supporting Oscar for 2019; it had not even occurred to the migrant Brit colony with their superior-than-thou attitude that something as absurd as a black male American would win the best supporting actor award. Why would a black American win over a Brit? That’s right, if you don’t play nice and quit bullying Americans then it is time you start selling your Beverly Hills estates and adapt by moving to that beach ghetto Malibu because Brits acting as though the Oscars were a colonial offshoot of the BAFTA has run its course.

Guess who yachts with David Geffen? That’s right, there are no Brits and Oprah is infinitely more powerful than racist boors like Piers Morgan clearly appreciate. That’s correct, they all have money and they are all Americans and they do not like being bullied. The age of being wowed by The Queen, The English Patient, My Fair Lady, Downton Abbey, The King’s Speech, The Madness of King George has finally run its course. Thanks to you Piers Morgan, the Americans have seen your true visage and like the wizard’s of The Wizard of Oz, they are not only not impressed they are also not having it. The sea-change is well and truly begun. Yes, indeed, stop with the can’t shake snobbish accent and decamp where you belong. It is an American industry and an American award; in the Age of Trump, it is high time that you were exposed as what you truly are, the ugly migrant, who must no longer be suffered.

Here is where you truly lost the plot, Lara Stone was burnt at the stake – during which time, of course, little predatory racist boor, Piers Morgan said nada… zilch. Yet, in all these going on 24 months not a single migrant Brit in Hollywood or elsewhere has passionately spoken up in Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s defence, with the exception of Sir Elton John. Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has the deep-pocketed support of the likes of the Clooneys, David Geffen, Oprah and the major players in Hollywood who happen to be American and matter. It is grossly racist and absurd to sit by and do nothing whilst this human being is being lynched for merely being black.

Well, then, since you feel so passionately about it, why pray tell do you deserve to be considered, let alone nominated and more egregiously awarded Oscars season after season, after blasted motherfucking season. You are a gross displacement of what a truly civilised society resembles and how it behaves to ‘others‘ in its midst. Just think of it, TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex toured Africa and there they met scores of elevated, remarkable human beings on an order, which you can never match in the British Isles. Stellar exemplary human beings, like Archbishop emeritus, Desmond Tutu, Graca Machel – persons who thanks to their nobility of spirit successfully vanquished the racial predator in their midst.

Yes indeed, Piers Morgan, run off at the mouth all you want and incite the mob to racial hatred, time and again. Like every predator, sexual or racial, your first response when the prey fights back, is start blaming the victim. No woman ever sexually preyed on, goes out asking and looking to be preyed on by any sexual predator. The woman, the victim, is not the problem; she has not brought it on herself. A woman is not raped because she wore suggestive and provocative clothing; a woman dresses to please no one but her damn self. She does not get dressed, thinking: how am I going to attract animus from a sexual predator today? Similarly, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex and no black person anywhere goes out of their way, looking to attract racially predatory boors, so that they can somehow feel victimised.

Fuck you, Piers cowardly-chicken-shit-arsehole Morgan, you are the victim of your own racially predatory obsessions, which has resulted in your being sued and they, TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex for being entity mates and for her being American with a very powerful cadre of supporters will plough your fucking idiot, smug arse under. You will never again work in America when they are done fucking retaliating and defending themselves against being lynched, slandered, and made subject of ridicule, death threats… all thanks to your vile, stinking racially predatory, incendiary braying, masquerading as journalism.

Americans are going to teach you a very callous lesson that they hold sacred above all others: Freedom is not free, you dumba$$ bitch!

You, like that ghetto of migrant Hollywood Brits said and did sweet dick-all when HRH Prince Andrew, Duke of York was exposed as a sexual predator; if you truly cared about the monarchy then you would have been even more livid in defence of your institution at Andrew’s obvious culpability… there is also the very real matter of the Cambridges’ tattered marriage, which you and others from Joy Elvin to the palace mandarins are eager to reinvent.

No one cares at this point, Catherine was too bone idle and downright maudlin to make speeches, too bone lazy along with her arrogant husband to undertake royal duties so begged off claiming, Hyperemesis gravidarum – meanwhile 2/3s the world’s women have to walk with gallons of water on their proud head for miles whilst pregnant. Just imagine if Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex got up to their stunts and engaged in the wilful idleness that the Cambridges have?

Catherine is great, she is a warrior’s warrior and she is at her best each year at handing out shamrocks, being on guard at Armistice Day ceremony in Whitehall. Clothing is uniform for a warrior; it is not fashion. Fashion is not a way of exuding their inner magic as with artisans like Meghan and Diana, Princess of Wales. I will never knock Catherine for her athleticism and her right saturnine bearing; it is the essence of who she is.

This absurd pitting women against women is just drunken idiocy. Stop suddenly talking BS about Catherine being a great speech-giver. Bullocks! She is not, never has been and never will be. Stop trying to eclipse Meghan’s innate commanding stage presence and gift for being on and engaging an audience. It is not a competition of Duchesses; Meghan is supremely gifted at uplifting, inspiring and empowering womankind for speaking and so eloquently, representing her uneclipsed light. She and her husband are doing the work of upholding HM The Queen’s greatest legacy, the Commonwealth.

In the meantime, the days of Hollywood being obsequious towards migrant Brits in their midst have run their course – just as much as you are going to be rudely awakened, jousted and ploughed under for fucking with Americans. Americans are no one’s damn fools, as you shall yet learn.

The Sussexes are making a valid and real difference in the world where it is sorely needed; you, Piers Morgan on the other hand, are merely being yet another white male arsehole. There is nothing either unique or noteworthy in so being. You sadly are far too common place and that is the real problem in this world. You are a fucking otiose boor to say nothing of bore and high time, you were handed your arse like that damn audacious prat, Richard E. Grant, who sat there and heard his name not called last February at the Oscars.

TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex are not victims; they were never in the business of affording you or any other media racist predatory thugs, the power of their time and shortly, you are legally going to get your just dessert just as that other pariah, Jeffrey Epstein was served. A pity you know nothing of Margaret Beaufort… all you saw was some damn black bitch, who does not belong and you intended like every sexual/racial predator to put her in her place and rape her of her power. More fool you, indeed…

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©2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

The Shaman Holds Court.

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This past week, I made the most glorious discovery whilst enjoying the BBC’s coverage of the Commonwealth Day Service at Westminster Abbey.  As if the gospel choir were not enough or the Indian drummers rapturous, there in the middle of both performances was William Barton  This extraordinary shaman with his didgeridoo weaved the most sublime magic; it was the music of cetaceans as experienced in the most elevated dreams.  Truth be told, it was the music of a culture of the highest order.  

Despite the horror which unfolded on the Ides of March elsewhere in the Commonwealth, this service served to remind and inspire us of what it is about our humanity that binds rather that separates us.  Music is the language which moves, inspires, reflects and spiritually binds us as humankind.  Shaman Barton’s music proved the most healing balm after the horrific events of the Ides of March.  

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Dream dear shamanic dreamers as never before you’ve dreamt, for I am you and you are me in this shared ocean called humanity.  May William Barton’s magical whalesong inspire you to push off whilst lucidly awakened in the dream realms and start flying.  I love you more… well, why not!  No seriously, though, I sincerely do. 

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©2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

All Too Human… And Then Some!

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

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

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

Sleeping by the Lion carpet Leigh Bowrey

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

All Too Human

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

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

Study for Portrait of Lucian Freud Francis Bacon

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

Portrait of Isabel Rawsthorne 1966 by Francis Bacon 1909-1992

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

Three Figures and Portrait 1975 by Francis Bacon 1909-1992

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

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

Notting Hill Gate

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

Kensington Palace

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

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

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

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

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

HRH Catherine Duchess of Cambridge

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

National Portrait Gallery

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

Royal Albert Hall

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

OVO

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

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

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

All Too Human Catalogue

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

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©2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved,

Also, Coming in June…

MOAppendix I

A SIX VOLUME MICHAEL OVERLEAVES APPENDIX.

This is Volume I of VI of Michael Overleaves which were channelled by Authentic Michael Channellers™ (accept no substitutes).  Each volume is a companion to I of VI volumes of the memoirs of task companions, Merlin and mine.  MERLIN and ARVIN: A SHAMANIC DREAM ODYSSEY (Human Civilisation’s First Dream Memoirs).  

Here are some fragments whose overleaves appear in Volume I: Marcel Proust/Alvin Ailey/Pharaoh Akhenaten/Alfred Brendel/Victor Brauner/Mariah Carey/Leonard Cohen/Salvador Dali/Honoré de Balzac M.C. Escher/Gustave Flaubert/Marvin Gaye/Dizzy Gillespie/Martha Graham/Hermann Hesse/Peter Jennings/Grace Jones/John Lennon/Nelson Mandela Miriam Makeba/Bob Marley/Johnny Mercer/George Gershwin/Mishima Yukio/Itzhak Perlman/Molière Leontyne Price/Gabriela Mistral/Charlie Rose/Billy Strayhorn/Lionel Richie/Diana Ross/Pierre Elliott Trudeau/Rembrandt van Rijn/Sarah Vaughan/Andy Warhol/Robin Williams.

Available everywhere, in all media in June 2017!  Get yours and thanks so much for your support these past few years!  

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©2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Being of Service… Fulfilled.

ulm-cathedral-germany

Ten days after that operatic flying dream – part of which I am now convinced were glimpses into a past-life passed at the courts of King George III and King George IV during the Regency years – which is herein entitled: Time-Travelling late-Georgian/Regency Dandy, https://dreampoetica.com/2013/02/26/time-travelling-late-georgianregency-dandy/ I would dream these next three dreams.  They were beautiful dreams and there was also a tie-in to dreams dreamt years earlier whilst Merlin was then incarnate.  Those dreams were also shared herein and are entitled: Ensouled Proboscis Simian Humans – https://dreampoetica.com/2013/02/20/ensouled-proboscis-simian-humans/ .  These were rather ravishing dreams and as was the custom that time, there was also some sexual play engaged during the dreamquest. 

These dreams were lucidly lived on Wednesday, January 27, 1993.  At the time, the Moon transited both Pisces and my tenth house.  Moreover, the dreams were audiocassette-recorded on tape one hundred and forty and are yet to be found in volume XIV of the dream opus.  Dream with the greatest of wonder and awe because regardless others perceptions of you, it is just that – another perception and has no basis in the truth of who you are at the fabulously beautiful core of your being. 

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hrh-diana-charles-soeul-korea-1992

In the cobblestoned square of an old city’s campus, it was heavily raining.  Also, I was part of a great entourage.  This place felt like England as it was moored under a flock of grey, rain-soaked, stationary, low-hanging clouds.

Indeed, it was depressingly sombre.  I was with HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales.  HRH Princess Diana, Princess of Wales was about but they were in separate entourages.

We were to attend a church service but in separate entourages.  All of this was done on Princess Diana’s insistence.  She was very forceful and had quite the temper when she needed to have the final word.

There was going to be no compromises in her position.  She was, in fact, rather stubborn.  This gave the sense of her that she would not age very well.  We were in a courtyard before coming out to be seen by the press.

Firmly, she insisted that they do everything separately.  She was a vocal, strongly male-energied powerhouse.  As well, she refused to stand in back of him.  Moreover, she definitely was not going to be anywhere near him.

The staging was such that they would never be captured on film in the same shot.  Somehow, I was serving as a valet in HRH Prince Charles’ entourage.  We headed, it seemed, along Hoskins Avenue on the north side and eastwards to Toronto’s Queens Park Circle.

In the circle, stood an incredible Gothic cathedral made of red clay.  This was an architectural wonder, it was so massive.  Built of the same red stone as the Ontario legislative building is, the structure was rather impressive.

This building was so unique and extraordinary.  To experience this building was as exciting as experiencing a great work of art.  This was architecture that was rousingly uplifting.

Also, this structure was several times larger than the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine, in New York City – the largest in the world.  There was a wonderful wooded area which encircled it.

From amongst the towering trees, the spectacular work of architectural art triumphantly soared.  The door to the cathedral was easily thrice as high as the doors to Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris.

Moreover, the gargoyles here were supremely realistic.  A superb masterpiece of Gothic architecture this cathedral was.  Marvellous flying buttresses, which were even more impressive being in this tone of stone, girdered the magnificent Gothic structure.

Not unlike Notre Dame Cathedral, it sat in an island of sorts.  This place was easily four times larger than Notre Dame Cathedral.  Since it was still raining rather heavily, I held an umbrella for HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales.

We had had to go to the church on foot.  When we got to the traffic light, it took forever to change.  This soon made HRH Prince Charles irritable and he abruptly took off.  He did resent being publicly humiliated by HRH Princess Diana, Princess of Wales who had had them proceeded on foot – in the rain no less.

Her whole scene publicly was about emasculating him; she was intent on showing him as a man with no control or power.  Totally at the service of the women in his life, as it were, was he.

Obviously. from their interactions, these two did not like each other.  He suggested that we return to the residence where both entourages had started out.

The residence turned out to have been a very beautiful Gothic palace.  This palace was a long, dark-stoned mossy complex.  Soaked for eons in seasonal rains, the palace had a moss-blackened exterior.

The weather here was interesting because the rains never really let up.  Quite simply, the rains progressed from downpour to downpour and were sustained by ubiquitous drizzle.  Grey and autumnal, it was beautifully relaxing, humid air.

HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales wore a light grey, London Fog coat.  This was an exceptionally tailored coat.  Holding the umbrella, I was always on the prince’s left.

We then came back to the very stately furnished apartments at the Gothic palace.  HHR Prince Charles was not cohabiting, at this palace, with HRH Princess Diana.

Once we were alone, he asked if I would give him a back rub.  Seemingly, he suffered rheumatoid aches because of the rains.  He began absently talking and clearly was in a deep funk about his relationship with HRH Diana, Princess of Wales.

When he asked for the back rub, I thought it strange that he had said please.  He then let me know how much he appreciated me.  I was good for him, to have around, said he, and he wanted me to know how much he appreciated my being there.

What he really appreciated was my loyalty to him, said he.  Then he told me that I did have healing hands.  On coming inside, we had been properly soaked to the bones by all that rain.

His cheeks were red; a very ruddy complexion his, I noticed both when holding the umbrella for him.  I knew that when we got in, that we would both relish a glass of sherry, to warm us up.

I was really concerned for him that he would catch a cold.

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citroen-2cvb

In what proved the second dream, I got into this tiny cab; it was in the middle of the street and I got in on the driver’s side in back.  I had gotten in whilst traffic was dashing past.  I had trouble getting the door to close after me.

Once inside, it was much smaller a cab than even it had looked from the outside.  Black plush leather wonderfully complimented the deluxe look and feel of the cramped interior.

The driver was French and this clearly was in Paris.  We were caught in busy afternoon traffic.  In a bid to cross the street, lots of people kept getting off the sidewalk and stepping into traffic.

For my tastes, it was far too chaotic with the traffic a gridlocked and bottled-in mess.  For that reason, pedestrians would simply step off the sidewalk and into traffic without looking for advancing vehicles at their rear.

At the time, it was summertime out with lots of bare-armed, floral-printed dresses wafting by.  Open-toed and heeled shoes busily paraded the crowded wide sidewalks.

If only to protect against Sun damage, several persons wore hats.  The ladies were very conservative and proper.  Rather than the 1990s, one had the sense that this was Paris of the 1920s to 1930s.

From the textures, styles, even to the hairstyles, it was definitely not contemporary times.  Even the ambiance was more so 1930s Paris.  On a cobblestoned road, we began going around a circle but not the Place de L’Étoile.

Then the cab driver stopped without having gotten me to my destination.  Soon, we both got out with me being understandably pissed off at him.  We then abandoned the cab and proceeded walking through the traffic-choked street.

This was when I saw a dashingly handsome Black man walking with a White woman.  He was on her left, his moustache a distinctive, well-groomed signature.  He wore a white shirt and these wonderful khaki slacks.

He was simply handsome… extraordinarily so.  The Sun simply loved this man’s face.  His skin, bone structure, eyes and teeth simply made the light glow that much more beautifully.

Goodness, this man was dizzyingly good-looking.  Smooth, jet-black skin, it looked as though it had been pounded by some shamanic West African tanner/sculptor.

This man had all the elevated sophistication of Duke Ellington but was, of course, considerably darker than the Jazz genius.  The moment that I saw him, I knew instinctively that he was the man whose faded photograph I had seen in that unoccupied house back on February 16, 1989.

Perhaps, this was myself or Essence Twin, living a very urbane life in 1930s Paris.  Nonetheless, I totally connected with him; he was as familiar and connected as James Tramble or, for that matter, Merlin.

On seeing him, I became at once thrilled and uplifted.  Soon, it was obvious that they could not see me.  I was as if travelling back in Time and getting a glimpse into that past life.  Just as now that organic bungalow was also seemingly last occupied in the 1930s.

The driver then slapped me from my euphoric daze when demanding that I pay him 160 FF.  More to the point, the bum had not even gotten me to my destination!

Then again, in terms of having served as an astral guide, he had handsomely performed done his task.  After all, had we stayed in the cab and driven on, I would never have seen that man whom, at the level of soul, I so intimately knew.

“What?!  Are you dreaming?  I’m not going to give you no more than 60 FF.  Even that is too much, you still haven’t left me anywhere near rue de Grenelle in the sixth arrondissement.”

He was short, dark-haired and moustachioed.  A swarthy, provincial Frenchman he proved.  I most certainly did not give him a cent – let alone the rest of my time.

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dream-lover

In what proved the third dream, several trunks were standing about the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house; several of them were standing on end.  A little lapdog busied its short-legged self by scurrying about the house.

Everywhere, there were trunks packed and in the centre of the rooms.  In the study, there were candles; so, I went there and began closing the windows.

As I went about closing the windows, I wondered how one could have gotten so lapsed as to have not kept the place closed and more secured.  For fear that it could start raining at any time, I then began closing the doors.

Besides which, it was coming on to nighttime.  The study was filled with innumerable volumes; the books were bound in rich leathers and cluttered everywhere.  I really enjoyed being in the room when drinking the vista of its wealth of knowledge.

As I had closed the window, I saw Yvette Morehead’s sizeable brood outside on the steps of her house playing.  Max Worsthorne was up in his house whilst looking down at me.  He was very stout and handsome.

When I went to close the rest of the doors, I noticed that the papaya tree – which I had planted in childhood – had grown quite large.  I came out to admire the fruit tree that I had planted and, on stepping onto the steps, saw Gowan Dalrymple outside in the yard.

He went into the old kitchen and was wearing an overall.  He was so handsome and alluring-eyed.  I was really warmed to have seen him.  Soon, I decided to seduce him because he was one of the warmest sensualists that I met during my teenage years.

We were quite hidden from view; thus, I went into the kitchen after him and closed the bottom door after me.  Whilst I was in the old kitchen with Gowan Dalrymple, Max Worsthorne could not see us.

I did, though, recall those memories of seeing him naked when a child and what an oversized cock he had.  Stooping to my knees, I began giving Gowan Dalrymple a blowjob.

He had been standing there waiting; his readily tumescent cock disturbed the draping of his overalls.  Opening up the blue denim overalls, I got out his cock.  Before going down on him, we made very long, intense, soulful eye contact.

His were such warm, smiling penetrating eyes – they certainly are in the waking state.  The thing about this experience was how awakened it was.  I could smell his breath as he yearningly breathed past parted lips.

Everything about the encounter was real; the encounter was astral planed.  Going down on him, I could taste the slight briny sting of his precum.  His balls smelt really loud – like a man ought to.

Even whilst on my knees, I spent most of the time whilst performing fellatio, looking equally unflinchingly into his eyes.  During our awakened astral plane encounter, we had hardly said a word to each other.

Gowan Dalrymple shuddered throughout as I gave him the slowest, most nerve-wracking blowjob.  The sexual play truly was a sensual massage that transcended the physical bounds of his senses.

Whilst performing fellatio, I was simultaneously massaging myself to an orgasm.  This, though, occurred without him or me masturbating my cock.  This was a purely spiritual experience.

What we shared was essence contact… in the true sense of the word.  The massage of his warm, moist, throbbing cock against my lips and into my mouth was sensually overwhelming.

This was a peak experience; it easily transcended that blowjob that I performed on the actor Mel Gibson in the dream of June 21, 1992 – the summer solstice.  The feel of this motion was sublime; it was akin to the arousal of spirit one feels for watching Evelyn Hart pour her soul into an emotive port de bras.

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Photo Credits: Ulm Cathedral, Germany

Diana, HRH Princess of Wales & HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales.  Soeul, Korea 1992

1940s Citroen CVB

Model by © Francisco Martins Photography.

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© 2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

In Celebration of Merlin!

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

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nov-16-2016

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

spa-ovarium

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

musee-d-ba-montreal

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

paloma-picasso

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

Robert Mapplethorpe

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

louise-nevelson

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

gong-96

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

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

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

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

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

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

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header-london-piccadilly-circus

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

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

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

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

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

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london-plane-trees-paris

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

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

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oleta-adams

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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black-cat

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

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

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

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

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

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sareed-headscarf

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Photo Credit: Merlin 1970s in Montréal

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

Spa Ovarium at Beaubien & St. Denis in Montréal

Musée des Beaux-Arts de Montréal

Paloma Picasso Gelatin Silver Print 1980 Robert Mapplethorpe

Ken Moody & Robert Sherman 1984 Robert Mapplethorpe

Louise Nevelson Gelatin Silver Print 1990 Robert Mapplethorpe

Gong 96 Acrylic on Canvas 1966 Claude Tousignant

Piccadilly Circus, London, England

London Plane Trees in Paris, France

Oleta Adams – singer

Black cat domesticated short hair

Headscarf and sareed Indian beauty.

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©2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Finding Centre (Redux) A Life at Court.

King_George_IV_when_Prince_Regent_(1762-1830),_by_Henry_Bone

The Sun is the source point for the causal and astral planes.  The Sun’s rays, indeed all stars’ rays, are the conduits along which the soul reincarnationally interpenetrates the planes.

This I learnt whilst in flight, directly above Sol, in the black void of space which was a very massive and heavy dimension onto itself.

A star’s electromagnetic frequencies, vibrating outwards, serve as the facilitating conveyance that enables the soul’s light energies to effortlessly move back and forth between the planes.

During this entire experience, I was so expansive that I felt as though limitless.  I really had no sense of being in a dream body in a projected out-of-body state.

Rather, there was no body, there was just pure intellect.  Absolutely liberating and superb was this dream experience.

Whilst I was on a nighttime sidestreet, I saw Dean Pulliam.  With no one about, he slowly rode on a white bike; he was cruising.

As I walked fast to catch up to him, he saw me and stopped, looked back then turned left onto a paved alley.  With that he rode off in a mad dash avoiding me.

I then got on a white bike myself and saw two 1970s, brown Pontiac Camarros or Firebirds.  They came down the alley towards me cruising along at a leisurely pace.

The first made a sharp left, at the back of a large house, going into an open yard.  The rear car made such an abrupt turn that it skidded and then broke loudly screeching.

They proceeded to the right of the house, in the alley, going towards the front.  Thinking that this was certainly unusual, I stopped to look.

The front car then stopped and out came a dark-haired handsome man.  He was screaming at the driver of the car in the back,

“Why are you following me?”

The other driver was a silent, deadly heavy type.  Getting out, the man said nothing in response whilst emphatically slamming his door shut.

Next, I was in a house at nighttime, as a thorough review and investigation was underway.  They were trying to find out why the devil the man was being pursued.  A very beautiful candle-lit salon it was here.

There were lots of crystal wares with marvellous-looking rich spirits filling them.  Food was exquisitely prepared and presented before the regally dressed guests who themselves were a fairly urbane lot.

The same dark-haired man was the centre of the drama here.  He was being celebrated as this apparently was the eve of his wedding.  Beautifully dressed, he was draped with a blue and gold sash.

Six-foot-plus, he was handsome, in a vaguely regal manner.  He took a handful of spaghetti, from a gold-leafed bowl, ritually tossing it to the kitchen and the chefs there.

Everyone gloriously roared whilst enjoying the drink of this man’s magnetic personality.  He was rather powerful and intimidatingly so to boot.  He was also a tad unpredictable.

*Obviously, this man was a Knight of the Order of Garter.  Perhaps, he was a royal prince whom I knew during my incarnation at the court of King George III.  At the time, I was a male singer at court and my accompanist was then female and Merlin – my task companion; she played the harpsichord.  END.

At that point, he hurriedly took his leave of the party.  Here there were lots of dark woods – exposed wooden beams, panelling and parquetry.  There were lots of details in the woodwork.

I then went to a rear salon of the house when the man’s pursuer showed up.  He banged on the front door demanding to be let inside.  Pandemonium soon broke out as everyone in attendance panicked for their lives.

Rushing from the salon, I made my way to a rear door.  Here the doors were rather large dark wood and easily eight-foot-plus in height.  There were a series of hunting bas reliefs in them.

A stout older man, a cardinal or bishop – some such clerical figurehead, went to the door to try and get rid of the man.  No such luck as the pursuer simply forced his way into the residence and overpowered the fairly frail and old cleric.

Again, not wanting to become ensnared in this scenario in any capacity – especially the detrimental, I bolted.  I did not care to be savaged by this man.  If he did not find the princely bachelor, of whom he was in hot pursuit, I felt that he would simply target me or anyone else.

This man seemed possessed of an equally deadly rage and appeared to be equally, predictably violent.  I then went to hide behind one of the tall oak trees outside; it was fairly dark outside.

Alone, I began willing my vibration to intensify.  In this way, I had hoped to make myself light thereby being rendered invisible.  As the process began, at will, I instantaneously began seeing my aura.

It was a large oval orb that fanned out, a good four-feet-plus, about me.  I then became light, fully invisible, in order to avoid a messy confrontation with this boor of a thug.  However, the pursuer had been able to catch some aspects of my aura as I hid behind the tree; though he had not captured me in the process.

All the colours of the rainbow were visible in my aura.  The white light shone so brilliantly as to have appeared as if platinum.  Being in this state was truly blissful.  It was as if being totally at peace, levitating and yogically centred.  Harmony…

Whilst the Moon transited both Pisces and my tenth house, I rather intensely, lucidly dreamt the preceding dreams.  Sometimes, the only way to escape chaos is by spiritually ascending to a higher octave – if only this were readily possibly in the waking state.

The dreams in question occurred, on Thursday, March 2, 1995.  As such, they are the first and fourth dreams lived during that sleep cycle.  

I would just like to add here that I never believed this to have been King George III.  Of course, after much research I have come to realise that it was the then Prince Regent, George Hanover who would become King George IV.  

To the point of being almost frightening, this man was immensely mercurial-energied.  What’s more as Merlin and I, plus a whole host of entity and cadre mates were present at court at that time, I have had many dreams which are focussed at that time.

Too, I’ve recently done both King Georges’ Overleaves.  Also, it should be noted that a couple of dreams had of that past life involved the first Viscount Nelson who was at court.  At the time, Horatio Nelson was known to both Merlin and I and he was a rather engaging personality whose tales of his travels were rather fascinating.  

I think that it is safe to say that Admiral Nelson’s accounts of Nevis were the trigger for me in that past life at court which eventually led to my choice to reincarnate in Nevis in this lifetime.  Too, at least one sibling, Pericles da Braga was also known to Merlin and I.  He was then a tailor of high-end clothing whom we favoured and he also would have known Admiral Nelson.  

I will say this much about the Prince Regent; he had a wicked wit and his arrestingly cutting observations were much feared.  He was utterly unpredictable.  The Prince Regent also appears in the previously submitted dream:  

https://dreampoetica.com/2015/03/02/skeletons-in-the-reincarnation-closet/

The future King George IV is the witty, sarcastic and dashingly polished man who sat across the room from Merlin (then Francesca) when she was older and at that point, I was also the snobbish male bore and lover of former Merlin (Francesca) who much reminded me of the late Canadian actor, Tom Kneebone – a man whom I truly loathed.  Of course, knowing that I was equally as bigoted a boor as was Tom Kneebone suggests that this is why I found Tom Kneebone such a vile piece of work – I positively could not stand the man.  Of course, I was merely responding to aspect of a past life which I found mirrored here in this incarnation in Tom Kneebone’s vile bigotry.  

In any event, here then King George III, King George IV, Horatio Nelson and Joseph Haydn’s Overleaves as court musicians both Merlin and I in that past life lived at court in Regency London/Windsor knew all these persons and they do factor both in the dreams Finding Centre and Skeletons in the Reincarnation Closet.  

Also known at that time was George Frideric Handel whose overleaves appear in the original Michael book by Chelsea Quinn-Yarbro: Messages from Michael.  

One interesting side-note to all this; when a child growing up in the northern shadow of Brimstone Hill Fortress in Sandy Point St. Kitts, in preparation of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II’s state visit to the newly independent state of St. Kitts, Nevis and Anguilla at just past my 7th birthday, they played Handel’s Zadok the Priest on ZIZ radio station.

As long as I live, I will always remember how startled and out-of-body I felt on hearing this glorious music for the first time in this lifetime.  Of course, I would have heard it performed live at the coronation of King George IV whilst at court in London, England.  I had actually felt dizzy and laughed teary eyed; to me, it was the most gloriously exciting discovery to have made musically.  This music still remains the most glorious sound imaginable.  

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King George III

Hanover, George III 4/6/173829/1/1820

King_George_IV_when_Prince_Regent_(1762-1830),_by_Henry_Bone

Hanover, George IV 12/8/176226/6/1830

Viscount Horatio Nelson

Nelson, Viscount Horatio 29/9/175821/10/1805

joseph-haydn

Haydn, Joseph 31/3/173231/5/1809 Vienna

George Frideric Handel

This is a fourth-level young sage in the observation mode with a goal of dominance, a realist in the emotional part of intellectual centre with a chief feature of impatience. 

This fragment was the composer George Frederick Handel.  

*These Michael Overleaves are found in the Chelsea Quinn-Yarbro book, Messages from Michael.  

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Art: King George IV when Prince Regent 

Oil on Canvas

c. 1800s Henry Bone

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© 2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.