By now the effects of the stewed fruit at breakfast has seen my waist shrink; I am grateful. The morning after the night that was, I am still elated and humming away that catchy melody from Ludwig Minkus’ greatly composed ballet.
After breakfast I decamped at Leicester Square where it was time to enjoy the bright, cool sunlight and catch a movie. The Vue cinemas are rather interesting; I was keen to know if I would have a repeat of what had transpired last winter.
Back then, I was upstairs at the same cinemas watching, Darkest Hour, which proved a real tour de force performance from Gary Oldman. Sat in the back row, soon I became bloated and expansive. Though not the least bit drowsy, I felt wide-open and lucidly self-aware. Next, as the film progressed, I watched as several pure white humanoid forms simply stood up and walked to the sides and quite seamlessly walked through the very real walls of the cinema.
One of the things that Merlin and I always loved doing, was seeing a film during its opening weekend. Naturally, so close to the anniversary of his passing, I was keen on seeing a film. J. K. Rowling is among my favourite contemporary writers and having seen the first film in this series, it only made sense to go.
Whilst waiting for the cinema to open, I caught a series of items; all are favourite actors of mine, especially Sir Kenneth Branagh.
The first screening of the day was a special affair with about one third of the theatre occupied. A lovely Chinese couple sat to my right with their precocious son of about ten years stuck between them. We chatted briefly and I thought it so strange that conversation with strangers is almost unheard of when attending a Canadian movie.
I emerged into the crisp Saturday morning in Leicester Square a bit teary eyed as thoughts of Merlin at one point during the film overwhelmed me. It was after all the eve of his passing some 29 years earlier.
Slipping inside this tiny joint – I always favour hole-in-the-world, ma-n-pa joints, I got a couple of really good slices of pizza whilst pouring through the Times of London. There was conversation close by, which struck me as interesting; it went from Theresa May and Brexit to Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. I soon realised that both persons were openly criticised chiefly for being women; in the case of the Ms. May, she is dismissed and not taken seriously chiefly for being female. As for Meghan, like every woman who marries into the BRF, she is readily reviled, though, some of this has bordered on racial hysteria and seriously threatening.
In a bid to cleanse my very soul, after all that, I slipped from Leicester Square for the uplifting sophistication of the National Gallery where I deftly moved through my favourite salons with usual mercurial speed, taking the time to pause and admire the key works of art that bring me the greatest pleasure.
Well, after all that art, it was time for more prowling the decidedly unCanadian wintry streets of London. Along Shaftesbury, I strode my Crockett & Jones booted and blistered feet into Neal Street where my favourite hippy-dippy (as Merlin would remark) New Age store, The Astrology Shop in Covent Garden. Though, it most definitely does not have the best choices, I still love the feel of the place and their sagebrush collection is second to none.
Along with marvellous pieces of crystals and a wonderful Citrine, I really connected with this gorgeous agate ring. The moment that I saw it, I really resonated with me and it felt so right.
After a rather warm conversation with a green-eyed, redhead, she was fascinated by my custom Reuben Mack messenger bag.
I then headed back to The British Museum for more shopping. As it was the weekend, there was now a sizeable lineup to gain entry. As though my impatience with crowds were not enough but soon, I had two Torontonian women doing what Canadians do best; they spent much of their time gawking at me, talking about me and cultural appropriation for wearing the custom Reuben Mack messenger. Standing there in line, I was reminded of what petty, small-minded bigoted jackasses the average Canadian can be and god do they love being openly racially predatory towards blacks.
Never once had I experienced a scintilla of racial animus from a Briton or for being in London to that point; there you have it, the land where racism is enshrined in law: employment equity law of Canada: All employers must employ, Caucasians, First Nations persons, Disabled persons and visible minorities and therein is the framework of Canada’s own form of Apartheid – state sanctioned racism. All employers, in particular crown corporations (government agencies – federal and provincial) employ visible minorities to the exclusion of blacks and if and when they do employ blacks, they then hire blacks only as casual workers which means they are not entitled to benefits, pension and guaranteed hours.
So smugly established is this state of affairs that the current prime minister refused to attend the 50th anniversary of Caribana – the nations West Indian community’s gift to Canada on its 100th birthday in 1967; however, he attends ever Gay pride parade in the same city as Caribana, Toronto, and has repeatedly been to India, to dress up and act a right clown because who gives a damn about blacks in Canada. As one friend said, blacks over the past three decades have become as marginalised as First Nations persons. But enough about aggressive young souls and their racialised worldview. Meanwhile, as they were openly rude towards me whilst queueing to enter the British Museum, I grabbed my phone and pretended to film them to which one of them suddenly became enraged, demanding that I not film her… You have to laugh or truly you would go mad. In any event, I got the feisty Buster a nice but scary Egyptian stuffed cat – he is actually afraid of it.
On my return to the hotel, a couple of blocks from The British Museum, I slumped into bed and decided that my aching feet needed a break from the rest of the day’s planned events. To that end, I stayed in that night rather than return to Barbican Hall to catch a celebration of the Windrush Migration. At that concert were to have been Calypso Rose and The Mighty Sparrow; though it had been years since last seeing either performer, I just was not into it. Moreover, I wanted to take the time to be with myself and reflect on the eve of Merlin’s passing some 29 years earlier.
As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and ever remember to push off and start flying.
Bright and early Tuesday morning and it was off to Oxford Circus in search of more art.
No faking this; the hustle is fucking real.
As I poured through this joint, I recalled my advice to the London cab driver whilst crawling along Pall Mall two days earlier.
Well if Daddy Warbucks’ little girl ain’t toothless, what is one to do but vacuously laugh with every breath.
As though I had just walked in on the most malodorous dump, I was out of this dive in a New York minute.
As I came up out of the Underground, I felt as though I had just endured a room whose stench was dirty ashtrays, liquor and coffee. Once at Hyde Park Corner, I made it to Apsley House, only to discover that it was not open during the week. Took the time to breathe the crisp – though not cold like Canadian – air with Hyde Park’s trees’ transitioning foliage predominantly apricot-coloured.
Vauxhall Tower (St. George Wharf Tower.)
Arrived at Pimlico and the air was comfortably cool; so nice to have a brilliant sunny day for a change. Nonetheless, you can bet your bottom dollar that I was protected by my extra thick-lensed black shades.
After working almost exclusively at nighttime and since before that when in the theatre, I have developed a genuine sensitivity to sunlight. You cannot convince me that we are not much too close to Sol for comfort. So to Tate Britain I was returned. After the scam that was the Klimt / Schiele, I was not rolling the die on Turner Prize 2018.
I went into this exhibition with zero expectations. Like the British Museum, I love the gift shop at Tate Britain as opposed to Tate Modern’s. I was on the hunt for unique gifts to purchase; this ticketed event was a gamble.
You cannot begin to fathom the degree to which I was wowed by the breath of this artist’s genius.
Remarkably, there was no end to this genius’ vision.
There is, throughout his art, movement and fluidity with the greatest grace and attack.
This is a colossal retrospective and his talent was unmatched.
The sensuality is breathtaking.
Every painting was a newly discovered masterpiece.
The breath of his work is astounding.
What a truly marvellous discovery.
His work left everyone moving through the exhibit in a state of harmony. There was such peace and serenity in each salon and every salon had some wow moment masterpiece.
One key element of his art was that each work was hung in the spot-on perfect frame.
Masterful!
For me, Edward’s genius epitomises where dreams and genius merge and produce the most uplifting art.
Quite simply, there are no words.
Besotted.
The moment that I laid eyes on this tableau, I immediately thought of Francis Bacon.
Breathtaking…
Now, this is Art, Next-level tapestry. The fluid sensuality is overwhelming.
This is everything.
I would gladly have paid thrice as much to view this exhibition.
This was like nothing I had seen before and it far exceeded anything that I had expected. Truly beautiful. After dining on a late lunch in Pimlico, it was back to Bloomsbury for a nap before heading out into the evening.
Though I was rather looking forward to hanging out at Ronnie Scott’s, the idea of listening to Charlie Parker and John Coltrane (an entity mate) being butchered by some Israeli appropriationist was not exactly high on my must-do list.
Happy was I to be in the comfy seats at Barbican Centre Cinemas to watch a LIVE relay from Covent Garden of that evening’s performance of La Bayadère, which at week’s end I would be attending. By far, this was the most glorious of cinematic experiences. I could not believe the sight of Natalia Makarova when she appeared on screen.
She was now full-bodied as we mostly get on ageing. Last time that I had seen her was during a class we took together at NYC’s Harkness House ballet school during summer 1983. That late spring was the last time that I had also seen the ballet live; it was May 19, 1983 and my favourite dancer, the dimpled, shy and oh so sweet, Fernando Bujones was dancing the role of Solor.
As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and dream as lucidly as you want to…
Back in 1982, Merlin and I were holding up at the Trockadero loft — home of Natch Taylor and his dancer lover, William Zammy Zamora. Theirs was a beautiful loft in New York City’s Chelsea where across the street presided the block-long, imposing green edifice of one of those grand buildings found only in America.
One evening after rehearsals for a dance concert, I hung out with dancers from the Nanette Bearden Dance company, then finally made my way home late at night. When I got in, Merlin was at the loft’s rustic kitchen/dining table with a large sketch pad with director, Jim Henson with whom he would be working in Toronto, filming the inaugural season of Fraggle Rock. Tall, slightly drooped and intense, Jim briefly chatted but remained focussed on the task in hand.
Presently, he and Merlin were going over sketches and design ideas on respective pads for the shows. At the time, whilst standing behind Merlin seated at the table, I remarked that the sketches were not unlike Henry Moore sculptures. Both men simultaneously responded, “Hmm” to which we all laughed as it was reminiscent of the creatures in Mr. Henson’s feature film, Dark Crystal which had weeks earlier opened wide in theatres. The film was a definite favourite of Merlin and mine.
Merlin remarked that the design were not dissimilar to Henry Moore’s sculptures whose massive curvaceousness, Merlin and I had agreed were feminine, .elegant and beautiful. This discussion about art was had late at night, after having fucked like rottweilers at the Hotel Chelsea where he held up one weekend when in town from Toronto to both network but mostly to secure a right, proper ploughing of which he could never get enough… we both could never get enough.
On the whole, both men agreed that there were unconscious Henry Moore influences to their design sketches. Those sketches would be further refined and were recently shared herein. What none of us at the time could have known, was how spot-on was my observation. As it would turn out, Henry Moore happens to be an old soul artisan who is an entity mate of both Merlin’s and mine. Furthermore, Jim Henson who is an early mature artisan, also happens to be strongly bonded to Henry Moore, Merlin and I as he is in entity one of cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414, to all three of us being in entity six, of cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414.
Always, it is nice to find the ties that bind and it was really good of me to have picked up on that cadre connection when looking at the sketches and throwing Henry Moore ‘out there’ as it were. The evening was lovely but I was in my restless youthfulness, dying to be alone yet again with Merlin and get on with the business of sinfully sweating whilst celebration life… love.
As ever, thank you for your ongoing support and do know that I shall shortly be starting a podcast, plus volume two of both my dream memoirs and the Michael Overleaves appendix will be launching soon, here at my art filled and recently redecorated home…
On this the eve of the July 21, 2017, 70th anniversary of Merlin’s birth, I am still over the moon and greatly inspired for having travelled to London, England, Paris and Versailles France and Amsterdam, the Netherlands in June. I wanted to take in the pomp and pageantry of trooping the colour, revisit the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square, the British Museum, the National Portrait Gallery, Tate Britain, Tate Modern… and did! I really loved my visit to the new wing of the Tate Modern and the beautiful panoramic views that it affords of the north bank across River Thames.
Staying in the beautiful SW10, I had a great place to stay and had a marvellous time. Great it was to revisit Westminster Abbey, feeling the sense of history and the grandeur of the abbey. Every moment of being in London was sheer magic. This city, more than any other, readily evokes a sense of home –- somehow, in its magical agedness, there vibrationally is something perfectly harmonised about London with aspects of the West Indies into which I chose to reincarnate and where my sense of ‘home’ is grounded.
The LGBT exhibition at Tate Britain was a bit underwhelming; however, I enjoyed being exposed to the many female artists and their Lesbian-themed art, which heretofore I was not cognisant of. Naturally, the male perspective has always been prominent in homoerotic art. Without doubt, the best exhibition was at the Queen’s Gallery at Buckingham Palace and the Crown’s exhibition of aspects of the Canaletto collection. Naturally, I did have to return to the National Gallery to take in my favourite Sir Anthony van Dycks in their collection; among them, that ode to sage essence grandeur, King Charles I’s Equestrian Portrait of Charles I. The Rotunda at Ranelagh remains my favourite and most moving Canaletto; of course, it did prominently feature at the end of a flying dream, during early pubescence, that had me dreamquest to a past life in London, England.
That past-life was shared with Merlin when we were musicians at court in late 18th century London. During that lifetime, we knew 1st Duke of Brontë, Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson. Apparently, Viscount Nelson was a great raconteur and it was likely his tales of his love of Nevis which proved the seed that eventually led to my choice at the level of soul to have reincarnated into Nevis –- which incidentally Canadians are wont to mispronounce as Knévis… Sorry, the third world natives are not wrong; besides no one in London would ever think to say, Knévis. The correct pronunciation is Kneevis… Knévis is no more correct than is Kanarda the correct pronunciation of Canada. Enough about the risible ignorance of elitist petit bourgeois Canadians and their need to forever condescend.
So, there was I arrived in London with umbrella, pea coat, raincoat and it was all hotter-than-hell climes for the two weeks! After trooping the colour, I decided to escape the heat of London and decamp à Paris… what was I thinking; goodness, it was at least 5 degrees hotter there! Alas, Paris has become an armed camp -– I suppose this is what Paris during the Nazi occupation in WWII was like. Either way, I could not wait to hightail it out of there. Firstly, though, I had to head off to Versailles where previously I had not been. Goodness, what grandeur -– the scales are truly phenomenal. If I had ever had a dream set on the grounds of Versailles, it is highly likely that I would have awakened and assumed that I had just dreamquested to a marvellous world where the architectural scales surpass anything witnessed here on Earth.
In all that heat, I was told it was just a stroll away from the entry gates of Versailles to Grand Trianon to take in the Pierre Le Grand exhibition celebrating the 300th anniversary of Peter the Great’s trip to Paris. Finally, after 50 minutes in my brand-new Crockett & Jones wellingtons, I arrived to what was not an especially impressive show. However, the last piece — a beautiful bust of the Tsar — made my sweaty and blistered foot ordeal worthwhile.
After having been quite underwhelmed by Paris –- save of course my visit to Père Lachaise cemetery where I left pine cone tributes to Marcel Proust, Chopin, Oscar Wilde and Honoré de Balzac –- it was off to Amsterdam. Finally, I had escaped hellish climes! Amsterdam proved the most gloriously idyllic experience. With a cool welcome breeze off the North Sea, the temps were in the low 20s and, of course, everywhere just about everyone rode a bike. As I made the pilgrimage to the Rijksmuseum to be richly inspired, I was warmed as passing cyclists called out to me in my white panama hat that I purchased at Chateau de Versailles to beat the heat, “Hello!” “Hi there!” “Hi ya!” This excursion to Amsterdam was truly soul-warming. Nothing was more glorious than entering that salon and seeing Night Watch and the Meager Company.
Whilst browsing, I thought of George Hawken and wondered if ever he had made it to Amsterdam. Just like that, on coming around the corner, the first painting I noticed in the salon which contains Jan Vermeer’s The Milkmaid, was an exquisite, stunning still-life of white asparagus. The one legume that George considered the perfect signature to a fine meal -– cooked by himself -– was asparagus. His most memorable meals ever featured asparagus coated in the most sublime sauces made from scratch. I was truly warmed on seeing the still-life seconds after nostalgically thinking of him. Yet another moment of synchronicity.
On preparing for the video to celebrate the 70th anniversary of Merlin’s birth, I decided last week to head off the costumer, Malabar on McCaul Street where George lived in the late 80s to early 90s. Inspired by the first dream of Merlin had 39 years ago in July 1978, I decided to get a cowl as a tribute to the cowl Merlin wore in the inaugural dream encounter with him, four years before having met on Friday, October 1, 1982 in New York City. So, there was I at Mount Pleasant Cemetery last Saturday, July 15, 2017 in my cowl and the panama hat purchased at Versailles to escape the heat. I thought it fitting as Merlin always loved wearing panama hats.
My trusty friend, J.J. who happens to be an artisan entity mate whom I have known in 20 past lives –- which is a high incidence of contact -– was the director. Initially, I had hoped to throw a white party on the lawn to the southwest of the chapel at Mount Pleasant Cemetery and have a drone film the event where a gathering of friends would raise a glass to Merlin on the anniversary of his ennobled birth. Merlin always threw a white party each year for his birthday at his parents stunning backyard in north Toronto’s Servington Crescent.
The plan was not approved by the cemetery and thus, one had to improvise. I got my panama hat and my cowl and together, we proceeded with a dozen long-stem white roses to visit Merlin’s resting place. I had a pretty good idea what I was after. With the matching white cowl, I wanted to evoke the magic of meeting Merlin in that initial dream which is shared in volume one of the dream memoirs which is already published: Merlin and Arvin: A Shamanic Dream Odyssey.
Get your copy! Thanks as ever for your support!
In the hardcover edition of human civilisation’s first dream memoirs, the initial dream encounter with Merlin is shared. The dream begins on page 110 in the hardcover edition. I wanted the same sense of wonderment and magic that I felt for having met Merlin in that first dream four years prior to having met reflected in the video. In that dream, Merlin’s appearance was preceded by a white totemic creature which seemed, in its astral plane outréness, to be part Russian wolfhound, part alpaca, part dog.
So, moving to the lawn, having descended the steps of the chapel, I began walking across the open lawn towards the statuesque lion festooned mausoleum with the five remaining white long-stem white roses. Seven roses, of course, were left at Merlin’s grave -– one rose for each of our seven glorious years together. As I stepped onto the lawn, it seemed magical… timeless even. Slowly, confidently as I approached the filmmaker at the other end of the lawn, I thought of Merlin and that initial dream.
Just then, I very distinctly thought of Merlin greeting me by purring, “Hello Lambs.” As if right on cue, from off stage left, an adult deer came from behind the bushes and tombstones that line the far edges of the open lawn. Never before had I seen a deer at Mount Pleasant Cemetery. Indeed, the good burghers of Forest Hill who clearly regularly jogged in the park-like setting stopped and were overheard remarking that they had never seen a deer in the cemetery before. All that I could do was tear up and continue walking as the deer then bolted and ran from stage left to right as I continued my stride uninterrupted –- unfazed by the appearance of an adult deer on the grounds of the cemetery. What is more astounding, is that J.J. at the time was filming my walk; at the last minute, I decided against a run-through as I was concerned about the natural light possibly changing if we were to rehearse the shot.
Unbeknownst to me, the deer after having made it to stage right, then returned to the centre of the lawn and stood there perfectly still whilst observing my progression across the lawn. J.J. who was astounded by the occurrence remarked that he had just witnessed a miracle. There is no doubt in my mind as I tried to recapture the magic of that initial dream encounter that there was a subtle validation of that dream from the magical shaman himself on the other side by having had Merlin’s spirit step in as director emeritus and had the deer enter the shot as validation and a token of his appreciation of the love that we shared and my steadfast loyalty to him. After crossing the lawn and turning to watch the deer stand there, looking down the lawn at me, I felt such utter peacefulness and abandonment of spirit — just as when alone and intimate in the dark with Merlin.
Yes, I believe in magic as did Merlin and as though an appreciation of having stridently done everything to fulfil his mandate to me, Merlin’s astral body conjure up the same magic here and now as he had in July 1978 –- four years before slipping inside a Hell’s Kitchen walk-up and readily winning me over with his sexy elfin charm, magic and sex that proved the most grounding shamanic passion… every time.
All the music chosen for this 13-minute video is music that Merlin loved whilst incarnate and to which he returned time and again -– whether at Joe Morton’s tiny Upper West Side apartment in autumn of 1983, Toronto’s 20 Amelia Street in tony Cabbagetown. From Glenn Gould’s mastery of Johann Sebastian Bach’s Goldberg Variations, to Elton John, Stevie Wonder, Gladys Knight and Dionne Warwick singing That’s What Friends Are For –- in that segment of the video, I included friends whom Merlin valued: Kareem Benezra, myself, Wayne Robson and his oldest and most loyal friend, the ever-gracious, Maxime Gascoigne-de Montigny.
Of course, for Stevie Wonder’s Isn’t She Lovely, I exclusively included photos of Merlin and his very handsome and gracious father, David Ben-Daniel. Whereas I favoured Sir Paul McCartney’s Hey Jude, Merlin ever loved George Harrison and especially My Sweet Lord. Of course, one Saturday, whilst staying at actor, Joe Morton’s Manhattan apartment, when Merlin and I secretly committed to being together, we slow-danced to Supertramp and Roger Hodgson’s unmatched magical vocals on Supertramp’s Breakfast In America.
Additionally, Jeffrey Osborne’s On the Wings of Love which was one of Merlin’s favourite ballads is also included. Merlin loved Black male soul singers: Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, Jeffrey Osborne –- most especially –- George Benson, Al Green, Teddy Pendergrass, Donny Hathaway, Barry White. Most of all, I am especially proud of the video that J.J. and I have created; I think that it masterfully captures the depth of my love and fealty to the most fabulously magical shaman encountered on this incarnation’s spiritual odyssey.
Naturally, before having left for Mount Pleasant Cemetery, I had flooded my apartment with the music that appears in the video. Perhaps, unwittingly by so doing, I was evoking Merlin’s spirit which later joined us when he played ultimate director and pulled off the most magical bit of stage direction –- an adult deer in the middle of a cemetery in the heart of mid-town Toronto. Lastly, I played the sublimely soulful Shirley Horn’s interpretation of, Here’s to Life! Whilst raising a glass of coconut water, I had forgotten to pick up some champagne the evening prior and it was too early in the morning to find champagne anywhere –- the lighting was way too good. Besides who knows if that magical deer would have been anywhere about.
Here’s to life… most of all, here’s to Merlin… here’s to dream shamans everywhere!
In coming weeks, there will also be other tokens of this celebration of Merlin and his mandate to me:
“Please my darling, I want you to write about our lives together. I promise you, however possible, I am going to send you dreams to include in the story of our love… our lives together.”
Do please be patient and stay tuned as there will be a site where one can purchase merchandise that’ll greatly assist with the costs of having overleaves channelled that will yet appear in the five volumes of human civilisation’s first dream memoirs to come. Also, there will be a podcast link.
This fragment was a fifth level mature warrior – 4th life thereat. Lena was in the power mode with a goal of unmitigated growth. She was a sceptic who was in the moving part of intellectual centre.
Lena’s primary chief feature was exalted arrogance with a secondary chief feature of stubbornness.
Lena’s casting is in the second position of the second cadence in the seventh greater cadence. She is a member of entity six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – another entity mate.
Lena’s was a Saturn/Venus body type.
Essence twin for Lena is a warrior and her king task companion did exert some influence.
The three primary needs for Lena were: expression, power and exchange.
There are 10 past-life associations between Lena and Arvin whilst there are 7 past-life associations with Merlin.
____________________________________________
Back in Spring, 1994, I was standing in my West End, Vancouver bedroom getting dressed – after having made dinner for Bower Carlyle-St. Clare and me. At the time, he was recently full-blown with AIDS but doing well. As he sat out in the living room in the rocking chair which had been Merlin’s favourite piece of furniture, I was busily getting ready to head off to work on the midnight shift.
Just then Ross Porter, who was gigging on the CBC’s late-night Jazz show, began introducing a recently released album. I screamed and rushed out to the living room, turned up the sound to full blast and directly stood in the centre of the perfectly placed speakers.
Said Ross Porter, it was a new album by Lena Horne – a cut of which he was nicely setting up. Since as long as I could remember, this woman’s every performance always made me feel good throughout. The opening of the song, Do Nothing ‘Till You Hear from Me, began with the bass working its magic.
For the next several minutes, I stood there flying-without-moving. Admiringly, Bower sat there silently drinking in the visual of me as I stood in black stretch jeans tucked into riding boots and nothing else with hair long and out.
with lids closed, I drank every note of the performance; I was truly besotted. Then the song got really groovy and at one point, just past the four-minute mark, simultaneous with Lena Horne, I let out the exact same whoop as she did. Stunned, I placed my hands at my mouth and threw open my eyes.
Bower was convinced that I had heard the recording before. Soon enough, Lena Horne’s album, We’ll Be Together Again, was blasting my West End apartment on a daily basis. One day, Bower called up and declared that we were going to New York – he had never been.
To hell with work, he had declared as I tried begging off. Not having it, Bower shot back that he was taking me to New York City because I knew it and always spoke so fondly of my time there.
Early October rolled around and we held up at the Hotel Chelsea – he had booked the suite as he knew that it was Merlin’s favourite place to stay in New York City. We went to the show and although, he had been hoping to see Diana Ross – chiefly why he wanted to go to New York City, we ended up having a blast at the performance way up in the balcony. The next day, I stood around in Times Square and scored us tickets to, Kiss of the Spider Woman, at the Broadhurst Theatre.
A couple of days later and we were returned to Vancouver as giddy as two kids who had just had the wildest adventure. Sadly, for being full-blown, Bower developed a nagging cough which dragged on for long weeks; nonetheless, it was a magical adventure and I was especially grateful that he had made possible, the trip to see Lena Horne in concert at Carnegie Hall.
As Diana Ross was his favourite performer, every film of hers he had taped. He understood my love of Lena Horne when finally, he took the time to appreciate her performance in, The Wiz – directed by her partner Sidney Lumet.
Back in 1978, when seeing, The Wiz, on its opening weekend with Owen Hawksmoor – a man of truly equine proportions – This brief appearance and performance by Lena Horne made the film for me; everyone else paled by comparison.
Back in 1969, whilst vacationing in St. Croix, U. S. Virgin Islands, one briny Friday evening the 1943 film, Stormy Weather, was on television. This was my first introduction to Lena Horne. I was thoroughly captivated by her.
My response to her has always been visceral; she is energising, captivating – her eyes both raptor-like and thoroughly empowering to lock on to. If there was no essence bond, it is highly improbable that I would have such an intensely visceral response to her.
I then found it hard to sleep that night after the film. Not surprisingly, in light of our essence bond as entity mates, I did that night dream of her. Furthermore, I have noticed that the passing of entity and cadre mates leaves me especially splayed – I don’t feel impending doom, I just feel as though a portal has opened up and I could drift off and find myself on the other side… an astral plane habitué.
I think that because of my casting’s cardinality, I tend to act as a beacon – somehow, I tend to sense when cadre mates are on the cusp of departing. This used to be fairly frightening when younger; now, I have learnt to simply give of self and realise that someone in the fold is moving on.
Yesterday, I caught Don Cheadle’s, Miles Ahead, with an old friend from Montréal. We both thoroughly loved the film. The concert at the end of the film was phenomenal and it was good to see Esperanza Spalding joining Herbie Hancock, Wayne Shorter and Robert Glasper and Don Cheadle for, What’s Wrong with That.
More than that, I lost a tear when seeing this at the end of the film: May 26, 1926 – . Yes, indeed, Miles’ genius has no ending.
By far, one of the funniest Academy Awards Opening monologues. Leading up to last night’s awards, I was a bit apprehensive about how the whole race row would pan out. I think that Chris Rock did a fantastic job and steered the entire controversy in the appropriate direction.
The beauty of the monologue in 1999 is how pure and wonderful it was. So much has transpired since then and we are all a very different human race post 9/11, post Barack H. Obama’s presidency – racism has become since then so in-your-face and toxic… most of all, the problem of climate change is undeniably upon us. So very good of Leonardo DiCaprio to have spoken so eloquently as he did.
Finally, regardless the diversity controversy in Hollywood and the facts being what they are, it matters little when this beautiful world is slowly becoming less viable for human civilisation… Merrily we besottedly chug along like dopey lobsters denying that it is getting tepid under the collar.
Finally, Whoopi and her opening monologue got it right, it was the best #OscarsSoWhite! ever.
Without doubt, the strongest Diana Ross live performance ever. Poignant. Moving. Those large beauteous eyes mirror a lot of pain and rage during its performance. Again, if you can’t sing it because you know damn well you can’t, why bother wasting the time on the likes of you?
A true mystery to me it remains why when one hates Blacks with such unbridled passion, one would end up squatting all over Black culture, Jazz, as though it were the latest Settler craze. More to the point, there are no racially predatory persons creating Haida or Inuit art… and with good reason; then again, neither are expressions of Black creative genius. Culture is a non-negotiable.
Alas, there is the racial predator aggressively overrunning the culture then turning around and acting as though to somehow include Blacks in Jazz – which after all one has already declared does have its roots in Klezmer – is tantamount to the Oscars where every 3/4 centuries or so, one will deign to consider tossing a best actress Oscar a Black female’s way.
The same Black female whom, in this the new age of minstrelsy, Diana Krall in her invisible blackface can never proximate. However, this is about market share and having the right look and simply getting the lion’s share of fame and fortune for being born of the womb of the racial predator. La Krall who in the pop idiom would have never risen stratospherically to the heights she has; certainly, she would never have had more than a second album.
She is a marvellous enigma – an icon in that sense for what she represents. “I can get more market share than you” and that’s that. She is cold and sterile like the gun that gunned down way too many young Black men – like the gun that set Ferguson, Missouri ablaze – whose lives clearly do not matter to some. To see what a true fraud La Krall is – she who seemed nothing more than a venereal wart on Oscar Peterson’s arse, an arse which was too good to be wiped by mere Blacks when finally he was parked in palliative care – just listen to her do a damn good Joni Mitchell impersonation on her current album.
Sitting there at the piano, botoxed within a breath of being on view in her casket, La Krall coolly cops that ‘phuch ewe’ swagger she owns so well – just as Eminem does. Yes, indeed, it is all about money and as race ever trumps either class or reason, there she drifts through life in Bentleys where others, the real McCoys, can hardly afford a Lada.
Again, why should we Blacks culturally settle for a Lada when we can, by right, damn well afford a Bentley? Alas, who knows whether Cassandra Wilson is dead or alive anymore?
More than ever, these pale imitators no more give a damn about Blacks or Black culture than the next Klansman. Roberta Gambarini is the best impersonator of Carmen McRae going… nothing more. There they squat, this elephantine, oppressive presence all over Jazz, pulling an Eric Garner thereby suffocating and stifling the very breath of Black culture. Seriously, who are Emilie-Claire Barlow, Holly Cole, Sophie Milman but mirrors of the grudging contempt for which one holds Blacks and Black culture.
Never once did I, or Merlin and I for that matter, manage to gain entry into Montréal Jazz Bistro when it sat on Sherbourne Street. Indeed, the one time, we made it to George’s Spaghetti house, having previously tried to without success, was as the guests of David Tipe; the evening was cut short after a stranger wondered over to the table where we sat and in the midst of making small-talk blurted out something about ‘niggers’.
Without the support from the moneyed classes, there can be no arts, no culture. Racism is economics and the result of the focussed economic oppression of Blacks – all fostered by the demonisation, marginalisation and dismissal of Blacks, in particular Black males, by a cinema/television culture, the architects of whom are the same persons who squat all over the culture and would be so smug as to blithely claim on live radio that Jazz has its roots in Klezmer. Some alternate reality that.
Thank goodness there was a strong Black middle class, little more than a century ago, without which there would have been no birth of Jazz. No Coltrane, no Ellington, no Mingus and on and on and on. There has been a steadfast erosion to near obliteration of the Black middle classes such that anyone today without an awareness of music history would think it incredulous that Blacks should claim to be the innovators of Jazz.
Naturally, of course, the same cinematic agendum that would keep Blacks all but invisible and extinct when not risible, violent and or marginalised has never once seen fit to have cinematically documented the lives of any of these true geniuses of Jazz which one keeps claiming is a true American art form, yet until Michelle Obama took up residency in the White House, it had never before been performed therein.
Black history month is about celebrating and most of all it is about never for a nanosecond losing sight of who the racial predator is and despite Nikki Yanofsky – the darling little Montréalaise with the bought career – claiming, “Oh Ella we love you!” well to channel the very spirit of Frederick ‘Mr. Hat’ Jones, I declare, “Bitch please. Ella don’t give no damn if you can turn piss into wine. We ain’t having it!”
Sing Strange Fruit or just go make country music; an idiom, I might add, where you never see Blacks claiming ownership thereof or time-wasting patronising. After all, Country is the music of the very people about whom Strange Fruit was penned.
Alas, your racially predatory animus is so intense that you can’t but squat all over the culture, with total disregard, and thereby make it your own. Besides, what do you care what we think?
Go on, go ahead, let’s see you sing Strange Fruit with all the pain and rage as Diana Ross… to say nothing of Billie Holiday.
Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul. 