To Be A Princess, You Have to Be Born A Princess!

02.08.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Meghan Discusses the George V Convention re: Titles/Styles

The purpose of this blog is to address the runaway assumptions, effrontery… ignorance of many of the Sussexes’ supporters, #sussexsquad who insist on referring to Meghan as Princess Meghan. If you are going to be focussed on a subject, any subject, do know about whom or what you speak or you simply lose credibility and are dismissed as ignorant and a waste of time. Blindly referring to Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex as Princess Meghan serves to incite animus towards and ridicule of both Meghan and Harry. For all that they have been through and all that they have survived, just please show both humans their due respect by correctly referring to Meghan as she is correctly styled: Meghan, HRH The Duchess of Sussex – the HRH style was agreed to not to be used as part of the Sandringham summit in early 2020. She was not born a princess, therefore it is a disservice to her and those so born to refer to her as Princess Meghan.

**To Be A Princess, You Have to Born A Princess**

Into that sparkling May sunshine in 2018, Meghan walked into St. George’s Chapel and remained unaccompanied up the aisle until she was escorted by then HRH Prince Charles, The Prince of Wales, her father-in-law. She walked in born a commoner, a self-made, independent woman, an American, a Black American. To be a princess, Meghan would have to have been born to a prince, Queen or King. It is a great disservice to Meghan, if you are truly a supporter of hers and respect her, to doggedly insist on referring to her as Princess Meghan.

Meghan has never once referred to herself as princess. When did any of you, #sussexsquad, hear Meghan refer to herself as princess or Princess Meghan? Meghan knows the importance of these things and would never incur further animus by doing any such thing; to do so, would further embolden the racially predatory detractors to increase their attacks on her and question her credibility. I do know, however, that a lot of animus towards Meghan comes from royalists, especially those in the UK and Commonwealth, who watch Meghan being referred to as Princess Meghan when this is not the case, all thanks to #squaddies thinking that they have a damn right to inflame already febrile animus towards Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex of whom one claims to be a supporter.

Honestly, you don’t get to decide that Meghan is Princess Meghan because you are American and no one is going to tell you what to call her. You, whether supporter #sussexsquad or detractor do not own Meghan! She is a human being, a wife, mother, entrepreneur and humanitarian… she owes none of us anything. However, at the very least, you can have the decency to respect who she is and not call her Princess Meghan. It is just as disrespectful as the British Media still referring to The Princess of Wales as Kate Middleton fifteen years on, simply because she is not of aristocratic birth. Trust me, I am old enough to remember these things, but Fleet Street did not go around year in, year out referring to Diana, The Princess of Wales as Diana Spencer – even after her divorce, the tabloids did not resort to calling her Diana Spencer. That, indeed, is testament to the viciousness of classism in the United Kingdom.

Back in summer, 1986, I was invited by Cabbagetown neighbours to come for tea and champagne to watch the royal wedding on the CBC. They were all a crusty clique of old monarchist queers who were just thrilled for another royal wedding, five years on from Charles and Diana’s wedding at St. Paul’s Cathedral. Some liked ‘Fergie’ because she was so refreshingly normal; others thought her a right kook. Either way, it was a lovely gathering. No one then referred to Sarah as Princess Sarah and never once has anyone ever done so nor has she ever referred to herself as Princess or Princess Sarah. Sarah, like Meghan, married in and was not born to a blood prince, King or Queen.

**Riiibbit Ben Davidson. Hope Robert Davidson. T’sing Ben Davidson. Winter Moon Susan Point**

King George V was the grandson of HM Queen Victoria and grandfather of HM Queen Elizabeth II. It was George V whose convention established the current system of titles and styles how and when they are to be used and more importantly by whom.

“The children of any Sovereign of these Realms and the children of the sons of any such Sovereign and the eldest living son of the eldest son of the Prince of Wales shall have and at all times hold and enjoy the style title or attribute of Royal Highness with their titular dignity of Prince or Princess prefixed to their respective Christian names or with their other titles of honour”

**Heron Alex Colville. Sockeye Salmon Bill Reid. Prismatic Loon Kenojuak Ashevak**

Edward, the firstborn was The Prince of Wales, but as he had an energy body of 5, he was a wanderer. He was also madly in love with both Edward ‘fruity’ Metcalfe and his relations with Louis Mountbatten, the Viceroy of India were an open secret. The same Louis Mountbatten with two 7s, one of which was his fourth number, was violently assassinated for his proclivity for minor meat. Wallis for being American was shown the wrath of Britons with their obsessive inferiority complex towards Americans since King George III lost the American colonies – though they’d never admit to it, Britons have never gotten over that defeat. Edward VIII became HRH The Duke of Windsor. Edward VIII, of course, abdicated and had no issue… so that was that. Edward, a sixth mature sage soul with 5 energy body would have found the whole notion of sovereign and monarchy far too restrictive for him; Wallis was a welcome get out of jail card as he would have perceive his life circumstance.

Prince John died as a child; he had been afflicted by illness. King George V had six children, one of whom was a daughter. As female line royals may not pass on their titles, Princess Mary, The Princess Royal wedded The 6th Earl of Harewood. Because of primogenitor and female line royals being precluded from perpetuating their titles, Mary’s husband, Henry Lascelles did not become a prince or duke on marrying in, only male born royals are made dukes and usually at their wedding so that their spouse on marrying in, can become titled. Also, as she has married in to a blood prince and afforded a title, thus her sons and daughters will be royals. Hence the prince’s new bride is made a duchess so that she may be titled on becoming a mother. The Lascelles have gone on to distinguish themselves but Mary’s issues were not permitted to be styled prince or princess, though, they technically were.

**Raven Song Susan Point. Promenade Kenojuak Ashevak.**

HRH Prince Henry, The Duke of Glooucester
Princess Alice, HRH The Duchess of Gloucester (1935)
HRH Prince William of Gloucester

George V’s son, Prince Henry was styled, The Duke of Gloucester on marrying the daughter of the 7th Duke of Buccleuch. Alice at birth was styled Lady Alice Buccleuch as the daughter of a non-royal duke. On her husband’s death, as it was customary for widowed duchesses to be styled dowager duchess, Queen Elizabeth II permitted her as widow to be styled Princess Alice, The Duchess of Gloucester as her son, Prince Richard’s wife Birgitte was also Duchess of Gloucester. The couple’s firstborn, Prince William of Gloucester tragically died in a plane crash in 1972. Prince William, the current Prince of Wales was named in honour of the tragic prince; the Gloucester prince had no issue at his passing.

**TRH Prince Richard & Birgitte, The Duke & Duchess of Gloucester**

The current Duke of Gloucester, as the grandson of a monarch, is styled HRH; however, his son Alexander, The Earl of Ulster will not be similarly styled an HRH when his father dies. At such time, he will merely be known as Alexander, The Duke of Gloucester.

**Lenin Dorette Pollard. Shore bird on the Tundra Kenojuak Ashevak. 4 Standing Figures Henry Moore**

Windsor, HRH Prince George The Duke of Kent 20/12/1902<O>25.8.1942

Michael: This fragment was a second-level mature slave – third life thereat. George was in the caution mode with a goal of growth. A pragmatist, George was in the moving part of emotional centre.

George’s primary chief feature was self-deprecation and the secondary of was mild arrogance.

George’s body type was Saturn/Mercury.

The fragment George is second-cast in the fourth cadence. George is a member of greater cadence three. George is a member of entity one, cadre six, greater cadre 7, pod 418.

George’s essence twin is a slave and the priest task companion was known to him.

George’s four primary needs were: security, communion, exchange and expansion.

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

__________________________________________

I’ve included Prince George, The Duke of Kent’s Michael overleaves herein as he is an entity mate of HLM Queen Elizabeth II, Prince Harry & Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex. Also, in cadre 6, greater cadre 7, pod 418 are, along with the aforementioned: King Edward VIII, Prince George of Wales, Prince Archie, Princess Lilibet and Doria Ragland. Like Diana, Princess of Wales, Prince George, The Duke of Kent was a second level mature soul, but a slave soul – Diana is an artisan soul. The Queen, too, is a slave soul. George, The Duke of Kent was one of the most fascinating members of the House of Windsor in the 20th century. Though she married in, George’s wife was a princess at birth, Princess Marina of Greece & Denmark. Thus she was styled Princess Marina and when she became widowed as she was a princess at birth, though not British, HM Queen Elizabeth II allowed her to remain styled as Princess Marina as it was her birthright. I especially love that her great-grand daughter Flora Vesterberg elegantly mirrors her grace and nobility.

11.6.1903 Year of the Rabbit 2.8.3 = 4.

Darlings if you are going to pass a lifetime as a royal… take notes. Like Princess Charlotte of Wales recently holding court at Wimbledon, two energy-bodied ladies are the most innately stylish, witty, great conversationalists, self-aware, funniest and the most fascinating woman in any room. Just look at the neck on Princess Olga!

Princess Charlotte of Wales holding court at Wimbledon, 2025

Princess Charlotte Wimbledon Men’s Finals, 2025

Katharine HRH The Duchess of Kent, until Diana, Princess of Wales arrived on the scene, was my favourite royal. Her husband, HRH Prince Edward, The Duke of Kent is a very contained human; his numerology betrays just that 9.1.1 = 11. Possessed of master number 11, he does though have a 9 in his makeup – his energy body. 9 and 5 are two numbers that are found quite liberally in royals/aristocrats. 9 is about being a gatekeeper, an alarming snob more often than not. 5 brings the potential for debauchery of spirit and it most certainly has been manifested in House of Windsor senior royals. Keen to note is the fact that both Prince Edward, The Duke of Kent has two numbers in common with Catherine, The Princess of Wales. Both have the same energy body and both have mindset of 1. They are kindred spirits of sorts, though, I really don’t know his Michael overleaves. 9 energy body men are less socially aggressive than the female, simply because it is a man’s world and 9 energy body women literally feel themselves threatened at every turn. Furthermore, with mindset of 1, such persons are not showy and are more private than most. Both these persons would rather stay in than be out, like Diana, Princess of Wales, being here for ‘battered this, battered that’ as the beloved Diana put it. We 1 mindset people do find the idea of being around crowds and all manner of humankind icky at best. My numerology: 2.8.1960 Year of the Rat 2.1.8 = 11.

Part Doris Day, part Caroline Stanbury, her look that is, Katharine was the original epitome of the royal mystique. In my youth, I religiously watched the Wimbledon finals just to see her walk onto Centre Court and hand out the trophies after having congratulated the players. Never before nor since her reign at finals day, has there been a more gracious, elegant, ethereal patron.

Katharine 22.2.1933 Year of the Rooster 4.6.4 = 5. Whenever you see 6 in someone’s numerological makeup, you are dealing with someone of great empathy, compassion and it is always indicative of someone whose soul has chosen to be devoted to a life of service. This is why Prince Harry, Queen Letizia of Spain and Crown Prince Daniel of Sweden were all born on September 15, affording them the focus to be devoted to a life of service and compassion, whilst simultaneously having two 6s. It is about healing the spirit and uplifting the vibration at large through a life of service. That mindset of 6 is why Katharine HRH The Duchess of Kent openly extended herself to a distraught Jana Novotna and in the process healed her spirit and uplifted all our hearts by her gracious, selflessness and empathy. Not surprisingly, she is the only royal of the United Kingdom whose aura has ever been readily discernible in the few dream encounters that I have had. She is the real McCoy! Again, as a commoner marrying in, she has never once been referred to as Princess Katharine by anyone. Nor for that matter is she ever mistakenly referred to as Duchess Katharine.

**1 Susan Point. 4 Kenojuak Ashevaks & 1 Benjamin Chi Chi**

HRH Princess Alexandra of Kent 25.12.1936 Year of the Rat 7.1.2 = 1

No woman is more reserved, refined than a seven energy-bodied lady. And as there is always a but, they also happen to be the most amoral of all women. They will have multiple affairs with a host of married or single men, send the former home to their wives and always emerge in society looking unruffled and not the least bit concerned as to what it might look like or god forbid what others will say. They think it highly uncouth for a woman to become enraged and want to seek revenge against them. That is the numerological portrait of a 7 energy body woman, which is not to say that this applies to the rather refined and inordinately gracious Princess Alexandra of Kent.

As Princess Alexandra is a female-line royal, the moment that she married Angus Ogilvy, her heirs and successors lost all right to be styled with royal titles; this would also have been the case if she were to have married a royal from any other royal house across the planet. I always thought that James Ogilvy, her son, is the most handsome royal male. His daughter, Flora Vesterberg is among the most elegant ladies of the extended royal family and true to her heritage, which exudes her paternal grandmother’s reserve, she is equally cool and reserved – unlike Lady Amelia Windsor, who with a moustache is the reanimated spit of King Felipe IV, socially flitting about in drag…

Prince Michael 4.7.1942 Year of the Horse 4.2.9 = 5. Princess Michael 15.1.1945 Year of the Monkey 6.7.8 = 3. Prince Michael has almost serene numerology. Like many high-born aristocrats/royals, he does have 9 in his numerology; they are all snobs and can tend towards being conceited gatekeepers. However, they do not all have to be, and usually aren’t unpleasant. He does though have 5 in the fourth position, which is always about scandal and being debauched of spirit. This is the classic example of someone being socially exposed and embarrassed by the scandal(s) created by their partner. This most definitely is the case of baroness Marie-Christine his wife – a right blasted, pretentious racist snob.

TRH The Prince & Princess Michael of Kent at royal wedding in Monaco, 2011

There we have the parvenu, racist gilt cakewalk down the stairs of Monaco’s Hotel de Paris. Imagine her great fortune, two high-profile royal weddings in the same year and both televised. She plays up for the camera, even going so far to look off to the footmen and fake laughing as though she’d do more than spit at them if the cameras were not rolling. She is a pretentious, show-off with zero awareness how revoltingly hideous her flat-assed, no-calved hybrid-reptilian body is.

Revolting racial predator

There is the haughty baroness Marie-Christine, bringing the House of Windsor into disrepute. All that HLM Queen Elizabeth II had done to solidify and promote inclusivity across the commonwealth and along comes the racist boor openly attacking Meghan at her first family gathering after her announced engagement to Prince Harry the month prior in November, 2017. She has a well-documented history of being racist and though she has no 5 in the fourth position, her vulgar racism implicates her noble husband and the rest of the royal family all the way to The Queen. She has done irreparable damage to Prince Michael; regardless what he thinks, it is not her place to implicate him as a racist boor by her ugly displays time and again.

All three women married into the royal family to blood princes and thus they were titled as befitting the wife of a prince. In the case of Marie-Christine as her husband, Prince Michael of Kent, was the grandson without a ducal title of a sovereign who at the time of his marriage was deceased, his wife could only be styled by his name. Thus, she is HRH Princess Michael of Kent. She is not Princess Marie-Christine and is never styled Princess Michael; it is always Princess Michael of Kent. With Sarah on marrying a blood prince, Prince Andrew, he was made the Duke of York so that she could be styled as an HRH royal duchess but not a princess. Similarly, when Meghan married HRH Prince Harry, The Queen conferred the title of Duke and Duchess of Sussex so that she would become a royal wife but not a princess. No one has ever referred to Sarah as Princess Sarah; it has always been Sarah, The Duchess of York, losing the article ‘the’ at her divorce. The Late Queen made no dispensation for Meghan such that she could be styled as Princess Meghan. It is not the done thing and it was not done.

As they, Lord Frederick & Lady Gabriella, are the children of a grandchild (HRH Prince Michael of Kent) of a sovereign, King George V, they are not styled as HRH. This is the case with all male-line princes who are the grandsons of the sovereign; their heirs are never styled as HRH.

**Pink Chair Artist Proof I/III ©1990 George Hawken**

*Recently, whilst at the Festival International de Jazz de Montréal, I suffered an attack when a guest proved both bipolar and a serious drug addict, got drunk and totalled my pyramid and did serious damage to some of my art collection. This piece, having been the most damaged, had to be reframed, but all is well. END.

George VI 14.12.1895 Year of the Goat 5.8.4 = 8. Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother 4.8.1900 Year of the Rat 4.3.4 = 11. That’s right, Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother had the exact same numerology as Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex and her gorgeous bestie, Abigail Spencer who was born on the same day as her Suits castmate, Meghan. When Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon wedded into the House of Windsor, she was made The Duchess of York, which is usually the ducal title afforded the sovereign’s second son. Prince David was, of course, The Prince of Wales and briefly became King Edward VIII but as he clearly was made to abdicate to be with his American fiancée with whom he was intent on spending his life, Wallis Simpson, his brother became King George VI, after having been The Duke of York.

David, The 2nd Earl Snowdon
Antony, The Earl Snowdon & HRH Princess Margaret, The Countess of Snowdon
Lady Sarah Chatto

Though the children of a blood princess, Princess Margaret, as David & Sarah were female line born royals, they immediately were not styled as prince or princess. Also, for marrying in and a commoner, Antony Armstrong-Jones was merely styled Antony, The 1st Earl of Snowdon. On marrying in, Antony Armstrong-Jones did not become a prince anymore than did Sarah, Meghan and Catherine became princesses on marrying in.

Not only did she have fantastic Michael Overleaves but HLM Queen Elizabeth II had fantastic numerology. 21.4.1926 Year of the Tiger 3.7.7 = 8. Like all mindset of 7 persons, Elizabeth could see auras and was able to quite accurately read persons, which also included strong intuitive insights to everyone. She was an extraordinarily sublime human. Like all mindset 7 persons, she knew to keep her mouth shut about ESP data to which she was innately privy; after all, her name was not Princess Alice of Battenberg! Energy body of 3, she was gracious, radiant, diplomatic and always unruffled. What HLM The Queen perfectly understood was that she was but a caretaker, her role was transitory and her duty was to uphold the institution, leaving it in better stead than she had inherited it. The role was more than herself. She, her ego, was not the Sovereign because true slave soul that she is – and will always be from lifetime to lifetime, she innately understood that as sovereign, her role was one of service, of serving the common good, the common man and that is why she was such a phenomenal monarch.

**HRH Prince Philip, The Duke of Edinburgh**

As Prince Philip was a Prince of Greece & Denmark on marrying Princess Elizabeth in 1947, he was styled HRH The Duke of Edinburgh. He was not styled a prince though foreign born. It was not until, well into her reign did his titles change and he was then styled, HRH The Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh. King George VI did not allow Philip, though a foreign born prince, to be styled an HRH Prince on marrying his daughter and heir. As the Prince of Wales is only ever held by a male heir to the sovereign, Princess Elizabeth was not styled Princess of Wales. Also, a King’s wife is styled Queen Consort or Queen; however, a Queen regnant’s spouse is never styled king because in a patriarchal monarchy, that would designate a Queen and wife as subordinate and a King more senior to her, which can never be the case; that is why Philip was elevated from The Duke of Edinburgh to HRH The Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh as the spouse of Queen Elizabeth II, the Queen regnant. Again, as with Meghan, no one in his sixty-eight years of being married to The Queen ever once erroneously referred to Queen Elizabeth’s spouse, Philip, as King Philip.

**HRH The Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh. Portrait**

Prince Philip 10.6.1921 Year of Rooster 1.7.1 – 9. Again, like many aristocrats/royals 9 makes up part of the numerological energetic portrait in the chosen life therein focussed. Of the royals whose Michael overleaves I am aware of, Prince Philip is the only one in pod 408. Each pod has 2.4m souls within which are 49 greater cadres with each greater cadre containing 7 cadres. What I do know, is that not only are Princes Philip and Harry warrior souls, but they also have an attitude of sceptic; these persons are all very irreverently blunt and do not gladly suffer fools. Philip was fourth mature on his second life thereat whilst Harry is fifth mature on his fourth life thereat. Charles is seventh mature and in pod 404. William & Catherine are in pod 208 and task companions, which makes them entity mates – task companions have a very strong push/pull attraction. King George V is in pod 380. Diana, Princess of Wales is also in pod 380 and she is an entity mate of singer Chris Martin, Dodi Fayed, and Charles, The 9th Earl Spencer her brother. Interestingly, Jacob, The 4th Baron Rothschild is a cadre mate of theirs. Diana, Princess of Wales and Dodi Fayed were entity mates with 26 past lives in which they were related in some fashion. Because of that exceptionally high past life bond, Dodi became magnetised to her to facilitate her rather violent exit, as one would be a fool not to conclude that she was murdered, especially so when her fourth number was 7, which is more likely to be associated with assassinations than not. Of course, who had Diana removed, is the question. Then again, one is more likely to be murdered by an entity or cadre mate than not. The ties that bind are not always readily discernible…

**Buster (2006-2024) chilling in the collapsible pyramid**

A bit of Michael Teachings clarification. There are seven soul types, also referred to as fragments or essences. As in numerology each role corresponds to a number which roughly translates to Michael Math. Slaves are 1 and pair with Priests on the inspiration axis; priests are the 6th role in essence adding up to 7 – perfection. Artisans are 2 and are on the expression axis with sages who are 5 which equals 7. Warriors are the third role in essence and on the action axis; also, on the action axis is the King soul whose numerical value is 7. However, kings for representing perfection do not pair with warriors as such though they are both on the action axis. The warriors often pair with scholar souls who do not pair with any role for being the fourth essence role. 7 souls of the same type make up a cadence which are part of a greater cadence of seven and all of the same role. There are roughly 1000 souls in an entity, usually anywhere from 3 to 6 roles in an entity. No entity ever only has one role. 7 entities make up a cadre of 7 thousand souls which would contain all 7 role types. There are seven cadres in a greater cadre making that roughly 49 thousand souls of all 7 roles. There are also 49 greater cadres that make up a pod which is roughly 2.4 million souls. You will more likely run into entity and cadre mates during the course of lives, venturing during the young soul cycle and beyond to encounters with souls from other pods. See end of blog for royal examples of royals and soul age.

**HRH Princess Anne, The Princess Royal**

Though a blood princess, for being a female-line royal, Princess Anne’s children are not titled and her husband was not made a duke on marrying her on Prince Charles’s 25th birthday on November 14, 1973. That explains why her children, Peter Phillips and Zara Tindall, are not styled prince and princess respectively. Captain Mark Phillips was a commoner marrying in to Princess Anne, thus as a male, there was no ducal title bestowed on him.

HRH Prince Andrew, The Duke of York. 19.2.1960 Year of the Rat 1.3.1 = 5. As son of the sovereign, HLM Queen Elizabeth II and the second son at his marriage to commoner, Sarah Ferguson, he was styled The Duke of York. As that 5 in the fourth position alludes with his numerology, Andrew wasted little time in exposing himself as the quintessential debauched and scandalised 5 in fourth position male – of course, his being of royal birth nicely facilitated his illicit proclivities.

At no point was Sarah ever styled by herself or anyone anywhere, Princess Sarah. She has been Sarah HRH, The Duchess of York. On her divorce after her adultery was exposed in the tabloids, she lost the all-important ‘the’ and HRH, becoming on divorce, Sarah, Duchess of York. On becoming divorced, Sarah has not thereafter been known as Princess Sarah, just as she was not on becoming Prince Andrew’s wife.

Both Jack & Edo wedded into the house of York and as their wives are blood princesses, owing to them being female-line royals, their spouses were not bestowed titles and were not styled as HRH. More importantly, they were not gifted with a dukedom to have made their children styled as princes and princesses. Both Beatrice and Eugenie for being blood princesses and granddaughters of the sovereign, can never have their two daughters, Sienna and Athena and two sons, August and Ernest respectively be styled princesses and princes. Two very admirable couples, to be sure.

**TRH Sophie & Prince Edward, The Duke & Duchess of Edinburgh**

As the dukedom of Edinburgh had been intended for The Queen’s lastborn, HRH Prince Edward, at their marriage in 1999, Edward and Sophie were styled the Earl & Countess of Wessex. Naturally, for having married in, Sophie has never been erroneously styled, Princess Sophie. Again, Edward in an agreement with the sovereign, his mum, accepted the earldom, on the proviso that his children would not be styled prince or princess. To be so styled, one would have to have been born to a blood prince and his ducal wife; at the time of their marriage, Sophie was not a duchess. The ducal title allows the commoner wife of the blood prince’s children to be styled prince and princess.

**HRH Prince Charles, The Prince of Wales**

Diana was, as in all things, utterly unique compared to all the other women who married in. Unlike Catherine, who only became styled as Princess at the death of Queen Elizabeth II, Diana for marrying The Prince of Wales, was styled Princess from day one, July 29, 1981. Again, being styled princess for being the wife of the Prince of Wales does not make one a princess; thus it is erroneous to have called her Princess Diana as it would be to call the current Princess of Wales, Princess Catherine.

**Diana, Princess of Wales, and future King Mother**

Unlike Sophie, Sarah, Catherine and Meghan, Diana married the heir, The Prince of Wales and thus she was unique. Too, on June 21, 1982, she became King Mother, on the birth of Prince William the future sovereign; Diana will ever be King Mother, albeit posthumously and that will never change. To be clear, though, the Princess of Wales in both instances, princess is still not a title that either Diana or Catherine possess. Neither is Princess Diana nor Princess Catherine, though, they are so styled for being the Princess of Wales, but as neither was a born royal they are not truly Princess Diana or Princess Catherine; however, this is a style which distinguishes them from other wives of the House of Windsor.

Elizabeth, HRH The Duchess of York (1923)
Princess Alice, HRH The Duchess of Gloucester (1935)
Wallis, HRH The Duchess of Windsor (1937)
Katharine, HRH The Duchess of Kent (1961)
Birgitte, HRH The Duchess of Gloucester (1972)
Marie-Christine, HRH The Princess Michael of Kent (1978)
Lady Diana Spencer, HRH The Princess of Wales (1981)
Sarah, HRH The Duchess of York (1986)
Sophie, HRH The Countess of Wessex (1999)
Camilla, HRH The Duchess of Cornwall (2005)
Catherine, HRH The Duchess of Cambridge (2011)
Meghan, HRH The Duchess of Sussex (2018)

All other women who married into the House of Windsor since the Letters Patent of King George V, in 1917 were style in the manner of a commoner: Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, HRH The Duchess of York, Alice, HRH The Duchess of Gloucester, Wallis, HRH The Duchess of Windsor, Katharine, HRH The Duchess of Kent, Birgitte, HRH The Duchess of Gloucester, Baroness Marie-Christine, HRH Princess Michael of Kent, Lady Diana Spencer, HRH The Princess of Wales, Sarah, HRH The Duchess of York, Sophie, HRH The Countess of Wessex aka The Duchess of Edinburgh, Catherine, HRH The Duchess of Cambridge, Meghan, HRH The Duchess of Sussex. Their blood prince husband is presented a ducal title, thereby making the bride a Duchess as she cannot be styled princess in her own right. Thus a blood prince’s wife becomes as per the following, Sarah, The Duchess of York, Katharine, The Duchess of Kent, Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex, Catherine, The Duchess of Cambridge. However, Catherine, The Duchess of Cambridge proved that most rare of royal brides for having married, Prince William, the future sovereign. Thus Catherine joined Diana, Princess of Wales on September 8, 2022 as Catherine, The Princess of Wales. For being The Princess of Wales, both Diana and Catherine are the only two royal wives who for having married in are styled Princess in their own right and in the case of Catherine not a day before Prince William became The Prince of Wales. Princess of Wales is the style of the wife of the sovereign heir and applies to that time when Wales like Monaco was a royal principality. Again, the moment you separate/divorce you lose that all-important ‘the’ in the title; more than all that, you are no longer styled HRH and are not permitted to wear a tiara as per Diana, Princess of Wales and Sarah, Duchess of York.

HM Queen Mary HM King George V’s Queen consort was Princess Mary of Teck; she was born a princess in Europe. So too was Princess Marina of Greece and Denmark born a princess when she became the wife of HRH Prince George, The Duke of Kent. All other royal wives who married into the royal family from King George V’s daughter-in-law Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon to Meghan, the daughter-in-law of HRH Prince Charles, The Prince of Wales aka HM King Charles III were commoners on their wedding day. Only two have become princesses, Lady Diana Spencer, and Catherine, The Duchess of Cambridge when she became The Princess of Wales – Diana on her wedding day and Catherine at the death of Queen Elizabeth II, eleven years after her marriage to HRH Prince William, The Duke of Cambridge aka The Prince of Wales.

Charles Attempts to Change the King George V Letters Patent

**HM King Charles III (Detail) ©2024 Jonathan Yeo**

Meghan was so very shrewd, true to her master number 11, to have made clear during the Oprah interview that Charles and likely William, wanted to change the King George V convention. The reason for wanting to do so, was so that Archie and Lilibet, Harry and Meghan’s children and Charles’s grandchildren would be excluded, though the grandkids of the Sovereign’s heir would be styled as prince and princess respectively. Of course, Meghan was not lying. Just look at what Prince Harry discovered during the disclosure in his case before the courts: Charles his father contacted all the world’s governments, requesting that they not afford Harry and Meghan security if they were to decamp there. The same Charles whom we learnt via Omid Scobie’s strategic exposé in the Dutch edition of Endgame that Charles and Catherine were the royal racists in question. Surely, if it were that important to Charles to streamline the monarchy going forward, at the time in 2011 when the primogenitor rules of succession were changed, by Queen Elizabeth II, why not have insisted that the exclusion of grandkids not born to the sovereign’s heir, The Prince of Wales, be denied the title of prince and princess.

Never underestimate the sensitivity of the royal family towards Americans joining their ranks. One of the stipulations of Wallis, an American, marrying Prince David, The Prince of Wales which would have made her the Queen Consort to Edward VIII, was that she was not allowed to be styled HRH when the King, her husband, King Edward VIII abdicated. Indeed, Wallis was only allowed to be addressed as HRH within her household… just outside Paris! How rich is that? Naturally, the institution and courtiers saw to it that the couple did not marry until 1937 when Edward had conveniently abdicated. There is no way that Wallis being an American, apart from also being a divorcée was not the dominant reason for Edward being forced to abdicate. A citizen of the former colony, which they lost in the War of Independence, was a non-starter. There is no way that the American, Wallis, would be permitted to be wife of a King and bear a future sovereign, even though she was 41 years old at her marriage to the future king, all of which were circumnavigated with Edward VIII’s abdication. Similarly, the need to exorcise the shame of King George III’s defeat and lost of the American colonies, Meghan was told by Prince Harry that there were open discussions about changing the George V convention so that only the grandchildren of The Prince of Wales’s heir, rather all the children of the sovereign, and so on would be styled prince and princess accordingly. Added to all that, Meghan’s Black heritage proved disquieting and lead to Charles and Catherine being exposed in Omid Scobie’s Dutch edition of Endgame. Yes, indeed, the royals loathe Americans and are unmistakably racist. The American wives of Windsor have certainly taken a bruising from the island kingdom.

Unlike his mother, King Charles III is a 7th level mature warrior soul whose numerology and overleaves did not leave him inclined to being focussed on his duty as caretaker of the institution of monarchy as his late mum, HM Queen Elizabeth II. King Charles III, 14.11.1948 Year of the Rat 5.7.2 = 5. Like HLM The Queen, Charles has a mindset of 7, he knows his place relative to history and performs his duties well. The 2 leaves him inclined to indulge in gossip, pettiness, drama, subterfuge, bigotry and to have two fives in his makeup, especially so when one of them is in the fourth position, meant that he stood no chance in not becoming debauched and corrupted over time. I do believe that his corruption of spirit had much to do with the long decades he passed, waiting to become monarch. Too, as with the pen outburst, at the time of his impatient display at St. James’s Palace and later a similar outburst in Northern Ireland, that’s the result of the impatience that comes with having an energy body of 5, think Prince Louis his grandson – such persons can be royally short-fused. 5 also introduces the element of greed and being both obsessed and debauched by outré proclivities.

Meghan became a duchess May 19, 2018, Catherine a duchess April 29, 2011. Catherine became a King Mother, July 22, 2013 and The Princess of Wales September 8, 2022. Meghan is not a princess; there is no one named Princess Meghan. If she cared to, Meghan could be styled Princess Henry (Harry) but never Princess Meghan. The title of Princess has been afforded to only two women who married into the House of Windsor, since King George V, they are Diana, Princess of Wales and Catherine, The Princess of Wales… no others. Though princess is in both princesses of Wales’s title, they are neither styled princess Diana nor princess Catherine of Wales. All duchesses do not have their title before their Christian name, because the only title that goes before a royal female’s name is princess. For that reason, it is always the Christian name followed by the title. Thus it is Sarah, Duchess of York, Catherine, The Duchess of Cambridge, Katharine, The Duchess of Kent, Sophie, The Duchess of Edinburgh and Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex. It is never Duchess followed by the Christian name of the royal wives who married in because only royal born females have their title before their christian name. Again, Duchess Sarah, Duchess Catherine, Duchess Katharine, Duchess Sophie and Duchess Meghan are all incorrect. For the love of Meghan, please stop calling her either Princess Meghan or Duchess Meghan, no such person exists. Princess Anne, Princess Beatrice, Princess Eugenie, Princess Margaret, Princess Elizabeth aka Queen Elizabeth II, Princess Alexandra, Princess Mary were all born princesses, they did not marry in, and for that reason they and only they are styled with princess before their Christian name.

HRH Princess Mary, The Countess of Harewood (1897)
HRH Princess Alexandra of Kent (1936)
HRH Princess Elizabeth of York (1926)
HRH Princess Margaret of York (1930)
HRH Princess Anne, The Princess Royal (1950)
HRH Princess Beatrice of York (1988)
HRH Princess Eugenie of York (1990)
HRH Princess Charlotte of Wales (2015)
HRH Princess Lilibet Diana of Sussex (2021)

The above nine ladies are the only princesses born to the House of Windsor since the reign of HM King George V.

To Be a Princess, You Have to Be Born a Princess!

Meghan Through the Years

Happy birthday Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex, fellow Leo, myself, (2.8.1960 Year of the Rat 2.1.8 = 11) congrats on being focussed here in this world for 44 years. As ever, the very best and every continued success to you, Meghan, HRH The Duchess of Sussex! Meghan 4.8.1981 Year of the Rooster 4.3.4 = 11.

**The World Is As Sharp As The Edge of A Knife ©1993 Robert Davidson**

Wynton Marsalis Solo JLCO @ Massey Hall

Slaves/One 25% of all souls

Artisan/Two 21.5% of all souls

Warrior/Three 17.5% of all souls

Scholar/Four 14% of all souls

Sage/Five 10% of all souls

Priest/Six 8% of all souls

King/Seven 4% of all souls

Of all the royals of whose Michael overleaves I am aware, Prince Archie happens to be the oldest soul with the grooviest overleaves. He is also an entity mate of Prince George of Wales his cousin with a high number of past lives shared and priest souls are notable peacemakers in times of crisis.

**Manawanui ©2005 Roi Toia. Susan Point & Todd Cooper**

You cannot believe how many moons passed before I finally saw the eagle in this masterful piece. Art is everything, indeed.

Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra June 2025 Massey Hall

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

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K_’aax_ada awg_a

03.11.202404.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

K_’aax_ada awg_a (Dogfish Mother)

Serigraph

27.5 x 22 Inches

Edition: 95/95

IG: @tysonisnotbrown

Provenance: The da Brgha Collection

It’s all here, ovoid, formline; Haida excellence and agedness of spirit, elegantly, masterfully expressed.

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Ray Charles & Betty Carter – Baby It’s Cold Outside.

Ray Charles – Vocals & Piano

Betty Carter – Vocals

ABC Records

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

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Piñatas Get Whacked!

19.02.202410.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

**Queen Margrethe II 16.4.1940 Dragon 7.2.7 = 7**

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Homecoming… EIIR 1926 ]-0-[ 2022

Dream foretelling HM Queen Elizabeth II’s passing

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

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

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

https://dreampoetica.com/2013/08/02/come-on-lets-go-for-a-ride

Healing Park of Tuning Fork Trees

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

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

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

**Harry & his pa, Charles and his darling boy**

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

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

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

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

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

**#Middlemuted Missing but is she missed?**

Is it piñata whacking time one wonders?

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

Liner Notes:

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

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Pluto in Capricorn & in Opposition – Pandemic & Retribution.

11.05.202109.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always… with every breath… it is quintessentially Jazz!

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

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

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

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

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Buster En Repose Pyramid Green Room.

10.08.201909.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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

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

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

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At Last, The Day Has Finally Arrived.

09.12.201809.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

With a spring in my step, I came up for air at Piccadilly Circus Station, whistling Ludwig Minkus’ glorious recurrent melody from La Bayadère with thoughts of the astounding Natalia Osipova uppermost in my thoughts.

I was returned to the Royal Academy to hunt for coffee table books.

More than that, I was on a mission; returned to Fortnum & Mason was I, directed there by the gracious clerk at The British Museum’s Grenville Room.

Armed with just over a dozen rose petal jellies, there was no less spring in my step as by now I sang aloud my merry little melody from La Bayadère. I truly felt as though, on this trip to London, I was lucidly awakened in the most sensual dream. Dreams so luscious are the ones which cause you to pause, smile and whisper near-mischievously, “Arvin, this is a dream and you’ve earned it. Now push off and start flying.”

At such times, there is no thunder more glorious than the roar of my very soul as I laugh, enjoying my creative soul fulfilling itself. I was reminded of those early days in our relationship in Manhattan when whilst ambling late at night for staying at Merlin’s agent Joyce Ketay’s Upper West Side apartment, whilst holding hands, I would push down as in dreams but end up doing an assemblé, in place of flying. His rosy choirboy lips would warm in a smile whilst the ubiquitous fag or joint was elegantly perched between left index and middle fingers.

Bailing into to Piccadilly Circus, still feeling mighty spiffy of spirit, I opted against heading back down into the Underground – the place leaves me with sooty phlegm each time nose-blowing. With that, I bailed out of the Circus and onto Shaftesbury Avenue and made my way to a favourite joint, Ben’s Fish n Chips.

There at a cosy table in the rear, I leisurely pleasured myself whilst finally reading the HRH Princess Margaret biography; it is delicious.

Blisters be damned, I elected to walk from Shaftesbury Square up to The British Museum and take in more art. This being a Friday, there were school kids everywhere; my goodness, children have got powerful noise-making lungs! Then again, what is childhood but play for the soul, which after having recently lived and died is now reborn and gets to celebrate and run up and down in a brand spankingly new and excitingly different body – to say nothing of being in the company of reincarnational travel companions some of whom now you can get a good schtup off of this time around, seeing that last time he now she looked like Quasimodo and even so, you weren’t then same-sexed focussed. Ha!

In the bookstore was a clerk with whom I shared an interesting conversation last winter; he was a dead-ringer for scholar soul, right down to the glasses. He suggested that I could take refuge in the Japanese wing and avoid the madness that was happily reincarnated souls screaming their lungs out and running hither and yon.

Before I could get there, moving around one corner from one gallery to the next, will you look at what I happened on.

On seeing it, I was readily warmed of spirit and let out a celebratory, “Yeah, yeah, yeah!” In that moment, the sense of fellowship and belonging I only ever feel when in Canada for being around First Nations cultures, whether at a pow wow or not, proved the most refreshing drink for my questing soul around a corner in my favourite city, London.

Up one elevator, down one corridor then up another elevator and one was then posited into the most serene of galleries. Now this is more my kind of groove.

All this exquisite splendour and not a single recently reincarnated soul running about and screaming way too powerful lungs out for such a tiny body.

This proved an interlude of slow-dancing with my very soul… the vibrations here were utterly harmonious with spirit.

Photography can never do this masterpiece justice.

I am reminded with this gem of the fabulous kimono of Merlin’s hung in our Cabbagetown home.

Can you hear my soul purring…

Phenomenal.

My very favourite piece in the gallery; warm, fecund, sensual, curvaceous, feminine, grounding. It truly is perfection; this after all is what womakind are: perfection of creation – we men just can’t handle it, hence religions which all without exception oppress womankind and tell them that creation is outside of themselves and some warring male god somewhere. Ha… we men can never endure the pain of labour then get up a completely new aspect of creaturehood – no longer a woman but a mother to whom that child will ever be more closely bonded. Love this piece.

This was the most beautiful adventure… for now, with a couple of coffee table books and toys for kids of a friend’s, I crisscrossed Russell Square Park and slept with my blistered feet raised whilst being held closer in sleep’s warm nurturing bosom and was readily tugged under into the world of lucid, inspired dreams.

On a gloriously balmy mid-November evening, I emerged from Covent Garden Station into a sea of humanity filled with love and laughter as the weekend was begun. As lovers ambled past holding hands, I was reminded then of my life twenty-nine years earlier when the Berlin Wall was being toppled. I was grateful in the moment because back then, two days before Merlin’s passing, I could not imagine myself being still focussed in this life with so much death and dying around me.

Yet, here was I with my happy little lambious (Merlin called me Lamb because I was more 9 parts enraged grizzly than timid lamb) self, in Covent Garden about to see a ballet because Marianela Nuñez, Natalia Osipova, Vadim Muntagirov, Matthew Ball, Francesca Hayward, Joseph Sissens, Steven McCrae, Iana Salenko were part of the most glorious group of ballet dancers.

Oh my, look at this; there have been changes afoot since last winter.

My pilgrimage to the shrine of high art is finally here! What’s this, new coat check, new toilets, new dining area… wow!

No sooner than was I sat and along came a Jurassic hybrid, no chin, back so long may well have extra vertebrae and a neck that is too thick and long to be on a woman’s body but I am not judging just saying,..

Well I did not cross the Atlantic just for this obstruction and her pheromone were decidedly reptilian. As Frederick Jones would say, “I’m not havin’ it!” After a few gracious words with the accommodating ushers, my offer to stand through the entire performance seemed reasonable enough.

I stood on the steps up to the last row that was more centre of house than my ticket. I did my best to ignore the chinless spinster who sat at the edge of the row, who promptly repositioned her handbag, as if it were a blasted Birkin! Naturally, she kept eyeing me. As I always carry Shaniqua in my back pocket, I was ready to hiss, the minute she stepped out of line.

During the performance after the Bronze Idol danced his spectacular solo, I lost myself and yelled the loudest bravo in the house and wouldn’t the old bat have something to say, “Be quiet!” to which I leaned in and hissed, “grip harder on your butt plug and shut the fuck up!” Why do people insist on leaving their homes and act as though they are lord or lady of anyone else’s reality.

Never mind her, the lovely Russian couple who sat in the front row looked back and approvingly yelled “Da!” at my exuberance. Truly, what a glorious night in the theatre. You cannot possibly begin to fathom the amount of flying dreams I have had since that night; it is as though, I perpetually am now flying-without-moving. Of course, I haven’t yet shaken that exquisite Minkus melody from my lips but so be it. There was something simply transcendent about having experienced the purity and perfection of the Kingdom of the Shades opening of Act III that will ever keep me richly inspired.

Love is all and whatever it is that makes you want to fly without moving when awake grab on and tightly hold on – drugs don’t do it, they do you! As ever, come closer let’s have a group hug and a bit of air frottage because life, alas, is the sweetest of dreams!

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The Dream Chamber

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With some lovely sandalwood incense going, a beeswax candle and some late 18th century harpsichord breezily distant, evoking deeply buried memories of life at court in Regency London as a countertenor, thus one slips lucid, fecund and supremely feminine into sleep’s warm embrace. For me the day begins at bedtime, the beauty of sleep is, one can never imagine the bounty of vistas and dream experiences about to be lived a few shorts breaths away.

So come with me, take a few deep breaths, feel the bedding lovingly warm against your wide-open naked body. You are a soul about to unfurl its wings and take flight into the dreamtime… what happy quests await… As ever, sweet dreams and thanks for your ongoing support. Thank you Robert Davidson, Susan A. Point, for sharing your inspiring light with me. Windows are highly overrated intrusions.

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Put Your Complaints ‘Ere

02.02.201707.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Put Your Complaints ‘ere

Lithograph

41 x 29 inc

Edition: 13/67

Provenance: Collection Arvin da Braga.

My but this makes me purr… Lovely way to start Black History Month.

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Happy Canada Day!

01.07.201505.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

New Flag

Oil on Canvas

Charles Pachter

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Wheatland – Canadiana Suite – Oscar Peterson Trio 1964.

Piano: Oscar Peterson

Bass: Ray Brown

Drums: Ed Thigpen

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Oyster Catcher

Serigraph

24 x 30 inches

Edition: 91

Provenance: 5/91 Art Collection Arvin da Braga.

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Happy 148th Canada – for more than half my life, I have had some truly remarkable, uplifting experiences whilst living here. Too, I shared a great love with my Canadian-born task companion, Merlin.

Regrettably, I could neither find the dimensions nor year of creation for the masterful Charles Pachter flag which I would presume is an Oil on Canvas.

Happy Canada Day – my life experience has been immensely enriched for having remained focussed here in this great land.

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Strange Fruit… The Gold Standard.

02.02.201504.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Bass: Ron Carter

Trumpet: Jon Faddis

Trumpet: Roy Hargrove

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.

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Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Category: Haida Art