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

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, The Duchess of Sussex

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.

Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex

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.

TRH The Duke & Duchess of York

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.

George V Letters Patent 1917

“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.

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.

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.

John Lennon Dorette Pollard
Princess Olga of Greece & Denmark

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…

Dried Sunflowers Dorette Pollard
TRH The Prince & Princess of Wales

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.

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.

Grand Dame ©2009 Kenojuak Ashevak

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.

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.

Prince Andrew, The Duke of York

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.

Sarah, Duchess of York

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.

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.

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

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.

HM King Charles III

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.

Young Birds Kenojuak Ashevak

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.

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.

As Ever Rosé
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

Seventh Mature Priest (Archie)

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

____________________________________________________

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

_______________________________________________________________________________

©2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Redux: The Dreamer Awakens…

Shaman’s Staff

This dream occurred, on Monday, December 7, 1992, whilst the Moon transited both my twelfth house – appropriately enough – and Taurus.  Merlin my mentor had initiated in me the task of coming into my own and becoming the awakened warrior.

Here was I, dream magus, awakened warrior, displaying my power – bonding with nature and bonding with the very force itself.  Said dream was the first experienced in exquisite lucidity in the ‘B’ or second sleep phase that day.

Calling Forth the Light

A yard at late twilight when morning breaks, rather than the indeterminate light that pervades astral plane dreams, was the setting for this dream.  It seemed pretty much like the backyard of the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house. I was in a tree that looked like a giant bug weed.  I stepped out onto one of its branches.  Whilst simultaneously in the body and astrally projected, somehow, I could see myself from behind and above. This dream began as I boldly, in mid-stride, walked towards the large soulful tree.  Here, I had incredibly long hair and it was totally white.

Jah Rastafari!

The snow-white mane went down to the small of my back.  Mine – it was no absurd weave.  Full and luscious, it was a massive mane that handsomely flared out. Here, I met the dream magus within.  I held a staff which was very wonderful.  It was made of a tanned polished wood.  As if something that Bill Reid would bring forth from the depths of his creative genius, it was a very sculptural staff.

“One Good Thing About Music, When It Hits You Feel No Pain!” Bob Marley

Like a totem, the staff had lots of symbols throughout its length.  In some of the grooves, there were several large crystals with some of various colours.  Like Merlin did, in our first dream encounter of 1978, I wore a long, white flowing robe that billowed in the wind. Whilst radiating much of my inner light, I was very regal.  This was a moment of stellar beauty; too, the sight of myself empowered blew me away.  It was so humbling. I had a long beard and drooping moustache.  It was also white and considerably longer than Merlin’s facial hair ever was. As a matter of fact, it was like the flowing, wispy beards of some Japanese and East Asian holy men.

Mighty Oak

On going out to the edge of the branch, I stabbed my staff into the tree and let out a war cry.  Almost immediately thereafter, a fierce wind picked up.  It was gale-forced. The sky became blackened with mushrooming, heavy grey clouds.  The branch, on which I stood, was no more than four feet off the ground.  The winds were so fierce that it felt as though I were out to sea. I regally stayed my ground as though the captain at the bow of a galleon – one being swept by fierce waves. Whilst anchored on the branch, all I held on to was the staff.  With my free hand, I held on to a branch on the left – of course, the branches moved with a life of their own. The tree was partially submerged in the ghaut that bordered the back of the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts property.  Looking across the ghaut, I had been facing due north. The winds were so fierce that I could never see to the other side of the ghaut.  What’s more, it was a much wider gorge than Crab Hill’s.  Besides which, I had no time to project that far.

The Force Behind the Power

Bob Marley & the Wailers. Trench Town Rock LIVE

For one thing, the winds were too fierce and for another, the task of staying atop this branch proved far too demanding.  This wind was fiercer than anything I had ever experienced. The saving grace of it all was that it was not, thankfully, a wintry wind.  The funny thing about the whole experience was that I had called forth the elements to energise my being. So in tune with nature was I, I was able to summon the gale-force winds at will.  I wished to align with nature’s empowering, life-sustaining energies.  I was fiercely enjoying the charge from it, screaming aloud and becoming transfixed. It truly was as if being stationary whilst flying at hyper-speeds in an upright position; thus, there was the dual sense of being not only on the high seas but also as if riding on a magic carpet.

Copper Pyramid: The Portal to Shamanic Quests

There was one point that, as I screamed into the wind, I immediately then saw my face from above.  Whilst simultaneously astral-projected, I was looking down into my face as I looked up into the billowing clouds. Beyond those clouds, there was some spectacular planet-being; it was much like the one that I thrillingly encountered in the dream earlier this year, on Tuesday, September 22, 1992. This was quite an exhilarating experience.  I felt a massive surge of energy flowing through the staff and into me.  The staff was marvellously potent. The look of the staff was a mélange of the creative geniuses of the artists, Bill Reid, Antoni Gaudí and Erté.  A very shamanic, magical totem it was. My face was possessed of a very high forehead; my face was also timeworn.  A face that had spanned several millennia, to date, it certainly was.  More than that, there they were my familiar, papaya-seed-succulent brown eyes.  Here, they were large, supra-dilated eyes.

Oscar Peterson Trio – Night Train

After lying there fully recalling the dreams just experienced in soul-satiating lucidity, I got from bed, fed Whoopi whilst she loudly purred, made my way to the living room and sought the warm embraceable magic of Oscar Peterson’s genius at his most profoundly sublime…

One Love. Bob Marley, 1977

Whenever this song plays, I will ever remember the night after attending Bob Marley’s concert at Maple Leaf Garden; it was November 1, 1979 and I was in my second year at York University with a hell of a lot of freedom away from my controlling mother, who was then in the early stages of the colon cancer which would claim her, a year later. Oddly enough, she was convinced that she was with child and had even begun buying diapers. After the concert, Michael, Terry, Vincent, Arnold, Donovan and I climbed into a couple of cabs and were off to Vincent’s place on Yorkville Avenue. Donovan I had met on New Year’s Eve and left the party with and bedded for the next several months. We all wore white to the concert and Vincent, who was a wealthy biracial Bajan with the most beguiling green eyes, had organised the evening. Michael was Jamaican with the most beautiful big bubble butt and a cock that can best be described as a baby elephant’s trunk. Terry was Afro-Indian from Trinidad with a temper that I knew well to stay clear of. Arnold, Nova Scotian with the sweetest laugh, was always great company. Whilst they all drank Bajan rum and enjoyed themselves, I spent most of the time, shaking ass to more Bob Marley. Everyone was in the early to mid-twenties at most with me still then nineteen years old. It was one of the best concerts ever and a spiritual moment of truly high order. Naturally, we ended up a tangle of legs, arms, tongues, cocks. Listening to this music recently, I realised that not only was I the only one of the group left, more importantly, they had all perished of AIDS, as I had recently leant of Terry.

Robert Nesta Marley 6/2/45<O>11/5/81

Michael: This fragment is (still – currently incarnate) a third level old sage – third life thereat.  Robert was in the power mode with a goal of growth.  A spiritualist, he was in the moving part of intellectual centre. 

Body type is Mars/Saturn. 

Robert‘s primary chief feature was arrogance and the secondary stubbornness – a contributing factor in his death; he refused some medical treatment. 

The fragment Robert is second-cast in second cadence; he is a member of greater cadence one.  Robert’s entity is seven, cadre one, greater cadre 1, pod 414. 

Robert’s essence twin is a sage and his task companion an artisan. 

Robert’s primary needs were: expression, freedom and acceptance. 

There are 19 past-life associations with Arvin and 13 with Merlin.  ___________________________________________

This song, this Diana Ross performance, perfectly encapsulates the empowerment and beauty of spirit that I felt on awakening from this most rapturous of dreams. I simply cannot fathom the lack of depth and awareness of persons, who never recall their dreams – truly foreign to me. Also, I include this song here because although I am not a big Diana Ross fan, I’ve only ever seen her once in performance, I share here as a tribute to all five persons with whom I attended that Bob Marley concert at Maple Leaf Gardens 44 years ago; they were, every last one of them, a diehard Diana Ross fan and lived vicariously through her music, beauty and style.

______________________________________________________

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

_______________________________________________________________________________

©2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Theft of the American Crown Jewels…

These are America’s Crown Jewels.

1. Cambodian Crown Jewels, British Art Dealer 2. Koh-i-Noor Diamond, Imperial State Crown of UK 3. Benin Bronzes, British Museum 4. Elgin Marbles, British Museum

Like the Cambodian Crown Jewels, the Kohinoor, the Benin Bronzes and the Elgin Marbles, the rapacious barbarians of the island kingdom must have them. If it is of value then it is theirs for the taking as it has been for 1.5 millennia, most especially so for the last century with regards American awards and the last half millennium through enslavement of African peoples, the spoils of Apartheid at the dehumanising expense of South Africa’s millennia aged original inhabitants. Justifying that rape and pillage has occurred with a reanimation of Brahminism.

When Will Smith walked onstage at the 94th Academy Awards and slapped Chris Rock; he kicked opened the doors for a sea-change; however, at the time, no one could quite perceive the event for the golden opportunity it actually is. Within days of the shocking event, the violent Black man who to that point had the squeakiest image in Hollywood, at least for a Black man, was dealt with. The Academy board of governors decided to ban Will Smith from appearing at the Oscars for ten years.

Back in the autumn of 1983, Merlin and I were holding up in actor, Joe Morton’s Upper West Side one-bedroom apartment that looked south. It was there that we took vows and became committed to each other until one of us passed… we kept those vows. Joe was off in England filming a television series whilst I nursed an injury caused when in a nasty car crash. We looked at a lot of film from Joe’s library, one of which was Black Orpheus. One evening, Merlin cooked a chicken paprikash and had two other couples over, both Black. There was talk about the Oscars earlier that year and how exciting it was that Louis Gossett Jr. had won best-supporting actor Oscar for An Officer And A Gentleman, which was a landmark first. After dinner and more great sex, we returned to the discussion about the Oscars that year and Hollywood politics. I had failed to see anything exciting about winning a best-supporting actor rather than best actor Oscar. Merlin in his charming way made an analogy after he declared that not in our lifetimes would a Black woman ever win best actress Oscar; Merlin was also just brutality pragmatic and honest that way.

Hollywood, Merlin stating the obvious, was a business of make-believe where one staged the desired outcome. In that sense, Merlin shared it was the greatest propaganda tool. It is a world where reality is made in the image of what those in control, would want it to be; in such a reality, Blacks could never be seen to be triumphant. Merlin then touched on the 1936 Olympics in Berlin where Jesse Owens won four gold medals before the debased terror, Adolf Hitler, thereby shattering his belief and propaganda of a master race that’s superior and always the winner. That event, said Merlin, was a real time event which could not be manipulated to achieve the desired outcome as Hitler would have it. Then, said Merlin, Hollywood and its awards are the antithesis of real time events like the Olympics. In the world of Hollywood, even if nominated, Blacks simply were never going to be allowed to win Oscars, just being nominated was good enough and a show of Hollywood elitists’ largesse. Hollywood said Merlin is a Jewish town, after all, and thus Blacks could never be expected to win Oscars, unlike winning Grammys or even Tonys. Besides, said Merlin, Hollywood elites were obsessed with making it in London society and were in bed with royals and getting to play in the truly big leagues. At the time, that angle escaped me; however, he had made the reference to Ben Kinsley winning best actor Oscar that year for his phenomenal performance in Gandhi which Merlin and I had seen the autumn prior at the Ziegfeld Cinema on West 54th Street at midnight, which I then thought the height of sophistication.

The following afternoon, Shawn Kerwin dropped by whilst we listened to the marathon live matinée broadcast of the Metropolitan Opera Centennial Gala. Shawn had designed the golden rolodex which was on display at Lincoln Center and dropped by as she would soon be designing a play back in Toronto that Merlin would be directing. The concert was mind-blowing; we made more love, napped into evening, made more love and then had dinner in the neighbourhood, came home and talked long into the night after he finished devouring another book. As was customary in those nightly discussions, we revisited the talk of the Oscars. Merlin apologised if he sounded pessimistic but he assured me that not during our lifetimes would a Black woman win best actress Oscar. Alas, that proved true for him and just about true for me; truth be told, if 9/11 had not occurred, Halle Berry would not have won best actress Oscar at the 2002 Oscars.

Along with Will Smith slapping Chris Rock – as well he damn well ought to have, based on the latter’s hideous Netflix special of March 2023 – the unfolding drama of the Sussexes has made total sense of Merlin’s predictions of four decades earlier. I have come to see how Hollywood keeps Black actresses at bay by favouring Britons and other White non-Americans. This is not just a disservice to American cinema but it is also illegal activity. I came to see how in Meghan, Duchess of Sussex’s lynching at the hands of the Prince & Princess of Wales in concert with the Courtesan Queen cast greater insights to what causes the embargo on Black actresses winning a best actress Oscar. William is president of BAFTA which has its only foreign branch in Hollywood, which it dubiously called BAFTA North America – it has nothing to do with Canada and everything to exclusively do with Hollywood.

So why after their wedding and their first royal tour to Canada did William and Catherine, now Prince & Princess of Wales, travel to Los Angeles? As the newly minted president of BAFTA he had to be feted in Hollywood where he was expected to continue the tradition of British film artists, being disproportionately represented and winning at an American awards. They had to continue a relationship begun by Prince Philip in 1959 as first President of BAFTA. As a fledging awards, BAFTA desperately needed the cachet that the Oscars afford; old world Hollywood glamour, worldwide brand recognition and star power that remains unsurpassed.

From Prince Philip 1959 to 1965, the baton was passed on Prince Louis Battenberg (Earl Louis Mountbatten 1966 to 1972, Princess Anne, Princess Royal 1973 to 2001. Next up was Lord Richard Attenborough 2002 to 2010; the current BAFTA president, Prince William, Prince of Wales from 2010 to present.

So with the current BAFTA president, we get Tom Hanks sitting in the royal box at a Aston Villa game and we all know that this football team has been BAFTA president, William’s favourite team since childhood. The day after, Tom’s wife, Rita Wilson, attended the 2023 BAFTA Awards where its President, which is customary, rowed with his hawkish wife, Catherine, Princess of Wales. Another example of influence peddling, Mr. Hanks is a multiple Oscar winner, two-time Oscar winner Michael Douglas and his Welsh wife, Catherine Zeta-Jones live in an apartment at St. James’s Palace. Again, Oscar winners are favoured and you can bet that these American Oscar winners have been afforded honorary membership in members clubs like Annabel’s as part of the influence peddling as the BAFTA president hobnobs with Hollywood movers and shakers, in a bid to secure work and Oscar nominations for Britons working in Hollywood.

Well, if the angry Black male, Will Smith, is going to be censored for disrupting the Oscar telecast then Tom Hanks and the Douglas Zeta-Joneses should lose their Oscar vote for clearly engaging in influence peddling with the president of BAFTA. The Windsors are notorious for engaging in sketchy business deals, what with the now King Charles III, taking bags of cash from Saudi members of the Bin Laden family. There would also be nothing to stop William and his predecessors from engaging in accommodating Hollywood A listers for the sake of securing nominations for Britons at what is an American awards, the Oscars; of course, in keeping with all that elbow rubbing offered by royals, the Tonys, Grammys and Emmys will gladly favour British talent. It is not America’s responsibility to provide work for British actors and industry professionals. With a population five times as large as the UK’s, there is clearly a dearth of talent out there, such that America never needs to go courting or employing Britons over Americans. And that it is all about influence peddling and getting to hobnob with royals, where do you see Americans favouring Canadian talent, which relative to UK’s is considerable with a population twice as large as Canada’s should see more Canadian actors being nominated and winning Oscars all this time.

1. The Great Ziegfeld Luise Rainer, 1936 2. The Good Earth Luise Rainer, 1937 3. Gone With The Wind Vivien Leigh, 1939 4. Suspicion Joan Fontaine, 1941 5. Mrs. Miniver Greer Garson, 1942 6. To Each His Own Olivia de Havilland, 1946 7. The Heiress Olivia de Havilland, 1949 8. A Streetcar Named Desire Vivien Leigh, 1951 9. Butterfield 8 Elizabeth Taylor, 1960 10. Mary Poppins Julie Andrews, 1964

Just look at this, 20 best actress Oscars afforded British actresses for an American award.

11. Darling Julie Christie, 1965 12. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf Elizabeth Taylor, 1966 13. The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie Maggie Smith, 1969 14. Women in Love Glenda Jackson, 1970 15. A Touch of Class Glenda Jackson, 1973 16. Driving Miss Daisy Jessica Tandy, 1989 17. Howards End Emma Thompson, 1992 18. The Queen Helen Mirren, 2006 19. The Reader Kate Winslet, 2008 20. The Favourite Olivia Colman, 2018

Naturally, with the House of Windsor involved, acquiring Oscars is infinitely easier accomplished than trying to spirit the great pyramids of Giza to London, which if it were possible, there’d likely be one at the expanded forecourt of the British Museum, one on The Regent’s Park and the other in Hyde Park. Obviously, Princess Anne’s tenure as BAFTA president likely saw her innate disdain for Yanks and general arrogance rule, which resulted in little return on investment. The same was true when Louis Mountbatten was BAFTA president. Of course, with Woody Allen, Steven Spielberg on Epstein’s flight manifests and Roman Polanski being too ‘special’ to prosecute, Old Dickie was in his element in Hollywood. Let’s face it, the IRA had nothing to do with Mountbatten’s explosive demise, born 25.6.1900 Year of the Rat, as ever numbers never lie. 7.4.5 = 7. Two 7s and a 5 alluding to sexual scandal; one or more 7s especially if one is placed in the fourth position, will indicate assassination of a public figure. In Mountbatten’s case, the poor villagers were sick of their sons being preyed on by a known paedophile and that was that.

1. Amorous Prince David, Prince of Wales & Earl Mountbatten in India. 2. David & Louis frolicking in Hawaii. 3. David & Louis playing. 4. Prince Charles, Prince of Wales & Earl Mountbatten. 5. Charles & Mountbatten. 6. Prince Charles, Prince of Wales & Jimmy Savile. 7. Gary Glitter. 8. Jimmy Savile & Gary Glitter. 9. Steven Spielberg & BAFTA President, Richard Attenborough. 10. Steven Spielberg & Harvey Weinstein. 11. Jeffrey Epstein, Prince Andrew, Duke of York, Woody Allen, Bill Clinton & Donald Trump. 12. Prince Andrew & Jeffrey Epstein. 13. Jeffrey Epstein & Donald Trump. 14. Prince Charles & Equerry Jonathan Thompson. 14 Prince Charles & Valet Michael Fawcett.

Prince Louis of Battenberg aka Earl Louis Mountbatten was human and it would certainly not have been the first time that persons associated with the House of Windsor, have had a preference for minor meat or favoured paedophiles. Sexual predators who are deemed untouchable for being of royal, Queer or Jewish persuasion rule a town called Hollywood and you can bet your bottom dollar that there is no room in their worldview for Black actresses being worthy enough for best actress Oscars. I’ll always remember going to an Upper West Side dinner party in winter 1983 whilst Merlin was in Toronto, working on Fraggle Rock with Jim Henson and talk of Hollywood came up. I was with a dancer who was transitioning to the world of fashion and design and successfully at that. Before then, he had lived for a couple of years with a famous actor in Hollywood; he hated having a sugar daddy so returned to New York. Aaron, who was great fun, died too young of AIDS but I’ll always remember his assessment of Hollywood: the world’s most exclusive escort service successfully masquerading as an entertainment business. “It is nothing more than Mecca if you are a sexual predator.” Two others at that dinner party wholeheartedly agreed with Aaron’s perception. Aaron had the thickest cock I have yet in all my years seen; thankfully, he happened to have been the most aggressive bottom yet encountered.

Indeed, what Merlin implied by not in our lifetimes, would there be a Black best actress Oscar winner, is that the Oscar is the penultimate icon of White female exclusivity and superiority. It is the most racist iconography in American culture. It is also tied to the UK Royal family in a display of American inferiority complex after having fought a war to be rid of Britons and their monarchy. Especially sobering is the fact that the very President of BAFTA, Prince William, Prince of Wales has been outed in his brother, Prince Harry’s phenomenal royal memoir, SPARE, as being the leader of the racially predatory campaign of harassment, mental, emotional and likely physical abuse, all of which was glaringly accomplished with the tacit collusion of the Fleet Street abattoirs and persons like Princess Michael of Kent who happens to be the mother of the Prince’s known closest royal friend, Lord Frederick Windsor.

Meghan, an American actress has been treated like absolute filth, yet no one in Hollywood has spoken up in her defence. Meghan’s articulateness and impeccable social skills are seen as reasons enough to resent the ‘Yank’. Moreover, Meghan is that most unacceptable of propositions not just to the British royal family but to the very core of its collective consciousness, Meghan is Black and descended of slaves of which no nation profited more mightily from the enslavement of displaced Black Africans than the British and its royal family. Of course, Hollywood does not care to get involved because the only sanctioned troubled history that is celebrated by the Academy, is the pain, struggle of Jews in Europe which resulted in the Holocaust. For that reason, it is almost an existential threat to the Academy and Hollywood’s sense of self and entitlement to ever have to acknowledge Black American history in America cinema. Indeed, Hollywood has never even done more than exploit the indigenous American population’s rape and pillage of culture and genocide of a people, because as with Black Americans, it would prove more worthy of American cinematic focus for obvious historic reasons than sectarian European history.

Anything and anyone who remotely threatens Hollywood’s sense of self and its agendum of focussing almost exclusively on the Holocaust with respect to what is deemed disturbing history and worthy of being focussed on and highlighted, is simply cancelled. Good god, look at Tom Cruise in what clearly is sectarian bias, no matter how much of a box office champ and how compelling his acting chops have been, an Oscar continues to elude him. Apart from his blockbuster actions films, all of them, what I love about Tom Cruise is how exquisitely he captures young soul angst with his acting. From Rain Man (1988), to Jerry Maguire (1996) or the exquisitely cinematic, Eyes Wide Shut (1999) the man’s a brilliant actor and no one but a young soul would so daringly do his own stunts in film after film after action film. All this deliberate denial because he is a Scientologist; just imagine if Jews were being so targeted and overlooked by the Academy but there it is in bold, unmistakable reality.

Similarly, James Cameron, a Canadian, is simply not great enough of be imbued with genius such that his towering greatness must be celebrated. In 2009, that society that serves as a paragon of racialised superior consciousness (Britain) and arrogantly so, did not award a single BAFTA to James Cameron’s 1997 film, Titanic though receiving 10 nominations. In America that year with 14 nominations, Titanic was awarded 11 Oscars. As far as Britons are concerned, it is not a British film, therefore they do not care and their grudge and disdain for ‘Yanks’ is all the more reason why Titanic was shut out of the BAFTAs. How is this even possible when there was a direct involvement with Britain with this very real and ground-breaking film? The Titanic did set sail from Britain for America; Britons were lost at sea when the Titanic sank.

Not wanting to seem like an afterthought and god forbid a third-tier awards, on taking over as BAFTA president, Richard Attenborough had the awards moved up to February, post Oscars April or May, thereby preceding the Oscars. This afforded the BAFTAs cachet as they were seen as a forerunner of how the Oscar winners would be determined. In a bid to maintain relevance and continue its role of influence peddling in an American industry, BAFTA has set up a wing in Beverly Hills and had the balls to call it the North American wing; leave Canada out of your influence peddling racket, the objective is to influence the Oscar nominations and winners. Of course, in turn Oscar winners find themselves being afforded the exclusivity of the royal treatment as with Tom Hanks at the Aston Villa game on the eve of the 2023 BAFTAs and Oscar winners Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones being allowed to live in an apartment at St. James’s Palace. So that no one should go getting ideas, she is a Briton and he, of course, is Jewish Hollywood royalty and it certainly would not be extended beyond such persons. Certainly, not when the current BAFTA president and his wife and known anti-Black racists.

Thanks to Britons’ gross sense of entitlement and flagrant superiority complex, they do not care what the world thinks. Their awards criteria and their members decide who is deserving of winning a British award and you can bet it won’t be a damn Yank. From Beyoncé being snubbed at the Grammys in favour of Harry Styles then having the Brit Awards favour Harry Styles over anyone else. This fruity little drip regardless how flagrantly he swishes his AMS (arse-munching ‘stache) and cross-dresses, above all else, he is a White male and he will not be ridiculed by radio DJs the world over. I’ll always remember my proud First Nations brief lover whilst at a pow wow in Merritt, B.C. saying, “Gay people are first and always White people… people like you and me do not count at the end of the day.” Sage words indeed. Look at this silly photo of the flagrant little industry-used manwhore, I am reminded of the swell little, ridiculously hysterical French-Canadian actor friend of Merlin’s. From the moment we met, it was evident that it was merely a matter of time before we would be carrying on like gibbons en chaleur. A friend of his had approached Merlin and asked if I would step in for him whilst he covered elsewhere for someone whose lover was severely ill and dying of AIDS. It was supposed to have lasted all of two, at the most, six weeks.

Standing in for a friend of Merlin’s, dressing on Cats at the Elgin Theatre, was a memorable experience because Jean-François and I would be sharing the same floor backstage as the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical printed money like it was going out of style. Post intermission, JF and I would have the most fun. As all theatre folk are predominantly sage souls, which he was, he was entertainingly witty and given to reciting dialogue from a range of Bette Davis films. Mostly, Lauri whose wife also did wigs and makeup was fun to be around as JF and I carried on. One Wednesday, after matinée performance, JF and I returned to the theatre off the Victoria Street tech entrance. We had just rushed down from the top of the street where it dead ends into Ryerson Polytechnic Institute, which now goes by whatever name du jour – Toronto Metropolitan University. As we returned, we were laughing hysterically which Lauri with a sly wink declared, he could well imagine what trouble we’d been up to. Truth be told, we were detained by aggressive security as JF, Toronto Dance Theatre dancer René Highway who was a lover of Merlin’s who preceded me by at least two others, actor Denis Simpson of TV’s Polka Dot Door were caught in a stall together being riotously salacious. Little did I know that as I banged on the side of the stall, “Oh fuck yeah, put your fucking tongue right there!” there was a security guard in the stall next door spying on us. His radio went off, giving away the plot and to prevent my raucous laughter, Denis began aggressively kissing me. The damage was done though, because before we could scramble out of there, the security guard’s colleague had come to join him as he braced himself against the door in an attempt to have us detained. In no mood to be messed with, I grabbed JF’s half finished Styrofoam cup of coffee and tossed it over the stall door onto the killjoy guard. Though we tried to bolt, his backup had locked us inside. Denis copped hauteur and feigning outrage, demanded to be let out at once as he had nothing to do with any of this. The cheek! Tall, imposingly debonair, just like that Denis abandoned us with René, who never said more than two words at any given time, slithering out with Denis. Merlin said of René, you have a great fuck then afterwards, there’s nothing there; simply no signs of intellect. You can bet your bottom dollar, I howled at his assessment. After too much silly cop-playing nonsense, JF and I were released and told to never set foot on the campus again… as fucking if.

Stage left alcove with Lauri close by, JF fell to his knees, doing a deadpan Bette Davis impersonation from Jezebel, “Arvin. Arvin, I’m on my knees… I’m pleading to you…” All the while he kept looking from my crotch to my face his eyes large and yearning whilst suggestively licking his lips; Lauri’s laughter in the corner almost drowned out the caterwauling coming from onstage. Next, it was my turn to be witty, removing the band that gathered my recently permed hair, my Bette Davis rebuttal came from Cabin in the Cotton as I giggled and replied, “Well, of course, I’d love to hogtie and fuck you silly but I just permed my hair… bye now.” Turning, I made towards Lauri in the alcove whose laughter was continuous and just then, JF put his hand in my hair, making it an unruly mess. With that, he took off rushing to the back and through the door onto Victoria Street with me giving spirited chase. As it was the mid-1980s the street was a darkened affair with the foreboding sight of St. Michael’s Hospital across on the east side of the street. Facing north on the west side on the street, JF squatted on the kerb and began offering his arse whilst I grabbed his hips and soon we both dissolved in laughter, working off the stress from being earlier held hostage by aggressive security up the street.

Of course, today Victoria Street is no longer a deserted affair after dark. Last year, Massey Hall at the southwest corner of Shuter and Victoria streets reopened after 190$m renovations. Of course, it is just in time for the 70th anniversary of the most phenomenal live Jazz concert recording with the famous ‘Salt Peanuts’ performance. To Massey Hall’s rear and half a block down Victoria Street is the back of the Elgin Theatre. The 60-storey Massy Tower condominiums sit on the east side of Yonge Street and two doors north of the Elgin Theatre’s marquee between Queen Street East to the south and Shuter to the north. Jean-François was devastatingly funny and vulgarly laughed at everyone and everything; he was as intimidating as he was diminutive. He favoured me as ours was a physical relationship that was purely fraternal and nothing more than robust, healthy sexual play.

A couple of years after Merlin’s passing, I was then habituated in the Beaches, one of Toronto’s more glorious neighbourhoods which, like Moore Park, is lorded over by the tallest oaks, and bordered to the south by the boardwalk, beach and Lake Ontario beyond, which proves a putrid malodorous cocktail in springtime. The Beaches’ high street is Queen Street East with its noisy 501 streetcars; I then lived just beyond the end of the Queen streetcar loop at Neville Park on the south side of Queen. To the north the Upper Beaches was the tonier part of the neighbourhood with the most commanding views of the city and lake beyond or below. I really loved living there. About that time, in 1991, I received a call with news of Jean-François. I had last seen JF a couple of months earlier as he came by and visited but we didn’t have sex; Merlin was dead of AIDS, which meant that I had unredeemably become perished fruit. Years earlier when we had just moved to Cabbagetown’s 20 Amelia Street, JF dropped by unannounced whilst we visited with chef Gary Martin who was a source of playful raucous man-loving. Having heard about me JF came calling, whilst we visited in the back garden, Merlin cock-sucking a joint, Gary sharing on it, JF lit up a cigarette and offered it as he tried charming me; grabbing his hand at the wrist, I elegantly moved the cigarette away and coolly stated fact, “Sorry, I never suck on anything less than nine and a half inches… ever.” Jean-François tossed his head back and roared and declared that he was besotted. Gary cooked yet another sublime dinner and after, Merlin continued enjoying a joint whilst onlooking at me ploughing Gary who always had to have the large mirror in the hall on the floor to look at himself being ploughed right; Jean-François leapt in and kept his faced hungrily buried between my pumping buttocks.

Luckily, in a big city, you can nicely experience a new incarnation which has positively nothing to do with your previous existence. Soon enough, lovers aplenty were de rigueur and I began exploring my true metier, the world of S&M. For Jean-François, in a bid not to become HIV-infected, he began going after barely legal youth, freshly arrived in the big city and on the make, whom he enticed with his snazzy motorcycle. So it was as JF brought home a couple of straight boys to his lovely apartment above a drugstore along Eglinton Avenue West just west of Upper Forest Hill, his couple of tricks stole his sporty motorcycle after murdering him, cutting off his cock and sticking it into the gash of his slit throat. There unsurprisingly was blood everywhere and my response on hearing the news of JF’s demise, was to have done as he would have, “Well thank god those fucking forensic guys carry a tweezer in their toolbox…” a quip at JF’s tiny, boyish cock. The laughter the friend and I roared, was a fitting tribute to JF and also the only way to have responded to such shocking news of such a violent passing… Jean-François honestly would have appreciated the humour of the situation.

So there was the BAFTA President, Prince William, Prince of Wales with his combustible wife kitted out in her ‘fist-me-now’ black opera gloves, onlooking as Cate Blanchett won best actress BAFTA for TAR, a film which frankly is much ado about fuck-all. It is about her iconic whiteness – her blondness and blue-eyed superiority which is what the Oscars are about; however, when it comes to best actress the BAFTAs afforded the royal seal of approval. Thus Michelle Yeoh sat there at Royal Festival Hall and watched Cate win best actress BAFTA and that was that. Britons do not give a damn; besides, they are royals and all that, never mind that that blasted uncouth boor will break protocol more frequently than a duck shitting, lui même Madame Plotte-Visage, the Courtesan Queen – more of that later.

1. Kerry Condon 2. Dolly De Leon 3. Carey Mulligan 4. Angela Bassett 5. Hong Chau 6. Jamie Lee Curtis

So the BAFTAs decide that this is a good enough field for best supporting actress BAFTAs 2023. Of course, Kerry Condon is not a Yank and is close to being British for being Irish and that’s that. In this pre-Oscars awards, both Angela Bassett and Jamie Lee Curtis were passed over.

1. Cate Blanchett. 2. Viola Davis 3. Michelle Yeoh 4. Danielle Deadwyler 5. Emma Thompson 6. Ana de Armas

With the Oscars, Cate Blanchett who had been favoured was defeated by Michelle Yeoh. Of course, though much was made of Angela Bassett being a sore loser to Jamie Lee Curtis for the best supporting actress Oscar, Jamie Lee won it for two reasons, she is second generation member of a Hollywood acting dynasty; more importantly, she is Jewish and in Hollywood that trumps everything else. With Michelle Yeoh’s historic win, no one dare levelled accusations that it was mere tokenism or some woke agendum.

1. Ana de Armas 2. Andrea Riseborough 3. Cate Blanchett 4. Michelle Williams 5. Michelle Yeoh

For that matter, there was no talk anywhere of Cate Blanchett having been cheated out of her rightful best actress Oscar award. Naturally, the argument is that Black actresses are just not good enough or worthy enough to be cinematically lauded. Of course, Angela Bassett, Viola Davis and Danielle Deadwyler, in the case of the latter two, they portrayed not just strong Black women but they were also historical figures. This for Hollywood is wholly unacceptable; American history simply cannot expand to cinematically include African Americans. What’s more, avoiding American history at all costs is preferable, this explains why a film like Everything, Everywhere All At Once fared so well at the Oscars, it had positively nothing to do with American history and did not in any way threaten what Hollywood deems the only history worthy of being cinematically celebrated by the Oscars. As the saying goes, in Hollywood – the land of make believe, Shoah business is the only American history worth celebrating… cartographers be damned. And unlike the unpredictability of Jesse Owens’ performance before Hitler in 1936, Hollywood does not do real-time events. Hollywood as 1968’s best actress Oscar tie validated, is about manipulating reality to serve its need and one’s heroic place within the culture: better than, special, innately entitled.

Broadway Actor, Audra McDonald

Though Hollywood would like to keep Black actresses oppressed and give the impression that they are not capable of commanding the screen and thus not deserving of Oscars for best actress, that is all challenged by the fact that Audra McDonald, is the most decorated leading actress on Broadway in its history with 6 Tony awards. Naturally, if Audra were an actress in Hollywood, she would never have been considered for any Oscar nomination above supporting actress. Hell, even Viola Davis won best supporting actress Oscar for a role which was always a lead on Broadway and won a Tony award in that category for the play adapted to film, Fences.

Halle Berry Best Actress Oscar Acceptance Speech 74th Academy Awards, 2002

Just look at how Briton, Helen Mirren looks on at Halle Berry during her best actress Oscar acceptance speech in 2002. She was clearly displeased and thought that the award ought not to have gone to some Black upstart, who was making some ridiculous ‘race’ speech or other. There, too, was that blasted little garden gnome whom we know is a favoured inner circle member at the court of the ugly-no-blasted-motherfuck Courtesan Queen, who has time and again made no effort to hide her disinterest in the otiose Persons of Colour the world over.

Maori Dancers Performing Haka at Commonwealth Service, Westminster Abbey, 2023

Just look at the way she walked past the barefooted Maori celebrants outside Westminster Abbey at the Commonwealth Day Service, 2023. It was heart-warming to see the Duchess of Edinburgh bump her left shoulder into HM King Charles III’s right shoulder and humour him as he clearly needed to be pulled away from the displeasure, he no doubt would have been experiencing for being born in the Year of the Rat and disrespected by that blasted Couchon, who has been unrelentingly wrecking the House of Windsor for near half a century. The damage ‘Ugly Duchess’ continues doing to HLM Queen Elizabeth II’s 70-year legacy, is incalculable.

Perception Is All.

The video above is of French colonials in the then French colony of Vietnam. That was in 1900, not 1900 years ago or 19,000 years ago. In less than 6 generations tribal perceptions change little. This is how the White tribe perceives non-Whites with varying degrees of scorn and animus. What most Whites have had to do, is aggressively adapt such that this primal perception of their place in the scheme of things, is deeply guarded, camouflaged and made to seem irrelevant. Of course, the power of the gun assures them that this sense of self and place in the scheme of things are little challenged.

Indeed, the House of Windsor has been possessed of this entrenched sense of self and place, in its most recent incarnation, since the reign of Queen Victoria. The two White females tossing grain and coins at the ‘natives’ in Vietnam, were contemporaries of Queen Victoria’s, whose misogynoir was emulated and upheld by Queen Mary who groomed both Queen Elizabeth, Queen Mother and HLM Queen Elizabeth II.

Queen Elizabeth II Sharing Racist Anecdote

One should not be surprised at the Queen’s 1969 documentary in which she tells a racist joke, to which Charles heartily laughed. Charles’s heir, rather than son, Peggalicious & Fisted is an avowed anti-Black racist; of course, so too is the Courtesan Queen, who has made no bones about giving no fucks about the otiose little non-White peoples.

Royal Tour 2019: St. Kitts & Nevis, St. Vincent, Grenada, St. Lucia & Barbados

The four minute mark of the above video and on their arrival in St. Vincent, Camilla carries her trusty parapluie and to make sure that she doesn’t have to shake any of the ‘natives’ hands, she carries a handbag in the free hand. This woman is a right piece of work and a true heir of the French colonials tossing grain and coins at the Vietnamese.

Just look at her! Couchon…

The infamous open ridicule of Inuit throat singers, causing Governor-General Johnston to look at her as though she were a lunatic from Mars will not soon be forgotten.

Just Look at the Old Kook; Always Looking As Though She Just Fell Off Her Broom

Her most recent I’ve-no-fucks-left-to-give moment: 2023 Commonwealth Service at Westminster Abbey. She just walked past the irrelevant persons of colour and of course compensatorilly clutched her hat as though it were Dorothy’s cabin about to take off; as if she’s not always got a broom to hand.

1. Norma Shearer 1930 2. Luise Rainer 1936 & 1937 3. Judy Holliday 1950 4. Simone Signoret 1959 5. Elizabeth Taylor 1960 & 1966 6. Barbra Streisand 1968 7. Marlee Matlin 1986 8. Helen Hunt 1997 9. Gwyneth Paltrow 10. Natalie Portman

There is much that you can glean from the line up of the best actress Oscar winners above. They are an insight into where power lies in Hollywood and one should never be mistaken about that. This power block is whom, much like the two French colonials in 1900 decide what pittance Blacks in American cinema receive. Of course, had 9/11 never occurred, there would have been no need for Halle Berry to have won best actress Oscar in 2002. This was hastily done as there was great fear that if terrorism were to become de rigueur, a guaranteed weekly affair across America, one would need to lay low and not provoke wrath from the American public at large. Of course, by the 76th Oscars two years later, there was no such threat and it has been back to the norm of Black actresses chances of winning best actress Oscar decidedly negligible.

How Like French Colonials in Vietnam, One Tosses A Best Supporting Actress to A Black Actress Now and Again

That Hollywood does not have two fucks to give what it looks like, was validated when in 1968, it was speciously alleged that there was a tie and just as with Gwyneth’s Cinderella Oscar, so too was Barbra Streisand awarded an Oscar because one can and did. Obviously, it is not a question of Black actresses not having acting chops, deserving of best actress Oscar, just as with the French colonials of 1900 Vietnam, Hollywood’s elite have long decided that Black actresses are not deserving of any such accolade; goddamn it, they are just not people enough. Goodness, that would make them more than maids, whores, junkies and dumbasses.

Hollywood as throughout human history, is just another society with its various strata and the one stratum that gets you lifetime membership at LouLou’s, Annabel’s and Maison Estelle is the one that sees you awarded best actress. In the case of best actor Oscar that’ll get you membership at Mark’s, Harry’s and Oswald’s. Alas, Black women need not dream; as Meghan has validated, Black actresses are the one group of actresses who are most undesirable whether for senior royal status or Hollywood’s ruling elite. Don’t ever fool yourself into thinking that Hollywood’s elite are a liberal bunch; they are the most vile, racist, royal sycophants on the planet – this is why Oscar winners Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas live in an apartment at St. James’s Palace. They have wanted in, have gotten in and it’ll all culminate with Prince George marrying a nice Jewish girl – actress or otherwise. It will happen; in the meantime, they – royals and Hollywood elites – have seen to it that Meghan’s Cinderella moment could be undone and how handsomely they toiled and won. It’s a perfect business arrangement, Hollywood wants the exclusivity of royal sanction and access and for the royals and their shitty, third tier BAFTA awards, Brits get Oscars in return for preferred Hollywood elites sitting in the royal box at an Aston Villa game, living at St. James’s Palace and everything else in between, including all the minor meat they favour.

Hell, what’s all that to Harry and Meghan; they’ve got each other and are growing richer in spades with every venture they explore. Meanwhile, when the Pegged & Fisted Bourbon bastard finally gets a divorce, the inarticulate Edward Gorey silent era ingenue will draw on her coalminer pedigree and go full Jerry Springer on the House of Windsor. No Sir, Catherine will not go quietly and doe-eyed like her mother-in-law, Diana, Princess of Wales did. She will fight dirty and shake up the pantomime in ways that not even Hollywood could fathom.

Whether Emmy Awards, Grammy Awards, Oscar Awards or Tony Awards (EGOTs), American awards are about celebrating American culture with the able contribution of American actors and artisans being cited. Clearly, as demonstrated by repeated instances mentioned herein this blog, there is a clear-cut case of influence peddling on the part of the Presidents of BAFTA past and present, resulting in examples cited, be it Michael Douglas & Catherine Zeta-Jones Oscar winners living in an apartment at St. James’s Palace to fellow Oscar winner Tom Hanks, being afforded VIP access to Aston Villa matches. If indeed Armenian-Americans were the most powerful group in Hollywood, American Cinema, then there would doubtless be greater inclusivity and all American actresses being celebrated for their work. Indeed, all aspects of American culture would be celebrated in such a paradigm. As is obvious from Viola Davis winning a best supporting actress Oscar for a role which is a leading role, clearly there is a validated case of discrimination and double-standards at play.

Warriors of the High Country

Oil on Canvas

24 x 20

©2008 James Ayers

American cinema has to reflect American culture in all its pandimensionality and this is not the case. From the number of British and Jewish actresses who have won best actress Oscars relative to Black and Hispanic/Latina American, there is a definite case for legally challenging the discriminatory practices of the status quo. When is there going to be a film about the human drama that unfolded as a result of the terror attacks on 9/11? When are there going to be historically accurate films, telling the story of Indigenous Americans sacrifices and genocide. Heroic films from varying perspectives have yet to be made that dealt with the human costs of the American civil war. It is incumbent on the actors unions and others in the industry to challenge this discriminatory practice by way of legal action, ACLU, class action lawsuits, hearings in congress and legal action going all the way to the United States Supreme Court. The exclusion of Viola Davis or Danielle Deadwyler at the 95th Oscars is a clear example when they were passed over in favour of a British actress, Andrea Riseborough who appeared in a utterly dismissible film and performance about which no one knew a damn thing. Two Black actresses were passed over at the Oscar nominations for very strong roles where at the BAFTAs they were celebrated by being nominated.

If any practice is an insult to intellect, demonstrates influence peddling and proves a clear-cut case of discrimination based on race and or gender then there is no dearth of lawyers in America, who cannot take on an American actors union class action suit to address and correct so glaring an ugly case of racism in America, to say nothing of that decades long practice being an injustice. Hollywood elites do not fill movie theatres, nor for that matter do Britons seeing American films lead to blockbuster box office results… Americans do! Unlike the Festival International du Film Cannes and Toronto International Film Festival, the Academy Awards, despite tacking on international to the name, is not an international film festival. Furthermore, the Academy Awards are an American film awards and not obliged to be featuring and awarding prizes to Britons as the awards have become. If you want an Oscar then damn well choose to reincarnate an American. Period. Just as if you want to be elected American President, the onus is on you to choose to reincarnate an American born citizen. The House of Windsor has no right to be wielding influence on the Oscars or any other aspect of American society; a damn war was fought and won about being bullied and over-lorded by Britons and their royals. If this is not challenged in due course, the problem of Black actresses being passed over in favour will endure for the foreseeable decades of this century and well into the next. Of course, if Blacks protest this, Hollywood’s elites in collusion with the British royals will simply see to it that all many of non-Black non-Whites will suddenly be favoured and awarded Oscars.

Brits Are Not Played Off At An American Awards, Or Are the Academy Awards Exclusively An American Awards?

Darling, the rules are very clear; if you don’t like Black people, fuck you!

Samara Joy live in NYC [full concert] | Trinity Church Wall Street | Nov 8, 2022

Samara Joy – Vocals

Ben Paterson – Piano

Felix Moseholm – Bass

Evan Sherman – Drums

At long last, a griot of the highest order has incarnated among us; long live Black high art, Jazz!

______________________________________________________

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

_______________________________________________________________________________

©2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Pluto in Capricorn & in Opposition – Pandemic & Retribution.

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!

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

©2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Otello: Race and the Arts.

After having pored through an interesting OperaCanada article that featured the opera Otello’s lead, Russell Thomas, and a predictably snide review in The Star – look there is no black lobby in Canada, so one can always be expected to be as curt and dismissive of blacks at every turn; this is after all the culture where the obsession with Jazz is almost as fever-pitched as the predatory late-night runs of Klansmen with nooses at the ready – I comfortably settled into my usual ring three seat, next to trusty Lucian Mann-Chomedy and warmly awaited the magic that is theatre to unfold.  

20190430_191304

After a month that was not soon revisited, my mind was at times distracted by the dreck that one must at times endure in order to get by.  I thought of the heaviness in the air that the subject matter of the opera addressed; the quartet of retired ladies who usually chat about who has taken ill, moved to hospice or died since last they gathered, did a lot of coughing, sniffing and whispering.  And as these things are as predictable as flies on shit, sure enough, I heard one of them whisper, “Meghan Markle.”  Will these people ever just leave the damn woman alone and stop hunting her at every opportunity?  

otello

Otello, Verdi’s take on Shakespeare’s take on race relations did also from the row of retired and widowed ladies spirit the whisper of O. J. Simpson’s name.  Some things just never change… alas.  Indeed, at some moments as I looked at Otello onstage, I began to realise how we as a people are stigmatised and stereotypically projected onto.  I soon got greater insight to why Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is so reviled.  Objectified, she as a black woman was only ever to have been nothing more than a bit of rough, a tryst.  

image

Naturally, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex with his double sixness is seen as being readily taken advantage of and needed to be protected against the lascivious bit of rough who clearly conned her way into the royal family.  Born September 15, 1984, Henry born in the year of the rat has quite beautifully empathetic, compassionate numbers and with his double sixness is given to OCD behaviour as displayed by his need to fidget with his clothing – right hand inside his jacket et al.  Six people are awesome beings and Henry, a double six, is no exception.  15.9.1984 = 6.6.1 = 4.  

Otello-COC-2019

With Otello, this projection of the black male as emotionally volatile, violent, easily manipulated has certainly proven an archetype that fits blind fools like Tiger Woods and O. J. Simpson to the letter.  Either way, it was uncomfortable to watch this production in places as it so mirrored the warped perception of a people by persons who question our humanity and who never seem able to perceive us beyond their generationally custodial perception of a people. 

Charter of Rights

Be that as it may, I so hungered to be removed from the morass through which I recently waded at the end of which, I dismissively remarked of yet another power-mad woman in the work place: “She certainly doesn’t look like a fucking horse for no good reason…  Oh please, it’s just a matter of time before she rots the fuck in hell, eating every pope’s arse!”  If you cannot take offence then don’t damn well give offence…  Honest to god, some women in the work place are nothing but dickless faggots addicted to creating drama for the sheer sport of it and simply because they are just so drunk with power… to say nothing of being bored out of their frigging minds.  Well, like a bowel movement, it did not take too long for me to sniff, flush and walk the fuck away from the BS,  

18-19-06-MC-D-0626

This Desdemona was an earthy, warm, beautifully soulful portrayal of a wronged woman, a woman dominated by an insecure and deceived man.  This production was a beautiful sweeping affair; I especially loved the dark broody look of the sets that captured the essence of the human condition portrayed.  Indeed, it proved a good elixir after all the dross that I had recently endured in the work place.  

Everythingwasbeautifulattheballet

During Otello’s intermission, I received a forwarded Instagram post from an old dancer friend, which he labelled #everythingwasbeautifulattheballet.  Of course, it was a direct response to my last blog, which highlighted the intense isolation and racial animus that I experienced for two god fuck-all maudlin years in Winnipeg.  Yes, indeed, the world of art is saturated with lisping, bottom-feeding, small ‘b’ bigoted boors who see positively nothing remotely gauche about this sort of fare well into the 21st century.  

20190501_170303

On yet another too cold, rainy day, which proved all too reminiscent of Vancouver, I abandoned my art-filled lair in search of more inspiration the day after the opera.  I cannot quite recall a season in recent memory that has proven both so cold and rainy as this protracted winter.  

That’s right, the day before attending Otello, there was a break in the perpetual rains that gave way to snow and hail…  truly, the dog days of summer cannot get here fast enough.  As more of the city’s 19th century streetcar tracks were being ripped up and replaced so that the racket that is the TTC outdoor workers and the local constabulary can make a killing in overtime, it took close to 40 minutes on a bus for me and my fuck du jour to get from Yonge and Dundas to Dundas and McCaul.  

20190501_170344(0)

My date, a lissom twenty-something with smoky hazel eyes, which were vaguely reminiscent of Merlin’s, was good company.  I had for the past several hours pummelled his prostate as his daddy issues were satisfied and my angst from work place tensions were nicely dispensed with.  We men when in our 20s can be so alarmingly insecure; I have often wondered how Merlin managed to stay with me during those angst-ridden and redundantly solipsistic years.  

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

My date on exiting the Yayoi Kusama Infinity Room expressed chagrin at not having done magic mushrooms before leaving my place where incense and Jazz magically perfumed the air, intoxicating our spirits as we riotously fucked our way out of winter’s gnawing frigidity.  

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Without question, no trip to the AGO is completely inspiring without a visit to the galleries where the stellar art of Inuit artists are housed.  There are some real masterpieces in the AGO collection.  

20190501_211105

As it was the tail end of this exhibition and I still had not visited, I simply had to make it there.  Whilst walking along the long corridor to the start of the exhibition my fey-eyed beauty suggested that we take a break and go make out in a stall in the washrooms.  Fingers interlaced, I assured him that there was better intimacy to be had the sooner we got through the exhibition and hightailed it back to my place by Uber.  

20190501_173720

To my very discriminating eye, the moment I saw this verbose title, I fully expected to observe a show that was curated by too much extraneous fare and not enough impressionist art.  Tumescent and impatient, I had no time for reading, reading and reading more yada yada, all of which was to compensate for the lack of genuine, to say nothing of quality, impressionist art.  Just as well, I was growing achingly moist by the minute as both my energetic ectomorph and I hungered to be carnally consumed with each other… yet again.  

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

This marvellous bronze fully captivated me; it would prove my favourite piece in the shoddily curated exhibition.  

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Highlights from a rather underwhelming show.   

Detail featuring two of the most beautiful creatures.  Their depiction is not the most masterfully executed but there is something rapturous about the look of the dogs as they ambled with their human companions on a journey which they had taken countless times before that made me stop and gaze overlong whilst being truly inspired.  

Detail of what for me proved sheer magnificence… the lighting is phenomenally executed.  

A masterpiece to be sure; however, where it was hung and the palette of the salon were decidedly inappropriate.  This was all I needed to see to finally wink the left eye at my horny power bottom and to speed home by Uber in the rain for noisy, exhausting, passionate play.  

_______________________________________________________________________________________

As ever, for your ongoing support I am both deeply grateful and indebted.  Sweet dreams and don’t you ever forget to push off and start flying because life is a most beautiful drink.  Cheers! 

_________________________________________________________________________________________

© 2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

The Dream Chamber

Pyramid2

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.  

__________________________________________________________________________________________

©2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Here’s to You!

Just a wee glimpse into my magical life where dreamquests are all begun in the groovy comfort of my collapsible pyramid.  I have had a pyramid since 1984 in one form or another.  This incarnation of my dream chamber, I rather love.  Being surrounded by art is about being greatly inspired.  

Happy New Year!  Thanks for your ongoing support and here’s wishing you the very best this year!  Sweet dreams as ever! 

_______________________________________________________________________________________

©2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Man Changing into Thunderbird VI of VI

20150609_123817[1]

Oil on Canvas

© 1977 Norval Morrisseau

Provenance: The Leitz Collection,

Art Gallery of Ontario.

http://www.ago.net/

Love these works especially more so as they have been recently relocated within the gallery; they are better displayed now.  A true shaman of the first order, Norval Morrisseau.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

© 2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.