Pink Chair I & II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pluto in Capricorn and in Opposition – Pandemic and 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!

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

The Essence of Royalty.

Bravo… to hell with the media grudgefest, lies and click-baiting, racially predatory attack blogs, masquerading as journalism.  This video is the quintessence of what royalty represents.  Royalty in its purest form is not about ruling; rather, it is about being in service for the higher good for everyone in the realm and beyond.  

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Both the Duke of Cambridge and the Duke of Sussex are the most noble complement of their parents.  At the heart of their lives was/is service.  Diana, Princess of Wales got out there and she humanised royalty, she taught the world this most incredible, sublime lesson: royalty serves you the realm.  HRH Prince Charles with his Prince’s Trust has raised more than a 1£B, all in service to the realm.  

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Both princes with their wives continue and are a handsome evolution of the service for the higher good to the realm begun by their uneclipsed, charismatic mother and ennobled soulful father.  In co-operation with the NHS, their work for the Every Mind Matters mental health campaign is the most poignant example of what their lives are focussed on: service to others.  Royalty is not a soap opera to be preyed on by the vultures of the print medium and elsewhere in a vulgarly greedy grab at ad revenue at the expense of creating divisiveness, strife, pain, anger, racism, classism, sexism and even death threats.  

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In the modern age, indeed, the second Elizabethan Age, it all began with the most remarkable sovereign.  The most accomplished sovereign, HM Queen Elizabeth II, for whom expanding that need to give back and to be of service to the realm has seen the Commonwealth expand to 53 countries and territories during her reign. This video proves a handsome complement to the work that three generations of Windsor royals have devoted their lives being focussed on being in service to the realm.  Hip hip!  

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

Go In Peace: Energy Transference with Recently Departed Famous Entity Mate.

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*Since having posted this dream blog some years back, I was always fascinated why I was simply summoned to be with the actor, River Phoenix when he passed. I did mention that sense of feeling strong resonance at the time of cadre mates’ passing. This dream was a poignant example of being called into action, to be of service to someone with whom I have a strong and connected soul bond that spans multiple past lives.

This was something that I felt at Natalie Cole’s passing and, of course, she proved to be an entity mate. In the case of River Phoenix, whose overleaves I will include here and which can now be found in the revamped and tidied up Michael Overleaves Appendix page, not only is he also an artisan soul but he happens to be a greater cadence mate of mine. This dream would not have occurred if we did not share this very strong bond; as a result of my cardinal casting, I am often called into action in dreams such as this one when entity and cadre mates pass on.

Read these dreams anew and do enjoy!.

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Whilst the Moon transited both Gemini and my first house, I would be transported to a cul de sac of the astral plane wherein I am not frequently focussed. It was Monday, November 1, 1993. At the time, as now, I did not own a television and hardly looked at it. Also, at the time, I hardly listened to radio or read newspapers et al. I was also much removed from most daily chatter as I had been off sick from work but did go in to participate in the annual Halloween costume competition which the year prior I had won when dressed in full drag and looking hotter than even Tina Turner herself in my high heels. The above photo of yours truly was taken at Halloween 1993, the day prior to this dream.

Thus it was that I would fall into sleep and immediately be summoned to be in service to the higher good. What is really interesting about the experience with the famous actor encountered in these dreams, I rather suspect that he may be a cadre mate from the tenor of the dream encounter. Too, there are a number of famous persons in my cadre and he seemed vibrationally not dissimilar to them.

That being the case, this likely explains why I was called on to be of service at the time. I am said to be rather cardinal in casting, which is clearly reflected in yours truly being inordinately gifted when it comes to fathoming the depth and breadth of the dream realms. Too, as these dreams were clearly focussed on the astral plane, naturally, there was dream flight. More than that, whilst focussed on the astral plane in the dreamtime, one did encounter at least two, possibly three, extra-human species.

As there is flight and levitation in these dreams, I pray that they will richly inspire you. Fly my darlings, fly, don’t even for a second doubt, just melt into a mischievous plié and start flying – cause you can… cause you are magic incarnate!

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A woman and I were together, in this the second dream, above the Arctic Circle. This woman did remind me of the woman, who had earlier been in the previous dream encounter with Niles Ben-Daniel and seemingly his lover. I was not fully certain that this woman was one and the same as, the one posing as Niles Ben-Daniel’s lover, in the prior dream. She had a couple of siblings whom she had asked to find out what time it was.

Here, they kept time quite unusually because there was no tundra about. They, as a result, kept sundials. They grew their grass such that they were able to tell from Sol’s shadows what time of day it was. Their sundial was a natural phenomenon which used the rugged flat landscape for keeping time. Standing there, I faced due north. Sol was still in the sky, but low, and at the two o’clock position. Sol was red and potent; it was almost serene-looking.

Over time, they had planted a hedge of Chinese boxwood, which stood a foot tall. From it were a series of radial-like spokes radiating out from the centre. All told, there were twenty-four spokes; of course, the spokes lined up with each hour of the day. Even in the wintertime, the hedge though submerged maintained an imprint of itself above – in the snowed and iced over terrain. It was quite nude (barren) landscape here. Sol’s shadow was presently pointing directly at the ten o’clock position though it clearly wasn’t. Ten o’clock could also have been four hours past midnight.

I decided that it had to be around four, in the morning, which is why Sol appeared in the sky where it was. This was the time of year when Sol never sets which made it difficult for me, a novice in these parts, to readily get my bearings. Quite a strange phenomenon because my body felt nocturnally phased, yet, there in the sky was Sol as plain as the Moon. She wanted to know what time it was because she was getting ready to go down south to the ‘Southland’.

She also referred to it as, ‘the land of the setting summer Sun,’ which did make sense. She had said all that in her Inuit tongue, yet I had been able to follow perfectly well as though she had been speaking English. More than being with her, rather, I was there as an observer and took in the minutiae of this unique culture. Certainly, we were keenly aware of each other and that we were both gifted telepaths.

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Next, in this the third dream, I was in a crowded interior. It was a waiting lounge in a large depot that was not unlike New York City’s Grand Central Station. A sandy marble, time-yellowed hue, the walls here were the same colour as at Grand Central Station. A high-ceilinged cavernous place it also was. The main hall had several wings that adjoined its considerable length. Here, there was natural light coming in from the bathysphere-like windows that sat way up the walls and close to the ceiling.

In that sense, this was not unlike the grand hall in which I walked with Merlin during which we encountered the exalted magus on September 4, 1988. I was seated on these large wooden benches that were old, comfortable and looked not unlike church pews. Semi-circular in shape, they gave a sense of inclusiveness to them. All around me exclusively were men. This place seemed, if you like, some sort of way station. One guy there was very slight-bodied, young and naïve-looking.

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Looking at him, he wore a navy-blue track suit. He came over to sit next to me, eventually sitting on my right. Patting him on the back, I told him that it was really good to see him. I wished him a safe passage and asked that he go in peace, “Have a safe passage. Go in peace and do have a good journey…”

Of all people, it was the actor, River Phoenix – he recently overdosed on heroin, early on Sunday, October 31, yesterday. This was a very vivid dream. I was quite lucidly awakened. Feeling great compassion for his tragic departure, I thought to be of comfort to him and to uplift his spirit in whatever way possible. There and then, I realised that this was a place where persons who had recently died came whilst in transit to their final destination as returning astral plane habitués.

*This, of course, did not surprise me. Right away, I was reminded of the sense of mammoth dimensions that also exemplified the architecture of the train termini, where I had run into Merlin in that momentous dream on Friday, July 9, 1993. END.

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Seated there, next to him, I exclusively turned my focus on him. I then began doing an enormous amount of energy transference, thereby healing his spirit, before he could move on. Who cares the attachments to this man, in the waking state? I have never followed his career but here, in his astral plane hour of need, we were souls and healing is the most generous gift of love. After having left his life in such a dissociate state, River Phoenix needed to be made more whole.

This is why he had seemed so naïve and as if in a daze. He saw me and purposefully began walking towards me. God only knows what he noticed in me that was different to the others. Until he was about two feet away from me, I for one had not realised that it was him. By that point, he had already been intent on coming to sit with me. He clearly needed my services.

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Phoenix, River 23/8/197031/10/1993

This fragment was a second level mature artisan – third life thereat. River was in the observation mode with a goal of growth. A realist, he was in the intellectual part of emotional centre.

Body type was Lunar/Mercury.

River’s primary chief feature was self-destruction and the secondary stubbornness.

Casting for River is fifth-cast in second cadence; he is a member of greater cadence three – greater cadence mate of Arvin’s. River’s entity is six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414.

River’s essence twin is an artisan and he has a sage task companion.

River’s primary needs were: exchange, expression and power.

There are 18 past-life associations with Arvin and 16 with Merlin.

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At the level of soul, I could not have cared less who he was; his energy body’s vibration needed a good deal of realignment before he could move on. He chose me and I gladly obliged his wishes. When patting him on the back, I was keenly focussed on sending him a great deal of near-aqueous blue-white light. River Phoenix was saddened. Rather, he seemed to be in a state of shock, though, not horrified or enraged. There was just a degree of resignation as he came to terms with where he was at. When it was all over, in the brief moments that it took to lay my hand on his back, he got up to get going.

He was obliged to take his leave and move on. He seemed here truly dazed. Perhaps, these were residual effects of his having passed in a heightened soporific state. Seated there, I felt completely drained of my very breath itself. I was left feeling so overwhelmingly sad and strangely alone. Another guy had sat down, on the other side of me, whilst I energetically focussed on River Phoenix.

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I can’t, for the life of me, say whether or not the guy had ambled up to join us seated there or if he had simply materialised – on the astral plane – for having just projected himself into our midst. Looking Hispanic, more than anything, this man had yellow-coloured eyes. Absolutely bewitching they were. He wore cream-coloured jeans with matching cream-coloured jacket. There was a lot of black in the clothing. This was in the style of Hip-Hop fashions.

He was a very sensitive man with a Hispanic accent and was slightly older than River Phoenix; he was about 24 or 25 years – at least he looked about that age. His hair was thick, black and curly. By way of conducting focussed energy transference, my function here was to provide counsel. I would simply tap into their vibration and, by way of their chakras, realign their energy. All of them seemed to have passed suddenly, completely unexpectedly. Thus they had a great need to become assimilated to what was clearly an unexpected turn of events.

They needed immediate supervision and companionship, until having become further acclimatised. Meanwhile, the persons around me were all being counselled by others – who were more solid-looking – whose role was like that of mine. I was, like all the others, a guide, companion and energetic facilitator to the arrivée habitués.

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Architecturally, this place was so immensely massive. It was also more ancient by at least 30 millennia than the rise of the Roman Empire. Clearly, there is no way to get around the fact that this was an astral plane experience. There was also no way to get around the fact that the first man, with whom I worked, was the actor, River Phoenix. What was really impactful for me was that River Phoenix, like all the others, had absolutely no emotions. He was in a place of total detachment.

Though a sudden departure from the life being lived, his soul consciousness was totally matter-of-fact about the situation at hand. The past, his recently accidentally concluded incarnation, was concluded and behind him. Period.

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Whilst we were all there, we were caught in some commotion when a Black guy appeared. He wore a blue jean jacket and wore on his face a flesh-toned fabric mask. He looked as though he had been in a burn unit at a hospital, I assumed, after having suffered massive burns to more than 95% of his body. It was the mask used for allowing skin grafts in such instances to take without becoming infected. My sense impression of his situation was that he had been in a violent car crash which turned into an explosive fireball. He had survived and was in hospital, for a while, undergoing massive skin grafting surgeries.

He also wore dark shades. The moment that he appeared, everyone instantaneously freaked out. All that one could see, was his mouth and nose; the image was upsetting, menacing. Right away, we all began fleeing that section of the grand hall. His arrival was simply instantaneous. He had simply manifested in plain view. When he came through, he brought with him a great explosive energy and immense suffering. This is what had upset the Chi in the place; it was quite an impactful energy wave that accompanied his manifestation. On closer inspection, I realised that he had not been a burn victim as he was still brandishing a large semi-automatic weapon.

Clearly, he had been holding up a business and got himself shot to death in the process. Thus, as is, he instantaneously appeared on the astral plane. The energy around his death was+ so immensely violent, as he went berserk, that it proved rather jarring for the rest of us. His body was violently sputtering away, as though, still echoing the massive volley of bullets that were being pumped into him. No doubt, a battery of over-armed police officers were only too happy to waste yet another ‘Black’ male.

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We all immediately started bolting because here was he, suddenly arrived and carrying a weapon, on the astral plane to which all these arrivés were not yet fully acclimatised. There was a group of urbane Gays over to one side who kept to themselves. The Gays went truly berserk, fearful of him, as this man was clearly a zealous homophobe. That too was the other thing about this place; one was able to accurately ‘read’ a person on their arrival.

As I sat there on the pews doing my energy work with River Phoenix, most of the light flooding the hall came from off to the right and rear. From the inner hall, I went bolting along with everyone else and took cover. The armed Black man had manifested across the hall from me. Making my way from what I thought previously was the main hall, I ended up in a grand hall that was easily seven times larger than the atrium in which I had been counselling River Phoenix and then the yellow-eyed Hispanic.

As everyone else had been bolting in that direction, I made a left turn. From the main hall, I was now in another atrium; this one, however, was considerably darker. This one was several storeys high with the same colour schemata as at Grand Central Station. Though there were no discernible floors as such, at each storey there were landings. I would then bolt down to where all the other Gays were ahead of me. In a bid not to be captured by this guy, who had no awareness that he was now dead and on the astral plane, I leapt over the railing and down onto the escalator where the Gays were.

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As they were all still clambering down the steps, this was not the greatest idea on my part; it was a truly chaotic scene. Deciding against pursuing the herd mentality, I willed myself from amongst them. With that I began levitating, above them and shot upwards, flying up into the nave of the towering complex. Goodness, this place was immensely massive. Soon enough, the man came to where we had been and made for the stairs from which I had just taken off. Being sufficiently distracted, I knew that he wouldn’t be able to either hear or see me way above him.

Too, he wouldn’t think to look up and see me. I flew in such a way that I progressed around a corner which took me into another wing of the massive complex. Here, there was a balcony whose wall was such that it had an indentation in the shape of an inverted top hat. Thus, the balcony was as if wrapped inside the hat. Hiding out in the cover of the balcony, I peered out – from time to time – where I saw others on lower balconies who peered up at me.

Others were off to the right in the inverted balcony. They discouraged me from coming because they thought that, somehow, my movement would attract the newcomer with semi-automatic weapon. They were of the impression that he was, in the first place, out to get me. All around, this whole episode was terribly unpleasant. It had all the chaotic madness that must surely exist, at present, in the streets of a war zone like Bosnia or Croatia.

Hubble mosaic of the majestic Sombrero Galaxy

Deciding against hiding out, I sought to be rid of this place altogether. With that, I began flying upwards towards the very ceiling of the grand hall. The ceiling was as if a force field and not a physical construct. Thus, without incident, I was able to will my way through its parameters. I was truly relieved to have made it out of there. One had the sense of leaving one dimension and moving on to another, whilst seemingly clearing the grand hall’s ceiling, and into the next dream experience.

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Next, in this the fourth dream, I was outside where I immediately encountered some young teenage females. All were sarcastic, bitchy solipsistic twits. They were on an empty city street. Racy-edged, in the extreme, were there. Especially for feeling the enervation that I did for the massive energy transference work that I had undertaken with River Phoenix, I really did not care to be around these people’s energy.

At the time, I was still in flight but had slowed down, hoping possibly to interact with them. Finally, I had no time for them and their bullshit. No need to be around their imploding energy. Without haste, I flew on and went onto a side street. There, I saw a really large building from which there were some persons presently exiting.

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It was as if one were looking outdoors, due west towards Fifth Avenue, in Manhattan. A young couple came from the building and entered a car which looked like a Bentley limousine. A massive stately old car it was and looked every bit as though it had been made from lead. A large structure stood to my left as I watched them drive away towards what seemed to be Fifth Avenue.

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Looking to the structure, I realised that the structure was in fact St. Patrick’s Cathedral which, of course, meant that I was at 51st Street at Fifth Avenue. Naturally, the car made a left turn and went south down Fifth Avenue. Here it was nighttime with lots of snow in the street, the sidewalk, and covering just about everything. The car wanted, once on Fifth Avenue, to go westwards along 50th Street, but couldn’t because that street runs easterly one-way.

There was also too much snow jammed there in the street. So, in the end, the car went down to the south end of Saks Fifth Avenue to try and get onto 49th Street. Here in the dreamtime, contrary to the waking state arrangement, 49th Street flowed easterly. This made me realise that its attempt to go along 50th Street was not bizarre. I guess that they then intended to go easterly along 49th Street, over to Park Avenue then up 57th Street, make a left at that street, to try and get across town that way.

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I figured that that major thoroughfare would not be impassable. I was keen to find out who was inside the car, which was a very regal, stately affair; they were a sophisticated well-bred couple. I was more intrigued by the car because it was mostly glass, with the rear windshield arching up to above their heads, as they sat there exuding their exalted classism. The side panelling on the outside, and where the rear windshield met the roof, was all solid gold. Atop the roof there was a beacon like on a taxi cab, however, it was made of solid gold.

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Really, it was more a coat of arms than anything so crass as a taxi’s beacon; this was a truly luxurious-looking vehicle. As I inspected it, I had been in flight hovering a couple of floors above it. Rising in the air, I began speeding down on the east side of Fifth Avenue over St. Patrick’s Cathedral. When I got over the cathedral, I noticed that – unlike its waking state counterpart – this one had flying buttresses. Though it was very dark out, as though the dead of a Dark Moon night, I noticed that there was activity atop the cathedral. There were things there which I found immediately intriguing.

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Abandoning my pursuit of the Bentley landau, I slowed down, coming closer to observe what was going on atop the cathedral’s roof. There, I saw wonderful fowl; there was a whole array of them which were quite large. One species was white with lots of black specs throughout its body. They were all on different ledges on the flying buttresses. All of them had nests that they were tending.

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One of the nests had 8 large speckled eggs inside. There was, however, no fowl tending to this nest. Flying slowly, within ten feet of the buttresses, I inspected everything with a keen eye. This was so very astral plane in focus. Considering that I had previously been counselling River Phoenix, who had recently passed, it made sense that I should be on the astral plane. In any event, the rooftop was pitch-black and covered in tar. The masonry here was also much blackened with time’s passage. Too, there was a lot of moss covering every available nook and cranny.

I suppose that this replica of St. Patrick’s Cathedral needed to exist, here on the astral plane, to provide some sense of continuity to the dearly departed recent arrivés of the Catholic persuasion. Here on the astral plane, this St. Patrick’s Cathedral was considerably larger than its waking state counterpart. As well, it was millennia older than the Roman Coliseum. The older dead moss had left the structure blackened – along with the centuries of pollution and soot caked on in layers. Naturally, in order to get up to the roof of the nave, I had had to rise higher and beyond the buttresses.

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Once higher in the air, I saw down between these two buttresses a group of Whites. They were dressed in animal skins and were, in the true sense of the word, barbaric-looking. They had not yet fully developed the ability to speak; thus, their speech consisted of a series of barks and grunts. Quite hirsute, they were obsessively fearful. Huddled on the top of the structure, they proved a smelly lot.

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Everything was quite ancient and scorpionic-hued. As well, there was a tribe of black-furred monkeys with some red in them. The Barbarians also wore a skin that had a reddish hue to it which was seemingly a doeskin. Theirs was, as well, a tawny reddish complexion. On noticing me, the monkeys went wild, climbing up to the tops of the buttresses; frantically, they pounced and screamed up at me. Goodness, they had such large vicious-looking teeth; thank goodness they could not fly.

Mildly horrified, I simply levitated higher into the air and stayed clear of their none-too-evolved noise. Exceptionally tiny, they were also very intelligent-looking. Truth be told, they looked much more evolved intellectually than their simian cousins, the Barbarians. Goodness, they were feisty and noisy. Wanting to investigate everything about the queerness of the sight of me, they were truly inquisitive.

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Going higher, I reached to the top of the nave where I noticed a couple lying there. They were lying on their backs. Looking not unlike the sphinx’s, theirs were the most abnormal-looking skulls that were splayed and large. Their clothing was unusual-coloured; however, on closer inspection, it turned out to have been their skin. Basically, their skin was as if a floral-printed fabric. Very brightly coloured, their skin was an interesting sight… to say the least. They lay there, looking not the least bit surprised at the sight of me. They also seemed not inclined to do anything but enjoy themselves in repose.

They seemed so mysterious. Looking down, I alighted to investigate. I spent some time looking down at their feet where their skin was also uniformly distributed. I had wanted to leave but decided to head in the opposite direction; as they lay there, their feet were in my way. I didn’t want to have to upset or interact with them. They seemed alien, in the true sense of the word, but were not in fact to be disturbed. Silently, they lay there and directly looked at me. One had the sense that they could have turned deadly in a femtosecond and gone at me like a cobra on the attack. They had very cool eyes that were powerful, truly scorpionic. Theirs were the kind of eyes that were beguiling but utterly untrustworthy.

*Their eyes much reminded me of that dream encounter with Lars Gamst, set in the British Isles some centuries back, wherein we encountered a litter of oversized cats, which turned out to be not only psychic but also feral. This was back in the summer of 1988 – before recording the dreams on audio-cassettes. END.

Soon enough, I flew away from there because this was much too astrally focussed an experience. I might add, as dreams go, it was one that was very much so real and quite layered. It was simply much too intense; so, with that, I withdrew being energetically focussed therein.

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Hope you enjoyed having taken this groovy little trip with me… Go on, hop to it, start flying. I love you more.

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

The Madness of King George… The Sequel.

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A trained and seasoned thespian and possessed of a true sense of theatre, there serenely strode Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex the aisle of St. George’s Chapel on May 19, 2018 after having sniffed out the competition. What does she care about the bald dunce; he positively is of no consequence. When will people ever realise that when you come at blacks with the racial hatred, animus et al, you have given away your power and will never succeed.

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Earlier in the week, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex making her initial visit to the National Theatre, after having been appointed the Royal Patronage by HM The Queen.

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Mousy… mousy… mouse. Almost tough to watch, though, not really.

Mic drop!

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Recently, I had an old scholar soul friend over for tea who decided, in true scholarly fashion, to play devil’s advocate to challenge my prior post about the true source of the rift between the Cambridges and the Sussexes. Actually, it was an excuse to celebrate after my art-filled home was thrown into cold, stark darkness when the heat, power and water to my building simply upped and cut out for four interminably long days.

The preceding video was taken whilst besotted on recently discovered Prosecco, which explains why I could not remember the names of way too many of the artists featured. That aside, I put forth the argument that was it not queer that HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge who had proposed in Kenya still had not made it to Kenya on a tour as it is a Commonwealth nation? Even if Kenya was too predominantly black for TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge’s tastes that left equally African, South Africa – also a Commonwealth nation, which by now they could have visited on tour. After all the RSA does have a large white population and a healthy expat and aristocratic English presence…

Yet there was HRH Prince William Duke of Cambridge in Israel, looking like the duped lapdog of the minor Kents who made no bones, with William’s sanction of course, of their disdain at Meghan Markle being in their midst with the archly pretentious HRH Princess Michael of Kent brazenly sporting her blackamoor brooch to Buckingham Palace on Meghan’s inaugural Christmas Lunch hosted by HM The Queen. Fact remains, Israel is neither a predominantly black nation nor is it a Commonwealth nation; he will one day be the head of the Commonwealth.

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In his hard and fast obsessive campaign not to be upstaged by his taken-for-granted kid brother’s unacceptable wife, there was William on the world stage playing god-only-knows what, interviewing a truly stellar scholar soul. How else was Sir David Attenborough to have responded but “Quite indeed” to William’s bizarre remark about “glaciers being like children… unpredictable.”

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Far better that he stuck to his limited forays of hand-clasping, feigned blushing and clipped, jolly vacuous laughter after some banal joke – well-rehearsed ahead of time.

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William has even taken to openly championing that mouthpiece of his vendetta with Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex and more importantly one which is unprovoked, his brother HRH Prince Henry Duke of Sussex, the DailyMail, in its spring clean up of Britain. Would that DM would truly clean up Britain and stop with the glaring race-baiting, gutter-sniping passing for journalism in their over-arching campaign against Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. In years past, as DM had no use for Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge, they always published photographs of her when her face is at rest, which is usually a rather cold, stark business.

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Now that she has been reclaimed as the great white heroine, try finding any such photo of her. Indeed, their racially predatory and obsessed readership now claim her the epitome of elegance, grace, class, sophistication, style. How like that embarrassing relative’s dog which will forever rush over and start humping your right leg, every frigging time, these hypocrites prove themselves!

James Middleton was hit with a deep clinical depression at the end of 2016 which caused his mental health to deteriorate for a yearÂ

Meanwhile, in the ongoing campaign by the minor Kents, William and DM at rebranding themselves as more appealing than the upstart American – that trashy, z-list, social-climbing actress and nothing but Wallis 2.0, they published this soul-baring article by James, the future Queen Consort’s rudderless brother about his mental illness. He, of course, has the bearing of all the men in William’s court; well at least, if he is not tall like all the others, he is definitely dark-haired – there is not a single blond amongst them. William definitely has a type.

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Well, there you have it, stay tuned for, The Madness of King George… The Sequel, starring none other than King George VII – that never waves, never interacts, bullied and plain dense nephew of the admitted mentally disturbed and son of the archly dense head of the house of Cambridge.

On one thing, I never compromise, I restated to my guest: you don’t like black people…. Go Fuck Yourself!

TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex in Bristol, 1.2.2019.

As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and here’s to your every dream being the most lucid and memorable adventure.

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

Nancy Wilson… and More.

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Michael: This fragment was a third-level mature artisan – second life thereat.  Nancy was in the passion mode with a goal of growth.  An idealist, she was in the emotional part of intellectual centre. 

Body type was Solar/Saturn. 

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

The fragment Nancy is fifth-cast in sixth cadence; he is a member of greater cadence five.  Nancy’s entity is seven, cadre four, greater cadre 1, pod 129. 

Nancy’s essence twin is an artisan and the task companion a warrior. 

Nancy’s primary needs were: expression, expansion and power. 

There are 10 past-life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin. 

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What a truly great voice.  Though over the years, I had attended many Nancy Wilson concerts, one in particular remains the most memorable.  It was the late set at the Blue Note Jazz Club in New York City’s West Village.  A Saturday night performance, it was at the end of the run and Ms. Wilson was in fine form.  With me that evening was Milan Newcombe, the rather eccentric lover of mine who had the most magical residence in Toronto’s Kensington Market.  

Milan and I met about a month before the 350th anniversary celebrations of Montréal in May 1992.  The day of the anniversary, there was a parade through the city’s main artery at night time; quite a unique and spectacular sight.  We stayed that weekend in a loft at the corner of Ontario and St. Laurent Streets and that night, I wore a pair of six-inch, black patent leather Bally talons hauts, a pair of extra short blue jeans that nicely sported the goods, a large, white pirate’s shirt, a confident smile whilst holding hands with the coolest motherfucker I had met since having met Merlin – Milan made a most pleasurable adventure of living. 

Jazz singer Nancy Wilson celebrated her 80th birthday on February 20th, 2017

Having just returned from a weekend in New York City with Manhattan cabaret singer, Frans Bloem, I was crawling the halls of the St. Mark’s bathhouse at Wellesley on Yonge, in a bid to get over decidedly banal sexual relations with Frans.  A great human being to be sure but sex should not be as ennuiyant and tedious as needlepoint.  Well into the late hours, after a few hookups, a long lean body caught my eye as it lay there, waiting to either prey or be preyed on.  

An hour later we emerged into the gritty, callously unforgiving light of daybreak and hopped on our bikes.  Together we rode west along Wellesley, cut through University of Toronto campus and onto Spadina, rode south on said avenue to the most magical lair imaginable.  There above a series of Chinese shops, Milan owned the two storey apartment that was filled with an assortment of Bohemians – or at least trust fund types, bored out of their skulls whilst waiting to collect their inheritance.  

Milan possessed the largest music library, I had yet or since seen.  Moreover, within that library were the most extensive recordings of harpsichord music.  If that were not specialised enough, Milan owned a harpsichord which, after we had riotously slapped, nipple-bitten, punched and me gourmandise his pygmy fin whale schlong: girth and length that makes your upper lip sweat and eyes roll back like Whitney Houston in full song, he would spend the next hour playing what proved the most captivating instrument.  Always at such times, I would become sponge-like and expansive, feeling as though in between wakefulness and sleep with a plethora of the most lucid past-life dreams flooding and surfacing my conscious mind.  Not surprisingly, that harpsichord proved a touchstone to our past-life connections and specifically to the life as court musicians in London, England during the reign of King George III and the Regency when Milan, Merlin and I plus a whole host of others whom I have known in this lifetime were greatly, creatively fulfilled.  

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This fragment was a third level mature sage – first incarnation at this level, likely to repeat the level – in the passion mode with a goal of acceptance.  An idealist, he was in the intellectual centre, emotional part. 

Milan’s body type was Saturn/Venus. 

Milan’s primary chief feature was impatience and the secondary arrogance. 

The essence twin is a sage, also discarnate.  An artisan task companion he’s got, who is incarnate. 

This fragment is second-cast, cadence sixth in the greater cadence, entity six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, node 414.  Milan is in the same entity as Arvin and Merlin, sharing a strong connection through the arts. 

The three primary needs for Milan were: freedom, power and communion. 

Q: Past lives of note for Milan:

Michael:       This fragment has had many lives in the theatre and in performing, as would be expected, due to his soul age, mature and role, sage. 

He has been a well-known courtesan in nineteenth century France, to a second-in-command lieutenant to Napoleon Bonaparte and was involved in many secretive meetings to which she was privy, due to her ability to keep silent. 

She, however, was found guilty of espionage, at a later date, and hanged, at the age of 24. 

This sage has also performed with students of Hippocrates in the fifth century Common Era in Crete and also became interested in herbal medicine at that time. 

Lives in the performing arts total 24 altogether and have been both notable, such as in China in the eighth century as a puppeteer or in the caves of Borneo when he was a painter of walls with what would be called ancient hieroglyphs. 

This fragment was also present in the sixteenth century in Venice and was a student of a lesser artist, not sure about the name. 

Q: Past lives with Arvin:

Michael:      First of all, let us comment that these two fragments did have an agreement which had to do with the validation of personal expression. 

Number of past incarnations total twenty and include:

  1. These two fragments were present in the “George” life; King George III of England, when the sage was a fellow musician and trumpeter. The sage was competitive with the artisan and envious of the artisan’s natural talents.
  2. They have been married once before officially in an area of the Middle East, eleventh century BCE, when they were in an arranged marriage having to do with land and money exchange. They did get along reasonably well due to the entity connection but did argue.
  3. Makers of small ornamental objects in the first century Common Era, Crete. Both were female and cousins.
  4. These two fragments completed a sequence having to do with abandonment/abandoner in the São Paulo incarnation. The female artisan seduced the sage and then subsequently refused to continue in the relationship which led to emotional turmoil for the sage.

This first part of this sequence took place in the 1300’s in Spain when the reverse occurred but the sexes were the same, artisan still female, seduced by the sage then abandoned. 

Had this not been an agreement, there would have been mindfuck karma incurred. 

(KB: this was an important set of incarnations) 

 Q: Past lives with Merlin and the ET:

This fragment was present in the life aforementioned in the fourth century in an area of Tibet and was the mother of the task companion, former-Merlin but separated when the scholar, former-Merlin, was quite young due to religious training. 

There have been an additional four of note including one in the ninth century in China when these two fragments were enemies and came quite close to incurring karma; through combat, not agreed upon in advance, as well as one in the first century Common Era when they were married to the same male fragment; Common Law, Palestine area. 

This sage has also shared three past associations with Arvin’s essence twin which have included living in a small village in western Canada in the 1400’s both male.  They were childhood friends. 

Additionally they have fought side-by-side “on stage” when members of a travelling theatrical group in northern Italy in the sixteenth century.  The essence twin died of a fall which the sage tried to prevent but was unable to, happened when both were teens.  

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Milan was magical; his home lit throughout by candelabras and the salon an exacting reproduction of an 18th century English salon.  One of the most beautiful things about sleeping over with Milan at his magical lair, was that many were the nights when I would – whilst lying next to him in bed, pleasured and satiated – spontaneously astral project.  During these marvellous OBEs (out-of-body experiences), I would get up out of my body, turn around to look at our smiling pleasured faces harmoniously lying in bed fast asleep, see the cord of silvery white light that attached my astral body to my physical body.  This cord more so resembles a caravan of tiny balls of light that are unbreakable and which attach at the solar plexus of both bodies – astral and physical.  Milan was the most sensual lover and the greatest kisser.  

This song was Milan’s favourite tune and Nancy Wilson his favourite Jazz singer – just as Natalie Cole and Betty Carter mine and John Hirsch was Ella Fitzgerald’s undisputed biggest enthusiast.  Until having met me, Milan had never listened to Jazz or explored the genre.  However, like all persons in the positive pole of their goal of acceptance, he embraced, appreciated and explored the newfound treasure that for him Jazz would prove.  With an intensity never before experienced, Milan insisted on venturing to every Jazz concert imaginable.  To that end, we took several trips to Chicago, New Orleans and, of course, New York City to nurture our souls and forge to greater depths the bond we shared.  Whenever the loving was good and god do I love a cock… especially his – hey, three billion women can’t be wrong, Milan would then play some Nancy Wilson.  Our love faded on my relocation to Vancouver – he hated grey, dreary and rainy weather, I was come undone one early morning whilst meditating in the pyramid in Vancouver, Milan appeared to me and said so long.  I knew that he had died that day – another lover passed of AIDS.  I will ever experience the sweetest memories when listening to Nancy Wilson.  

Nancy Wilson
Nancy Wilson performs at Carnegie Hall in celebration of her 70th birthday in 2007. (AP Photo/Rick Maiman)

Sweet and very blissful dreams indeed be yours Nancy: griot, linguist, shaman and truly great performer.  

As ever, thanks for your ongoing support, dream without giving a damn… cause you can and all the more reason to push off and start flying.  

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

Roy Hargrove 16/10/1969/\/\2/11/2018

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Hargrove, Roy 16/10/1969<O>2/11/2018

Michael: This fragment was a fifth-level mature scholar – 2nd life thereat.  Roy was in the perseveration mode with a goal of growth.  Roy was a realist who was in the intellectual part of moving centre.

Roy’s primary chief feature was arrogance and his secondary was impatience.

Roy’s body type was Mercury/Lunar.

The fragment Roy is second-cast in the fifth cadence; the fragment is in the first greater cadence.  Roy is a member of entity six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – here we have another entity mate of both Arvin’s and Merlin’s.

Roy’s essence twin is a scholar and the task companion is a sage.

Roy’s three primary needs were: expression, adventure and security.

There are 9 past-life associations between Roy and Arvin and 14 between him and Merlin.

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I have always exquisitely found centre for listening to this recording.  Time seems to drift away and ideas flow with greater ease… indeed, how sweet it is to be richly inspired by an entity mate.  

“I’m in service.  I am here to touch people and make them feel better through music.” – Roy Hargrove.  

Well if that is not validation of being a member of an entity six of a cadre one, I don’t know what it.  

I always good for long days after a concert of his.  A beautiful human being.  

Sweet and blissful dreams be yours dear ennobled entity mate.  

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

The Day After the Night that Was.

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By now the effects of the stewed fruit at breakfast has seen my waist shrink; I am grateful.  The morning after the night that was, I am still elated and humming away that catchy melody from Ludwig Minkus’ greatly composed ballet.  

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After breakfast I decamped at Leicester Square where it was time to enjoy the bright, cool sunlight and catch a movie.  The Vue cinemas are rather interesting; I was keen to know if I would have a repeat of what had transpired last winter. 

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Back then, I was upstairs at the same cinemas watching, Darkest Hour, which proved a real tour de force performance from Gary Oldman.  Sat in the back row, soon I became bloated and expansive.  Though not the least bit drowsy, I felt wide-open and lucidly self-aware.  Next, as the film progressed, I watched as several pure white humanoid forms simply stood up and walked to the sides and quite seamlessly walked through the very real walls of the cinema.  

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One of the things that Merlin and I always loved doing, was seeing a film during its opening weekend.  Naturally, so close to the anniversary of his passing, I was keen on seeing a film.  J. K. Rowling is among my favourite contemporary writers and having seen the first film in this series, it only made sense to go.  

Whilst waiting for the cinema to open, I caught a series of items; all are favourite actors of mine, especially Sir Kenneth Branagh.  

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The first screening of the day was a special affair with about one third of the theatre occupied.  A lovely Chinese couple sat to my right with their precocious son of about ten years stuck between them.  We chatted briefly and I thought it so strange that conversation with strangers is almost unheard of when attending a Canadian movie.  

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I emerged into the crisp Saturday morning in Leicester Square a bit teary eyed as thoughts of Merlin at one point during the film overwhelmed me.  It was after all the eve of his passing some 29 years earlier.  

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Slipping inside this tiny joint – I always favour hole-in-the-world, ma-n-pa joints, I got a couple of really good slices of pizza whilst pouring through the Times of London.  There was conversation close by, which struck me as interesting; it went from Theresa May and Brexit to Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.  I soon realised that both persons were openly criticised chiefly for being women; in the case of the Ms. May, she is dismissed and not taken seriously chiefly for being female.  As for Meghan, like every woman who marries into the BRF, she is readily reviled, though, some of this has bordered on racial hysteria and seriously threatening.  

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In a bid to cleanse my very soul, after all that, I slipped from Leicester Square for the uplifting sophistication of the National Gallery where I deftly moved through my favourite salons with usual mercurial speed, taking the time to pause and admire the key works of art that bring me the greatest pleasure.  

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Well, after all that art, it was time for more prowling the decidedly unCanadian wintry streets of London.  Along Shaftesbury, I strode my Crockett & Jones booted and blistered feet into Neal Street where my favourite hippy-dippy (as Merlin would remark) New Age store, The Astrology Shop in Covent Garden.  Though, it most definitely does not have the best choices, I still love the feel of the place and their sagebrush collection is second to none.   

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Along with marvellous pieces of crystals and a wonderful Citrine, I really connected with this gorgeous agate ring.  The moment that I saw it, I really resonated with me and it felt so right. 

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After a rather warm conversation with a green-eyed, redhead, she was fascinated by my custom Reuben Mack messenger bag.  

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I then headed back to The British Museum for more shopping.  As it was the weekend, there was now a sizeable lineup to gain entry.  As though my impatience with crowds were not enough but soon, I had two Torontonian women doing what Canadians do best; they spent much of their time gawking at me, talking about me and cultural appropriation for wearing the custom Reuben Mack messenger.  Standing there in line, I was reminded of what petty, small-minded bigoted jackasses the average Canadian can be and god do they love being openly racially predatory towards blacks. 

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Never once had I experienced a scintilla of racial animus from a Briton or for being in London to that point; there you have it, the land where racism is enshrined in law: employment equity law of Canada: All employers must employ, Caucasians, First Nations persons, Disabled persons and visible minorities and therein is the framework of Canada’s own form of Apartheid – state sanctioned racism.  All employers, in particular crown corporations (government agencies – federal and provincial) employ visible minorities to the exclusion of blacks and if and when they do employ blacks, they then hire blacks only as casual workers which means they are not entitled to benefits, pension and guaranteed hours.  

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So smugly established is this state of affairs that the current prime minister refused to attend the 50th anniversary of Caribana – the nations West Indian community’s gift to Canada on its 100th birthday in 1967; however, he attends ever Gay pride parade in the same city as Caribana, Toronto, and has repeatedly been to India, to dress up and act a right clown because who gives a damn about blacks in Canada.  As one friend said, blacks over the past three decades have become as marginalised as First Nations persons.  But enough about aggressive young souls and their racialised worldview.  Meanwhile, as they were openly rude towards me whilst queueing to enter the British Museum, I grabbed my phone and pretended to film them to which one of them suddenly became enraged, demanding that I not film her…  You have to laugh or truly you would go mad.  In any event, I got the feisty Buster a nice but scary Egyptian stuffed cat – he is actually afraid of it.  

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On my return to the hotel, a couple of blocks from The British Museum, I slumped into bed and decided that my aching feet needed a break from the rest of the day’s planned events.  To that end, I stayed in that night rather than return to Barbican Hall to catch a celebration of the Windrush Migration.  At that concert were to have been Calypso Rose and The Mighty Sparrow; though it had been years since last seeing either performer, I just was not into it.  Moreover, I wanted to take the time to be with myself and reflect on the eve of Merlin’s passing some 29 years earlier.  

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and ever remember to push off and start flying.  

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

Oxford Circus. Pimlico. Barbican.

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Bright and early Tuesday morning and it was off to Oxford Circus in search of more art.  

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No faking this; the hustle is fucking real. 

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As I poured through this joint, I recalled my advice to the London cab driver whilst crawling along Pall Mall two days earlier.  

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Well if Daddy Warbucks’ little girl ain’t toothless, what is one to do but vacuously laugh with every breath.   

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As though I had just walked in on the most malodorous dump, I was out of this dive in a New York minute.  

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As I came up out of the Underground, I felt as though I had just endured a room whose stench was dirty ashtrays, liquor and coffee.  Once at Hyde Park Corner, I made it to Apsley House, only to discover that it was not open during the week.  Took the time to breathe the crisp – though not cold like Canadian – air with Hyde Park’s trees’ transitioning foliage predominantly apricot-coloured.  

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Vauxhall Tower (St. George Wharf Tower.)

Arrived at Pimlico and the air was comfortably cool; so nice to have a brilliant sunny day for a change.  Nonetheless, you can bet your bottom dollar that I was protected by my extra thick-lensed black shades. 

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After working almost exclusively at nighttime and since before that when in the theatre, I have developed a genuine sensitivity to sunlight.  You cannot convince me that we are not much too close to Sol for comfort.  So to Tate Britain I was returned.  After the scam that was the Klimt / Schiele, I was not rolling the die on Turner Prize 2018.  

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I went into this exhibition with zero expectations.  Like the British Museum, I love the gift shop at Tate Britain as opposed to Tate Modern’s.  I was on the hunt for unique gifts to purchase; this ticketed event was a gamble.  

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You cannot begin to fathom the degree to which I was wowed by the breath of this artist’s genius.  

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Remarkably, there was no end to this genius’ vision.  

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There is, throughout his art, movement and fluidity with the greatest grace and attack.  

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This is a colossal retrospective and his talent was unmatched.  

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The sensuality is breathtaking.  

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Every painting was a newly discovered masterpiece.  

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The breath of his work is astounding.  

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What a truly marvellous discovery.  

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His work left everyone moving through the exhibit in a state of harmony.  There was such peace and serenity in each salon and every salon had some wow moment masterpiece.  

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One key element of his art was that each work was hung in the spot-on perfect frame.  

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Masterful!

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For me, Edward’s genius epitomises where dreams and genius merge and produce the most uplifting art.  

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Quite simply, there are no words.  

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Besotted.  

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The moment that I laid eyes on this tableau, I immediately thought of Francis Bacon.  

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Breathtaking…

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Now, this is Art,  Next-level tapestry.  The fluid sensuality is overwhelming.  

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This is everything.  

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I would gladly have paid thrice as much to view this exhibition.  

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This was like nothing I had seen before and it far exceeded anything that I had expected.  Truly beautiful.  After dining on a late lunch in Pimlico, it was back to Bloomsbury for a nap before heading out into the evening.  

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Though I was rather looking forward to hanging out at Ronnie Scott’s, the idea of listening to Charlie Parker and John Coltrane (an entity mate) being butchered by some Israeli appropriationist was not exactly high on my must-do list.  

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Happy was I to be in the comfy seats at Barbican Centre Cinemas to watch a LIVE relay from Covent Garden of that evening’s performance of La Bayadère, which at week’s end I would be attending.  By far, this was the most glorious of cinematic experiences.  I could not believe the sight of Natalia Makarova when she appeared on screen. 

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She was now full-bodied as we mostly get on ageing.  Last time that I had seen her was during a class we took together at NYC’s Harkness House ballet school during summer 1983.  That late spring was the last time that I had also seen the ballet live; it was May 19, 1983 and my favourite dancer, the dimpled, shy and oh so sweet, Fernando Bujones was dancing the role of Solor.  

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and dream as lucidly as you want to… 

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