Just when I thought there could be no tea more sublime than soursop bush tea – a favourite since childhood in the West Indies, I discovered Fortnum & Mason’s elderflower-flavoured green tea. As my latest order arrived just in time for what would have been Merlin’s 74th birthday on July 21, [21/7/1947 Pig 3.1.4 = 8] I thought to go one better and try and get myself a lemon and elderflower cake for my birthday on August 2 [2/8/1960 Rat 2.1.8 = 11]. After all, it was the Sussexes’ gorgeous-looking lemon and elderflower wedding cake that got me thinking. Soon, I was on the quest for an elderflower-flavoured cake for my upcoming birthday. Daniel et Daniel, which really is not what it was in the 80s when Merlin and I got choice pastries and at least one dish per week there, carried no such cake. Restless, I called partout and eventually got around to placing a call to another of the Weston family’s refined businesses, the Loblaws at Maple Leaf Gardens. Eventually, I was put through to the bakery department where I got an haughty prude, who seemed too bothered to have to take the call. For the third time, I repeated that I was looking for an elderflower-flavoured cake, when Ms. Krakow, 1978, third runner-up dismissively bulldozed back, “Elderflower? No! We only use white flour in our cakes!” Well, there has to be a first time for everything because early in my seventh decade, I laughed so damn hard that I fell onto the sofa, clapping, tearing up and simultaneously experienced the most mind-altering trifecta of ageing: leaking, farting and feeling damn near on the cusp of what one assumes an aneurysm must feel like. I am determined to yet have that lemon and elderflower-flavoured cake.
The tea photographed is actually not elderflower; it is a far more pale, sublimely subtle affair.
Beyond these gates, at a royal Roman villa, recently occurred the most sublimely magical theatre…..
Unescorted by her father, Lady Kitty Spencer proved that Spencer women are indomitable whether her aunt, Diana, Princess of Wales or for that matter, Georgiana spencer, Duchess of Devonshire. Ah those fabulous, formidable Spencer women!
30/12/1990 (Horse) Lady Kitty Spencer-Lewis 3.6.7 = 7
Georgiana Spencer Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire…. a Spencer woman to the core.
7/6/1757 (Goat) Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire 7.4.6 = 8
A Spencer woman who more than measured up to Georgiana – standard bearer of Spencer fortitude, Diana, Princess of Wales.
1/7/1961 (Ox) Diana, Princess of Wales 1.8.7 = 7.
Diana despite what has been claimed, was immensely uncomplicated and the most dynamic Spencer woman. She was 1 energy body, which means that regardless of her artisan soul doe-eyed fawning, she was a loud, combative, bossy bully-arsed Amazon and as tough as they come. Diana’s second number of 8 simply means that she was going to earn even more money than that into which she was born, which was true – though the Spencers are infinitely more ancient a family than the Windsors. Most of all, Diana was possessed of double 7s. All 7 persons can see beyond the veil and know exactly what is going down at all times. They can see ‘dead people’ as the saying goes but tend to rarely advertise this. They see auras and they more than anyone else can penetrate beyond the veil such that they can be as readily focussed on the astral plane as they can the physical plane. They are master manipulators and they are the ultimate power in any dynamic. Diana was neither pawn nor unaware. Most of all, all persons with more than one 7 in their numerological makeup and when the fourth/destiny number is a 7 run the very real risk of being murdered/assassinated.
29/5/1917 (Snake) President John F. Kennedy 2.7.7. = 7.
There are only 2 deaths of persons in public life in the West during the 20th century, which to our very core collectively broadsided us and shook us to our soul… all of us. President John F. Kennedy and Diana, Princess of Wales. The President was openly assassinated as it was a message to all future presidents not to ever think of trying to dismantle the Federal Reserve, which is a private rather than government entity. All persons in public life who are assassinated if they are politicians will have a 4th number of 4, 5 or 8; however, when that public person has a 7 as fourth number they were assassinated by a institution in Kennedy’s case the cartel families which own the U.S. federal reserve and in Diana’s case the dynastic institution and power behind the Windsor dynasty. Diana was pregnant and as mother of a future sovereign and future head of the Church of England, she could not be allowed to start a rival dynastic house, which would doubtless be after she had converted to another religion.
21/4/1926 (Tiger) Duke of Lancaster 3.7.7 = 8.
Diana was a damn bully and her two 7s were no match for her ultimate rival, the very powerful Duke of Lancaster, who also happens to have two 7s and the fourth number is 8, which is the ultimate sign of ruthless power. More artisan souls get knocked off for being a pain in the arse than any other role. Flaunting her pregnancy in the South of France was the final straw for the Duke of Lancaster. Diana had bullied the Duke of Lancaster’s son, Charles, Prince of Wales. Indeed, it was quite one thing for Diana to have provoked the Duke of Lancaster’s ire by producing a firstborn who only happened to be an obvious Bourbon bastard but it was quite another to be hellbent on further ridiculing and insulting the Duke of Lancaster by starting a rival dynasty and of a totally unacceptable faith.
Diana’s death was such callous open warfare. It was such vicious business that we became for a week, and longer, unhinged. How could this have happened? How could every effort not have been made to save Diana when clearly she had survived the car crash? Well, when make it look like an accident, does not work, then you scream down the phone, “then kill her goddamn it! I want that damn woman dead!” Like John F. Kennedy’s open assassination, we collectively fell to our knees and came undone with Diana having been ruthlessly assassinated.
Time is a most callous business and sooner or later, like shit, it always surfaces the secrets and lies and lays them irrefutably bare. One of the features of Diana’s two 7s is that the fourth number being 7 means that such persons once assassinated, have the ability to avenge their murder from beyond the grave. This is rare but does occur when there is more than one 7 and the fourth number is a 7. Prince Andrew’s undoing and the Sussexes quitting royal life in a blow to the Duke of Lancaster’s Commonwealth legacy, seem in part to be influenced by the long shadow that Diana’s assassination has caused. In quitting royal duties, Diana’s revenge has also struck a blow to Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, who treated Diana so horribly. Indeed, as the Duke of Lancaster has shrunken with age so, too, it seems that the longer the Duke of Lancaster lives, the more Diana’s revenge exacts its toll.
Just as the Duke of Lancaster grew drunk sipping on Diana’s warm blood whilst seething with contempt for the rabble drunk with grief, so too time will reveal why the Duke of Lancaster refused to honour Diana’s murder for days on end. Time will callously reveal the dark visage of the most deceptive Duke of Lancaster yet – double 7s notwithstanding.
Though in utero, enwombed in this photograph is the most fascinating Spencer woman of the modern age after, Diana, Princess of Wales. Lilibet Diana Mountbatten-Windsor born 4 June 2021 an Ox, she will have Diana, her paternal grandmother’s inner strength. Most of all, what this reborn soul has is an inner fortitude that will be a force to be reckoned with. 4/6/2021 Ox 4.1.6 = 11. This Spencer woman is a powerhouse, who will stand shoulder to shoulder with Diana and Georgiana before her. Lilibet has 3 numbers in common with her father, Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex 15/9/1984 Rat 6.6.1 = 4 and, of course, she has two numbers in common with her mother, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex 4/8/1981 Rooster 4.3.4 = 11. Having master numbers of 11 means that just as Meghan is more famous than Harry in their dynamic so, too, is Lilibet Diana going to be more famous than Archie her older-souled brother. It matters, too, that during a near recent past life of Lilibet Diana’s, she was famous and a seasoned performer – she has reborn, having already mastered the fame game. More than that, like her mother, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, she is as tough as they come and with master numbers of 11, Lilibet like her mother will be iconic and a lone panther. Persons will drop in and leave her life – they will never stay a nanosecond longer than necessary. She was born to rule… and will.
Michael: This young fragment is a third-level mature sage – second life thereat. Lilibet is in observation mode with a goal of dominance and has an attitude of idealist.
Lilibet has neither centreing nor chief features at this time, owing to her age – this occurs during late teen years.
Lilibet’s body type is Mars Mercury.
The fragment Lilibet is second-cast in the third cadence. Lilibet is a member of greater cadence four. Lilibet is a member of entity two, cadre six, greater cadre 7, pod 418. (Adjacent entity, same cadre as her father, mother, brother, Prince George and The Queen).
Lilibet’s essence twin is a sage and the task companion a warrior incarnate at this time.
Lilibet has shared 8 past-life associations with Arvin and 5 with Merlin.
There is an agreement with the older brother for emotional support.
This fragment, Lilibet, has been a revered performer in a recent past incarnation,primarily operatic but with some aspect of light entertainment. She was also present in several lives of note in European aristocracy (Italy and Spain)
End (August, 2021).
22/7/2013 (Snake) HRH Prince George of Cambridge 4.2.8 = 5
Speaking of Spencer women… Always follow the numbers for clues as to just how history is likely to repeat itself; of course, with each generation the players and the drama may change but the numbers always produce the same personae; however, the results may vastly vary. Want to know how Prince George of Cambridge is going to turn out? Apart from the fact that like his maternal and paternal uncles, he is gap-toothed and thus in his immediate past life, like both uncles were, also black. George is a king soul, not that that should make him superhuman; however, the template for this royal role-play is Edward VIII, Duke of Windsor.
25/6/1900 (Rat) Earl Louis Mountbatten of Burma 7.4.5 = 7
14/11/1948 (Rat) HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales 5.7.2 = 5
23/6/1894 (Horse) Prince Edward, Duke of Windsor 5.2.7 = 5
25/6/1900 (Rat) Earl Louis Mountbatten of Burma 7.4.5 = 7
Also, possessed of two 7s, like Diana, Princess of Wales and the Duke of Lancaster, was Earl Louis Mountbatten of Burma. Just as with Diana & President John F. Kennedy, one of his multiple 7s was in the fourth position, which resulted in him having been assassinated. Of course, the line at the time and possibly still floated was that it was an IRA hit job. Nonsense. Louis when in India as Edwina his stylish wife openly saw Nehru, this freed up Louis to be with his one true love, Edward, then Prince of Wales, who was truly besotted with the charming, manipulative double 7 lover. This is why, they were sequestered in the colonies in India where their love could be fully flagrant and that it was. Persons with 2 and 5 in their numerology, King George V, Prince William, Duke of Windsor, Prince Charles, Prince of Wales and Prince George of Cambridge are sexually addictive and indulge readily and with whomsoever. Whether male or female, they will have long, passionate, abiding, same sex-focussed love affairs, though, will marry and procreate as is expected of them. All Edward, Duke of Windsor wanted was to marry Louis Mountbatten and fuck night and day but that could not have been. So, the very mannish, bullying Wallis was a useful beard. Of course, Edward would have gotten off on being bullied by Wallis and likely Louis also got off on watching them at play whilst Wallis would definitely have gotten off on Edward, Prince of Wales and Louis lovemaking. Eventually, the well-hung Louis Mountbatten would move on to Edward’s coveted great-nephew, Prince Charles, Prince of Wales. Equally as besotted, Charles, Prince of Wales would have loved Louis Mountbatten as deeply and passionately as his great-uncle, Edward, Duke of Windsor had decades earlier in India and thereafter.Of course, it was not until Louis was assassinated that Charles finally sought to get over the assassination of his lover, Louis Mountbatten, by marrying not the Rottweiler beard, rather the conveniently clueless virgin, Diana who faster than a sneeze grew wise and more importantly shrewd and gave the Windsor’s something to gloat about, the flat-footed Bourbon bastard heir to the Windsor dynasty.
19/2/1960 (Rat) Prince Andrew, Duke of York 1.3.1 = 5.
Where 2s favour being bottoms and being bullied, 7s however, are sadistic and among their sexual fetishes apart from S&M, is having sexual slaves and also power-tripping by way of having sex with minors. It is a known fact that Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, Edward, Duke of Windsor and Charles, Prince of Wales’s special friend, Louis Mountbatten got himself assassinated for his sexually predatory exploits with male minors, which saw the IRA having no part in his assassination. Whereas one could lie and cover in the past as in 1979, today, and thanks to American irreverence, Prince Andrew finds himself exposed with nowhere to hide for cover and mummy’s ermine coat just won’t do. Andrew is a bully, 1 energy body, and it is no surprise that with a fourth number of 5, Andrew has been exposed as a sexual predator; infamy is a common outcome when 5 is in the fourth position. Andrew is also a rat and more rats cause their families to stay up late at night in the near-dark, looking at the ceiling and wanting the rat curse to go away.
3/6/1865 (Ox) King George V 3.9.2 = 5
23/6/1894 (Horse) Prince Edward, Duke of Windsor 5.2.7 = 5
21/6/1982 (Dog) HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge 3.9.2 = 5
5/1/1938 (Ox) King Juan Carlos 5.6.9 = 2
King Juan Carlos is also possessed of 2 & 5 in his numerology; however, his 5 is in the first position – the energy body. This is the signature of the serial womaniser who likely has fathered multiple offspring. Prince William has three numbers in common with Juan Carlos whereas with Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, William shares only two numbers. William also shares no numbers with his mother whereas Harry shares one with Diana, Princess of Wales.
9/1/1982 (Rooster) Catherine HRH Duchess of Cambridge 9.1.3 = 4
22/7/2013 (Snake) HRH Prince George of Cambridge 4.2.8 = 5
With the tyranny that is both his parents’ 9s, apart from the usual 2 and 5 mix, which will leave Prince George sexually addictive, he does possess one feature that is mildly alarming. He has 8 as his third number. This position of 8 usually manifests as massive financial setbacks and losses. All in all, 8 in the third position likely means that during his lifetime, George will possibly lose his title to the crown jewels either by abdication; quite simply, George can find himself displaced, for doing something that has not been done before. In short with that 2 & 5 mix of being sexually fluid, George just might end up becoming the second Spencer woman named Georgiana!
Windsor, George 22/7/2013 London, England
Michael: This fragment is a fourth-level mature king – third life thereat. George is in the observation mode with a goal of acceptance. An idealist, George, at this time (December 2019) does not yet have centreing.
George does not yet have chief features.
George’s body type is Jupiter/Mercury and a small tertiary of Venus.
The fragment George is fourth-cast in the seventh cadence. George is a member of greater cadence seven. George’s entity is five, cadre six, greater cadre 7 pod 418.
George’s essence twin is a king – they are likely to meet at a later date and also head of state. The task companion is a warrior.
George’s three primary needs are: expression, power, security and freedom.
There is a facilitating agreement with the father, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, for training and preparation for ‘duties’.
There are 4 past-life associations with Arvin and 2 with Merlin.
END. (December, 2019).
With a predominantly Jupiter body type, HRH Prince George of Cambridge, like King George IV before him, will tend towards having a large overpowering body; his 5 does run the risk of him being gluttonous.
4/8/1900 (Rat) Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother 4.3.4 = 11
4/8/1981 (Rooster) Meghan, Duchess of Sussex 4.3.4 = 11
Both women are mature souls: Meghan (mid-cycle mature artisan soul) slightly older-souled than Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon (second mature slave soul). Numerologically, both women are vibrationally exact in every way. How you would respond to one, is exactly how you would respond to the other in a one-on-one encounter. However, aristocratic Elizabeth married a royal and though an outsider (Scottish) was not baited and hounded by an as yet out-of-control tabloid press. Meghan, self-made, black and an American exposed everything that is ugly about British society in an age where post Charles & Diana, the tabloid media are way out-of-control and hold to ransom the BRF. In marrying Meghan, Prince Harry has exposed what ‘yank’-hating, ugly, racist, truly small-minded, classist boors inhabit the small isle of England.
19/6/1896 (Monkey) Wallis, Duchess of Windsor 1.7.4 = 3
23/6/1894 (Horse) Prince Edward, Duke of Windsor 5.2.7 = 5
Let me start by making it perfectly clear; the only 3 similarities between Wallis and Meghan are these: both are women, both are American and both are human. They have positively nothing else in common. Secondly, before you can reincarnate, you must first die and Meghan was already very much so alive before Wallis, Duchess of Windsor died in 1986. All men with both 2 and 5 in their numerology are innate bottoms regardless their sexual focus; they love to be dominated by strong sexual and emotional partners. 2 introduces fluidity with regards sense of self to all such men. With the combination of 5 which rules excess, gluttony, perversion and insatiable indulgences, all such men need to be sexually dominated, owned and submit to their partner. 1 in the first number, the energy body, is that of the bully, the bossy, emasculating woman. Such women would be driven to be with men who wish to be dominated and who were born to strong, controlling women. The combination of 2 & 5 in a man’s chart always leads to sexual intensity, perversion and being gratified by fetishes of one type or another. From being yelled at, punched, bullied, cursed, pissed on to being strapped such men are also turned on by men and love to be controlled by strong men with whom they are prepared to indulge but would never consider it homoeroticised. Wallis with an energy body of 1 would perceive Edward, Duke of Windsor as her bitch and may well have referred to him as such during their very intense, ritualised and heavily fetish-focussed sexual relations. Edward, Duke of Windsor was as he was because 2 causes fluidity in men which is readily perceived as weakness, effeminacy… or both. 5 persons will always rebel against the rigidity, judgmental, controlling, stubborn restrictiveness of 9. Even though possessed of 5 himself, King George V’s 9 proved too overwhelming for Edward, Duke of Windsor and would have caused him to rebel which resulted in his relationship with Wallis because of her 1 and also because his father’s 9 meant that he positively despised Americans and their culture. Wherever you find 5 in a numerological chart, you also find both excess and infamy.
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.
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.
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!
Time and again, the British tabloids, media and royal sycophants keep repeating that there is no racism within the BRF and that it is rather a damning allegation to have made on the part of the Sussexes in their sit-down interview with Oprah Winfrey on CBS. What the hell are these people on about? There she was Princess Eurotrash of Flat-Arsedom, going full gansta in her blackamoor brooch; yet, there is no racism within the BRF tabloid sycophants loudly protest.
Of course, right on cue, along came the knock-kneed, flat-flooted Bourbon, displaying his frightful lack of awareness, tack… to say nothing of intellect. Indeed, let’s take Meghan & Harry detractors one and all to task as well they damn well ought to be. Please know this, if you don’t like black people… fuck you!
That’s right, Britons are not in the least racist. God only knows, it is at American baseball, basketball and football games that fans make monkey noises, make Nazi salutes and toss bananas on the field/court… indeed. From top to bottom, whether emboldened royals ie HRH Princess Michael of Kent to chavs and others at a football game, Britons are hideously racist and this need to deny their ugliness is betrayed by their need to sublimate all that by forever masquerading the aristocracy in cinema and art as though to entice and beguile the wayward, rebellious kin across the pond.
Petra…. seriously. Unlike you, Meghan married a blood prince. You, however, fittingly wedded a greasy-looking, conman with obvious substance abuse issues… Come on, you actually laid there and had that walrus slither atop you and pass out after another drunken orgasmic fit… Ew fucking ew! Moneyed trash is still trash… you are but another bigoted, spiritual blackhole aimlessly flitting about from beach to yacht to shopping whilst waiting to finally lay your casket chic looks in a casket. Not surprisingly, that chaviola father of Petra’s has proven himself, vis-à-vis Lewis Hamilton’s phenomenal F1 success just another moneyed bigoted pigmy.
Child, after a lifetime of being all god’s children’s favourite windup fool, there you’ll be all smiles and perky only to hear St. Peter say, “Do me a favour, go on over there and grab that candelabra, I could do with some light…” Honest to fucking god, self-loathing fools are the most contemptable of fools. Leave Meghan alone… you know nothing, save looking for another opportunity to make yourself beloved by those for whom Billie Holiday sang Strange Fruit.
A veritable chavfest of pretentious elitist boors. Imagine the fuck-all temerity of these jackasses to insist that CBS and Oprah postpone the Meghan & Harry interview out of consideration of Prince Philip, HRH Duke of Edinburgh, spouse of HM The Queen, being hospitalised. Naturally, it never once occurred to these ugly-of-spirit, racial predators how their unrelentingly racialised aggression in the media against Meghan & Harry was affecting not just the Sussexes but HM The Queen and her spouse Prince Philip, HRH Duke of Edinburgh. For nine long excruciating months, they badgered away at the pregnant Duchess of Sussex for having dared to have wedded at the apex of their racist society but to go on and start breeding mongrelised royal blood, was simply untenable an affront.
There is not a single white female who would have been racially preyed on by the British tabloids the way that Meghan, Duchess of Sussex has been. Whilst this racially predatory feeding frenzy has endured, not a single protest ever emanated from the BRF or the Royal Households on their behalf. The tabloids knew that in an archly racialised society – apeing black footballers on the field – the business of open racial animus towards the Sussexes was big business…. indeed, not since the phenomenal business that Diana represented for them, had they enjoyed such profits. What neither the royals nor the tabloids had envisioned, was the Sussexes not playing along; they had never fathomed the notion that an American, a black American, would simply pick up, take her blood royal prince and son and relocate to a society where for being a self-made woman, a self-made black woman, she could be challenged, engaged and supported rather than being eclipsed, dehumanised, demonised, silenced…. lynched. No star ever takes second billing to a dull as sodden cardboard ingenue of neither awareness nor discernible intellect… ditto Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge. The problem with the British tabloids and media who cover the BRF were how homogenous they are; with the exception of BAME Roya Nikkhah, this semi-feral herd of racist cattle are overwhelmingly white, which means that everything that they plotted and schemed about meting out to Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, was gleefully done with a racially predatory agendum – it is in the nature of the rabid beast.
By extension, both Oprah Winfrey and Gayle King have relatively demonstrated what a racially suffocating society Britain is. There simply aren’t any paths to success in British media for blacks as in the case of American society. This all begs the question, why again when America has ceased being a British colony, is there a need to lionise British actors in American cinema and all but relegate and ghettoise American actors to the hinterland that is television – although what with the devastating restructuring that the Coronavirus pandemic has caused, Netflix and by extension all cable, have become the newly dominant medium rather than cinema.
Thomas Markle deftly validates the Michael Teaching knowledge that from lifetime to lifetime, you have only one parenting agreement with one of both parents. Obviously, in the case of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, who was formerly Margaret Beaufort, Doria Ragland is the parent with whom she has the parenting agreement in this life and that’s that. In a manner which deeply rips off the scab of American racism, Thomas Markle in essence treats his own daughter as property… as a mere runaway slave, who needs to be punished at all cost for disrespecting him and not staying her arse on the plantation where she belongs. It can never be forgotten that Thomas is possessed of a 9 in his numerology which would make him just as archly bigoted, conservative and interfering as the Duke & Duchess of Cambridge.
There are two families in each lifetime; the one chosen by soul into which to reincarnate and once incarnate, the onus is on one, to use the greatest discretion in choosing in whom you trust and such persons are family. Sadly, Samantha is like 7 of 10 white females who simply hate Meghan because she married a blood prince; this reality has proven an affront to their lifelong cherished fantasy, indeed, their sacred notion of whom a prince should marry – clearly, it should not be a black woman or else the white female tribal psyche goes on the warpath… as most definitely it has. Meghan has never been perceived by Samantha as anyone but the otiose, nappy-headed bastard who needs to be pinched, bullied, spat at and reviled at every turn and Samantha in her blind rage, was not going to miss her chance to get on the stage before the world and remind us all what ugly malaise of spirit this thing called white privilege is and how it thoroughly immolates thusly focussed persons.
What more proof does one need? Thank you, Master Archie Manners for doing right by your namesakes’ honour; your slight of hand was truly masterful. The whole lot of these blasted dogs have been exposed and as for Victoria Arbiter, she needs to be fired by CNN. Sorry, it is the vicious lynching of the American Duchess, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex by this group of racial predators, empowered by the hideous Bourbon-Bucklebury duo, which drove Meghan to being suicidal.
See this right here; these blasted fucknuts would like to have the world believe that there was no racism to which Meghan, Duchess of Sussex and by extension Harry, Duke of Sussex were subjected and that because the Sussexes chose to have a private moment whilst being counselled by the clergyman and romantically take their vows, which could not have been legal, thus it was a lie, somehow, everything else was a lie. Well see here duckies, the big, flat-arsed princess Eurotrash’s racist shade-throwing could not possibly have been racist, right? Bullshit! Not only was it vile, racist cowardly social aggression, it was also completely and utterly sanctioned by the Cambidges who do no give two fucks, which is precisely why HRH Prince Charles was not allowed access to HRH Prince George for long months after his birth. These are the same Cambridges who leaned forward across the quire aisle from the keenly observant and savvy Mulroneys at the Sussexes’ wedding to hiss and ridicule as well persons possessed of 9 can be expected to do. One should never forget that as a mature soul warriorin perseverance mode with a primary need for power, Catherine knows and understands full well her power.
The moment that Catherine gave birth, and to a firstborn who proved a prince no less, she immediately became the second most powerful woman in Britain after HM The Queen. This is precisely why she showed her power by retreating to Bucklebury and refused her father-in-law access to her child and future sovereign as this was a direct snub of Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall who at most would be Queen Consort, though, never Queen Consort and future Queen Mother. Hers was the second most valuable womb in Britain, she had given birth to a future sovereign and fuck everyone else… all the social/classist aggression that she had endured was, like an irritating mirage, suddenly collapsed into nothingness. Like Camilla, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex could not eclipse, challenge Catherine… What other response could one expect of an inarticulate mousy woman of another who is articulate, self-made, charismatic and unacceptably non-white. Again, all women with a 9 energy body are the biggest shit-disturbers, saboteuse and are fiendishly controlling. I love the official portrait of Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge at the National Portrait Gallery as it truly captures the complexity of a mature soul warrior in perseverance mode with a primary need of power. She was wedded at her Saturn return and it is at that point that you truly start manifesting, who were born to be. Power corrupts and it is obvious in Catherine’s face in the later photos in the above set. Seven years into her marriage and mother of a future sovereign, Catherine was power mad at the point of the Sussexes wedding and there is no way that she wanted Meghan at court anymore than she suffers the non-threat of Camilla who will never be Queen Mother.
Some fucking how, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex was supposed to have endured the unrelenting racially predatory harassment never before experienced by any other black woman in history and, somehow, these bipedal dogs were in essence braying, “Come on, you’re a nigger, come on play along, come on, you can take it… it’s only a poplar tree, what’s the big deal? Why are you afraid to be lynched? It’s your birth right; this is your role in our national sport… we decide and you are not allowed to be in our fairy story. It’s your history to be lynched for fuckssakes. Stop whining and fall into line.” And whilst all this endured the culpable Cambridges, used tampon et al simply sat around inebriated and somnambulant, chuckling, “one ibble dibble, two ibble dibble.”
Sharon Osborne, fired! Now get out of America. Piers Morgan, fired! Fuck you, you rabid racist coward. Victoria Arbiter, CNN needs to fire this charlatan Briton and soon; that exposé by Archie Manners is all one needs to get a fair assessment of these clowns, claiming to be royal expert this and royal expert that. These same clowns in a post-Oprah CBS Interview are claiming victory as the Sussexes poll numbers have plummeted. Seriously, the Sussexes now live in America; trust you me, neither they nor Americans give a rat’s arse about what island-dwelling xenophobic bigots think. No matter how you keep grasping at straws, the Sussexes are well out of your lives – they do not give a blasted damn.
This now frees you up to focus your jaundiced tabloid and fabulist biographies on the rest of the royals… you know, the one with a proclivity for minor fare. Then there is the knock-kneed, flat-footed Bourbon oaf whom you have yet to have a million body language experts opine about the royal brushoff during Mary Berry’s A Berry Royal Christmas Special. That’s right, their marriage is a volatile, shattered affair, which was just as plainly obvious during the BBC Christmas baking special as it was the day of their marriage a decade ago as they rowed all the way up the Mall and whilst on the balcony at Buckingham Palace. Even their miserable-looking kids betray the froideur of their sado-masochistic arrangement.
William is a flawed, weak oaf who hasn’t a clue. Catherine, however, is as rapaciously shrewd as they come. This is why the day after Oprah’s Interview for CBS with the Sussexes when asked by the reporter if the royals were a racist family, William walked right into the trap and spoke up, declaring: We are very much not a racist family.” Catherine, though, pretended not to have heard any of it and simply kept on walking away – indeed, she knew it was best to run away as every coward does. The Cambridges are the architects of it all and unfortunately as he has had to be screamed at and brushed off time and again by Catherine, William stupidly fell for the bait and shot off his mouth where he most definitely ought not to have.
This Betty Carter tour de force, Thou Swell, deftly sums up the superior strategists that the Sussexes are to the Cambridges. Meghan was a Queen Mother too and what is past is present is always future. I played this tune for a couple of hours after William outed himself as the Sussexes intended in their interview with Oprah for CBS, enjoying the deliciousness of their groove which like Jazz, is sophistication most rare. Jazz touches those for whom it is native, it is breath, like it does no one else… go on ape the culture all you want but we both know that, like Billy flat-foot, it don’t mean a damn thing…
As ever, life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!
Back in May 2018, at the time of their dazzling wedding, many television commentators asked, how is Meghan going to change the monarchy? Well, now we know how… certainly, not as anyone had envisioned. However, the need to demonise, vilify and make sport of being racially predatory, was the singularly focussed agendum of many – especially those of the tabloid press and obviously some royals.
Meghan is a master strategist; like every artisan, she knows how to lay a trap and watch mere fools reveal their hand.
Hey Stooopid! Well, of course, the thick-as-a-plank William would take the bait, which was issued by the Sussexes when speaking with Oprah Winfrey before everyone on either side of the pond. William’s rebuttal, the pissed off double negative uncharacteristic outburst, naturally serves as a validation of whom the Sussexes wished to protect, though, not really. “We’re Very Much Not A Racist Family.” Naturally, he who chose during his gap year to travel to a Catholic South American country to assist disadvantaged persons – persons they were who were not part of the Commonwealth, of which one day he will be king – more importantly, a country to which he travelled where not only was it not a Commonwealth nation but it is also not a predominantly black country.
Really, William, the mother of your closest royal male friend, shows up to your brother’s future wife’s inaugural Christmas lunch at Buckingham Palace and she wears a blackamoor brooch and this is not racist? Certainly, it could not be racist when that male best friend royal’s wife is Jewish and works as an actor in Los Angeles. Nah, there couldn’t possibly be malicious, racially predatory, shade-throwing afoot in such an open display of racism, which you did not object to, especially when it was your supposed much-loved brother’s affianced. For that outburst of William’s to the reporter, the prosecution would say to his colleague, I’m afraid you’ve a fool for a client, to which the defense attorney would not object. If Princess Michael of Kent wore the blackamoor brooch to the Sussexes’ wedding as a result of Meghan allegedly having made Catherine cry, days leading up to the wedding that would be one thing – doing so as a way to put the upstart American in her place. Either way, it would have been no less controversial. Indeed, it would have been more controversial had she worn the blackamoor brooch to the wedding as more blacks with the televised global audience would have been aware of the racist attack than were aware of the Christmas lunch at Buckingham Palace.
For being task companions and both possessed of 9 in their numerology, William as he guilty admitted by his outburst, have been the major racist architects of the Sussexes banishment from court – all of which they orchestrated by having the tabloid press do their bidding and the sycophantic ‘royal experts’ vilify the Duchess of Sussex at every turn. As ever, this being a patriarchal society, thus two prominent women had to be pitted against each other. Catherine, a weak, mousy inarticulate woman was threatened by a self-made woman… a black woman and that simply just could not be tolerated. Of course, Catherine fully empowered as future Queen Consort and future Queen Mother, disinvited Meghan from her sister’s wedding to the exceptionally well-hung, odd-looking billionaire whose father’s legal troubles are not dissimilar to prince Andrew’s. At the short-lived Royal Foundation press conference, Catherine sat there hissing an already full bellied python ready to unhinge, strangle and expediently devour the far too challenging prey that was her brother-in-law’s affianced. At Wimbledon 2019, Catherine much as she had at Ascot was just grinning her best ‘fuck you, fuck off’ mask, telegraphing to her sycophants that the American was truly done and finished. Catherine, energy body of 9 – the fiendish shit-disturber, dominatrix and archly discriminating snob held court and telegraphed much at Wimbledon and Royal Ascot 2019.
Back in March 2017, Harry and Meghan flew to Tom Inskip’s wedding in Jamaica. Two months later, betraying their grudge and racist ill-conceived plan to ban Meghan the American, the self-made black woman from the wedding, the Cambridges devised a scheme whereby Pippa was made to ban anyone who was neither wedded nor engaged to attend the church service of her wedding. Meghan, though, to be bullied and shown by the petty Cambridges that she was not welcome was invited to attend the wedding reception in Bucklebury where there was no press. This naturally was a message to Meghan that she was not going to enjoy a long lasting relationship with Harry if they had anything to do with it. However, there was one glaring omission to their bold-faced lie at excluding Meghan from Pippa’s wedding to the billionaire son of a sexual predator – Princess Eugenie attended the church service of the wedding with her boyfriend Jack Brooksbank. Though at the time, the media lied for the Cambridges by alleging that there was assured knowledge that both Jack and Eugenie had been secretly engaged in December 2016; therefore, this enabled Jack to accompany Princess Eugenie to the wedding’s church service. Time as ever always reveals truth; thus it was that in January 2018, long months after Pippa’s wedding HRH Prince Andrew proudly announced that Jack and Princess Eugenie were engaged. So in Pippa’s aka the Cambridge’s alternate reality, Harry a senior royal to Eugenie cannot bring his lover, Meghan, to non-royal Pippa’s wedding; however, junior royal Eugenie was accompanied by Jack at both wedding service and reception. Damn right, slam the door in her damn face and toss the goddamn flowers in the trash – that is what any self-respecting, self-made woman would do. Americans are no one’s inferior and black Americans definitely do not have time to play Prissy to anyone.
All of this drama has originated with the Cambridges, who for being possessed of 9 and being task companions readily became obsessed with banishing Meghan from court. After having successfully banned Meghan from Pippa’s wedding, Meghan was the last person to be surprised at princess flat-arsed-no-calved Michael of Kent showing up to Buckingham Palace 7 months later, sporting the blackamoor brooch because that’s damn well what Catherine & William would have wanted and directed princess Eurotrash to do. Now it was Meghan’s turn to repay Catherine in kind. Catherine who studied art history at university and who had clearly chosen the bridal party for her sister Pippa’s wedding, felt herself perfectly entitled to insist that Meghan’s flower girls and page boys should follow the royal tradition and be stockinged – her son and daughter were part of the party after all. Finally, Meghan gets what Meghan wants and there was damn well no way after being banned from Pippa’s wedding and Princess Michael’s blackamoor brooch that the Mulroney twins were going to look like blasted little stockinged poufters before the world simply because power mad Catherine knows best. In the end, though Meghan won the day, she broke down and cried after being yelled at and put in her place by future Queen Consort and future Queen Mother over-compensatory commoner Catherine. Catherine first number of 9 (shit disturber, dominatrix), perseverance mode and primary need of power could make the strongest self-made woman cry – especially within the confines of the hereditary system that sees her do as she damn well please without ever being challenged and certainly by über milquetoast William.
There they were sat, William and Catherine, throwing shade at his brother’s wedding before the 2 billion onlookers across the planet… to say nothing of the shrewdly observant television industry insiders across the quire’s narrow history-worn aisle. They betrayed their true nature because this is the bane of whites when being racialised towards blacks: open ridicule without a care in the world is more the norm than not; indeed, without the lightest awareness are they just how stupidly ignorant such behaviour is perceived by all humanity, who happen not to be small-minded bigoted whites. Indeed, smugly racialised are such persons who are possessed of zero awareness of just how stupid they are; alas, such persons never own their racism. It is that fix, like all other addictions, that they simply cannot get enough of. Catherine’s visit to Clapham Common was a PR stunt, which only occurred thanks to the truth of what occurred, leading up to Meghan’s wedding being outed during the sit-down with Oprah Winfrey. Meghan made only 2 balcony appearances at Trooping the Colour and on both occasions, she was relegated to the back of the balcony whilst HRH Prince Andrew, who is not a more senior royal than HRH Prince Harry and wife, was given a front row placement. That was not happenstance; just as it was not happenstance that as the Sussexes were banished from court, HM The Queen’s 2019 Christmas address would feature four sovereigns in a crafty way of eclipsing the much too popular Sussexes then along came the jealous Cambridges with their Bourbon-Bucklebury muggles on parade for Christmas Day service in Sandringham; as ever, there the Cambridge kinder progressed, looking just as lost, stupid and clueless as can be expected of bastardised Bourbon blood. Do you think that after that bit of “Fuck you, one of these things just doesn’t belong here” ploy by the Cambridges (the 4 sovereigns photos and the Sandringham walkabout) Meghan was going to sit there before the Queen, Oprah, and not lob a torch over the castle wall by mentioning the royal’s racist obsession with what intensity of melanin Harry’s children would manifest – to which, of course, William could not keep his damn guilty yap shut.
Diana, Princess of Wales spoke across time to her boys and the message was loudly and deeply embedded into the very fabric of Harry’s being: “If you find someone in life, you must hang on to it and look after it. And if you are lucky enough to find someone who loves you, then you must protect it.” Protecting the love with the soul which previously was the matriarch of the Tudor Dynasty, is a true mark of fealty and valour in love. Who has time to remain at the court of two bullying, grudging, jealous boors, who not only have 9 in their numerological makeup but are also task companions? William is not smart in the least but he is stubbornly rigid and exactingly uncompromising; he is also driven by an equally bullying dominatrix whose remarkable jealously has seen Meghan’s articulate command of the stage, scrubbed from the Internet as was deftly and elegantly on display at the 2018 British Fashion Awards.
Not only has Meghan shrewdly outed the Cambridges for the racist boors that they are, she has also cast a rather unflattering light on racism in American cinema, which must and will change. The small-islanded, arch racism that Meghan for simply being, exposed in the British psyche, will lead to Americans taking action on the constant influx of Britons, jumping the queue into Hollywood and being afforded American awards when Americans find themselves being passed over time and again in favour of Britons as arrivistes in Hollywood suck up and seek entry and access to British aristocracy by tossing Emmys and Oscars at British thespians. Honest to fucking god, why in the hell did Kate Winslet and Emma Thompson, to name but two, get awarded an American acting award when they aren’t Americans and there is a nation of more than 330 million with actors of every range and hue, being passed over time and again in favour of hideously racist Britons. And what exactly does one get in return but stinking arrogance and a complete contempt and disregard for American culture and its people. You never ever hear Britons in American, commenting on race; then again, Meghan for marrying at the very apex of their classist/racist society, exposed Britons for being even more hideously racist than Americans can ever possibly be considered. How is American cinema thriving when the tendency is towards brown-nosing Britons and for what? So many American stories from American civilisation are being eclipsed by these arrogant, archly condescending, cultural boors who can never decade after decade of being in Hollywood, shake that godawful, small-island accent that sounds as though talking whilst juggling hot coals up your flat arse. How much longer is American cinema to be deprived the celebration of Hispanic, Amerindian, Asian, Black and all the other rich cultures, which make up the American quilt, in favour of being recolonised by these racist boors?
What gives this displaced, boorish haus frau the right to go on an American talk-show and bully and belittle Americans? Since when have Americans been tolerated on British television? That’s right, regardless the Oscars and Emmys tossed their way, it has garnered nothing for Americans on the other side of the pond. What exactly do you think that racist boor, storming off set was up to, save looking to be relocated by the Murdoch family to America so he can grandstand on Fox TV, spewing his obsessive, racist hatred for Meghan, Duchess of Sussex day in, day fucking out – God only knows, an American could not have been found to replace Larry King on CNN. For having been there and done that, Piers’ plan in walking off the set of GMB, is to relocate across the pond and continue his racist diatribes with Meghan, Duchess of Sussex in mind; after all, someone has to take up the space recently vacated by Rush Limbaugh on American conservative talk radio. Indeed, Piers is yet another racist, hate-filled white male, who is adored and empowered by the tribe for “telling it like it is…” though perception for such persons is tribal, thankfully for the rest of humanity, perception is entirely a personal matter.
The second photo is a screenshot of ITV’s broadcast of the 2018 Remembrance Day in Whitehall. The red line of the YouTube video passes just below my right ear as I gazed across Whitehall to the balcony where directly opposite stood Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. Ahead, there were persons 4 deep in front of me, I never did see the royal males who stood directly before me, facing the Cenotaph and laying wreaths there. I went home that night and when I got in, I was so overwhelmed with the amount of hatred directed at the Duchess of Sussex from every single person around me that I just silently lay there in my hotel bed and cried. It was the longest release…. I knew that I was crying because the vitriol made me recall the exquisite isolation and pain I knew for living in Winnipeg. Moreover, I recalled at one point as I walked back to the hotel what Diana, Princess of Wales had said in her televised interview with Martin Bashir: “There is no better way to dismantle a personality than to isolate it.” In that moment, I knew that Meghan’s life was not as it seemed; yet, I hoped against all hope that this pang of fear was not true. Yet in the end, we have all come to realise that it was true; this was especially evident when Meghan appeared in the landau with Harry and the Duchesses of Cornwall and Cambridge – she was bloated, depressed and at an obvious low point. What is even more disturbing, is knowing the amount of pain that his mother suffered, William has unrelentingly charged forth with his court of sycophants – blackamoor brooch and all – making Meghan’s life exquisitely unbearable…Can you not just imagine the amount of racially predatory peals of laughter that regularly rang thorough Kensington Palace as Meghan was being further subjected to some hideously racist indignity by obsequious staffers, courtiers, his friends and wife. Why if it were not for a campaign of racist attacks would the Sussexes refuse to move into the refurbished Kensington Palace apartment next to the Cambridges and settled instead on Frogmore Cottage?
One fact has become increasingly clearer, William is HFA. Though he is well-practised to within an inch of his life, beneath that deceptive Neptune conjunct the ascendant veneer are the giveaways; among them, he has a marked aversion for blacks, regardless what his handlers have made him get out there and do – it is after all a job. This explains why he never tours predominantly black Commonwealth nations. It also explains why he goes steely even deadly at times in that manner that is common to spectrum fare and no other humans.
Bully and violently loud to say nothing of stubborn are also marked HFA traits, which he possesses in spades and which are borne out by both his geniture and numerology. There is also that vaguely je ne sais quoi aspect to his totally; it is that babyish quality that all spectrum persons possess and his Neptune is conjunct the ascendant – talk about your loaded piece of burnt toast indeed. As with a preponderance of HFA persons, William’s geniture is marked by a stellium. If ever one needed further proof, his dark Moon conjunction sits at the descendant – Catherine the dominatrix revealed to a T.
All of this racist, immature, destructive behaviour would have, after the Sussexes, more devastated HM The Queen than any other royal. The Sussexes as Commonwealth Youth Ambassadors were going to keep alive The Queen’smost cherished legacy, the Commonwealth. Meghan attended Royal Ascot only once, June 2018. Naturally, her arch enemies, the Cambridges, stayed away so that they could stay at home and watch the procession on TV whilst bitching and ridiculing just as openly as they did Meghan and her culture before 2 billion people at the Sussexes’ wedding. Then there were the Cambridges the next year, 2019, with Catherine smugly celebrating because to that point, it was a done deal, Meghan had cracked and it was just a matter of time before they were kicked out of the Firm and be banished from what was soon to be Wiliam & Catherine’s realm.
Well thank the good lord the BRF and empire has no power over American media and in particular very powerful American media persons who happen to be black. William apart from having a stellium has Neptune conjunct the ascendant opposite the dark moon conjunction which sits squarely at the descendant. William is a weak, deceptive, not very swift eel, who is totally dominated by a unrelentingly power mad partner Catherine (dark moon in Gemini at the descendant). Numbers, astrology and overleaves do not lie…. you can fool no one and William and Catherine will never win in the current power play against the Sussexes for ultimately Americans neither care nor defer to royalty and once a Queen, Meghan is supremely in control and empowered by the supremely knowledgeable Harry born in the year of the Rat.
These are the all-important supporting power hitters who not only know where the bones are buried, they have the emails and texts. More than that, they are all strong, self-made, shrewd, intelligent women and absolutely nothing is more thrilling than the empowering laughter of a strong woman.
As ever, life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!
Windsor, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge 9/1/1982
Michael: This fragment is a fifth-level mature warrior – third life thereat. Catherine is in the perseveration mode with a goal of growth. A pragmatist, Catherine is in the moving part of intellectual centre.
Catherine’s primary chief feature is stubbornness and the secondary, arrogance.
Catherine’s body type is Saturn/Mercury/Venus.
The fragment Catherine is fourth-cast in the sixth cadence. Catherine is a member of greater cadence one. Catherine’s entity is four, cadre one, greater cadre 6 pod 208.
Catherine’s essence twin is a warrior and the task companion a scholar, her husband, HRH Prince William Duke of Cambridge.
Catherine’s three primary needs are: expansion, power and expression.
There are 10 past-life associations with Arvin and 8 with Merlin. _____________________________________________
Reputed to have the largest collection of tiaras, odd isn’t it that prior to having attended HM The Queen’s 2017 Christmas Lunch at Buckingham Palace when HRH Prince Henry’s affianced Meghan Markle made her inaugural attendance, never before had HRH Princess Michael of Kent worn this brooch. A brooch it is that is decidedly offensive in its racially focussed animus towards blacks. How does one account for this bold, racist display, if one did not have the sanction of those who matter?
HRH Princess Michael of Kent 15/1/1945 Monkey 6.7.8 = 3
For, HRH Princess Michael of Kent, the person who matters is not HM The Queen – we have no idea how HM The Queen is perceived by senior royals, though, there are obvious factions who see HM The Queen as having overstayed her tenure. Who could HRH Princess Michael of Kent have been sucking up to by wearing that brooch? Who were the puppet masters of that emboldened display of venal bigotry? Who was “Princess Pushy,” HRH Princess Michael of Kent taking orders from?
Lord Frederick Windsor, 6/4/1979 Goat 6.1.9 = 7
The male royal with closest connection to HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge is HRH Princess Michael of Kent’s only son, Lord Frederick Windsor. Indeed, Freddie & William are so close that it was to Frederick’s daughter, Maud’s, school in Battersea that the Cambridges’ firstborn, HRH Prince George of Cambridge, began his schooling. Why are they so close – apart from a possible soul connection (entity, cadre, pod) and past-life connections, Frederick Windsor, William and Catherine, The Black Queen all have 9 in their numerological makeup. The hallmark of persons with 9, is that they are all shit-disturbers and love plotting, scheming and sabotaging persons of whom they do not approve. No 9 person ever misses an opportunity to fuck with someone… anyone. 9 persons are incredibly insecure.
HRH Prince Michael of Kent 4/7/1942 Horse 4.2.9 = 6
Though these persons do not see themselves as being racially prejudiced – they simply are defending their way of life and how they perceive that their way of life ought to look – its makeup and exclusivity. Also possessed of 9, Frederick would have been much informed by his father’s worldview and perception of reality. All four persons being 9s, would willingly support William and Catherine, The Black Queen’s edict not to have to countenance blacks being deserving of being in their midst, indeed, being socially acceptable in their midst. The impact that this would have had on the royal households cannot be overlooked. This bold racist slight against Meghan, Duchess of Sussex would have left much of the royal householders at Kensington Palace feeling themselves fully entitled to be openly racist towards both Harry & Meghan. Without doubt, this toxic environment would be a significant factor for the Sussexes not to have moved in to the newly renovated apartment next-door at Kensington Palace to the Cambridges, rather they would end up setting up their household at Frogmore Cottage.
Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge 9/1/1982 Rooster 9.1.3 = 4
HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge 21/6/1982 Dog 3.9.2 = 5
Lord Frederick Windsor’s close friend, the future sovereign, William, the Duke of Cambridge is also – along with his wife, Catherine, The Black Queen – possessed of 9 in his numerological makeup. Above all else, William is noted to be a petty, fault-finding, toxic (like all 9s) intensely discriminating, stubborn man who is also inordinately dense and unaware.
HRH Prince Henry of Wales & Meghan Markle December, 2017.
Be that as it may, both the royal rota journalists and their racist hateful fans would readily conclude that in a bid to garner sympathy, Meghan actually presented the brooch to HRH Princess Michael of Kent and asked her to wear it to HM The Queen’s 2017 Buckingham Palace lunch, with the senior Kent princess not having any idea of the brooch’s racially offensive symbology. Indeed, both the print media and Meghan racist detractors have simply glossed over that pivotal episode, which signalled the declaration of a warring campaign of harassment, racism and bullying that would be focussed on both Henry & Meghan and coming chiefly from the Cambridges and all their cronies, the Kents and royal households alike.
TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge with HRH Prince Henry of Wales.
When was HRH Prince Henry ever reported to have been rude and disproving of Catherine Middleton because she was not a suitable spousal candidate for a royal and his much-loved brother?
William is carefully studied and great at slight of hand; at least, this is the case when he is making tightly choreographed appearances, which do not allow for moments of spontaneity. He enters, hands clasped, he makes a speech with a joke that displays the same saccharine, clipped laughter. In the above GIF, Catherine, The Black Queen, is seen brushing off her husband, the future sovereign, HRH Prince William. This quintessentially is the response of someone (Catherine, The Black Queen) possessed of a first number of 9. They are rude, dismissive and never mask their true feelings. William is truly beneath the thumb of his wife, Catherine, The Black Queen. Look at the way that William ducks down, neurotically rubs his arm and then looks to see if anyone has caught the behaviour, which clearly is never supposed to be observed beyond the walls of either Amner Hall or Kensington Palace.
Royal Wedding HRH Prince William & Catherine Middleton, 29.4.2011
Though there were multiple examples of William’s lack of awareness and his inability to mask his appalling lack of sophistication when in spontaneous live events, as at his wedding in April, 2011, a prime example of his behaviour on leaving Westminster Abbey with his new bride. At the second hour and 9th minute of the above video, [02.09.25] and the next two minutes William is totally self-absorbed and completely unaware of his new wife, Catherine, The Black Queen. He fidgets and is unable to properly put on his white gloves. Next, he gets into the Imperial State Landau and sits with his back to the horses; he, as it were, was sat such that his back potentially was to the crowds during procession. When finally he was directed aright by the footman, who knowingly looked at Pippa Middleton whose response validated that it was common knowledge that William is a fool, he then shifted to correctly sit, facing to the back of the horses. Naturally, totally unaware, he simply shifted from one seat to the other and remained seated as his new wife entered the landau. Selfishly, he is then observed shoving Catherine, The Black Queen‘s, beautiful Alexander McQueen gown out of the way and off his uniform.
Royal Wedding HRH Prince Henry & Meghan Markle, 18.5.2018.
At the fourth hour and 7th minute [04.07.00] of The Royal Wedding of HRH Prince Henry and Meghan Markle, Harry takes the time to speak to his new wife and then puts on his hat and gloves.
Windsor, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex 15/9/1984 London, England
Michael: This feisty fragment is a fifth-level mature warrior -– fourth life thereat – to his sixth-level mature brother, William. Henry is in the power mode with a goal of growth. A sceptic, he is in the moving part of intellectual centre.
Body type is Mars/Saturn.
Henry’s primary chief feature is arrogance and the secondary stubbornness.
The fragment Henry is first-cast in second cadence; he is a fragment of greater cadence three. Henry’s entity is one, cadre six, greater cadre 7, pod 418 – Henry is an entity mate of his paternal grandmother, HM Queen Elizabeth II.
Henry’s essence twin is a warrior and he has a scholar task companion.
Henry’s primary needs are: freedom, adventure and exchange.
There are 9 past-life associations with Arvin and 5 with Merlin. ___________________________________________
Henry, infinitely more aware than his brother, then gets into the Ascot Landau and does what his brother never did. Throughout, he remained standing in the Ascot landau, gave his new wife a hand inside then after she was comfortable sat, like a true gentleman, he then sat besides his wife. Their father, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales also did the honourable thing and stood whilst his new bride, Diana, Princess of Wales stepped into the Imperial State landau and was comfortably sat at the foot of the steps at St. Paul’s Cathedral one glorious July day in 1981 whilst I then lived in Winnipeg during my studies at the Royal Winnipeg Ballet’s school.
Duchess of Sussex, Endeavour Fund Awards 2020, Mansion House.
What Meghan possesses in spades is intellect and emotional intelligence, which eclipsed and served as so glaring a foil that Catherine, The Black Queen, would not have been human if she would not have felt threatened by Meghan. Unlike Catherine, The Black Queen & William, Meghan is a keen strategist because like her mother-in-law, Diana, Princess of Wales, she is an artisan soul. As Diana deftly illustrated during her interview with Martin Bashir, she was not an airhead and clueless lost soul as she was mistakenly perceived. This is not uncommon a response to artisans; however, what all artisans possess, is the ability to see through to the heart of anything and anyone. When you know the structure of anything, right down to the subatomic level, you can never be threatened by it.
Diana, Princess of Wales.
One of the most powerful women in the 20th century lets her mask down and reveals how deeply misunderstood she was. What you are looking at, is an artisan soul in essence, being fully lived in and fully in control. Diana, Princess of Wales was always three steps ahead of any of the sharks with whom she swam. The parallels between Diana and Meghan are not coincidental. Both women are artisan souls who whilst within the Firm were feared and great pressure was exerted to impede the progress of both feared women.
That there were no doubts that Meghan wanted to send a message as to who was the architect of the racist campaign against her and her husband, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex and also why she would choose never to have her black son brought up amongst such persons, is revealed by the choice made to announce their stepping back as senior royals; the announcement to step down as senior royals was done on the eve of Catherine, The Black Queen’s 38th birthday – thus, she sent a parting shot, making it perfectly obvious who needed to be wiped arse with on Meghan’s departure. Meghan is an infinitely more shrewd and complex artisan soul than was Diana, Princess of Wales. Meghan has master numbers of 11 – such persons will always leave their detractors dazed and unaware; they are visionary, bold and decisive… as is Meghan. Unlike Diana, Princess of Wales, Meghan did not feel that all she had was the comfort of the Firm; a self-made woman, Meghan knew that she could walk out the racially predatory and suffocating confines of the Cambridges’ court and not just survive but thrive.
Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge, The Black Queen.
Catherine, The Black Queen, is a scorned wife and a mousy, jealous, petty, small-minded boor, who was perfectly at ease with the blackamoor brooch being used. Catherine, The Black Queen’s husband, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge is moving centred. All such persons are inordinately high-sexed individuals. Not only are they physically active persons but they have a voraciously engaged sexual appetite. As a warrior, Catherine, The Black Queen, is amply able to fulfil such needs of her husband’s. Nonetheless, as a moving centred individual, who also happens to be both male and a scholar soul, it is virtually impossible for William not to have a roving eye and to act on those urges… always.
Catherine, The Black Queen’s behaviour on taking a seat, along with her task companion, that equally dense plank, William, at Westminster Abbey at the 2020 Commonwealth Day Service, betrays what a crass boor, the perpetually fake-grinning, inarticulate, mousy pretentious toff she truly is. Look at the Cambridges from the 6th through 9th minutes. They are clipped and William makes a point to mask Catherine as they take their seats so that Catherine, The Black Queen will not have to acknowledge Meghan. When sat, Catherine, The Black Queen makes a point of turning directly to speak with Sophie, the Countess of Wessex behind her whilst being sure to never look in the Sussexes’ direction.
What 21st century woman would go trotting out a pre-mid-twentieth century pram but an aspirant, insecure lower class Briton ever intent on impressing her overlords. Both of them, the Cambridges, are so frighteningly pretentious; just one look at that photograph and how possibly could Meghan not have been scoffed at by such starchy, uptight, mean-spirited perpetually fault-finding persons both numerologically possessed of 9. They, the Cambridges, were prepared to racially attack with their royal household gang of low-browed bigots, Harry’s wife as it was pure sport; it is always sport to racially prey on blacks. Indeed, how better to make that lazy broodmare, Catherine, The Black Queen have to work and go tour the predominantly black Commonwealth nations than by stepping down?
Look at William at the 04.00.00 mark on and his interactions with his father, whom he does not even realise, is embarrassed by his behaviour as before all the world’s 2 billion persons onlooking, he openly ridicules the preacher and by extension his brother, his brother’s new wife and her people and culture. This is the same little kiss-arse who ran to Israel to solemnly place his hand on a millennia-old wall, which no one on Haida Gwai could give a living shit about.
Windsor, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge 21/6/1982 London.
Michael: This fragment is sixth-level mature scholar – third life thereat. William is in the observation mode with a goal of acceptance. A pragmatist, he is in the intellectual part of moving centre.
Body type is Lunar/Mars/Saturn.
William’s primary chief feature is stubbornness – death of his mother, Diana, Princess of Wales, was the triggering event and the secondary arrogance.
The fragment William is third-cast in sixth cadence; he is a member of greater cadence seven. William’s entity is four, cadre one, greater cadre 6, pod 208.
William’s essence twin is a scholar and he has a warrior task companion to whom he is married, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge.
William’s primary needs are: exchange, freedom and security.
There are 6 past-life associations with Arvin and 3 with Merlin.
William lacks sophistication and by his every action, he betrays what a small-minded bigot he is and thereby reveals himself working in tandem with his task companion that listless Edward Gorey somnambulist of zero spontaneity, zero stage presence and who is incapable of speaking articulately, eloquently and convincingly. In short, Catherine is just someone who after having persevered and ingratiated her way well beyond her class, ended up being settled on when Cressida Bonas’ sister saw no winning hand in having to pass a life, babysitting a boor, adulterer… to say nothing of bore. All Catherine, The Black Queen is capable of doing, in her glaring emotional immaturity, is focus on working with children and early this and early that developmental mental health psycho twaddle all of which has positively nothing to do with frig all anything.
A family void spontaneity… always on… always staged. This on the heels of William’s latest adulterous dalliance. Both on either side of that path with the kids divided between them. What is Catherine, The Black Queen to do but be a saccharine, utterly transparent dolt in her response.
Both Diana, Princess of Wales and Meghan, Duchess of Sussex are artisan souls, who proved unfathomable women, women who proved too powerful to not be threatening. Look at them both, where did they get this power from? Where did they intend to use this power and why do they want for change? In the case of Diana, hers was a fairy story in which both the media and public were vastly invested. With Meghan, however, hers was a fairy story that simply could not be tolerated. In every way, the affront of a black duchess, a black royal simply had to be challenged at every turn, in every way… every day. Both the media and public were hellbent on invalidating, obstructing and destroying the marriage of Henry & Meghan, if alas they could not have prevented their wedding.
Windsor, Diana Princess of Wales July 1/1961<O>August 31/1997.
Michael: The fragment who was Diana Frances is a second-level mature artisan and was in the passion mode with a goal of acceptance, a pragmatist in the moving part of emotional centre.
She had a Lunar/Mercury body type.
Diana’s primary chief feature was stubbornness with a secondary, not of self-destruction but of self-deprecation.
Diana Frances was first-cast in her cadence and her cadence is fifth in the greater cadence. She is a member of entity one, cadre six, greater cadre 48, pod/node 380.
This fragment’s essence twin is a discarnate artisan and her task companion is a discarnate sage, both of whom are staying near her, waiting for her to become oriented to her situation.
Here we had an artisan with drama in her casting but also with a very deep need to serve both the common and the higher good, which she did with grace, charm and a good deal of conviction.
*These Michael Overleaves were channelled in early September, 1997 just after Diana’s death by Sarah J. Chambers who was part of the original Michael group and part of the composite Jessica Lansing in the Chelsea Quinn-Yarbro Michael Teachings books. END.
Michael: This fragment is a mid-cycle mature artisan in the tradition of the deceased mother-in-law fragment who was Diana, Princess of Wales — third life thereat. Meghan is in the observation mode with a goal of acceptance. An idealist, Meghan is in the moving part of emotional centre.
Meghan’s primary chief feature is self-deprecation and the secondary of mild impatience.
Meghan’s body type is Venus/Solar.
The fragment Meghan is fourth-cast in the fifth cadence. Meghan is a member of greater cadence four. Meghan is a member of entity one, cadre six, greater cadre 7, pod 418 — she is an entity mate of both her spouse, HRH Prince Henry of Wales with whom she shares 20 past lives and also an obvious entity mate of Her Majesty, The Queen.
Meghan’s essence twin is an artisan and the task companion a warrior.
Meghan’s three primary needs are: expression, acceptance and expansion.
There are 4 past-life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin.
Incidentally, this artisan has been a member of the British royal family twice before. Firstly, as Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond and Derby, she was the cousin of King Henry VI and mother of King Henry VII. As such, she was the matriarch of the House of Tudor. Her grandson was Henry VIII and her great-granddaughter, Queen Elizabeth I.
This artisan in that lifetime was involved in the sacraments of the church being included in the newly established college system. She founded Christ College, Cambridge and was instrumental with the founding of St. John’s College as well.
Secondly, she was HRH Prince Edward, Duke of York and Albany and younger brother to George III, whose father the Prince of Wales, HRH Prince Frederick died before ascending the throne after George II. In that lifetime, the artisan (now Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex) was interested in military structure. He, of course, died young of a then unknown illness but which had to do with dysentery.
Incidentally, in the current incarnation, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has suffered from gastroenteritis, which is related to the last-life health issues – this is the immediate past life and not that in 18th century when the artisan died aged 28.
Without reason, even when it was obvious that Diana was no saint, however, so strong was the investment in that fair story that both the media and public were prepared to turn a blind eye. Diana like every artisan was a shrewd strategist who was always three steps ahead of her enemy.
Diana was at war with Camilla Parker-Bowles – interestingly, the media never refer to the latter as such, yet going on a decade after her marriage, they continue referring to Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge as Kate Middleton, so strong is the need to be classist boors in British society – and unlike any royal bride before her, Diana aired her linen in public with the Andrew Morton 1992 biography. Only an artisan soul would have had the balls and vision to pull that off, knowing that by so doing, she would win public support.
Windsor, Camilla HRH Duchess of Cornwall 17/7/1947.
Michael: Yes, this scholar is at the mid-level of the mature soul cycle — third life thereat. Camilla is in caution mode with a goal of growth. A pragmatist, Camilla is in the moving part of intellectual centre.
Body type is Lunar/Venus.
Camilla‘s primary chief feature is impatience and the secondary arrogance.
The fragment Camilla is third-cast in sixth cadence; Camilla is a fragment of greater cadence seven. Camilla‘s entity is five, cadre six, greater cadre 7, pod 129.
Camilla’s essence twin is a scholar and the task companion is a warrior.
Camilla’s primary needs are: exchange, freedom and power.
There are 10 past-life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin. (July, 2017).
An older soul than Diana, Princess of Wales, Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall is better suited to be HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales’ spouse. In general, Warriors and Scholars make better companions and, of course, in such pairings, the warrior is always the dominant partner. This is why no matter how you cut it, Catherine, The Black Duchess is the dominant partner in the Cambridges’ marriage – they, of course, also happen to be task companions, which only adds more texture and complexity to their bond, which is rigid in terms of who gets into their inner circle – they both do have a primary chief feature of stubbornness.
The Cambridges in their every outing with Meghan and Harry wasted no time in telegraphing just exactly their displeasure at having her in their midst. Meghan was a welcome addition to the monarchy and the royal family as a senior royal for as HM The Queen saw it, in a Commonwealth whose member states are predominantly black, having a Commonwealth Youth Ambassador’s wife be black was a masterful move and one which would assure The Queen’s legacy as she comes to the end of her life. However, William and, more importantly, Catherine, The Black Queen could not give a damn; they are the imminent future of the monarchy and they do not care about Meghan or anyone who looks like Meghan. Again, this is a couple who have chosen not to tour any predominantly black Commonwealth nation since being wedded nine years ago. There is no such thing as happenstance. Both William and Catherine, The Black Queen have a chief feature of stubbornness and such persons never change and are never open to change or deviation from the norm and their position on any subject. They – persons with a primary chief feature of stubbornness – are difficult, intransigent persons and both the Cambridges’ 9s only add to their difficult nature.
In the Cambridge’s world, they want a realm that is Brahmanistic as per their worldview: Whites, Asians and blacks somewhere comfortably distant with the rest of the uncivilised teeming humanity. They are no different to the average white of their generation – they are alarmingly racist; however, their brand of racism is so sophisticated that one never ever discusses race. Why would they? That would be giving away the power enjoyed by those who thrive on racism. Their realm is mirrored by the teeming trolls who in the tens of thousands flock to tabloid online outlets to spew their vitriol at this fairy story that should never have been that they, the print media and the Cambridges will stop at nothing to nullify. Now that they have succeeded in banishing that black bitch from the realm, their current focus is on divorce watch.
At every turn that goddamn black bitch was to be lynched, unrelentingly vilified and ostracised in no uncertain terms. At the core of it all are the Cambridges, who have smugly, idly sat back and watched their scheme unfold. Of course, like HRH Prince Andrew, Duke of York, the Cambridges’ have failed to realise that they do not have absolute power to have things turn out as they would wish them to.
At their core, all racialised persons are cowards. Indeed, how cowardly have the Cambridges proven themselves as they have fled to Amner Hall yet try and remain relevant with these PR outings that only highlight the source of Catherine, The Black Queen’s grudge of Meghan. Listen to Catherine, The Black Queen speak; she is a weak, mousy, inarticulate bore who no doubt is bullied by the boor next to her for being such a dense, listless plank. Catherine, The Black Queen is as wooden as HM Queen Mary was a dour, starchy-looking, mean-spirited boor.
In two short years, the Cambridges managed to have reset the fairy story to better reflect their sense of what a fairy story should be. How like all the childless, spinster white females for whom the fairy story of being rescued by a prince, like Harry, the Cambridges had to wage war to restore order to the realm. Not only is it an attack on an individual; it is also an attack on an entire people. The Cambridges have decided that you do not belong; you are not welcome within upper echelons of the epitome of civilised, classist society.
If for a nanosecond you think that race has nothing to do with how Meghan was treated within the royal households, the print media and British society at large then you sadly have failed to realise that fairy stories are not real. The callous truth is that if HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex had taken a Jewish, East Indian, East Asian or Muslim wife, there is positively no way in high hell that such a wife would have been meted out the same treatment in general and especially in the print media’s tabloid cesspool as has so racially predatorily been meted out to Meghan… and Harry. There is no way, had Harry married a Jew, East Indian, East Asian or Muslim, that one would want to give offence to Jews, East Indians are way too favoured to be openly ridiculed and discriminated against and god only knows, the very real threat of retaliatory violence from radicalised Muslims, would have Britons making of such a marriage a fairy story like no other and proof that they were no longer a stuffy classist society; rather, as per a marriage by Harry to a Jew, East Indian, East Asian or Muslim, the United Kingdom was truly an inclusive, modern society.
After the blackamoor brooch incident, seven months earlier, you can bet that Meghan did not want that vile, flat-arsed woman, HRH Princess Michael of Kent, at her wedding. Clearly, though, she was overruled. Just imagine if Meghan were Jewish and HRH Princess Michael of Kent had shown up wearing a swastika to The Queen’s Christmas Lunch in 2017 at Buckingham Palace; there would have been outrage across the globe and there is positively no way that she would not have been banned from the wedding. Even if Meghan were to have objected to her presence, she would clearly have been overruled and was.
Much of the decision to step away, is due in part to the Cambridges; however, HM The Queen has to take some ownership of this turn of events. This has always been her MO. Perhaps, it is because she takes seriously her role as supreme governor of the Church of England; however, HM The Queen has one weak spot and it played out with the Sussexes treatment in the media as has previously occurred. The Queen simply does not become involved; instead, she would rather that things play themselves out.
Previously, this was the same response that Her Majesty employed during her sister, HRH Princess Margaret’s life when tormented by the politics of whom she had fallen in love with. Rather than get involved, The Queen was cold and resolute in not getting involved and letting the thing play itself out – much to the detriment of her own sister.
Again, with Diana, Princess of Wales, The Queen was cool, indifferent and just hung back and let the thing play itself out. There was a great deal that HM The Queen could have done; she could better have protected Diana, Princess of Wales when she clearly knew that the young bride was but a lamb to the slaughter – look at HM The Queen’s indifference to Earl Spencer on the carriage ride back from St. Paul’s Cathedral to Buckingham Palace after her heir had just wedded a woman whom she, HM The Queen, knew her son, HRH Prince Charles, Princes of Wales, did not love. Look at the HM The Queen riding back from St. Paul’s Cathedreal with Earl Spencer; she clearly could not have cared less about him and his soused babbling.
Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge, The Black Queen has been the architect of all this vicious vendetta against the Sussexes. Back in November 2016, HRH Prince Henry of Wales, released a scathing attack on the print media for their focussed agendum of vilifying, demonising and character assassinating his then finacée, Meghan Markle. Months later, in May 2017, though, it was an established fact that HRH Prince Henry was committed to and in love with Ms. Markle, Catherine, The Black Queen and her family banned Meghan from attending, Pippa Middleton’s marriage to James Matthews; Meghan was, however, permitted to attend the wedding reception. This act betrayed Catherine, The Black Queen’s petty, mean-spirited persona. She is possessed of a 9 energy body and like females with 9 energy body, Catherine, The Black Queen is possessed of a spiteful, malicious, sadistic disposition. Catherine, The Black Queen has always been the dominant partner in her marriage to the hapless, dolt, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, who is an emotionally juvenile, spiteful boor as a result of his parents’ loveless marriage and divorce; William has also never recovered from his mother’s death, which he considers murder. As with Catherine, The Black Queen’s rude dismissal of her husband, the future sovereign, during the taping of the BBC’s A Berry Royal Christmas in 2019, this woman, Catherine, The Black Queen, simply does not give a damn. She has had a tough go of it not being of aristocratic birth as with all past Queen Consorts; she suffered mightily in the cutthroat world of Britain’s rigid class system and damned if it did not leave her scarred and compensatorily arrogant, discriminating and a vulgar boor.
No matter how the print media try and paint this woman as elegant, stylish and the epitome of class – all of which are just non-too-veiled racialised language – she is an inarticulate, bland, sadistic boor who for being a warrior soul – in perseverance mode no less – would compete with Meghan or any other woman who married her brother-in-law. Even if HRH Prince Henry of Wales had wedded Cressida Bonas, Catherine, The Black Queen’s reaction to her would have been the same. Catherine, The Black Queen would have been less favoured by the public than blonde Cressida and for that, there would be nothing but misery meted out by Cressida by Catherine, The Black Queen behind the scenes. The fact that racism is so rife in classist Britain, gave Catherine, The Black Queen the upper hand against the threat of her brother-in-law’s wife.
Added to all that, Catherine, The Black Queena warrior – all warriors make the most formidable foes – is in perseverance mode, which means that she would stop at nothing to see that Meghan was literally driven out of the kingdom. It does not matter that like a disproportionate number of Caucasian persons born after the mid-1970s, Catherine, The Black Queen is averse to being around blacks, thus it would have been to Catherine, The Black Queen’s advantage as HM The Queen deemed having the black duchess, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex going on those Commonwealth tours to predominantly black Commonwealth nations which she, Catherine, The Black Queen, still cannot bring herself to undertaking. No matter how prejudicial HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge is, he is ruled by a wife who is more prejudicial and sadistic than he is. Anyone who intimately knows Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge would readily admit that hers is a bitchy, biting, sarcastic sense of humour that is given to being vengeful, mean-spirited and adversarial.
Here in the 02:14:00 minute mark Catherine, The Black Queen on her wedding day is supremely in control. Of one thing she is assured, she is now to be the mother of a future sovereign and in time Queen Mother. She has a confidence which befits her knowledge of her place in dynastic history but she also has a focus which betrays her being a warrior soul in perseverance mode.
From the 04:20:00 minute mark, Meghan proves a contrast and validation of her role in essence. As an artisan soul, she becomes almost manic-euphoric as her multiplicity of channels become engaged and she becomes caught up in fantasy merging with reality – the same artisan soul euphoria was evidenced as newlywedded Diana, Princess of Wales walked down the aisle at St. Paul’s Cathedral in July, 1981. A warrior would never do this and certainly, Catherine who had focussed on becoming Queen Consort for years and also a warrior in perseverance, was singly focussed on being poised, regal and glossily plastic.
By the time that Meghan came along, Catherine, The Black Queen had morphed into the unpleasant aspects of her nineness and comfortably secured in her role in history and within the Windsor dynasty as future Queen Consort and future Queen Mother to HRH Prince George – should William predecease her. Warrior souls compete with everyone and everything and where Catherine, The Black Queen is most admirable is as Sporty Kate. Her athleticism is truly admirable – I often wonder what she must be like racing on horseback. However, in all other areas of her life, she is surpassed by Meghan. Catherine, The Black Queen lacks the stage presence, she is inordinately inarticulate all by herself, to say nothing to being compared to trained thespian Meghan who excels at being centre stage. Meghan can command one’s attention where Catherine, The Black Queen never can.
Catherine, The Black Queen has a power which befits her role as a warrior in essence. Catherine, The Black Queen is supremely confident in the fact that not only is she a future Queen Consort, she also is very likely to be Queen Mother; this is a role which Camilla will never fulfil as she did not give birth to any blood royal child. Until Meghan came along, all that Catherine, The Black Queen had in the way of competition was Camilla – she who would never be mother of a future sovereign; indeed, where is the threat to Catherine, The Black Queen from Camilla? This awareness of her place and power had Catherine withdraw to the Middleton seat in Bucklebury, Berkshire rather than visit with her father-in-law HRH Prince Charles and his wife, Camilla with whom he has no heirs after HRH Prince George of Cambridge was born and for months thereafter.
Thus, Camilla is no threat to Catherine, The Black Queen. Indeed, both Camilla and Catherine, The Black Queen are comrades-in-arms as they both are solid, single-channel roles which preyed on artisan soul threats to their power. Artisan Diana, Princess of Wales was bullied and driven to divorce by Camilla, who considered Diana a nuisance and a threat. Similarly, Catherine, The Black Queen has considered Meghan, also an artisan soul like Diana, a threat to her power. What Diana & Meghan possess is the artisan’s inability to remain singly focussed on the task in hand. Also, both Diana & Meghan were/are emotionally centred artisan souls who would have found it virtually impossible to stay the course when subjected to the campaigns that each uniquely met in the way of Camilla and Diana, and now Meghan and Catherine, The Black Queen.
Look at Catherine, The Black Queen in action; she hangs back and says positively little to nothing, allowing Meghan to shine… or does Meghan actually shine? Of course, in the tradition of a nine energy-bodied female, she hangs back because in the tradition of being a snide, snarky passive-aggressive, condescending Caucasian who traditionally fault-finds, criticises and is negative in response to everything about someone black, Catherine, The Black Queen, knows that to hang back wins her favour throughout the realm. Catherine, The Black Queen, hangs back grinning like a Cheshire cat as she knows that she has the non-blacks of the realm in her palm; she knows that the more Meghan speaks, the more she will be resented. This is good for Catherine, The Black Queen because she simply cannot speak whilst sharing the same stage with Meghan; however, in a society and world where race is everything, Catherine, The Black Queen’s liability proves an asset.
True to her role in essence, warrior soul, for Catherine, The Black Queen, clothes are uniform. Indeed, the future Queen Consort, like the sovereign, is at the apex of the United Kingdom’s Armed Forces. With a chiefly Saturn body type, Catherine, The Black Queen, is tall, angular, steely and given to being power-focussed and competitive. Another reason where both Camilla and Catherine, The Black Queen were destined to succeed in their campaigns against their perceived biggest threats is seen in all four royal women’s body-types, their centreing plus primary needs.
Both Camilla & Diana though rivals had the same body types: Lunar/Venus; however, as they are very different soul types Diana (artisan), Camilla (scholar) their use of those energies, especially the lunar energy, would be markedly different. Catherine, The Black Queen is Saturn/Mercury/Venus body-type whereas Meghan is Venus/Solar body-type. For an artisan soul, this puts Meghan in a league stratospherically above and beyond Catherine, The Black Queen and she would always have greater mass appeal than Catherine, The Black Queen, as a result.
How could Catherine, The Black Queen, not be jealous of Meghan; moreover, what tempers that friction is that Catherine, The Black Queen, is focussed in the intellectual centre as compared to Meghan in the emotional centre. This is precisely why in her interview with ITV’s Tom Bradby, Meghan focussed on how she was feeling and how no one took the time to ask how she was doing? Both Camilla and Catherine, The Black Queen are focussed in the intellectual centre and similarly, as with Meghan, Diana was focussed in the emotional centre. Both Camilla and Catherine, The Black Queen would perceive their rivals, Diana and Meghan respectively as weak and a nuisance for being focussed in the emotional centre.
Not only is Catherine, The Black Queen, a warrior in perseverance mode, which is as devastating a foe as one can encounter, she also has power as one of her three primary needs. The woman is bad-ass maniacal when threatened and to top it off, she has a task companion, William her husband, who is moving centred. Everything she utters in her scheming pillow talk, like an attack dog en chaleur, William would unfailingly execute.
The Black Queen, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge with a nine energy body with primary need of power does cast quite a long sadistic shadow. Like Anna in V in the clip above, the Cambridges with their 9 numerological makeup, wanted not to have their dynasty diluted/sullied by the presence of Meghan; she is not fit to be within their realm. In her campaign to dispense with the threat of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, Catherine, The Black Queen, needed the obsequious sado-masochistic loyalty of persons, also numerologically possessed of 9, in the media.
Lady Colin Campbell 17.8.1949 Ox 8.7.3 = 9.
Pay close attention to minutes 1:14 through 2:05. Listen to that laugh; if that is not a likkle Trenchtown skekkle, I don’t know what is. So goddamn fake, you can almost smell the formaldehyde. More than that, like Thomas Markle Sr., TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge, HRH Prince Michael of Kent, Lord Frederick Windsor, the failed fluid-gendered, old bat has got that archly toxic and bigoted 9 in her makeup. She is no more aristocratic than the paucity of nacre sliding down her orangutan breasts are decidedly Poundland fare. A true pity that Lily Safra pulped the wrong work of fiction.
Piers Morgan 30.3.1965 Sheep 3.6.9 = 9 Double 9s.
Double the toxicity from the drunken, racist eunuch, who as can be expected, sees nothing remotely racist in his and other media Brits’ lynching of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. No matter how Piers et al try turning their stale piss into wine, Catherine, The Black Queen, has not found her voice – you cannot find what you never had to lose, is not the epitome of class, style and royalty. Catherine is The Black Queen, a paragon of 9 toxicity grown rabid with power; the media and Britons at large still have yet to address her rude dismissal of their future sovereign during BBC’s A Berry Royal Christmas.Catherine, The Black Queen, is, like Anna, the usurper Queen in the American TV series V – there can be but one queen and Diana her mother on the TV series V had to be slain. Just as these venal 9s in media refuse to expose or fixate on HRH Prince Andrew, Duke of York’s sexually predatory behaviour and paedophilia, is precisely why they have yet to expose Catherine, The Black Queen, for precisely what she is. Both the paedophile and racial predator are white; besides, perpetuating racial animus towards blacks is the most lucrative business venture in media.
Fact is, if Meghan were difficult and given to being a toxic diva, there would have been reports from ‘sources’ advantageously leaked, of course, by Catherine, The Black Queen, that Meghan refused to attend Pippa Middleton’s wedding because she was not a royal. Indeed, if Meghan were truly difficult, after having been excluded from the church ceremony, clearly by Catherine, The Black Queen, and by extension William, Meghan would then have insisted to Harry that she was not going to attend the reception – especially the reception of a non-royal. That is how a diva would have responded.
Nonetheless, in keeping with the media narrative, in collusion with the Cambridges, of vilifying, demonising and racially preying on the black duchess who does not belong, as soon as the royal wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex was concluded, the divorce watch was on – a media blitzkrieg against the Duchess of Sussex was begun with every effort made never ever to mention her race as Meghan, Duchess of Sussex fast became the most famous lynched black woman in history.
Well, there you have it. Go think twice if you believe that the Duke & Duchess of Sussex are going to be suffering for leaving the royal fold and being successfully driven out of Britain by Catherine, The Black Queen and her pussy-whipped dolt, William, in collusion with the royal households and the media spinning lies in place of the truth.
My first reaction on seeing this masterful portrait of Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge during my visit in 2017 to London’s National Portrait Gallery was visceral. Straight away, I was reminded of all the times to that point – once every weekend for at least the first 18 months after their marriage, you simply cannot capture everything on one viewing – that I had looked at the Royal Wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge and how much they rowed on the way back to Buckingham Palace during the imperial state landau carriage ride, as well as how utterly dismissive of him Catherine, The Black Queen, was whilst standing on the palace balcony. This portrait perfectly captures Catherine, The Black Queen’s false personality, her sadistic/Saturn body type and primary need for power. Most of all, this is the portrait of a woman whose first number – her energy body – is 9.
After having been successfully lynched in the British tabloid media, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge, The Black Queen went one better and made her point by having her place as mother of future sovereign, Queen Consort and future Queen mother solidified against the threat of the abundantly more popular Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Just as she had stood, grinning sarcastically at Royal Ascot sticking her tongue out whilst being regaled by senior royals, Catherine, The Black Queen had her campaign of banishing the otiose black threat magnified by tearing her arse in Meghan and Harry’s faces with the 2019 Queen’s Christmas message where the photos on display eclipsed and banished the Sussexes’ existence by including sovereigns and their direct heirs.
Alas, history is the most callous of whores and she is never economical with the truth. In time, history will reveal Catherine, The Black Queen as truly unsavoury fare, who was the architect of all that transpired in the Sussexes’ banishment from court. Actions ever betray the truth and it is not happenstance that Catherine, The Black Queen has refused to undertake a tour of any predominantly black Commonwealth nation 9 years into what is not the most loved up or blissful of royal marriages. Her 9 betrays her true nature. More than that, that Catherine, The Black Queen was not of aristocratic birth is precisely why this hideous racism has blossomed within the royal family, royal households and media. You most certainly cannot accuse aristocratic persons like Ashley & India Hicks of being racist boors as has episodically manifested with Catherine, The Black Queen being a warrior with need for power and the most powerful royal at court at present. More than any other royal, Catherine, The Black Queen, is the most powerful royal at present. HM The Queen is at the end of her reign. Charles has no power as his Queen Consort will never be loved as long as the memory of Diana, Princess of Wales survives. More than that, Camilla also has no power as she will never be Queen Mother and no issue of hers will ever be sovereign. William is weak, unaware and bullied by his wife, Catherine, The Black Queen. Catherine, The Black Queen is the most powerful royal, especially since she does have a primary need of power in dynastic Britain. When HM The Queen passes, Catherine, The Black Queen will set about cutting adrift the predominantly black Commonwealth nations with the same disregard as her campaign to banish the threat represented by the blackamoor brooch – Meghan, the self-made vastly more articulate, charismatic American outsider and black to boot.
Most of all, what Catherine, The Black Queen has unleashed with her grudging campaign against Meghan has taken on a life of its own, which as with HRH Prince Andrew, Duke of York, she could not have fathom. Catherine, The Black Queen, in collusion with William, the royal households, the tabloid media engaged in the deliciously indulgent game of racist bullying which has seen an explosion of racist attacks against the Sussexes and by extension the British Royal Family. This is not to be taken lightly and one of the chief reason for the Sussexes having removed themselves from the cesspool that is Britain is the very real threat that they faced for being in Britain. This all began with a scheming, jealous, bigoted nine-energy body insecure woman who has never fully gotten over her being not of aristocratic birth into a world where she now finds herself at the apex of power. Of course, just as with Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall who for causing Diana, Princess of Wales to experience sheer hell, Catherine, The Black Queen will also – for not being of aristocratic birth – always be insecure and Meghan’s ascendancy only heightened how woefully ill-equipped Catherine, The Black Queen ever will be. All of that was assured, when Catherine, The Black Queen chose to be racially predatory towards Meghan – by extension Harry and everyone else – thereby revealing her true nature to all who are not blind. History will be callously ruthless to Catherine, The Black Queen; indeed, how utterly prophetic Paul Emsley’s portrait of Catherine, The Black Queen has proven. Remarkably, that portrait will stand the test of time to best illumine the dark, sinister and sadistic persona which lies beneath the façade of Catherine, The Black Queen as she beguiles the blind in the here and now.
Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has the most masterful numbers. She does, indeed, have master numbers: 11. Look at those eyes, the eyes of Queen Mother, to HM King Henry VI, grandmother to HM King Henry VIII and great-grandmother to HM Queen Elizabeth I. She has staying power, thanks to those double 4s and with an attitude of 3, she is renowned for being most articulate and a skilled communicator of the message.
4 – focussed, solid, self-made, resolute, inner-directed, reincarnated with an agendum.
3 – attitude of 3 – gracious living, the great communicator, when one speaks others listen. There is only win-win, failure is never an option for these persons. Incidentally, Ben Mulroney is an attitude of 3, which is why he is a gracious interviewer – non-confrontational. Also, I have noticed that a lot of persons who planned a life in the public sphere tend to have 9 and 3 in their make up, as in both HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and his lovely wife, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge. Incidentally, these three persons, Ben and the Cambridges would have been very relaxed in each others company and true to her 9 energy body, Catherine would likely have made a dig at her husband along the lines, ‘He certainly has a great head of hair…’ As it is perfectly naturally for straight men to be attracted to each other, they would not be human if they did not, both men would have been pleasantly warmed by the other’s make-up with their similar 9 and 3. Catherine and Ben both are 9 energy body; they would have found each other more than passingly fascinating. Catherine is a warrior which means that she will always be steely; as for Ben, don’t know his overleaves but I am guessing that he is more so on the expression axis rather than not – an artisan or sage soul. In my experience, whereas 9 women can be extremely rude and dismissive, 9 men are reserved and not given to readily passing judgment.
There is also the matter of Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge being in perseverance mode, which is as unrelenting a foe as you can ever imagine, on top of which she is a warrior. This woman was born to be Queen Consort and that’s the end of that, there will be no Camilla rewriting the script. Interestingly enough, both Diana, Princess of Wales’ sons are wedded to very strong women – as well they should be. In both cases, both couples are entity mates, which is as good a partnering as one can hope for. Meghan, however, with double 4s and master number of 11 is here to rule as when previously she had as Queen Mother and Tudor dynasty matriarch.
Not only is 11 a master number but it also leaves all such persons lone wolves, regardless how popular they are. This explains why Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex will faster-than-a-sneeze dispense with persons when need be. And yes, she has every damn right to be done with the blasted dreck that do not know the meaning of family: honour, fealty, discretion. I am, where the master number 11 is concerned, just such a person… 2.1.8 = 11. Of course, like Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge that attitude of 1 means that I am more inclined to be shy and reserved than ‘on’. At least that was the rule when Merlin was incarnate and we were together. Now, more of the 11 comes to the fore and I simply give two-fucks and sound off loudly and most articulately.
Recently, owing to a host of prickly transits, to say nothing of the mercury retrograde, I have found myself beset with some entanglements that have provoked the less polished side of my Venus/Uranus conjunction. This all began around the time that I wrote the blog about that blasted tarbaby frog finally showing his true colours. I had no less than 8 French Canadians getting up in my business, demanding that I delete aforementioned blog and that these were the indiscretions of youth. Bitch please! After having lived in Montréal for seven years with the best task companion/comrade-in-arms an equally seventh level mature soul, though, she a warrior, we gave as good as we got. Of course, said warrior became my wife at Palais du Justice on Bob Marley’s birthday in 1999. Today, we remain the best of friends and she now he, has a fully beard than I have ever sported…. alas, I digress. A couple of weeks ago, I was being regaled by my sister who lives in Nevis about my mother’s cousin whose funeral it was that day. She died at age 107 and was attended by quite the turn out with le tout Nevis’ elites in tow. Though I have never met, her great-granddaughter was part of the descendants who eulogised the grand dame; that great-granddaughter was Mel B (Scary Spice) of Spice Girls fame. I have though several times met my fathers cousin, the inimitable and truly regal, Cicely Tyson, wife of Jazz genius, Miles Davis a man who did not gladly suffer people who hate him or his race…. as well he damn ought to have.
As I entered the little school in my neighbourhood, a spry spirit who always is good for a laugh, beamed on seeing me as he sat on his scooter with equally situated mates and inquired, “And who will you be voting for?” to which I shot back, “You can damn well bet it won’t be for no blasted motherfucking, cocksucking tarbaby-arsed frog!” raucous laughter peppered the air as I went in and voted conservative for the first time in my life. Enough of that sissy-arsed twat, who is nothing more than Modi’s pappishow with his displaced femme au foyer, fag-hag frau, Madame Plotte-Visage herself, who looks more and more each day like Tammy Faye Bakker. You don’t like black people… go fuck yourself… god only knows, you did not invent Jazz!
Days earlier en route home with my little suitcase in tow, I got up off the bench to take the Wellesley 94 bus eastbound to my art-filled lair. The bus pulled in and queerly parked such that the back door was a good three feet away – I have never seen the appeal of metric… nothing beats knowing whether you are dealing with 9.5 or 10.5 inches! Though my suitcase was too heavy, I was prepared to step off the platform to make for the rear doors, yet, the doors did not open. Finally, I joined the Dravidian male who had been waiting to board the rear doors as well. When I got to the front door, noisily pulling my suitcase, I looked up stunned as the doors slammed shut just as I was getting ready to board. The doors then opened after the driver looked at me with a smug smirk creasing her lizard-lipped face. I got in and as ever, I said thank you. As I progressed towards the double seats by the rear door, the bus suddenly broke, causing me to lurch forward. Taking it all in stride, I opted not to assume anything by this trio of events which most blacks would see after the third incident as being racially provocative. Up the couple of steps I got with my heavy suitcase; this only made me realise my advancing years as suddenly the urge to pee came on. I had switched from Bleu par Chanel a couple of years back when senior leak suddenly meant that after five minutes Bleu fades and gives way to god forbid that most malodourous of bouquets: loud-smelling, dribbled piss. Now it is Christian Dior’s Sauvage as the scent lingers and dissipates any provoked thoughts of raunchy water sports.
Having made my way to the back seat, there were all told less than a dozen souls on the bus. On arriving at the first stop from the station, the driver got up at Church Street. I thought that there must be someone wheelchair bound, trying to board, hence she got from her seat to assist. As I was otherwise engaged in thoughts libidinal and what I’d like to do with that burly mesomorph at work, whose woman just upped and left him, I remained focussed on artisan channels 3 to 5 instead. Just then, I noticed the bus driver step up the two steps and make it towards me, seated at the centre of the bus’ long back seat. Leaning her, her nasty-looking perm straight out of the 90s, she gruffly barked at me in a manner that suggested that couth had ever been foreign to her. “Look, everybody has bad days okay. There’s no need to swear at me.” I said nothing, looking instead past her as the thought occurred to me that the bus was being driven by duppy incarnate. Since my name ain’t Shaneequa, I remained calm and looked up at a face warped uglier by rage, which I also found uncomfortably too close. I was hemmed in. “Get off my bus or I call the police!” As I chose to say nothing or move a single muscle, she got even more incandescent with irrationally unprovoked rage, “That’s it get off my bus now, I’m calling the police!” As she turned to walk away, it gave a good look at her flat-arsed, no-calved god fugly hideousness and I got up and began making it for the bus’ front doors. As I slowly strode for the front doors, I expertly memorised her bus ID and every detail of slender hipped, extra-vertebrae-looking alien body and realised that she was likely trans; either way, just then a definite non sequitur. For once, I said nothing on exiting and as I really needed to pee, thought of hailing a cab when noticing another bus directly in back of the scene of my misadventure. I got aboard, said hello to the driver, a guapo Filipino and grabbed a seat on the even less populated bus. Also, I memorised the ID information associated with his bus. On exiting the bus, as per usual, I said thanks and exchanged pleasantries. As soon as I got situated at home, with Buster on my lap purring away, I took to the TTC’s site and chose the tab that allows for filing complaints. In exquisite detail, as well you are I shared what occurred and confidently knew that at no point would any of the bus’ cameras capture me saying anything to the female driver. She is, as per her contract, never to leave her seat nor confront a passenger. I have never seen her since.
Well in the grip of Mercury retrograde, I strolled into one of many little joints which I love frequenting as I like chatting with the proprietors and in the process, giving them my business. On close to a decade of frequenting this particular store, where I picked up a lottery ticket or two, my bike was leaning against the row of sugary treats, I turned just in time to see an old weathered hag out on Yonge Street beadily gawking in and cutting her hateful eyes at me. Possessed of some right afforded her by god only knows fuck-all whom – the blasted motherfuck, she bounded into the store, well into her ninth decade and looking and smelling of ill-health and poverty, “Get that goddamn bike outta here.” I was wearing my helmet with lights attached front and back in broad daylight as one does. Without so much as missing a beat, I launched into her with a ferocity, she likely had never before encountered, which is why she felt perfectly entitled to take such liberties. “Get your fucking ugly arse out of here, go the fuck to Wal-Mart make your way to the back of the store and tell them I sent you to put a down paying on your fucking casket as you are obviously too fucking poor to afford to die all this time…” Never having had her racially predatory behaviour challenged before, she stood there suddenly catatonic. “Go on, here you go, start that fucking down paying today…” with that, I tossed the few coins in my pocket at her feet and barged on in full throttle loud, vituperativeness. “Pick it the fuck up, high time your fucking ugly, broke arse and casket were lowered into the ground. Come in here opening your motherfucking lizard-lipped mouth, barking at me. Pick it the blasted motherfuck up and crawl the fuck in your casket.” She tried to weakly say something to which I kept up my defense against being racially preyed on, “Shut up and die, go on… scoot. There’s no need for your fuck-all ugly, broke arse, smelly cunt hanging around… get the fuck off the planet.” Never ever during a mercury retrograde will this venus-uranus leo hold his tongue when being racially preyed on. Faster than the loudest sneeze, I rammed my fist up her rotting arse, yanked and ripped at her calcified soul, pulled it out, wiped arse with it, then slapped her silly in the face before making her gag on a soul being held hostage by her useless maudlin existence. I have become so less inclined to tolerate this perpetual abuse which we as blacks endure on a daily basis yet pretend as though it does not exist. There are, though, times when you need to protest. Back in 1988 after meeting Wayne Robson’s firstborn, as I moved south down the west side of Bond Street to go visit Merlin at St. Michael’s Hospital who was suffering his first bout of AIDS-related pneumocystis, I screamed at the top of my lungs at an old Caucasian female who on noticing me began hurriedly crossing to the east side of Bond, “I don’t want your fucking handbag…” Never ceases to amaze the arsenal of behaviour that non-blacks project onto us as they get their racially predatory fix: sniffing, outright ridicule, dragging feet, yawning, bumping into you, blowing cigarette smoke in your direction… those are the passive racially predatory acts. More often, it is like that act in the convenience store, so racially obsessed that one feels oneself perfectly entitled to project that ignorance in a malicious, accusatory, bullying manner towards blacks. Indeed, ever notice the inordinate number of overweight blacks; they like all persons who were sexually preyed on in their early years more often than not develop eating disorders.
With Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s lynching daily in print media, social media and just about everywhere else, I have become increasing intolerant of any and all such BS. Do not because I am black start, apropos of fuck-all nothing, braying about how much you hate and can’t stand that Meghan bitch as if the blasted fuck these arsewipes know the woman. Out of the blue someone whom I thought had long made the only logical move viable to her sorry arse and crawled into her casket, called up trying for the nth time to get me to start today and join that pyramid scheme of hers for which she is ever travelling to some rah-rah seminar and on the cusp of getting rich yet still ain’t and needs you to join this very day; this, I can assure you, is about as appealing as trying to get me to bed some moneyed old fuck with a micro penis and bad breath. Nah… I’m all about the dharma.
Last summer everyone called up, demanding to know if I were not going to the Raptors championship parade. Hell no! Crowds you say… not happening. The day of the parade, I kept being called up by excited friends, asking me if I was watching and wasn’t it phenomenal. Very matter of factly, I declared to one, “When these fucking Goys do Yom Kippur, they certainly do know how to go all out.” Of course, after having explained myself days later at a dinner party, the point was well taken. This is a country with soft ethnic cleansing of blacks: negative immigration and population growth, a entrenched history of employment discrimination, which sees blacks being ghettoised in casual positions in the work place, especially at crown corporations (government-owned) – I have worked at two: Canada Post and the Toronto Convention Centre; in the case of the former, I arrived in Montréal from Vancouver to find myself the first full-time black in the work place; as fighting is nothing but foreplay in my books, I organised a lone Haitienne and got her to file a Human Rights complaint which she won. This resulted in back pay and all the mostly Haitian blacks awarded full-time and back pay where they had served as casual for 5, 10, 15 years. Naturally, the messenger/lightning rod always comes into someone cross-hairs. At one point, where they tried firing me the local union president told me to go to hell and go back to Canada; thus, I ventured into my firing interview with a lawyer in tow – had never happened before and was not then fired after multiple frantic calls to Ottawa to find out how to deal with him. Before being fired, that blasted porcine pequiste fucker decided to avail himself of my tax dollars by running in the federal election, thankfully he did not win but when he tried two years later, I wrote to Jack Layton who had frequented our Cabbagetown home in the 80s when we lived next door to a rather parvenu and highly snobbish Alfred Sung and informed Mr. Layton that if he did not withdraw that vile racist, my lawyer and I would go to the media and expose him – the letter of course was cced to all the other federal party leaders. In the end, the Bloc Quebecois thanked me for the letter and ran a black Haitienne in the riding from which the union head was summarily dropped and that Haitienne, Ms. Bardot won her seat, only to be replaced in Papineau riding by that blasted, racist tarbaby-arsed frog… but I digress. Two million persons cheering on black excellence when this is a country that actively eradicates any participation of blacks in its cultural fabric – hello JazzFM where you would be dismissed as stupid for thinking that Jazz is black culture. Sure, there are window-dressing blacks in the TV medium but they are not the norm. Not a single prominent Canadian protested and demanded that the vile racist politician resign when his blackface past emerged. Naturally, his people stridently argued in his defense. Would that these ungrateful fucks who hold the country to ransom would finally fuck off and leave. No one outside of Québec, who does not work in the government, is remotely bilingual. Seven years of living in Montréal made one thing perfectly clear: theirs, by its sheer ubiquity is nothing more than a northern confederate flag… and they certainly are possessed of unapologetic xenophobia. The only people deserving of having a party in the Canadian parliament, which not all Canadians can vote for, are the First Nations and Inuit peoples.
Back in late 1982 whilst Merlin and I held up in the Trockadero loft in Manhattan’s Chelsea on Sixth Avenue below 23rd Street, I got in one evening after looking at rehearsal of the Nanette Bearden Dance Company, to find Merlin having dinner and strategising with Jim Henson. As they shared the same agent, Joyce Ketay, they were prepping and throwing around ideas for how to thematically film the series, Fraggle Rock which would be shot in the coming new year in Toronto at CBC’s studios. Merlin had made his favourite dish a chicken paprikash which John Hirsch had taught him. Joining them, I dug in to what was my favourite of Merlin’s prepared meals. I will always remember Jim saying, “first you start with a compliment and then you hang back and listen, listen to what’s said but most of all, what is not said…” Sage advise that I have always followed. What I love about us artisan souls is that we always reveal our nature and the fact that we input on five channels whenever we speak. Listen to Naomi Campbell in her acceptance speech for the CFDA Icon Award. Straight out of left field in the tenth minute, she remarks, “God my lips are dry… sorry.” No other soul but an artisan soul would shift subjects so abruptly so seamlessly and carry on without so much as missing a beat. This quirk of ours, mine, Naomi, Meghan and every last artisan soul who has ever breathed, makes for a master tactician and someone not easily understood or shaken. With a destiny number that proves master numbers like Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, she is a 11 – she is a diamond through and through and why HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales refers to her as Tungsten.
As ever, life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!
Almost instantaneously, as the Moon transited Leo in my third house, my lungs besottedly drank the warm and dank, dark air. Thus I effortlessly drowned into sleep. Whilst wintry winds howled outside the window, this cold early Saturday morning – November 18, 1989 – my lucid focus seamlessly shifted into the dreamtime.
I readily knew that I was dreaming.
Here, just as moments earlier whilst awake and meditating, Merlin was uppermost in my thoughts. I could sense his presence. The shift from one dimension to the other was seamless. Lucidly self-aware, I was immediately come to in a dream that was set in the bedroom where I slept.
I was in bed with the artist Olaf Nordstrom – a source of loving support at present in the waking state. I was lying in bed, leaning on his bony chest, as he sat up in bed. It was obvious from his body language that he did not want to be in bed with me. I felt a still and quiet vibration to this dream. The moment was truly serene and peaceful. This was not a sexual or post-sexual interlude. We were both reflective. It was obvious that we were on the cusp of something momentous. It was the sort of vibration that signalled that something extraordinary was about to unfold.
Olaf behaved as if he was uncomfortable being there – it was a grave moment. He wanted to be there, however, to merely lend his support. It was obvious that he was wary of my clinging. Clinging, however, was not my intention. The moment together was brief – just a preparation for things to come. With that we parted. It was time to get up and participate in the events of whatever was to unfold.
This dream was possessed of inordinate lucidity; its every detail and nuance my faculties absorbed with acuity beyond the norm.
In the second dream, this cold Saturday morning, I found myself in the familiar territory of the Cabbagetown streets where we lived. I went into a store which does not exist in the waking state. It sat just south of the Pet Menagerie store, on the east side of Parliament Street, between Amelia and Winchester Streets.
It was a tailor’s shop that carried rather high-end fabrics. I was there to pick out some fabric because I had a definite idea of what I wanted to wear to Merlin’s funeral. I knew that the only way, to get the look that I wanted, was to make the outfit myself. The kindly, gracious salesman was trying to get me interested in a rather conservative plaid fabric but it simply was not to my liking. My aversion was not because it was plaid; rather, the tone was too sombre.
He was not insistent but let me know that it was appropriate. However, I would have none of it; I simply did not like the fabric or the colours. I simply was not going to have it. Unable to make up my mind and not wanting to make a decision about fabric, as there were so many ramifications to what it all meant, I left the store stepping into the light of day. It had been a very dimly lit, nicely wood-panelled, stately shop.
Once outside, I became acutely aware of Merlin. I was now returned to the yard of Cabbagetown’s 20 Amelia Street, where we lived, and Merlin was present with me. Thoughts of Merlin, on leaving the store, had me immediately posited in the front yard of 20 Amelia Street where I happily joined him. We were watering the lawn even though it was wintertime. Next door at 18 Amelia Street, where at this point Club Monaco designer Alfred Sung no longer lived, there were lots of potted plants hanging from the lone, purple-leaved, sugar maple tree.
Merlin was telling me to water the plants. He then began telling me, rather matter-of-factly, that I had to start taking care of the apartment – I had to make it a home again. Merlin asked me to start preparing things. He meant that this was not the time for procrastination. Of course, moments earlier in the prior dream, I had been procrastinating when down on Parliament Street to pick out fabrics to wear to his funeral. By avoiding the matter altogether, I had chosen instead to forego the purchase. As Merlin spoke to me, I became so aware of him that I completely became self-aware – both in the dream and in my sleep whilst in bed at 20 Amelia Street.
I was standing there very intently looking at Merlin. He, too, was very intently looking at me. Whilst we were unflinchingly looking into each other, I thought aloud with quiet resignation, ‘Merlin has died.’
I knew, too, that Merlin had heard my thoughts in the dream.
At that moment my sister Pandora da Braga, with whom Merlin enjoyed the best relations of anyone else in my life, suddenly became a presence in the dream. She never fully became physically manifested but her energies became overwhelmingly strong. Her energies were just to my rear as she played a loving and supportive role.
Suddenly, introspectively, I recalled a dream which I had had earlier in the week. With everything moving so quickly, in the waking state – with little time to collect my thoughts, let alone overlong time to record any dreams- it had slipped by unrecalled on awakening. However, now it was not merely being recalled, it was being relived in its entirety. I stood there and as I recalled the dream, rather seamlessly, I actually entered the dream which was being reanimated as it was being holographically recalled.
Within the reanimated dream being recalled and relived, I was again on the lawn at 20 Amelia Street in the warmth of the Sun’s rays. Just as in today’s dream, I was on the front lawn facing due north and the house with 18 Amelia Street on the left to the west. As Merlin and I were visiting in the outer dream of today, I had turned my body. Being in the same physical position had triggered the recall and reanimation of the dream from the past week.
To my left, I saw an incredibly ancient-looking, wise being who progressed across the lawn. The slowness of his progression was so measured that one’s experience of time, in the reanimated and recalled dream, progressed outside of time itself. It was simply magical to experience the progression of the very ancient and mystical being. The millennia-ancient figure progressed across the lawn, of 18 Amelia Street, heading towards our home at 20 Amelia Street. The being was male and small in stature; he was hobbit-like. His head was large, disproportionately large, compared to his tiny, frail-bodied frame.
He could not have been more than four feet tall. His head was absolutely massive. His forehead arched up and was high like an African’s. Too, his head was elongated in the back, reminiscent of Pharaoh Akhenaten’s skull. More striking than the majesty with which the august being progressed outdoors, towards our home at 20 Amelia Street, was the look of his face.
It was simply magical. From beneath the translucent skin, soft yellow-white light escaped revealing his very visible aura. Nothing but pure love, along with the same nonjudgmental look that ever peered back from Merlin’s eyes to mine, radiated from this being. The love radiating from the being towards me was awesome, immense – intense. The great being’s progress was purposeful. He was on a mission; he was unstoppable. The process had begun.
I was struck by the uncanny resemblance, which the face of this being bore, to the planet-being in the skies of Sandy Point, St. Kitts in a momentous dream during September 1983. It was a dream whose potency and beauty would lay unfathomable for years to come. The being progressed as though levitating mere millimetres above the rather zingy, extra-green grass of the lawns at both 18 and 20 Amelia Street. Though he did not pause as he progressed, the radiant being did turn and look at me. As though he was familiar with me, he acknowledged me by slightly nodding. However, he continued on towards our home.
He moved past me as I stood there, still and silent, drinking in the majesty of the experience. At soul-centre we were familiar to each other. I knew him. He knew me. I stood, alone and awestruck, in the front yard being refamiliarised by the vibration of his beauty as the effect of his potent powers spatially affected the dream. As he moved past, I was reminded of the film The Dark Crystal, by Jim Henson – with whom Merlin had worked, directing two episodes of the Fraggle Rock television series in its inaugural season. This movie would for several months, after we saw it together in New York City, be our favourite film.
Thereafter for several weeks, whenever we looked at each other – even when not being intimate, we had hummed at each other as the rival beings in the film did when communicating. The being here was much like the good beings in the Jim Henson film The Dark Crystal. The being progressed up the few stone steps, to the wooden veranda at 20 Amelia Street, and began making his way inside the house. As I watched him ascend, from the lawn to the veranda, it was clear to me that he was levitating. Though it was a dream and I too could have levitated and flown, he though had a power which surpassed mine.
This august-souled, mystical being clearly originated from a dimension which vibrationally and spiritually was of a higher plane than the astral, where the dream occurred, and the physical in which I am incarnate. Indeed, the same physical plane from which Merlin was rapidly taking his leave – it was that discernible. The moment the mystical being entered our home, being lost to view, I came to from the inner holographic dream which was a recall and reanimation of a dream that I had experienced within the last week. As I came to, I was about to go indoors to see what had become of the being that had clearly entered our home.
It was then, having returned to being fully focussed in the outer ‘shell’ dream of today November 18, 1989, that I saw Merlin anew. He was standing at the front door looking out at me. I stood there, in the front yard, transfixed whilst the bright daylight bathed my body throughout. The look on Merlin’s face was purely transcendent. He was perfectly still and perfectly radiant. Merlin stood in the midst of a nimbus of dazzling, blue-white light. As he lovingly glowed out at me, this splendid light only intensified.
Merlin was transformed and as his face lovingly lit up, at me, the light grew to more completely envelop his body. Whilst lovingly glowing at me with the warmest, most familiar knowing smile, Merlin slowly brought his right hand up with the palm facing me and more completely smiled. The radiance of his smile soon became lost in the glow of his aura’s light. The nimbus, enveloping his transformed body, radiated even more intensely at that point.
I was blown away. Arrested, I readily knew what I was experiencing; I could feel it. I knew that across dimensions, in the waking state, Merlin had just died.
However, as is my wont, I protested. I dropped the hose which was still bleeding its nurturing water onto the frozen, wintry lawn at my feet. I stood – paralysed. Determinedly, I then bolted for Merlin. I headed up to the veranda as my lover, as my mentor, as my friend stood transcendent in the doorway to what had been the most beautiful sense of home ever experienced. “Merlin!” shrieking in protest, I yelled out his name.
(Detail of oil on canvas by my sister Pandora of Toronto’s Mount Pleasant Cemetery where Merlin is buried.)
Suddenly, the thunder of my protesting breath abruptly drew me from sleep. I sat upright in bed, my arms outstretched and beyond, after having crashed back into my body and no longer astral-projected. From the foot of the bed both cats – Zora and Whoopi – knowingly, silently looked up. I was arrested by the frozen horror-struck face staring at me from the mirrored closet doors across the room.
In the near-darkness of the bedroom, a few rays of early morning light made it past the blood-red, velvet drapes heavily hung at the windows. Those rays starkly cast light on how horribly desolate my life now was. Merlin was gone. His spirit had taken leave from this world. It was that discernible as my world, my very universe, had experienced a massive vibrational shift.
I had been abruptly displaced from the astral plane. I had been lucidly dreaming a dream within a dream. I was being told so long as Merlin, transitioned from incarnate to astral plane habitué, bade farewell to our magically glorious union on the physical plane. I was heartened by the peace and knowingness in his transcendent face because I knew that it was a, “See you soon…” parting, for now.
I knew that there would be dreams aplenty up ahead. Just as he had pledged, he would magically weave in his indelible promise to me, before departing from the physical plane. There was such a cold silence, a stinging finality to the moment, as I sat there in bed. After having looked back at myself, silently waiting, I placed a call to the eighth storey nursing station at Wellesley Hospital.
I was immediately aware that the tone of the nurses, with whom I was by now long-familiar, had changed. In very little time, it was official… Merlin had indeed passed. Truth be told, it was not a surprise; I could sense it on awaking. He simply was not there. As always, I had reached out to sense him on awaking – his energies – just blocks away at Wellesley Hospital. Now, there was nothing.
Then, as if needing further proof, I thought about Merlin calling each morning. He would do so, to lovingly say hello and thereby, to lovingly wake me up. Merlin would then lovingly ask for a call-back, after I had audio-recorded the dreams. Merlin had, thus far, not called. Once again, I saw the stillness of my reflection across the room. I knew then, really knew… Merlin was gone.
Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall. HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales. Doria Ragland. HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor, Earl Dumbarton. Jane, Baroness Fellowes. Lady Sarah McCorquodale. HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge. Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge.
As I stated to a dear friend, “Doria is all the Queen they need in that photograph!” Not for a second do I buy the notion that HM The Queen stayed away because, when it is all said and done, she does not approve of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. Her Majesty also did not attend HRH Prince Louis of Cambridge’s christening last year.
It is so immensely satisfying to see HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex matured into fatherhood and his numerological double-sixthness is validated by his open warmth, love and protective care of both his wife and his beautiful baby boy.
Archie, a seventh-level mature priest soul; he is infinitely more evolved than either his parents, or the Cambridge’s for that matter. He is, though, the same soul age as his paternal grandfather, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, however, Charles is a seventh-level warrior to exalted role priest, Archie. This man is going to perform a rather dynamic role within the history of the House of Windsor.
Much has been said about Prince William’s demeanour in this portrait. Without doubt, both the Cambridges attended Archie’s christening with an agendum of their own. I don’t know if William put his wife up to her power play but I do know this, it was decidedly vile and you can bet your bottom dollar that none of this went unnoticed, nor for that matter will it go unchallenged by Meghan – she who was Margaret Beaufort in a past life.
So, William threw shade. Quelle surprise ça. William does as William does. Born on the summer solstice of 1982, he has a geniture that is most unique; it comes with an intense stellium. That is not necessarily a good thing; with so many planets closely concentrated, this gives him a tendency towards short-sightedness and in his position as future Prince of Wales, he takes very seriously his role as future king and acts autocratically at every turn. He did not invite his aunts to the christenings of any of his three children. William did not invite, Sarah, Duchess of York to his wedding. After the birth of his firstborn, he decamped at the Middletons in Bucklebury and avoided his father, the future king. As with most people with a numerological attitude of 9, which is the hardest number to master, he does things more often than not for spite.
Of course, he could not be more different to his brother, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex who is born in the year of the rat, like his father and his paternal great-grandmother, Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother. Rats, I am one, are deeply loyal and will always be inclusive of family to the point of appearing sentimental. This would be especially pronounced in a rat like Harry who is a warrior soul and such souls are deeply loyal. So, too, is HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales a warrior soul and also, HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh a mature warrior born in the year of the rooster like Meghan. Warriors forget nothing and do not readily forgive insults – a pity William in his myopic blissfulness remains unaware of this.
Saturday, for Archie’s christening, true to his warrior/rat spirit, Harry had his beloved mum’s sisters present at the christening just as Jane, Baroness Fellowes read scripture at his beautiful, historic wedding to Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. Every rat would do exactly the same. Well there were TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge smugly telegraphing their ennui for all the world to see. As a warrior soul, I would not have expected such a gutter snipe move on Catherine’s part on Saturday.
As this was Harry’s firstborn’s christening and he was so deeply bonded to his mum, Catherine who had never worn those earrings of Diana, Princess of Wales’, to any of her three children’s christening, rather than loaning the earrings to Meghan by way of affording them to Harry so that his lovely wife could wear them as they would mean so much to Harry as his mother had worn them for his christening, instead, there sat Catherine feigning hauteur whilst smugly smiling to those in the know. Indeed, this was Catherine’s star turn, which was just as vile as HRH Princess Michael of Kent’s infamous blackamoor brooch outing in December, 2017.
Positively nothing that these courtiers do is happenstance. In essence, in wearing those earring of Diana, Princess of Wales’, which she had worn to Harry’s – and William’s for that matter – christening, Catherine was in effect saying to Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, as much as Harry would like for you to have them, seeing as you are straight outta Compton, there is no guarantee that you’ll return them. No matter, as long as I wear them, Diana’s spirit will be present. This was a very cruel and low blow and not the sort of dirty pool that warrior souls engage in. I am betting that William put his wife up to it; however, as Catherine’s right eye has become increasingly pained and umbraed in the past few years, she is clearly deeply stressed by the pressures of being married to William, who also happens to be her task companion. Notice the way that Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge wears her hair at Archie’s christening; the high headband, with the hair fully pulled back and the headband ruby-coloured to best set off the pearl earrings, worn by Diana, Princess of Wales at her sons’ christenings. With the headband, there is no chance of Catherine luscious main covering the pearl earrings, the choice of which are to telegraph much to those courtiers in the know.
Catherine’s right eye since HRH Prince George of Cambridge’s christening in 2013, has become pained, saddened and distant. I also suspect that she may have become anorexic from the stress of being wedded to William who as a scholar soul is void emotional depth and can be expected to be keenly spiteful.
In this clip for William’s christening, at the five second mark, Diana, Princess of Wales turns to the left to look and speak to Charles who wanted to mop up William’s dribbling and it is then that you see that Diana is wearing the same earring. It is not lost on me that clearly Diana is being rude to Charles when he offers to wipe away the dribble. Of course, William was christened on August 4, 1982; it was Charles’ beloved grandmother’s 82 birthday, which is precisely the sort of gift that a rat would present his much loved family member. Ironically enough, on that day, it was Prince Charles’ future daughter-in-law’s first birthday, the admired and adored Tungsten.
At all three christenings for her adorable children, Catherine did not wear those earrings of Diana, Princess of Wales’. I am sure that if she wanted to, William would have decided against it as there is nothing sentimental about him and scholars by their nature are not given to being sentimental. Three different earrings for all three children’s christenings. I think that it would have been especially cruel if Meghan had thought to ask her husband, Prince Harry to request those pearl earrings that Diana wore to his christening, only to have William veto the request then turn around and have his wife parade them at the christening – this of course would play beautifully to those courtiers like the Michaels of Kent et famille; it is precisely the sort of petty spitefulness that would have made Meghan put her foot down and insist that they relocate to Frogmore Cottage and away from the vipers’ nest that Kensington Palace so clearly had become for the Sussexes.
Of course, wearing the earrings would be seen as further rejection, coming so close on the heels of the disbanding of the Royal Foundation. Not to worry, as an American and Black American, you can bet your bottom dollar the very shrewdly canny Tungsten will have a rebuttal. Besides, who is Catherine to Meghan, she is a mousy little thing, who did not walk the aisle at her wedding alone; indeed, how Meghan must sniff and look sideways from beneath raised, bored brows every time Catherine has to go gag on a mic as William pushes her to be more relevant and not be eclipsed by the Compton interloper. As for William, Meghan is likely little bothered by a petulant, spiteful man-child, who has to be told not to sit with his back to the horses on entering the open landau on his wedding day.
Just as including his aunts, Harry would have thought to have his wife wear the earrings that his beloved mum wore to his christening. This is the sort of warrior/rat thoughtfulness that saw Prince Charles salute his beloved grandmother – another rat, though, a second-level mature slave soul – by having his firstborn christened on her 82nd birthday.
HM King Henry VIII’s ruthlessness was the result of having been mentored and much loved by his grandmother, Margaret Beaufort – Matriarch of the Tudor Dynasty… kingmaker. Well, that soul who was then Margaret Beaufort is back and did not return to be anyone’s pushover, as her entrance unaccompanied at her wedding in May, 2018 demonstrated. A mean-spirited move, it most definitely was on the part of both William and Catherine by having Catherine wear earrings, which I am almost certain, Harry would have requested of them that his mother’s pearl earrings be loaned to his wife as a continuation of that rat/warrior reference and homage to both history and his beloved mum. Naturally, such a request would have been a perfect opportunity for William to have been callously spiteful as he has proven time and again with others – Sarah, Duchess of York, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, his father.
Naturally, the media did not portray Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge as having been duplicitous by having worn the earrings that Diana, Princess of Wales wore to Harry’s christening. Why on earth had it never occurred to Catherine to wear those earrings to any of her children’s christenings? Just imagine if Meghan had done any such thing, it would have garnered an excessive response of outrage on the online tabloid portals with their legions of bigoted trolls.
Indeed, lynching Meghan is now big business, just imagine, even that Trenchtown jagabat came yammering that can’t-shake mid-Atlantic accent of hers as she opined on both Meghan and Diana, Princess of Wales. Running off at the mouth as though she knew Diana, Princess of Wales. Would that she would just shut up and crawl into her casket… I want a damn good return on that godawful, and justly pulped, ode to specious slander – a copy of which sits in my library, awaiting her exit. She no more knew Diana, Princess of Wales than she does or ever will know Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.
At the end of the day, the real masterpiece, worth more than a gaggle of Vermeers, is the product of the love that Harry and Meghan share; it has resulted in the most beautiful baby boy, Archie, the Earl Dumbarton.
After having pored through an interesting OperaCanada article that featured the opera Otello’s lead, Russell Thomas, and a predictably snide review in The Star – look there is no black lobby in Canada, so one can always be expected to be as curt and dismissive of blacks at every turn; this is after all the culture where the obsession with Jazz is almost as fever-pitched as the predatory late-night runs of Klansmen with nooses at the ready – I comfortably settled into my usual ring three seat, next to trusty Lucian Mann-Chomedy and warmly awaited the magic that is theatre to unfold.
After a month that was not soon revisited, my mind was at times distracted by the dreck that one must at times endure in order to get by. I thought of the heaviness in the air that the subject matter of the opera addressed; the quartet of retired ladies who usually chat about who has taken ill, moved to hospice or died since last they gathered, did a lot of coughing, sniffing and whispering. And as these things are as predictable as flies on shit, sure enough, I heard one of them whisper, “Meghan Markle.” Will these people ever just leave the damn woman alone and stop hunting her at every opportunity?
Otello, Verdi’s take on Shakespeare’s take on race relations did also from the row of retired and widowed ladies spirit the whisper of O. J. Simpson’s name. Some things just never change… alas. Indeed, at some moments as I looked at Otello onstage, I began to realise how we as a people are stigmatised and stereotypically projected onto. I soon got greater insight to why Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is so reviled. Objectified, she as a black woman was only ever to have been nothing more than a bit of rough, a tryst.
Naturally, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex with his double sixness is seen as being readily taken advantage of and needed to be protected against the lascivious bit of rough who clearly conned her way into the royal family. Born September 15, 1984, Henry born in the year of the rat has quite beautifully empathetic, compassionate numbers and with his double sixness is given to OCD behaviour as displayed by his need to fidget with his clothing – right hand inside his jacket et al. Six people are awesome beings and Henry, a double six, is no exception. 15.9.1984 = 6.6.1 = 4.
With Otello, this projection of the black male as emotionally volatile, violent, easily manipulated has certainly proven an archetype that fits blind fools like Tiger Woods and O. J. Simpson to the letter. Either way, it was uncomfortable to watch this production in places as it so mirrored the warped perception of a people by persons who question our humanity and who never seem able to perceive us beyond their generationally custodial perception of a people.
Be that as it may, I so hungered to be removed from the morass through which I recently waded at the end of which, I dismissively remarked of yet another power-mad woman in the work place: “She certainly doesn’t look like a fucking horse for no good reason… Oh please, it’s just a matter of time before she rots the fuck in hell, eating every pope’s arse!” If you cannot take offence then don’t damn well give offence… Honest to god, some women in the work place are nothing but dickless faggots addicted to creating drama for the sheer sport of it and simply because they are just so drunk with power… to say nothing of being bored out of their frigging minds. Well, like a bowel movement, it did not take too long for me to sniff, flush and walk the fuck away from the BS,
This Desdemona was an earthy, warm, beautifully soulful portrayal of a wronged woman, a woman dominated by an insecure and deceived man. This production was a beautiful sweeping affair; I especially loved the dark broody look of the sets that captured the essence of the human condition portrayed. Indeed, it proved a good elixir after all the dross that I had recently endured in the work place.
During Otello’s intermission, I received a forwarded Instagram post from an old dancer friend, which he labelled #everythingwasbeautifulattheballet. Of course, it was a direct response to my last blog, which highlighted the intense isolation and racial animus that I experienced for two god fuck-all maudlin years in Winnipeg. Yes, indeed, the world of art is saturated with lisping, bottom-feeding, small ‘b’ bigoted boors who see positively nothing remotely gauche about this sort of fare well into the 21st century.
On yet another too cold, rainy day, which proved all too reminiscent of Vancouver, I abandoned my art-filled lair in search of more inspiration the day after the opera. I cannot quite recall a season in recent memory that has proven both so cold and rainy as this protracted winter.
That’s right, the day before attending Otello, there was a break in the perpetual rains that gave way to snow and hail… truly, the dog days of summer cannot get here fast enough. As more of the city’s 19th century streetcar tracks were being ripped up and replaced so that the racket that is the TTC outdoor workers and the local constabulary can make a killing in overtime, it took close to 40 minutes on a bus for me and my fuck du jour to get from Yonge and Dundas to Dundas and McCaul.
My date, a lissom twenty-something with smoky hazel eyes, which were vaguely reminiscent of Merlin’s, was good company. I had for the past several hours pummelled his prostate as his daddy issues were satisfied and my angst from work place tensions were nicely dispensed with. We men when in our 20s can be so alarmingly insecure; I have often wondered how Merlin managed to stay with me during those angst-ridden and redundantly solipsistic years.
My date on exiting the Yayoi Kusama Infinity Room expressed chagrin at not having done magic mushrooms before leaving my place where incense and Jazz magically perfumed the air, intoxicating our spirits as we riotously fucked our way out of winter’s gnawing frigidity.
Without question, no trip to the AGO is completely inspiring without a visit to the galleries where the stellar art of Inuit artists are housed. There are some real masterpieces in the AGO collection.
As it was the tail end of this exhibition and I still had not visited, I simply had to make it there. Whilst walking along the long corridor to the start of the exhibition my fey-eyed beauty suggested that we take a break and go make out in a stall in the washrooms. Fingers interlaced, I assured him that there was better intimacy to be had the sooner we got through the exhibition and hightailed it back to my place by Uber.
To my very discriminating eye, the moment I saw this verbose title, I fully expected to observe a show that was curated by too much extraneous fare and not enough impressionist art. Tumescent and impatient, I had no time for reading, reading and reading more yada yada, all of which was to compensate for the lack of genuine, to say nothing of quality, impressionist art. Just as well, I was growing achingly moist by the minute as both my energetic ectomorph and I hungered to be carnally consumed with each other… yet again.
This marvellous bronze fully captivated me; it would prove my favourite piece in the shoddily curated exhibition.
Highlights from a rather underwhelming show.
Detail featuring two of the most beautiful creatures. Their depiction is not the most masterfully executed but there is something rapturous about the look of the dogs as they ambled with their human companions on a journey which they had taken countless times before that made me stop and gaze overlong whilst being truly inspired.
Detail of what for me proved sheer magnificence… the lighting is phenomenally executed.
A masterpiece to be sure; however, where it was hung and the palette of the salon were decidedly inappropriate. This was all I needed to see to finally wink the left eye at my horny power bottom and to speed home by Uber in the rain for noisy, exhausting, passionate play.