The Black Queen: Racism and the British Royals.

Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge: The Black Queen |

 

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.

 

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Windsor, Meghan HRH Duchess of Sussex 4/8/1981

 

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.  

 

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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).

 

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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 02:07:00 through 02:10:00 minutes, HM The Queen clearly could not have cared less about the Earl Spencer.

 

 

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 a 9 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 aristocratic by 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 Queen a 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 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.

 

Anna the protagonist of the TV series V is a perfect embodiment of Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge: The Black Queen’s true persona.

 

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.

 

Catherine, The Black Queen: Warrior, perseverance, power, intellectual centre.

 

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.

 

James Matthews, Pippa Middleton & Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge
Piappa Middleton 6/9/1983 Pig 6.6.9 = 3.

 

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.

 

Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge Oil on Canvas Paul Emsley National Portrait Gallery. The Back Queen perfectly captured.

 

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.

 

The Five Sovereigns Portrait: HM The Queen, HM King George VI, future sovereigns, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge & HRH Prince George of Cambridge.

 

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.

 

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Please visit my other site: https://theblackduchess.com/

 

©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Beautifully Breathtaking…

Ringgold-Early-Works-25-Self-Portrait-opt

Self-Portrait

Oil on Canvas

50 x 40 in

1962 Faith Ringgold

http://www.faithringgold.com

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©2013-2020. Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

Poetry Most Rare: A Rose Like No Other.

Bubble Nebula

As the dreams of Merlin after his passing betray, our relationship endured beyond dimensions.  This enduring love allowed my growth to continue.  This love allowed me to become immensely enriched for having known Merlin.  This dream betrays the continued spiritual growth that I experienced.  This growth was much enhanced for having known and loved Merlin, before meeting him, during our seven-year relationship and after his passing. 

The dream occurred, on Tuesday, September 22, 1992, whilst the Moon transited both Leo and my third house.  At the time of this dream, I was visiting Pandora in Paris.  On this trip to Paris, I would meet the delightful Louka Duplessis.  Clearly, the dream touched on past life experiences in France but, more importantly, it reflected my spiritual maturation during the course of this lifetime.  The dream chronicles my ascension to new plateaux spiritually as mirrored in the dreamtime. 

The dream in question also occurred in the ‘B’ or second sleep phase that day.  Too, it was the second of four dreams that day. 

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I was staying in this old building.  It was a normal six-storeyed, Parisian pied-à-terre.  The windows across the way were naked of any drapes.  The window, from which I looked, allowed me a view into the third storey windows across the street.  There was no fencing between the properties and both buildings were fairly close.  It was an old building and it was situated in the rear of the property.  I was two storeys higher up whilst looking down at this guy.  He was mesomorphic, developed and swarthy.  He was definitely of North African descent.  

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This man was head of the household guard of the limestone mansion.  This mansion was not unlike the one I passed by, last night – that is, in that dream experience, wherein Tina Turner performed her heart out, on the mansion’s veranda.  It was, however, not that palatial home – in that dream, the residence was a bungalow which this certainly wasn’t.  This building though was many storeys tall.  I instinctively knew that I was the owner but, somehow, my life was now in danger.  He, for being part of the household guard, was fiercely loyal.  He saw to it that I was kept securely insulated.  I was kept secured in the abandoned building, in the rear, since no one would be expected to go looking for me there.

reassuring-hand-on-back

The building that I was in was old and missing all of its window panes.  He sat there, on the third storey, on a red velvet chaise longue.  On his immediate right sat a woman.  Seemingly, she was a daughter of one of the maids.  The household staff here was quite large.  He was lounging back, on the backrest, stroking her long brunette mane.  I could tell from his rhythmic stroking of her head that he was aroused and that she was more than likely giving him a blowjob.  I couldn’t, however, make out his cock from my perspective.  He was, at the very least, exposing himself to her and wanted her to give him head.  She, however, was being very cautious.

Obviously, he was easily made impatient by her inaction.  From his energies, I could tell that he would likely soon overpower her and force her to go down on him.  Frankly, I did not approve of him abusing a woman thus.  However, it was a situation that she had little control over although it was clear that she did not want to do it.  Since it was my house, I wanted to go there and intercede on her behalf.  In any event, I really did not like being held up in this confining space.

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To have been caught up in this sort of situation, it proved truly stifling of my energies.  More than that, I wanted to kick some arse because he was abusing his powers by manipulating his subordinate.  I did not approve of this at all and, more importantly, I also didn’t want anyone in my employ to be abused thus.  So I managed to make my way back down into the palatial digs.

Entering at the ground level, as I progressed, the main foyer was fairly empty.  Here there were lots of large columns that were wooden and in the Gothic style.  The ceiling here was wooden with flying buttresses.  This was a very high-ceilinged affair that was easily two storeys.  The floor was tiled with black-and-white marble with each tile being some two-and-one-half feet square.  It was very beautiful here with a very shiny polish to the floor.  As I walked, I wore riding boots and had a very strong, demonstrative stride.  At times, as I did not want to be heard making my approach, I was being very slight.

tiled foyer

Instinctively, I knew where to be forceful in stride but I also knew where to be otherwise slight.  All of this was about announcing my presence to certain persons therein.  I then began mounting the very dark-wooded, high-glossed, polished staircase to the landings.  I was impressed with just how clean the household staff kept the place.  There was much loving care put into their jobs.  I was warmed by this and knew that it reflected their respect for me.  Clearly, I was a good steward in their lives – one who cared about their well-being.  Each storey of the large staircase had a square landing which looked out to the landings below.  Though I had not taken the time to look up, as it was very brightly illumined, there just may have been a skylight overhead the staircase.  When I did look up, on one of the landings, I saw a woman a couple of storeys up.  She was older and wore a greyish smock.

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Her head she kept tied in a turban with white, heavy-looking fabric.  On seeing me, she rushed back away from the landing.  Straight away, I went stealthily speeding up the stairs without as much as a sound.  When I got to her landing, I slipped into this back room that was one to which I knew she would have retreated.  This was the chambermaids’ quarters.  Very wide-eyed and full of fear she let me know, right off the bat, that she did not know anything.  Clearly, she was trying to cover for the fact that the house guard had been overpowering the woman.  She did not want to get involved.  More to the point, she did not want him avenging himself of her.

The young woman may even have been her daughter yet she was not prepared to risk her security.  Hissing, I interrogated her but she was so overcome with fear that she avoided becoming caught up in the politics of it all.  She understandably felt obliged to do as I said yet she was sexually acculturated, to be subservient to men, such that she simply couldn’t bring herself to defy any man.  Even a corrupt one whom she knew was not my superior, she simply could not cross.  The attacker was a feared and forceful man – sadistic.  Seeing that he was part of the palace’s security, he could easily have her killed and made it look like an accident.  She knew this only too well.

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This very shrewd woman had no misgivings as to just what lengths male ambition would go to assure its self-preservation, most especially, at the expense of the opposite sex.  Indeed, she too had once been a young woman.  She had clearly had to learn some hard lessons about the hearts, rather the lack thereof, of men a long time ago.  She was, if nothing else, shrewdly pragmatic.  He was to be feared.  She was not in the world to provoke or affect change.  I assured her that she would be protected then sent her to her quarters.  I then took my leave of her.  We spoke exclusively in French.

She was clearly multiple-generational peasant stock and from northwestern France which I deduced from her accent.  A very self-deprecating individual and one possessed of pronounced humility.  From there, I went rushing back out onto the stairs.  As I approached she had been tipping off others, in a hushed voice, to the fact that I was returned to the house.  Just as I was beginning to come down the stairs, the North African captain of house’s guard came out.  He stood on the landing, one flight above me, very impatiently asking who the devil I was.

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He demanded to know who this intruder – meaning me – was.  I was frankly humoured by his bravura, so smiled at him, and thought to play along.  Whilst standing there very regally, I thought to call him by his name thereby calling him on his temerity.  Instantaneously, he flashed this unusually large, black weapon which seemed part rifle, part spear.  The top of the spear was all gold-leafed as a bayonet would be speared.  It was not unlike the top of the wrought iron fencing that girdled the property which I would notice afterwards when leaving the property.  Still very casually, I mockingly tossed my hands in the air and begged for his mercy.

“Fine, if you want to treat me as an intruder, go right ahead.  I’m not an intruder…” I said, not liking the flow of this exchange.

When he suddenly began shooting at me, I was certainly surprised.  The shots explosively came, a volley of five rounds, at me.  When they were discharged they came at me with quite an incredible force.  It was as though, at will, I was able to slow down the bullets.  I saw the bullets’ progression in slow-motion.  Each shot appeared as if streaks of red light coasting through the air.  Starting out on target, directly towards me they came.  I managed, my mind totally focussed, to will them to avert making contact with me.  Every one of them ended up veering off to the right.

He barked a grunt of displeasure on seeing that the bullets had not made his intended mark.  He drew the gun again to try once more.  I knew that this man was quite a good marksman yet he never did catch me.  Making like I really was an intruder, after he had finished his second attack, I began bolting down the steps.  I manically scurried, down to the ground floor, all the whilst he kept on firing after me as I fled.  Even with my back turned, I was able to maintain my mental focus and escaped being shot by him.  Still focussed, I continued directing the bullets away from me.  The thing about the bullets was how incredibly powerful they were.  As they sped by, like the high-speed trains here in Europe do, each bullet created the same gravitational drag.

*This led me to the conclusion that when one is struck by sniper fire, it is a very impactful occurrence.  As a matter of fact, the soul itself simply gets suddenly knocked out of being focussed in the body.  It is clearly a jarring experience.  The soul, at such times, is instantaneously slapped back to the astral plane in mere femtoseconds.  END.

On rushing down to the ground floor, I took cover under the canopy of the second storey’s landing.  When the bullets would strike the ground floor’s marble tiles, they zinged and sounded much like swords noisily clashing against stone during battle.  It did cause me to wonder if the weapon’s ammunition were not, as it were, tiny spears.  Rapidly travelling, the tiny spear-like bullets created a fiery streak of light whilst tearing through space.  The friction of the bullets’ speed was what would have ignited space’s explosive oxygen.  The bullets were experienced in exquisite close-up, gnawing away at the fabric of space, as if some fiery eagle lancing through the air to make the kill.

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From under the cover of the landing, I ran across the foyer over to this large secretaire.  The secretaire did not have any gold leaf detailing on it but it was very large and beautifully designed.  Jumping onto it, I went there to be out of range of his gunfire.  He did, however, keep on shooting at me.  Naturally, I continued defending myself by deflecting every shot he directed my way.  Pretty soon the shots were ricocheting.  Some shots did serious damage to the secretaire.  Not wanting to completely destroy it, I leapt off the secretaire.  In a streak of unbridled energy, I went bolting outside through the large heavy doors.  As I made it through the doors, I could hear him coming down the stairs after me.

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By this point, he was being joined by other house guards whom he had called to his aid.  Obviously, he had inspired the other guards to turn against me.  This was truly an upsetting surprise for me.  I ran into the most beautiful garden imaginable.  Not unlike the other garden, before the sprawling bungalow that I had dreamt of the night earlier where Tina Turner sang, was this one.  However, this garden was considerably more extensive.  Like a house afire, I went running down the garden path.  Following the path that led from the front doors, I ran screaming my lungs out.  As I worked off all that angst, it was part fear… it was part celebratory war cry.  

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In one leap, I bolted through the front gates.  Yet again, it proved another very large, high, wrought iron, gold-leafed, spear-tipped fence.  All that I could think of was that I had to get the devil lost and as soon as possible.  Still running, fast as all hell, I had managed through the narrow streets to get myself onto a near-deserted off-street.  This road seemed to border the abandoned building.  It was another building which was in back of the mansion.  Here it was definitely as if Paris but a few centuries earlier.  It was as if the height of Napoleon Bonaparte’s reign because the second empire architecture was not yet a ubiquitous fixture.

These were buildings that had a stone ground floor with the upper ones made of wood.  Few of them, if any, had very little to no second empire signatures.  It was the most minimalist empire detailing and as such it was not very widespread.  The style here predominantly was Roman, rather than not, with some neo-classical signatures.  Some of the roofs, in their prelude to the second empire sensibility, were more so like barn roofs than not – mansard-roofed they were.  Whilst running down the off-street, I happened on a crowd of persons who were walking.  All of them were dressed as if of another age.  This was garb from an earlier time in Europe.  Drab-coloured, heavy fabrics predominated here.

On forging ahead, I managed my way into the thick of them.  They were a group of guys who were walking in the nighttime streets.  It was an indeterminate time of night.  It could easily have been a full Moon or even coming on to dawn.  As it was simultaneously dark, it was hard to discern.  As a result, it was also not too bright.  A strange light it was, which I think was also silvery-sooty, for being so choked with wood-burning fires partout.  There was the sense also that there was heavy cloud cover that dappled the full force of the full Moon.

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As I hid in amongst the throng, I noticed that there were also Black men present.  They seemed to be headed off to go drinking at a bar.  These men were, however, not a rowdy crowd.  Neither were they singing nor, for that matter, were they being obstreperous.  Some of them were telling tall tales and getting us in good spirits.  It was an immediate warm group of energies.  No sooner than had I joined them that the house guard, along with his henchmen, appeared at our rear.  He began yelling at us, in a hostile tone, telling us to stop and give up.  

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We were stunned.  At least, I was surprised that they had managed to find me.  Next, they were indiscriminately shooting at us.  Of course, I was the object of their hunt.  Right away, I began ducking behind some of the larger-bodied guys in the group.  One of the Black men turned on me on realising, that for being an outsider, that they were clearly trying to get me.  He and some of the others in the group, who had their own guns, immediately began to shoot at me.  Again, I began dodging the bullets and was able to run away.  

I acrobatically tumbled, leapt and soared through the air, sometimes rolling on the ground, in hopes of escaping their fury and gunfire.  This time – for fleeing so rapidly – I was able to easily dodge the bullets without having to focus my will on diverting their trajectory.  However, there was one point, when he had shot at me that I had been of the opinion that he had shot me.  He had shot at my legs catching me in both knees.  Self-preservation demanded that I not look down at my knees.  Had I done so, on seeing that I was wounded, I would have been paralysed to take further action.  

All I wanted to do was to secure my escape from this tumultuous place with its volatile emotionality.  For that reason, I kept on going and ran from the narrow-streeted place.  Here in the street confrontation, as they streaked by at great speeds, I did notice that some of the bullets created a blue light.  This occurred as the bullets gnawed into the fabric of space.  Here, too, they were very powerful and created a sense of drag as they noisily zinged past me.  Their sound was like that of some giant beast of prey, noisily rocketing in, before the kill.  

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Along the block, I caught wind of a crack between buildings.  Straight away, I darted through the crevice.  By shifting sideways, I had managed my way into the crevice thus.  From this vantage point, I discovered that there was much fighting going down between both sides.  The fighting unrelentingly kept up without me being directly affected.  Meanwhile, I managed to inch my way further inwards and away from the street.  Here the little crevice-like lane led back into a courtyard area.  Pleased that I had made it to the courtyard, out of harm’s way, I took the time to enjoy the cool damp air of the enclosed space.  

Clearly, no one ever made it into this courtyard.  Winded, I needed to recharge my energies.  Whilst there alone, I noticed that it was suddenly getting considerably brighter out.  Intrigued, I began venturing from the courtyard to investigate the cause of the light change.  Unmistakably, there towered from on-high a shaft of intense blue-white light.  It went from the ground, in the distance, and extended up into the darkened night sky.  This light was off to the left, as I looked on, and across the street from where the street battle was going down.  

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This manifestation was quite intense.  It proved a constant bleed of energy.  Simultaneously, one readily discerned that the flow of energy was moving in both directions.  It was all very intense with a great deal of power to it – a power which you could feel.  The quivering, almost liquid, undulating light gave off a tingling sound.  This sound matched its non-static, shifting appearance.  It was a cool sound like a whistling wintry wind.  This light manifestation was rather intense.  

Soon, I noticed that there was a column of white light which looked decidedly umbilical.  It much reminded me of the umbilical light being which I saw descending from the sky, in that dream of Thursday July 7, 1988.  Back then, in the dreams of July 7, 1988, it appeared as if a cetacean-like creature.  However, it turned out to be a manifestation of some aspect of self, some aspect of the soul, which proved to be Merlin’s soul totem.  Right away, I knew the significance of this dream.  This dream was clearly all about one’s totemic symbology.  Off in the distance, I could hear the tinny sound of persons speaking.  

One particular woman was remarking that this was happening as a result of persons having recently been shot and died.  In other words, this was a manifestation of their ascension to the next plane.  She speculated that this was likely their spirits taking flight away from this age and time.  Frankly, I got the sense that she did not know what she was talking about.  Since I was in hiding, I knew that I couldn’t seek her out to correct her perception of what was truly taking place.  I was really excited and strongly resonated with the nature of the experience.  

Instinctively, I fully understood the whole process – both the imagery and meaning of the whole experience.  Here however, I knew that I couldn’t call out to the light, as I had to the light on July 7, 1988.  For obvious reasons, I stood there resonating with the light.  I was being overwhelmingly energised by the light.  With the greatest yearning, the greatest compassion, I began reaching out to the knowing light force.  The umbilical cord of light next began snaking its way up, the column of blue light, like so many of the columns of smoke that rose up from the chimneys all about.  

However, this was definitely not smoke at all.  It was a nimbus-like, smoke-like, umbilical-like being of light.  It was so very knowing, gentle, familiar and intimate in is sublime, graceful beauty.  It was an umbilical cord of light that snaked up into the bosom of the shaft of blue-white light.  When the cord of light got up into the massive clouded sky it began circling around, like some giant spiral galaxy viewed head on, up above in the night sky.  On reaching the sky, the look of it as it circled was as if it were an illumined sea in the sky.  Here, of course, the major source of light would have been submerged and just beyond the aqueous surface of the sea on high.  

This, too, exactly mirrored what had happened on July 7, 1988.  In both cases, it was as though the sea was now where the sky should have been.  It was revolutionary.  Just as in the earlier experience, four years before, there was no sea visible at the conventional terrestrial site of the sea.  I was just inside the tiny lane, which was off a street, which was higher than anywhere else around.  This gave me a really good view of what was going on in the distance.  To again experience this magical occurrence, I again felt greatly inspired.  This was definitely set a few centuries back in France.  

If not set during late pre-revolutionary Paris, then the tumultuous times of the revolution and early Napoleonic times.  If not Paris, it was definitely one of the larger cities but it was definitely in France.  The light was so pure, so immensely intense indeed, it was breathtakingly beautiful.  What’s more, the light on making contact with the sky simply billowed outwards and became a greater explosion of light.  As it rippled outwards, the giant spiral galaxy of light would then spawn smaller spiralling encircling galaxies of light.  No music ever created or experienced, could ever evoke the beauty of experience that this light did.  It was quite simply looking into the bosom of the soul.  

They soon became circles within circles that were fast-moving independent of each other.  Whilst there were others which moved counterclockwise, some spiralled in a clockwise fashion.  All this movement occurred in the greatest display of slow-motioned grace.  This was power on an order that was mind-altering.  It was as though my mind were being expanded into new uncharted realms of spirit and intellect.  As four years earlier, the parallel experience had left me, I felt just as greatly inspired.  Within each spiralling galaxy of light, there were sparks of light that reflected every colour of the rainbow.  

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In that sense, they were as if circling rainbows of light.  Lights they were that created a form of music with their tingling sound.  Inspired great music of the soul it was too.  Whilst looking into them, I saw colours that have never been experienced on this side of the dreamtime before.  It was so revolutionary to think that there could be colours beyond the known spectrum, yet, there they were.  Even more interesting was the fact that these lights flickered in and out of existence.  Each manifestation caused a resonant quiver at the solar plexus which itself had rippled outwards, in waves of ecstasy, to and from my very soul itself.  

Thus these spirals were pulsating light at what, though seemingly random, was a rather orderly progression.  With every flicker, my entire body was being inundated with the most intense stimulation of light, sound, emotion and awareness.  Most of all, I was being inundated with love.  Standing there, it was as though I were having the most thrilling flying dream experience whilst remaining perfectly motionless.  My skin, as it were, had become peeled away.  This heightened sensitivity allowed my every nerve ending to hungrily drink of the purity and intensity of the experience.  This was so elevated an experience that it can never be adequately articulated by mere words.  

It was so profound and so sublime that it was sheer simplicity.  It would be like trying to describe a rose ad nauseam.  A rose is manifested inspiration for it is creativity at its most sublime.  For that reason, a rose is experiential and is totally beyond the realm of description.  The rose is creative manifestation, as such, only one’s correspondent state of beingness allows one to experience its inspiring beauty.  Beyond that, the rose simply is yet another symbol in the pantheon of acculturated signs.  For every one of those symbols one has an automatic response.  The symbol of the rose or anything, nine of ten times, causes one to never genuinely experience anything.  The experience of the spiralling light, which only mushroomed outwards, grew more and more intense.  

Its vibrational frequency kept on rising and pushing into octaves that previously I could not have fathomed.  With this expansion, the blackened, aqueous night sky only grew more and more intensely and predominantly white-lighted.  It was as though, as it slowly churned into greater actuality, it was hurricane season with some massively powerful storm cloud gathering strength.  Where the umbilical cord of light broke through the surface, of the aqueous light surface on high, it became increasingly intense.  So intense, in fact, that soon there was a break in the continuum of the medium there.  

Now the light became even more intense than already it had been.  The poor container of my relatively tiny body seemed unable to sustain so potent an experience for much longer.  Soon, the light’s intensity waned as it had instantaneously mushroomed outwards forming a perfect circle.  Within this supra-circle were the infinitely mushrooming circles of light wherein each was teeming with an array of pulsating spectra of lights.  This was music on the order of the cosmic.  This was truly music of the soul.  Now the expanded supra-circle began flickering like some giant lightning storm.  

There within its aqueous-looking light confines, the counter rotating circles began exploding in the most symmetrical and geometric shapes imaginable.  Here, there were some geometric entities that are unknown to waking state thought which have as yet been discovered.  In that sense, it was as if one were experiencing pure mathematics.  Even though the whole thing looked like water, however, it was definitely light.  Moreover, with the explosion of geometric shapes, it now looked like crystals that were made of pure light.  They were light crystals which were spherical and simultaneously musical.  They moved in amongst themselves without ever crashing into each other.  This was pure creativity at its highest order.  The whole thing was a very molecular organic process.  

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In the centre, the aqueous-looking lights on high then bled open.  It became as if a giant crystalline rose of light, in an aqueous sky, which kept on breaking open its infinite petals.  By this point, my body was quivering throughout.  Too, as I stood there lucidly dreaming, I silently laughed whilst losing tears.  The whole magical unfoldment was so immensely humbling.  Finally, instead of revealing its seed pistons the petals parted revealing this incredible planetary entity.  It was more brilliant than Luna.  Try – if you will – to fathom the accumulative intensity of Luna since four plus billion years ago, it first shone full, and every full Moon since.  

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However, it was no mere planet.  It was so brilliant that it was not even a star.  It was far more powerful and brighter than any star could ever be.  Even though it was so intense it was not so harsh a light, as a star’s, such that one couldn’t look at it.  This body was easily seven times as large as Luna.  Too, this immense orb was more potently luminous than Luna.  The surface of it was as if aqueous as it constantly shifted and changed form.  More than that, in its collective kaleidoscopic beauty, all this stellar planetary body proved to be was a face.  It was quite simply a glimpse into the face of one’s soul.  

Swept away, I yogically stretched my arms into its very bosom and let out a thrilled cry of joy.  This was an air pocket of inspiration like no other I had ever coasted.  I did just then begin hearing similar cries from persons who were in the buildings in the neighbourhood.  There were no persons in the abandoned buildings, which bled into the tiny courtyard, to my rear where I had been earlier.  There were several voices, all female, all of them naturally speaking French.  They were marvelling at the sight but, frankly, they did not get the picture.  

For them it was an apocalyptic event that no doubt presaged the end of the world or the second coming… paradigms which like the symbology of the rose they had been acculturated to believe – their loss, I realised.  As for me, I was really connecting with the experience.  I totally knew what it was all about.  Again, their lack of awareness only reflected their not having achieved this reflective state of creative beingness which would have truly allowed them to experience the rose of the experience.  

Rather, for them, it was an experience outside of themselves.  Just as in that dream of experiencing a planetary totem, back in July 1983, I instinctively knew what it was.  Here it was to the east and not yet reached its zenith.  This was such an incredible experience.  At this point, my body started resonantly vibrating.  Before I had been trembling, as though grounded by the force of some booming bass which impacted everything in its wake, now though I rattled throughout.  This was such a fuck-all glorious experience.  

As it had also been so long since I had experienced that kind of uplifting connection, with the soul element within, I was very much so moved.  I was humbled.  The whole revelation only lasted briefly… mere seconds.  To have been longer in duration would, finally, have been too overwhelming.  Nonetheless, I had gotten it.  I had made the connection and was greatly inspired for having had the uplifting experience.  The other townsfolk hadn’t gotten the essence of what it was; this finally was a moot point.  Quite simply, this stellar, illumined, aqueous anthropomorphic face did not exist either inside or outside of space, time or dimensional experientiality.  

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It was, quite simply, a glimpse of the soul.  Whose soul, mine or Merlin’s, smiled back at me?  It was not here relevant.  I had matured into the experience for having met and known Merlin.  So to that end, it was the face of both his and my Soul.  This was the most rapturous state of being that I had experienced in a long, long time.  There and then, I knew that my life had matured onto a higher octave for not just having had the experience but for having assimilated it – gotten it.  Just when it seemed that my mind was going to irreparably nova, the crystalline light of spiralling spheres began shifting.  

They ended their contraction and began expanding, collapsing over the magnetic orb, to which the umbilical cord of light had ascended.  Their movement was orderly, graceful and utterly organic.  It was like looking at a fast-action film of a crystalline rose bloom over a massive expanse of time.  This, however, was as if being cinematically experienced in slow-motion and in reverse – very spectacular.  

*God I am so glad that I have never done drugs.  END.  

When the supra-circle had finally collapsed, to cover the self-illumined, face-like, planetary being-like entity beyond the veil of glowing lights, the orb it now hid then novaed in an explosion of intense white light.  What then shot through me can only be described as enlightenment.  Quite simply, my cellular integrity was vibrationally sped up to momentarily become light itself.  When the orb’s light had imploded to nothingness, I was left instantaneously feeling very drained.  Even here in the dreamtime, I was aware of having a numbing headache.  

By the time that I came back, through the crevice-like lane, all the gun fighting had finished.  They were all gone, as a matter of fact.  On looking down, I discovered that there was nothing now wrong with my knees.  Just as I had suspected earlier, I had been wearing boots but they did not cover my knees.  Coming out into the street, I hurried along the sides of the buildings going back to the wonderful, palatial residence.  Going back towards the grounds, this time I saw another building there which was one on the side of the property.  Looking down the block, I saw four or five cars and all of them were red.  

Sure enough, just as I suspected, Magnus Colsen’s car was one of them.  As I came closer, his car was beginning to move but only slightly.  I went and said hello to him.  Inside, there were lots of boxes crammed everywhere as though he was moving.  It would seem that he was moving out of his family home, to get a place of his own, for the first time.  Unusually enough here, he was spectacled – so perhaps he is a Scholar soul.  Whilst we warmly spoke, the lens over his left eye automatically moved upwards in a sweeping arc.  Revealed, his left eye was intensely blue and warm.  They were much bluer than, in the waking state, they actually are.  

Magnus let me know that he had to be on his way and began driving off.  However, he did suggestively add that he would be back later to get some more things.  We parted, saying so long and he took off.  With that I turned around, never returning to the grounds of the palatial residence.  

*This dream was totemic for me.  I knew instinctively that it signalled the mark of me beginning to manifest at my true soul age.  Of course, during the time of my Saturn Return and Merlin’s illness, my transit from young-souled consciousness and egocentrism was affected.  During the time of Merlin’s illness and transition, there were those rather momentous and totemic dreams.  I had a very strong sense of Merlin’s vibration during the experience.  However, I never thought of him as being physically close-by nor had I anticipated seeing him in person.  Now four years later, pushing closer to my true soul age, I was crossing the seas of consciousness.  I was manifesting as a seventh level mature soul.  

We are incarnate for two chief reasons, to empower ourselves and thereby spiritually grow.  Of course, this can only be successfully achieved by choosing to conquer fear through love by choosing to love rather than fear.  This momentous dream had positively nothing whatsoever to do with anything so disempowering as experiencing God or any such tribal bullshit.  I was come face–to-face with my soul state and the energies and power which being part of an entity and itself part of a cadre represent.  There were times that I had an awareness of Joop van der Pelster who, of course, is a cadre mate.  Of the more than one hundred and fifty Michael Overleaves that I have had channelled, through both Mathilde Duchenne and Kritika Bhatt, he has proven to be the oldest-souled at fifth level old.  

I do know that I definitely do feel a sense of limitlessness when in his company.  Truth be told, the sweetest most pleasurable sex that I have ever had was not with Merlin but with Joop van der Pelster.  With Merlin there was passion and intimacy that was unsurpassed.  However only with Joop van der Pelster would one, after lovemaking, feel so exquisitely fulfilled that there was a fatigue that was of the most pleasurable order.  Every time that we have been intimate, afterwards I have felt as though that all I would have to do is simply continue the smile by closing my lids and letting go.  For doing so, I would become instantaneously an astral plane habitué – yet again.  

It is shamanic what Joop van der Pelster affects as a lover.  This is something which is also achieved between us during phone sex.  This is why he remains the only person with whom I ever have phone sex.  It is an aspect of our relationship that has lasted, for the some thirty-five-plus years that we have known each other.  Joop van der Pelster and Merlin never met nor did they ever once speak on the phone.  What Joop doesn’t realise is how incredibly uncannily his voice, when we are having phone sex, is exactly like Merlin’s.  It has always been that way even when Merlin was incarnate and knew of my phone sex relationship with Joop.  

It is as if we get into a groove whereby he channels Merlin and affects, what can only truly be called, long distance intimacy.  It is the most pleasurable form of lovemaking imaginable.  I have lived a richly beauteous life and, when it is concluded, I and a choice few will celebratorily dine on the astral plane.  I suspect that then, we will experience moments of quiet rapture.  What we will be celebrating is having lived life with the greatest panache and the sophistication befitting the brotherhood of the truly sly shamans that we are.  We are, every last one of us, truly magus.  

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These dreams – and these twenty-five volumes of dreams – would not exist had I never met and loved both Joop van der Pelster and Merlin.  They have affected in me the expansion of spirit and consciousness which is reflected in the nature of the dream experiences that I have lived.  Of course, Joop van der Pelster was in a previous life the Flemish painter, Sir Anthony van Dyck.  

Now then, before this afterthought meanders on longer than the dream itself…  

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As ever, for your unflappable support, I fly-without-moving and mean it when I say, I love you more.  

 

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© 2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Otello: Race and the Arts.

 

 

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

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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?  

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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.  

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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.  

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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. 

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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,  

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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

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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.  

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

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© 2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

An Awakened Dream Like No Other!

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On the final full day of this trip to London, it was also the 29th anniversary of Merlin’s passing.  I had planned on visiting Spencer House, the Monday evening prior; however, the event which was a ticketed lecture had been cancelled –  this was my only chance at getting to Spencer House.  

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Climbing from the Underground at Green Park, the park was relatively empty and there was a crisp bite to the early morning air as I walked along the periphery of the park’s western edge.  I opted to take that route and be close to the park’s trees than use the suggested route – St. James Street and St. James Place.  The only persons in the park were intermittent joggers, looking fit; strange in November it was to see persons running in shorts.  

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Walking along, I passed a narrow break in the shrubbery; the narrow path that ran beneath on the houses stated that it was a private road and to keep out.  A few more steps revealed the signage; yes, indeed, this was the place that I was looking for.  Turning back, I made for the private narrow pathway and awaited as a tanned, moneyed man approached with a wonderful, happy dog before him.  The fat little thing tried its best to act on his vibes and grumbled; staying my ground, I waited for him to get closer, said hello and asked if this was the way to Spencer House.  

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“Is this the way to Spencer House?” 

“It is a private path…” he replied from behind thicker, darker and more-expensive-than-mine sunglasses, to which I brushed past his American accent by elegantly rebutting, “Thanks, I’ll find my way…”  

Entrance to Spencer House: looking west to Green Park & East.  

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On entering Spencer House, I noticed that the splayed and slightly bloated feeling that began on approaching the stately home continued.  Inside were two men; both were rather pleasant.  We began speaking; for the next half an hour, we warmly visited.  Seemingly, there was a group tour booked and they thought that I had simply arrived especially early.  

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As members for the guided tour arrived, I slipped into the ante room and enjoyed the still-life.  Remarkably, there was a real ease for being in his place, which seemed more than passingly familiar.  Finally, when enough of us were arrived for the tour, a silver-haired lady with clear, focussed eyes entered the foyer, walked up to me and smiling, we warmly greeted.  A group of no more than twenty-five persons, the informal gathering was cosy and engaging.  

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As the tour began in earnest, it dawned on me that this house was remarkably familiar.  There were no doubts in my mind that I had never previously visited it; however, even the tour guide approached me and asked when I had last been to the house.  She was convinced that I had been there before and scoffed at my response that I had never before visited the stately home.  She had done so because I seemed with uncanny accuracy to know which door to next use to progress on the tour.  That aside, the energy between us flowed with the greatest ease.  

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As she spoke, the guide mentioned that Jerry Hall and Rupert Murdoch, who lived in the same street as Spencer House had actually had their wedding reception in the Georgian masterpiece.  As she spoke of the ladder, I suddenly experienced a vision and it was of seeing the room as it looked during Georgian times; however, as in dreams everything was back-to-front from the current life experience.  Indeed, I had definitely been in this room in the past; moreover, I had a rather memorable dream, which was set in this house.  Then as I intently looked to one corner of the room, the rather knowledgeable tour guide announced that in that very corner, Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson loved sitting in that spot as he was a frequent and favoured guest to the house as the 2nd Earl Spencer had been First Lord of the Admiralty.  

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In this marvellous salon is a painting of the Death of General Wolfe… it is even more grand and emotive than the painting of General Wolfe’s death on the Plains of Abraham at the Royal Ontario Museum.  

During that time, as a countertenor with Merlin (then female) my accompanist on harpsichord that I would have encountered Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson, 1st Viscount Nelson.  I have dreamt of this man many times and some were set in the very house where, though it had not been planned, on the 29th anniversary of Merlin’s passing, I was taking a tour.  

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Just before we left the library, the tour guide then announced as she drew our attention outside the window from the library, there on the grounds of Green Park were cattle and other livestock kept.  Indeed, in one such past-life dream, which was set at Spencer House, there was the intense smell of livestock.  For this reason, I had assumed on awaking that this stately home on the edge of vast acreage was situated in the English countryside rather than in London.  

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Definitely, this room – the great room – was familiar; however, somehow, it did not seem as large as it ought to have been.  

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The view from the great room out to the beauty of Green Park.  Suddenly, it dawned on me as I looked out the window that is why on Armistice Day after I left the splendid exhibition: Russia, Royalty & the Romanovs at Queen’s Gallery, Buckingham Palace and cut through Green Park en route to Green Park Station, I felt so joyous. 

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That is why too, for moving past Spencer House earlier on November 11, 2018 and in essence, becoming harmonised with the locale of a past life that I would have such lucid flying dream activity on returning to the hotel that late afternoon and napping.  

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Without doubt one specific dream was centred in this room and there, a play was being staged in the past life dream.  In between acts, one retired to this room from the great room and visited whilst the performers took almost forever at costume changes.  

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This was the setting of great music and laughter; indeed, I may well have performed for the Georgian glitterati on this balcony/stage-like staircase.  

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Lady Spencer’s room.  lovely.  

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The Music Room where 2.5 centuries earlier, Merlin and I were in creative full bloom.  I had a really powerful response when in this room.  I was left teary eyed and on looking in the mirror, I actually saw the outline of my aura; it was silvery as it picked up the stunning sunlight streaming through the windows on either side.  Somewhere in spirit, Merlin was with me and there was further validation that this place, this day… indeed, nothing is coincidental.  

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This room was pure sensory overload.  I felt gay and as though on the cusp of flying.  This visit was more adventure than even I could have imagined.  When the tour was concluded, I warmly parted with the staff and assured them that I would be back.  Then out into all this balmy, glorious sunshine, I headed into St. James Street and made my way to Piccadilly Street. 

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Feeling way too glorious, I decided against using the Underground and instead, headed east along Piccadilly and slipped into the Burlington Arcade’s splendour, browsed then went coffee table book-shopping at the Royal Academy.  Though I hardly had room to pack the six books.  Well in excess of 300£, the handle-barred and zoot suit-wearing poseur – eccentricity is never affected, asked way too condescendingly what did I mean by VAT “dear” and why would I get money back.  You blasted, silly little twit; as I do not gladly suffer fools, I shot back, “Look do us both a favour and go restock these… and try finding a brain while you are at it…” the latter stated whilst walking away from the counter; you’ll get no commission from me.  Who are these people, forever trying so damn hard? 

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With that, it was across the street into Fortnum & Mason to buy more teas and rose petal marmalade and jelly.  From there, further easterly I bopped and grooved in the glorious sunlight and circumambulated Piccadilly Circus and bailed into Coventry Street and into the crowded intensity of Leicester Square. 

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From there, I snuck from the rear of the National Gallery and inside.  

The delightful guide at Spencer House had insisted that I return to the National Gallery before leaving London and catch the Mantegna and Bellini exhibition.  She could not have spoken more highly of it.  I did tell her that I had reservations about seeing Italian art as it was much too ecclesiastic for my liking.  However, since she had been such a gracious host, I decided to just this once to go with an open mind and just explore. 

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You cannot believe how fast, I got out of there.  As I said to the West African museum worker, who asked why I had left the show so quickly, “You cannot imagine how deeply disturbing I find a culture that goes to such great length to never address in their art their savagely ‘civilising’ influence in the world.  It is as though it never happened or they played positively no role whatsoever in the brutal murder, enslavement, extinction of peoples and cultures.  His response was, to the victor go the spoils and the shaping of history in his image; he added that he was very very proud that I am aware, unlike so many of us.  With that, we bumped fists and it was back out into the bright sunlight of this glorious day.  

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Apart from the usual suspects, Yodas seemingly levitating – now there’s a gig! – I made it past a rather engaging African artist who had the soul of a sage if ever anyone ever did.  Being drawn to its beauty, I drew closer to get a really good shot of St. Martin-in-the-Fields and it was then I made the most glorious of discoveries.  

Well, there could be no better way to restore the spirit after the disquiet that I experienced for moving through the Mantegna & Bellini show.  Great art should reflect life, not neatly reinvent and compartmentalise away all that which one would rather not address – likely, though, Bellini had no knowledge of Columbian expeditions to the New World. 

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Presentation at the Temple – Giovanni Bellini c 1460

Certainly, the prominent artists of the 16th century: Tintoretto, Botticelli, Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Titian were supported by the Church of Rome, which by its patronage of these artists was intent on depicting itself in a glowing ecclesiastical light rather than the brutal realism which afforded it the prominence and wealth it then enjoyed… which endures even now. 

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So with that, richly inspired by both the guitarist and Spencer House and all that it represented, I slipped into the National Portrait Gallery, to drink once more Wim Heldens masterful Oil on Canvas of the collectors Harry and Carol Ann Djanogly – she passed earlier this year.  Satiated of spirit, it was off to grab a bite and then a nap of glorious dream-filled sleep – one of which was a flying dream.  God it felt goodly glorious to have returned in spirit to Spencer House.  

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After having overslept by a hair, it was a mad dash by Underground and taxi make it by mere minutes to Royal Albert Hall.  One of my favourite concert halls, any show would do.  

Ah nothing beats a good old nostalgic adventure.

Interior of Royal Albert Hall.  

Intermission from the stalls at Royal Albert Hall.  

You cannot beat a room full of love and wonderment.  Truly spectacular.  Of course, it goes without saying that Merlin was wild about Jim Henson, George Lucas and Steven Spielberg.  This was a glorious way to have capped off a great trip and to remember the life of an extraordinarily phenomenal human being, Merlin.  

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And like that, the following day, I was returned to Toronto, my art-filled home and this most glorious photograph of the most magical fellow who made life truly a happening, for seven glorious, love-filled and magical years.  

As ever, sweet dreams and thanks for your ongoing support.  

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©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

Pilgrimage to Windsor… that dress!

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Aerial view: Windsor Castle, Berkshire.  

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In the mad dash to board the train from King’s Cross/St. Pancras Station to Paddington Station, I boarded the wrong train and ended up losing almost of hour of valuable time.  Nonetheless to Windsor with me, indeed.  

 

 

The ride to Windsor was lovely and it was still well before before 1000 when I got into town.  So nice to know that a flash of the London Pass gets one into the Castle, plus to see the exhibition of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex’s wedding finery plus the outfits worn by pageboy, HRH Prince George of Cambridge and the always ‘on’ HRH Princess Charlotte of Cambridge.  

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Next, through the hurdle of being scoured by the most thorough security detail; and with good reason too.  

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The mélange of Chinese, Japanese and Korean dialects made for an interesting symphony of sounds as I made my way past security and onto castle grounds.  

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I am reminded of Vancouver Island by the hearty vegetation down below.  

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Nothing is more refreshing than the smell of moss in cooler weather.  The air is so fresh here in Berkshire.  

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The view from the Middle Ward down to St. George’s Chapel; but that’ll come after touring the castle’s state apartments.  

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The glorious view north across the River Thames to Eton College Chapel… Nothing beats being out on the terrace and looking out to the landscape below.  

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The view along the terrace towards the entrance to the castle. 

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Once inside, of course, photography is not allowed.  This, understandably, is for security reasons; it is after all the Sovereign’s main residence.  Formidable, an entrance indeed.  Touring the state apartments, the progression’s starting point was different to previous visits.  

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Without doubt, I knew that the wedding outfits worn by TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex would not be on display in the castle’s Green Drawing Room; there is only one door into said room for the public and the other at the opposite end, leads directly into the Sovereign’s private apartments. 

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Furthermore, that single door is too narrow to accommodate persons going and coming into the Green Drawing Room, if they were to enter and exit by said door.  

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Similarly, I knew that the exhibition, A Royal Wedding: The Duke and Duchess of Sussex could not have been held in St. George’s Hall above.  There is simply too much natural light which floods the space; this could actually prove more harm than good – even though it would be best to see the dress in natural light.  Moreover, I did not expect that it would be held there as the space is too large and, frankly, with the amount of racially charged animus towards this marriage, it would likely not draw as large a crowd to warrant being staged there.  Truth be told, there were no Caucasians viewing the exhibit when I moved through it, than there were East Asian and blacks combined.  

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I will never forget my confusion on first experiencing The Waterloo Chamber in this lifetime.  I just felt as though, perhaps, my sense that I had been to Windsor Castle in prior lives or a lifetime was off.  Of course, I would learn that this marvellous salon was installed during HM King George IV’s reign, at which time, I had reincarnated into Barbados, after having been a countertenor at the court of HM King George III and during the early years of his son’s Regency.  

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Then again, those high-placed windows in the Waterloo Chamber would preclude its assignation as the setting for the exhibition, A Royal Wedding: The Duke and Duchess of Sussex.  

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Though noted for its stunning portraits of both HM Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother and HM King George VI, this room much like St. George’s Hall has too much light exposure.  

On entering the long narrow hallway with large windows that look out onto the terrace, the River Thames and the north shore beyond, one happens on a wall of linen panels which cover the floor to ceiling cabinets with priceless china from the Royal Collection.  

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Imagine all these iconic moments from the wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex on hanging linen panels of more than 8 or more feet tall.  The effect is warm, enveloping and their size deftly impress on one, the uneclipsed love between these two star-crossed lovers.  

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Next, into the grandeur of the Grand Reception Room one slips and with the heavy red curtains drawn, the effect is even more stunning.  The large chandeliers are softly dimmed and handsomely display the bridal garments of the wedding party.  

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The embroidery on HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex’s uniform, to the Queen Mary Diamond Bandeau tiara when seen in intimate detail proved more breathtaking than I had anticipated.  Goodness, even the shoes worn by Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex were exquisite.  

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What I found most interesting about the dress was its sheer simplicity.  The dress serves as a foil for the intricacy of the five metre veil entwined with the fifty-three flowers of the Commonwealth nations, along with the state flower for Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s home state of California.  Not until in the presence of the dress did its simplicity make sense; the dress is masterfully constructed such that its simplicity reminds one that only the expert craftsmanship of a couturier could have designed and manufactured the dress. 

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Yet, there was more to the simplicity of this Clare Waight Keller dress for Givenchy and it was not until moving around it a second time that it struck me; the simplicity of the dress speaks to the recent past of Ms. Markle’s African heritage.  Its simplicity speaks of the history of a people which was erased, wiped out by the terror of having been robbed and enslaved.  

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Yet like the simplicity which belies the masterful craftsmanship of the couturiers who created this stunning dress, there is also greatness to a people though reviled, socio-economically oppressed, criminalised, marginalised and made to feel inferior… the same people whose greatness shrines through in Jazz, for one.  Remarkably, the simplicity of the dress, is like the sheer eloquence with which HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales sincerely both acknowledged and apologised for the past, which his society and family had contributed to in the immense suffering of Africans; this he did this past autumn when touring West Africa on behalf of HM The Queen.  

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This was not only not a heavily attended exhibition but, at the time that I moved through it, there was not a single Caucasian viewing the wedding garments.  Though many would like to have you believe that there is no basis in race why they dislike Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, that is just a damn lie.  Naturally, neither medicine nor academia acknowledges the existence of the racial predator as ‘No’ is the most powerful word when dealing with blacks.  Indeed, not until going to St. George’s Chapel after the tour of the castle was concluded, did one see Caucasians in numbers that reflect their proportions in the society.  Indeed, unlike previously, one was being fixed with looks that were charged with racial animus.  

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Though she is now the most reviled black woman on the planet, truth is that the soul who is now Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex was Margaret Beaufort, Tudor Matriarch: key figure in the War of the Roses, cousin of HM King Henry VI, mother of HM King Henry VII, mentor, counsel and favourite of her grandson, HM King Henry VIII who was much impressed by her focussed untrammelled ambition, great-grandmother of HM Queen Elizabeth I. 

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Without her drive and singleness of purpose, England may still be a Catholic nation and its language may well be French.  Nonetheless, such is the rabid, irrational tribalism that is racism; her true nature cannot be perceived by the blind who can never see either the links to the past or the bigger picture.  

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In the end, I was much inspired for having made this pilgrimage to see this dress, which in its simplicity symbolised hope, atonement and the love of two entity mates who have known each other in twenty prior lifetimes.  The simplicity of this dress proved an epiphany.  

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Statue of HM King Charles II without whose drive, there would have been no Restoration.  

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View of the round tower on exiting the State Apartments and at the edge of the Quadrangle.  

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Details of St. George’s Chapel.  

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Details… and more details.  

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Even more interesting details…

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Sadly, photography is not allowed inside the chapel.  

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Despite the general seething that being black elicited from most persons here – thanks to HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex having married the black woman, I rather enjoyed revisiting the spiritual home of the Knights of the Garter.  There is a certain warmth and intimacy to the quire’s dark woods that I favour.  

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And like that, another day of adventure was completed.  

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As the train sped back to London, I spotted this queer, though, appealing architectural gem.  

As ever, thanks so much for your ongoing support and always remember to become awake when asleep into the magical realm of dreams.  

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©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

 

The Remains of Armistice Day.

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Strangely, though the major part of Armistice Day celebrations were long concluded, there were still more persons moving westward towards the Cenotaph than easterly towards Trafalgar Square.  My companion, a spectacled, freckled guy in his early 30s, was keen on having me come back to his flat in South Bank – We were headed towards Charing Cross Station to take the Bakerloo Line towards his place.  

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Stalling for time, as I really was not feeling him, I firmly suggested that we go tour Banqueting House as I had never been, which was the truth.  Of course, it did not help that the only thing at Banqueting House was the great ceiling art and the throne; the rest of it was just as empty as clearly, James, my “Mate” was dense.  Long years ago, a channeller of dubious skills stated rather imperiously that I would meet someone named James, who would prove rather loyal and a long-term affair.  

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Somehow, this nebulous bit of arcana seemed to be the only sane reason why I was suffering this oaf overlong.  His constant bitching about “Nutmeg,” as he referred to the Duchess of Sussex, was not winning him any favours in my books.  I had hoped to have found much more archival fare associated with the spot where HM King Charles I was executed.  Alas, there was nothing save a throne and an impressive ceiling.  

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With the toilets at Banqueting House fully occupied and alarmingly foul-smelling, back outside we dashed in hopes of finding a toilet.  A pub, whose name I did not even catch a few door towards Trafalgar Square, proved the right spot.  He ordered a couple of lagers – I never drink beer, and off I went to the toilet to relieve myself.  I waited overlong, waiting for him to possibly come in then use the stalls so that I could make a mad dash for it.  No such luck.  However, on rejoining him, he lustily talked about what he wanted me to do to him.  Never one to miss an opportunity, I suggested he go unclog his plumbing so that I could give it to him good, long and hard when we got back his place.  

Naively quick to take the bait, out I dashed into the larger-than-usual crowds when he eagerly bolted to the toilet; once outside, I then caught the tail end of the latest regiment to go moving from the roundabout as they made their way from the Strand and onto Whitehall.  With that, I swiftly made it across Pall Mall, crossed Canada House and made my way to the new entrances to the National Gallery – this James clearly was not the one.  

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Taking the time to avail myself of the museum’s free wi-fi, I sipped on a boost of Pret A Manger’s little magic, yellow potion, Hot Shot.  I then decided against the Bellini show – Italian art is way too religious for my liking and it strangely enough has never once addressed the fact that the Church of Rome has, in its role as civiliser, proven the most disruptive terror group this planet has thus far known.  For me, there is something alarmingly dangerous about a culture, which would completely and utterly eclipse this rather crucial aspect that has decided their place in the world – but enough about that for now.  

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Having dodged James, I decided to do the Courtauld exhibition as it would beat having to attend the museum on this trip.  Whilst standing in one of two long queues, along came Ms. Thang, who simply looked at us and grandly walked up to the next sales rep as though she had exited St. George’s Chapel on Ginger’s arm on the gloriously sunny early afternoon of May 19, 2018.  

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As I was next in line, I just as imperiously declared to her and the rep, “Take you, the weave and that blasted fake channel handbag to the back of the line; there are not two lines of invisible persons waiting to buy tickets.”  Before she could turn nasty with me, the lovely Dravidian lady informed her that I was next in line and, more importantly, she intended to serve me next.  Fake boobs that looked like flotation devices and feet that were too big to fit any glass slippers and, of course, there was a bulky turtleneck to hide the Adam’s apple.  

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Though “she” was prepared to do drama, I came to do me and look at art and that I did.  I was really wowed by some of these works, which I previously had not seen.  

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Naturally, this Degas masterpiece only warmed my soul.  Straight away, I was left humming the music from the grand pas de deux in Act II of La Bayadère, which I could not wait to see at week’s end.  

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Shades of Canada’s Group of Seven, to be sure.  I like the fact that the artist did not include the entire tree in the portrait.  

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Ah yes, and who doesn’t love the sublime soulfulness of a Gauguin tableau.  

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Trees, trees and even more trees.  What’s not to love!  

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After having been greatly inspired by the Courtauld Impressionist show – well worth the price – I bailed outside; there were too many parents using the free admission to the museum as a place to come in out of the elements and babysit their way too young children.  Once outside, I hailed a cab, though, not the above – wrong day and time of day.  This cab proved one of the most memorable journeys.  As The Mall was closed, we took the roundabout from in front of Trafalgar Square and headed along Pall Mall.  I wanted just then to get to The Queen’s Gallery at Buckingham Palace but did not want to use the underground; it was way too glorious a day out. 

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Finally, I laid down the law to the driver, who was a burly soul and looked like the quintessential slave soul.  Soon enough, we got into a conversation when we began chatting about Canada, which I shared that I would give anything to flee in hopes of living in London.  Soon, the topic turned to sex and whatever one would have to do to get by.  Ha!  Said he, he would give up this gig of 22 years and counting by marrying a fat, ugly rich broad to which, without so much as missing beat, I chimed in, “Don’t stop there, if you can find rich, fat, ugly and toothless, now you’ve got it made.  To paraphrase Frank Sinatra from The Best Is Yet To Come, you ain’t been blown until you’ve had a gum job!”  Never in long ages had I heard a grown man laugh so hard and for so long – a fellow cab driver going in the opposite direction even honked at him and asked what was so funny. 

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After having sat in traffic for far too long, though the metre read 12£, he asked for a 10£ note and thank me, saying he ought to have paid me for the company and humour.  With that, I dashed past St. James Palace en route for The Mall which, of course, was closed.  Finally, I made it up to the Queen’s Gallery and took in the Russia: Royalty & the Romanovs exhibition, which did offer some truly inspired gems from the Royal Collection.  

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Well, of course, he ruled something.  

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I was reminded in this portrait of Tsar Nicholas I of the 1970s when the goods were readily on display; however, along came AIDS and all that display and ogling readily evaporated.  Instead, men were morphed into true peacocks with long blow-dry locks, which really did become tiresome after a season or two.  Now, of course, it is the great and truly civilised age of the Internet, which lest you forget, is saturated with more than 80% pornography.  

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The Vladimir Tiara which is not dissimilar to the Cambridge Lover’s Knot Tiara, which always looked truly handsome when worn by the ravishing, Diana, Princess of Wales.  

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Set in the green drawing room at Windsor Castle, where on May 19, 2018, Alexi Lubomirski took the official photographs of the wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex, you cannot possibly begin to imagine the overwhelming scope and grandeur of this tableau.  Truly, one is left in awe of the fact that HM Queen Victoria was a tiny acorn who matured into a mighty oak who, through her womb, extended her empire far and wide across the continent.  This was a ravishing exhibition and one of the most stunning paintings that I have ever seen from the Royal Collection.  

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After all that inspiring art, I needed to ground anew; thus, I opted to take a brisk walk, cutting through Green Park where the light fast shifted and danced below the horizon… never to be experienced again.  With that, I hopped onto the Piccadilly Line at Green Park Station and made my way back to Russell Square Station; there, I resorted to my hotel room and took a lucidly awakened, dream-sodden nap before getting on with the final celebrations of this poignant Armistice Day.  

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Before making it to Barbican Station on the Circle Line, I had had the most awakened flying dream, which had me spirited across the spiral arms of Time to a past life in London.  

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To reflect, celebrate and give thanks, how could I not indulge in an evening of music and song with the London Symphony Orchestra.  

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Nice, plush comfortable seats with a troika of gay Jewish dancer/actors seated ahead of me.  The evening was beautiful, the singing stellar.  

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As there was an empty seat on either side of me, I offered to move to the left and afforded the lovely young couple from Paris to sit together – she had been sat a row ahead and away from her spectacled, fey lover – he had more than a passing resemblance to Merlin.  Leaning in, I whispered to him, “The universe always conspires to accommodate lovers…” he blushed, they both blushed sweetly and were pleasant company that added a certain magic to the evening.  Here’s to lovers… indeed.  

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En route back to the hotel… a little late night smoothie snack was in order.  As ever, sweet dreams, don’t forget to push off and start flying and as always, thanks for your ongoing support.  

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©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

Gosh that was fun!

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Thanks to World Ballet Day, there was positively nothing or no one that was going to dissuade me from hitting London town.  Armistice Day and La Bayadère, you say… ha!

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Naturally, I returned to London, in my ongoing research/quest for more connections to the past as it pertains to the six-volume dream memoirs.  Though I had hoped to publish volume three this year, 2018, ongoing research has meant its delay until Spring 2019.  

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After dropping luggage at the hotel in Russell Square, it was a quick dash on the Piccadilly Line to Leicester Square Station where the 10-day London Pass with Oyster card was collected.  On this gloriously mild Saturday morning, I took a quick snap of St. Martin-in-the-Fields across Charing Cross, before slipping into the National Portrait Gallery.  

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Before having found what I went looking for, I first took a detour through the Tudor Gallery where, alas, there were no portraits of Margaret Beaufort.  That done, I moved down to the open space where the exhibition: Black is the new Black was housed.  

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Stunning portraits, I love the blue-blackened soulfulness of the portraits; these are all eyes that are thoroughly ensouled and lived-in.  Next, it was off to the salon where what I went looking for was handsomely displayed.  

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Enraptured, I passed long forevers fully engrossed by National Portrait Gallery’s recent acquisition of Wim Heldens’ oil masterpiece – portrait of the art collector and benefactor couple, Harry and Carol Ann Djanogly.  The oil on canvas is handsomely hung in salon 38 and was painted in 2017 by Wim.  Wim, I met in NYC at Manhattan cabaret singer, Frans Bloem’s West Village townhouse when we went out back in the early 1990s.  I had been in town visiting with Frans from Vancouver; we met when I then lived in Toronto and finally, the relationship ran its course on my relocation to the west coast and not to be overlooked but sex with Frans was as meh as warm, runny vanilla ice cream.  Of course, by the time that I was visiting Frans and he was out of town, I met Wim; the latter was sick in bed and I looked in on him between going to the theatre and galleries in the city.  Apart from godawful sex, Frans was a little too obsessed with Diana Ross for my liking – it all seemed too sissy-queer-boy, clichéd and banal. 

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Besides, by the visit where I met Wim, who was the warmest of souls – Wim is an old-souled scholar and it shows in spades in his works – I had long discovered the raunchy funk of hot sex deep into the woods of Vancouver’s Stanley Park where the world’s largest city park (1000 acres) is ever ten degrees warmer than elsewhere in the city during the sodden wintry months as the half millennium-aged sitkas keep the place comfortably warm.  There was no need for the ennui of sex with Frans after tying raunchy fuckers to a sitka and whipping them; besides, positively nothing beats fucking in nature – truly, it is the most empowering, grounding experience.  

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On leaving the National Portrait Gallery, I ambled down Charing Cross, took the time to admire the bronze springbok that lords over the entrance to the Republic of South Africa’s embassy with the maple leaf-festooned Canadian Embassy to the west across Trafalgar Square.  

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Down into the bowels of Charing Cross station, I then skipped and hopped the Bakerloo Line to Lambeth North Station.  There on a gloriously temperate and sunny Saturday afternoon, I made my way to the Imperial War Museum and was rather moved by the beauty of the metallic poppies that tearfully bled from a bathysphere-styled window at the museum’s domed rotunda.  This glorious display was part of the centenary celebrations of Armistice Day 100 years earlier which marked the close of World War I.  

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Standing in the atrium of the museum, I was reminded how geography does determine the scale of architecture.  Relative to the Smithsonian Museum in Washington D. C., there is no way that the relative limitless wide-open spaces of America would find military gear in such close cramped quarters as at the Imperial War Museum’s atrium. 

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I was there to take in the exhibition, Mimesis, which honoured, on the 100th anniversary of the close of WWI, the contributions of blacks from across the Commonwealth.  Turns out, it was not a photographic exhibition; rather, it was a most evocative of films.  

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From South Bank, it was back to Embankment Station and onto the Circle Line to Tower Hill Station.  There, emerging into the sparkling and relatively warm daylight, one was readily reminded of Vancouver temperatures at this time of year.  Into the perpetual queues one headed for a chance to gaze on the Crown Jewels at Tower of London.  

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Going in, the ravens were keeping a watchful eye… as is their wont and the tourists here were predominantly East Asian.  

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Seeing these metallic simians, I was reminded how good London’s fortune is not to be inundated by predatory monkeys… as is the case in both St. Kitts and Nevis.  

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After having viewed the Crown Jewels, this photo of Tower Bridge, suggested that the fast-moving clouds, though stormy-looking, would not break just yet.  

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About half an hour later, the vista to the west looked dramatically foreboding.  I tried to negotiate and decided that these clouds did not look all that fast-moving, besides they were considerably to the west.  

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Into one of the city’s ubiquitous and thoroughly indispensable Pret A Manger joints I slipped.  There, I dined on a hearty sandwich and had one of way too many raspberry smoothies.  

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Each day, wherever I travelled, there was always one in each pocket.  

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This little rocket was the must-have.  Always, there was one handily tucked away deep inside my black Dorothy Grant messenger bag as I darted about my favourite town, on my favourite West Indian isle – it really does vibrationally feel as though in the West Indies, besotting my insatiable soul with culture, art and more high-end inspiring fare.  

After having interminably waited out the rains, along came 1700 and time for the second to last day of the torch light ceremony at the Tower of London in honour of the centenary of WWI’s conclusion.  And so, of deference one waited out the rains, which rolled through in waves – waves they were which seemed increasingly more monsoon.  Finally, the show was begun and after having been soaked sans parapluie and too many souls – I do not like crowds, I opted to make this short clip as I could not see a damn torch on the ground and headed for the warmth of a hotel suite in Bloomsbury.  

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After being soaked to the gills to get into Tower Hill Station, no sooner than being on the platform and headed towards King’s Cross St. Pancras, along came the announcement that the station was now closed as there were too many souls on the platform to assure everyone’s safety.  Back out into the torrential downpour, we all grumbled, huddled and shivered; this downpour was seriously fierce.  

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After much aimlessly darting about the crowded and flooded streets of the city, two-plus hours later, finally a cab was dispatched and into a very cool hotel suite I arrived.  Somehow, in spite being soaked to the bones and frigidly cold, I managed not to have come down with the sniffles, a cough or runny nose. 

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Soon, wakefulness gave way to sleep and I was readily awakened into a plethora of dreams, which are always thrillingly, lucidly awakened in this favourite city of my well-travelled soul.  A day filled with adventure lay ahead; it was Armistice Day 2018 and I would manage to be captured on ITV film of the ceremony at the Cenotaph in Whitehall.  

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and sweet dreams.  

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©2013-2020  Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

Royal Wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex!

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After having waited months on end, the day of the royal wedding arrived and there was I sporting a killer headache – one of which I have not had in long ages.  What with the inordinate negativity of trolls online and the utterly disgraceful meltdown on the Markle relations on the father’s side of the family, I just wanted the bloody wedding to get going.  Moreover, I was hosting, in my art-filled home, a right English royal wedding breakfast: six different teas, smoked salmon, scones, Johnny cakes (a West Indian variation on scones) champagne, jams including, of course, guava jams.  As busy host, I missed a lot of the goings on as it unfolded live.

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Rising at 0300, I was up and ready, making the first teas as guests soon thereafter began arriving for the 0400 starts of the live broadcasts.  Naturally, we looked at the BBC coverage whilst multiple broadcasters were simultaneously taped: PBS, CBS, CNN, ABC & CBC.  Pandora my lovely sister was in town with her urbane hubby and overnighted at my place so that they would not have to travel far at 0300.  Also present was Dr. Lucian Mann-Chomedy, who left his sprawling mansion atop the hill in Hamilton, to be with me; he is a world-renowned expert on Voltaire.  Eventually, along came siblings Rio, Penina and Isha with legal professional, like Pandora, Hyacinth Fitzroy-McIlroy.

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Though I wanted to take an Advil, I knew that copious amounts of champagne to follow would preclude doing so.  Alas, I drank fresh-squeeze orange juice and lots of water.  Finally, the fare catered by Daniel et Daniel arrived at 0459 sharp – I am better at working magic in the bedroom rather than the kitchen, so why sweat it!

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In between fussing with the catered fare, I caught a glimpse of George and Amal Clooney looking like the power couple that they are.  What a gorgeous colour and her hat was fabulous.  I especially loved the Valentino worn by Sofia Wellesley with her diminutive hubby James Blunt, a man whose devastating wit makes following his twitter account a must.  There was Oprah Winfrey looking regal; she is of course a member of entity seven of cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414, which would make her a cadre mate, along with other notables who are also cadre mates of mine and Merlin’s, like: Sir Anthony van Dyke, Sir Peter Paul Rubens, Jim Henson, Vaslav Nijinsky, Rudolf Nureyev, Natalie Cole, Grace Jones, Annette Bening, Warren Beatty, President Barack H. Obama, Joshua Redman, Katherine Hepburn, King Richard I, George Benson, opera singer Maureen Forrester, Painter Francis Bacon, Lucian Freud, Giovanni Canaletto, Camille Paglia, Cassandra Wilson, Art Blakey, sculptor Henry Moore, River Phoenix, Halle Berry, Victor Brauner, choreographer Merce Cunningham, Charles Mingus, Esperanza Spalding, Alvin Ailey, Zora Neale Hurston, Lena Horne, Jazz drummer Tony Williams, Otis Redding, Vasco da Gama, Roy Hargrove, Toller Cranston, Oscar Peterson, Jennifer Holliday, Roger Hodgson, National Ballet of Canada founder Celia Franca, Constantin Patsalas, Charles Baudelaire, Liona Boyd, Tina Turner, Marvin Gaye, Youssou N’Dour, writers Gabriela Mistral & James Baldwin and comic genius, Robin Williams.  Of course, many of these overleaves are to be found across the six-volume opus of Michael Overleaves appendices which accompany my dream-filled, and sex-besotted memoirs a first in all of human civilisation… because someone had to do it first and naturally yours truly has got to represent for the old 1/7/414!  Enough of digressing and coming off like that blasted ham, who in true American fashion, the right rev’ron thinks that his grandstanding noisemaking at the wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex was a hit – sorry it was not; it really did a number on my headache.

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I especially loved it when the royals began entering from the Galilee Porch into the chapel and took their seats.  HRH Princess Anne, Princess Royal’s reaction to the guests assembled across the aisle was priceless.  Indeed, Ms. Markle had really sprung the big guns, namely Ms. Winfrey on them.  There sat Oprah at the very back where she got a good view and strategically enough, she uncomfortably sat across the aisle from that flat-arsed, no-calved pretentious bigoted boor, HRH Princess Michael of Kent.  She is such a pitiable lost soul, she with the million and one tiaras (google image her); she and her tiaras, looking like a third-tier drag queen who’s not done too badly for herself on the pageant circuit.  God when will people like her realise that on this planet melanin trumps blood.  Oprah’s presence was a none-too-subtle missive, keep up with the racist charades and there will be an Oprah interview.  Seriously, that Blackamoor brooch last Christmas worn to the Buckingham Palace as Ms. Markle made her debut was as coincidental as if HRH Princess Anne Princess Royal were to have worn a swastika for the inaugural Christmas at Buckingham Palace when Princess No-Calves’ coke-headed son brought along his Jewish wife for the first time.  Poor thing, what was she to do, to look right across the aisle at St. George’s Chapel, there sat Serena, reminding her of one of two of her black sheep named Serena & Venus; to then look left, there sat Oprah, looking as though famished and ready to feast.  Matters not, from here on out the Princess Rhino will have to curtsy to Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

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Wonderful it was to see Jack Brooksbank greet his mother-in-law, Sarah Duchess of York, who thanks to HRH Prince Henry of Wales’ insistence was invited to attend the wedding of the year.  Whilst many came and went past the tomb of HM King Charles I whose art collection retrospective at the Royal Academy ranks among my favourite exhibitions, there stood George and Amal Clooney holding court; at one point, they were joined by the dashing Dan Snow with his statuesque wife and sister to the very eligible Duke of Westminster who is godfather to HRH Prince George of Cambridge, who looked smart in his Blues and Royals uniform as page boy which smartly matched those worn by both his father HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and his uncle the groom, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.

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Loved watching the always elegant Victoria Beckham being greeted with a bear hug whilst in the company of her husband David Beckham and a decidedly matronly looking Sir Elton John and his partner, David Furnish.  Serenely composed was the twenty-three-year-old Indian charity worker, who looked exquisite in her saree.  Though I had envisioned her in saree, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s friend, the actor, Priyanka Chopra looked no less lovely in her lilac suit with matching hat.  By far, one of my favourite royals was the very expectant Zara Tindall whose husband now looks even more handsome after corrective rhinoplasty.  Whilst the Chicagoan made an arse of himself in the pulpit, there sat Zara who with a look made us all roar with her wary side eye.  Seven years earlier, I was equally charmed by her beauteousness as she smiled whilst slipping a breath mint as the soloist sang and the bridal party, TRH Duke and Duchess of Cambridge et al, were off in St. Edward the Confessor chapel at Westminster Abbey signing the registry.

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Indeed, Central Casting could not have scripted a more gloriously perfect day.  There is a special magic to the isle of England; it goes without saying that it is vibrationally harmonised with much of the West Indies.  I truly do feel at home when in England; of course, much of that is because I passed a ‘high-point’ life there in late 18th century London and Windsor and as well Merlin was then present with me.  One thing that I have come to realise that many past-life dreams afford one the perspective of the former incarnation.  As a result, as is always the case when happening on a place where I have been before and had past-life dreams thereof, I am always mildly surprised to find that the waking state reality is a 180° reversal of the past-life perspective from the most lucid dreams of questing to previous lives.  For instance, Windsor Castle in past life dreams where there is much wood fire smoke, horse activity and the fashion are specific to that time frame, the castle always sits on the north bank of the River Thames with the majestic Eton College Chapel lording over the southern bank’s landscape, looking pretty much like Valhalla rising from the mist.

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My first visit to London was so thoroughly confusing, everything proved back-to-front as it had always appeared and been experienced in the most lucid dreams.  In such dreams, horse drawn carriages are everywhere with the loud smell of smoke, horse dung.  Strangely enough, in many of these dreams, my breath tends to be foul with drink, though, here in this lifetime, I hardly ever drink.  This past spring, as I moved through Windsor Castle’s St. George Hall, I was surprised to find the ceiling so far removed.  Later, during conversation with a gentle-souled female manager at the castle, I was reassured when she shared that after the great fire of 1992, the hall’s ceiling was raised considerably.  I had a really visceral response to seeing the bullet that felled Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson; he, of course, has a storied connection to Nevis.  I also knew him in that 18th century past-life at court when then a countertenor and Merlin, then female, was my accompanist on harpsichord.

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There were moments this past March when in certain rooms both at Hampton Court Palace but especially so at Windsor Castle that everything was back to front and I felt what I refer to as being “In-Between” – one does not exactly feel faint but you experience a moment of feeling as though you were vibrationally tuning in between here and elsewhere in time.  Finally, with a second round of tea being served, I was able to take a breather and start looking at the arrivals; currently the minor royals were arriving.  Good it always is to see the gracious HRH Duchess of Kent in a lovely black and white ensemble; I was purse-lipped as she was being helped to her seat.  Finally, a Benz minivan pulled up at the bottom of the middle ward and out sprang two dashingly handsome men, wearing Blues and Royals uniforms.  Straight away, I was teary-eyed; of course, it goes without saying that on occasions such as this, one cannot help but think of their lovely mother, the late Diana, Princess of Wales.

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Champagne nicely chilled was on standby, awaiting the taking of vows to be popped.  I love the fact that Chelsey Davy was at the wedding of her ex, HRH Prince Henry Duke of Sussex, along with Cressida Bonas.  I love this aspect of English aristocratic society; their weddings almost always feature exes… and why not?  Theirs are very tight, limited circles and exes are likely to be, in some cases, godparents.  When finally, I was able to watch the wedding uninterrupted, for having played host the day of, I was truly spellbound and stunned by what an absolutely beautiful wedding it was.

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Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex was nothing short of Arthurian as she entered St. George’s Chapel alone.  At once she was magical, empowered; a queen staking her claim both on history and her throne.  Nothing was more beautiful than watching the Mulroney twins in their matching Blues and Royals uniforms, carrying her sixteen-foot veil’s train, which was decorated in the flowers of all 53 nations of the Commonwealth and California’s state flower.  After moving through the gorgeous boughs of white roses and peonies, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex was then met by and escorted by HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, a man with whom one always enjoys the most august dream encounters.

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Seeing the uneclipsed look of love in HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex’s eyes and written all over his face as he drank the intoxicating drink of his bride approaching with his father, no less, made me come undone.  Uncontrollably, I cried out for joy and began crying.  I cried out anew when with a stride no less confident than Queen Maxima of the Netherlands’, the day she walked down the aisle of Westminster Abbey on April 29, 2011 as TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge were wedded, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex did an energetic shake of her head as she beamed at her lover, her champion at her warrior-prince.

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At this point, my whole body was awash in glorious ripples of adrenaline as these two souls, who happen to be both entity mates along with HM The Queen, celebrated their twenty-first incarnate relations.  The way that this man looked at this woman with open love for her, was the most soul-warming adage imaginable.  His cheeks aglow, he blushed, smiled and declared his love for his lover for all the world to see.  Long had I forgotten how beautiful it used to make me feel when Merlin would look at me exactly with the same magical glow and twinkle in his eyes.  I was so immensely happy.  The way they chatted, the way he looked at her whilst falling in love all over again, was the most beautiful sight.  Even the way that Jessica Mulroney reached across and rekindled her vows in a touch with Benedict Mulroney was wonderful to have witnessed.

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Uncovering her face of the veil and revealing the Queen Mary bandeau tiara in its uneclipsed glory, just as the first time after they had made love and reaffirmed their soul connection, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex said a warm, hi; they were two familiar souls, looking into each other and keeping aglow the fire of their unbreakable bond.  Entity mates in love is a most beautiful thing, there is no greater bond.  They way that they looked at each other, spoke to that enduring love that had endured across twenty prior lifetimes.  Now here they are, of choice, he an older soul (fifth-level mature warrior — fourth life thereat) she (mid-cycle mature artisan — third life thereat); there is nothing that this formidable team cannot accomplish.  As it is her third life at the level, expect her to be accomplished, ambitious, daring and a force to be reckoned with.  Like his second-level mature artisan mother, Diana, Princess of Wales, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has an innate sense of theatre, which was dramatically on display as she walked the aisle to stake her claim on history and validated that she had twice previously been a high-ranking member of the British royal family.  Truly regal was she as she walked the aisle to take her vow and return to life, for the third time, as a member of a much-loved institution, the House of Windsor.

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Seated there in that beautiful blue dress, I was reminded of Lynn Woodman, actor Wayne Robson’s wife in the way that Jessica Mulroney’s smile and eyes warmed me each time.  Of course, horrified was I last summer just before departing for London, England to learn from Xerxes Hamelin, my ex-wife and now transgendered to a bald and bearded marvel of modern medicine that their only son Louis had died at Christmas 2016.  Straight away, all those dreams of Lynn looking forlorn on grey-skied, rainy days and always on a bridge before a swollen river made so much sense.

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As the service progressed awash in the magic that is evoked by two souls with strong reincarnational bonds, I took a look at the gathered souls.  Loved the look of Sam Chatto, he of the pronounced spiritual focus in this life as he sat two to the left and west of HRH Princess Michael of Kent.  Also, on that upper row was the young Duke of Westminster, Hugh Grosvenor, whose father, Gerald Grosvenor, sixth Duke of Westminster, like HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, was the same soul age and role in essence — seventh-level mature warrior soul.  His older sister, Edwina had earlier been chatting with George and Amal Clooney with her husband Dan Snow as the guests arrived.  Good it was to see the always regal HRH Princess Alexandra whose father, the very dashing HRH Prince George, Duke of Kent after his untimely death may well have recently been Diana, Princess of Wales — this is just a suspicion of mine and not channelled information.  I could not though help but think, whilst watching Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex being wedded then later in the evening when emerging with her husband in that glorious white halter neck Stella McCartney dress, that Diana’s soul may well choose to reincarnate to her former son, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex and his very elegantly stylish wife, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

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First Duchess of Sussex, where previously the first Duke of Sussex fervently supported the abolition of slavery, a cessation of the persecution of Jews, now here were these entity mates — HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex and first Duchess of Sussex, Meghan, taking up the noble mantle of HM Queen Victoria’s uncle and HM King George IV’s younger brother, HRH Prince Augustus Frederick to work and help develop the potential of the developing nations of the Commonwealth.  Sadly, for most persons, these two souls chose to be part of the BRF by unique circumstances; when you consider the impact that black Africans have had on the wealth of the BRF and much of West Europe, it would seem fitting to these two souls and those in agreement within the BRF for them to have chosen to be an interracial couple.  Of course, it must not be forgotten that without exception, all Caucasian persons who are gap-toothed were in their immediate past life, black.

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When you keenly pay close attention to HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex’s life, you will see this being validated.  This man has always had an ease and affinity for blacks whether in the diaspora or in Africa.  There was nothing more glorious than watching his soul bleed through its reincarnational awareness, when on a trip to Jamaica, once invited by a young girl to join her dancing to Bob Marley’s soulful singing, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex danced with an ease that immediately made everyone black warm to the core; in his movement, we instinctively recognised his ‘blackness’ – we were responding to the fact that this was someone whose soul had been black in his immediate past life.  The way that this man slipped into the groove and wind his waist was as groovy as if hearing Marvin Gaye soulfully crooning.

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There is a purity of spirit that HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex possesses, which speaks to the very nature of his soul.  More than that, it does speak to his having inherited his mother, Diana, Princess of Wales’ empathy gene.  For me a man is most beautiful when he openly displays his love for another human being; there is no denying that as they took their vows, here was a man at his most beautiful.  Throughout, there sat Doria Ragland, mother of the bride, a study in dignity, pride and reserve.  Of course, any mother who calls her child ‘Flower’ is a mother who will ever be proud of how her daughter has blossomed into her own woman.  This love saw Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex become a woman of substance and a truly dignified human being.

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One interesting to note is how truly simpatico both Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall and Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex are.  Of course, the reason for that being, is that they are both exactly the same soul age and both are living their third life at that level.  What that, of course, means is that warrior soul HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales will always be warmed by and favour Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.  Though both are mid-cycle mature souls on their third lives, Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall is, however, a scholar soul.  Keeping her grounded and focussed with uncharacteristic drive is Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s warrior task companion.  That warrior, however, is not her husband, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex; it does, however, prove grounding for her, to be wedded to a warrior, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.

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All warriors live by a very grounded motto: feed me, fuck me but do not annoy me!  To say the least, Lady Kamasutra aka Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is ably qualified to ever keep her husband engaged both physically, emotionally and intellectually.  Warriors make the best of partners because when the love is strong, they are the most loyal and devoted of souls.  Regardless what those on the outside may think – and god has there been a spate of dissenting opinions about their union; fact of the matter is that they are more suited to be man and wife and life partners than most persons in the public eye.

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Without doubt, no one wore a more stylish hat than did Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall.  I also loved the wonderful hats worn by Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge and Lady Kitty Spencer, daughter of Earl Spencer, niece of Diana, Princess of Wales and good friend of Viscountess Weymouth who would have looked smashing had she attended the wedding.  Not wanting to be the butt of every joke, this time around, the Princesses of York wore hats that were demure and understated.  Reminiscent of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, HRH Princess Eugenie, soon to be wedded to Jack Brooksbank this autumn, wore a lovely white pillbox hat.  Ever exuberant, it was good to see Sarah, Duchess of York greeting her son-in-law at St. George’s Chapel, though, she did not sit with the royals but across the aisle with the invited guests.  Kudos to HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex for having invited and included her in the Sussexes wedding gathering.

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After that solipsistic buffoon made a point of overstating the obvious – if I were not hosting, I would have readily tossed a box of Kleenex at the screen, it was good to have been wowed by the Kingdom Gospel Choir.  I thought that at least one of the female singers in the front row was a priest soul, along with the choir leader; if not a priest, she definitely would have strong priestly makeup in her casting.  Their presence and performance were one of the many details, which went a long way towards making this wedding one of the most memorable.  Finally, after old windbag’s grandstanding, it was time for the lovely couple to take their vows.  Yet again, I was moved to tears.  Doria seemed at times to be experiencing rapture during points in the ceremony. Britain Royal Wedding

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Like Mr. Curry’s grandstanding, there was also a moment that left me disquieted.  The moment that she entered St. George’s Chapel off the Galilee porch entrance with the other royals, I was disappointed at the sight of Lady Louise Windsor, daughter of TRH, the Earl and Countess of Wessex.  Back in Spring 2016 on a tour of the Bahamas and Cayman Islands, there was Sophie HRH, Countess of Wessex wearing the same dress that her self-conscious daughter wore to a wedding that would be globally televised.  Nothing like human society to straitjacket children into rigid social roles.  It would have done a lot of this young woman’s self-esteem if she had been bought a new dress for the wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex.  There is nothing empowering for any young woman, having to wear their mother’s hand-me-downs.

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That aside, there was nothing more glorious than the prodigy, Sheku Kanneh-Mason masterfully weaving his magic on cello.  Later, as the married Sussexes emerged from the beautifully boughed St. George’s Chapel into the crystalline blue-skied day then kissed, the most glorious thing then happened.  As the unmistakably in love couple stood on the lower steps, the gospel choir again began singing.  As if it were not moving to watch, Diana, Princess of Wales’ older sister, Lady Jane Fellowes who gave a reading during the service, there was she bobbing and dancing whilst enjoying the gospel music.  And what glorious music it was too.

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That song, This Little Light of Mine, was a favourite of mine since childhood.  Back on Sunday, August 2, 1964, I had gotten a good spanking, on my birthday no less, from Harella my mother, whom I had always been convinced was not my mother as she was all of forty years old when I was born.  I wanted that day to wear my favourite pair of shorts to church – it was after all my birthday.  However, the shorts were dirty and crumbled and expected to be washed during the week.  Nonetheless, I threw a tantrum and got to wear my shorts after having my naked bottom spanked – therein lay the seed of my crop and riding boot fetishistic sex.  Sitting there in church, which Harella owned, I began singing at the top of my lungs, the song of protest.  Whilst my mother looked at me, utterly sure in her conviction that I was demon-possessed, I looked away and out the door to the east and the mountain ridge in St. Kitts.  Just then, the sparkling sun struck something within the growth of the foothills and it caused a blazing reflection that danced and shone even more blazingly than the sun; indeed, it matched my singing.  I knew that day that my mother would never succeed in having me sublimate my will to her and her mad and make-believe god.

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As the gospel choir sang, I began tearing up again, as the camera pulled a lovely crane shot back from the top of the St. George’s Chapel’s west door, steps and the couple below preparing to get into the landau, beyond lay the lowlands of the magical kingdom.  In that moment, I was suddenly struck by the very real sense of Diana, Princess of Wales.  Yes, indeed, her lovely boys were now wedded and to beautiful strong wives at that.  Her work here was done; now she could fly off as that crane shot implied to the west, the horizon, the astral plane, the future and to lives up ahead.  Diana, Princess of Wales had made a handsome success of life and with both TRH Princes William and Henry fully grown and wedded, her work was done.  Even, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales was every bit a loving, older soul – seventh-level mature warrior and entity mate of king soul and Canadian artist, Robert Bateman.

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Without doubt, this was one of the most glorious weddings in long ages.  To be sure, it is always good to see two souls with an abiding soul connection, renewing and validating the ties that bind and truly matter.  Here’s to TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex!

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©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Stephen Hawking’s Supernova

Stephen Hawking

Hawking, Stephen 8/1/42<O>14/3/18

Michael: What you are seeing in the fragment who is now Stephen is a seventh level old Scholar in the observation mode, with a goal of growth, a sceptic. 

This is his first life in the last of the physical cycles but we note that there has been tremendous progress here in that this fragment is for the most part transcendent in his ability to leave the body at will and travel through the limitless leaves of the Tao. 

Yes, of course he chose to have a frail unworkable body.  He did not specifically choose amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.  The choices are not that limiting but he did choose not to have to be bothered with the physical body, so that he could finish what he needed to do intellectually. 

We did not give a centring here because this fragment spends a great deal of time in touch with higher centres, although he is, as you might suppose pretty much centred in the Intellectual part of Intellectual Centre but is able to use the Higher Emotional Centre at will. 

This fragment is lively, bright, fairly happy and although aware of his severe limitations, not in the least sorry for himself.  This fragment has been literate over fifty times.  He was nine times the tutor to royal children.  He was an inscribing monk and did beautiful illuminations during five lifetimes. 

He was a scribe to the fragment who was Julius Caesar.  He was a lector for the emperor Marcus Aurelius.  He was a Grecian scholar on the Isle of Rhodes, during the height of the golden age of Greece. 

He was an Arabian mathematician and was instrumental in giving the world the zero to work with, which greatly improved and facilitated the study of higher mathematics.  He was a geographer twice. 

So, this fragment is no stranger to the world of study, however, this is the life he chose to make his greatest contributions.  Many of you could speak with Stephen in the dream state, for he is very accessible.  This fragment has many things he could teach all of you. 

He has a great deal of recall that he puts to good use in this life.  The age of this fragment’s soul accounts for his ability to detach from the physical body.  A younger soul could not do this with such élan. 

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At the time of Diana, Princess of Wales’ death (August, 1997) Sarah J. Chambers, channeller of the original Michael Group, shared Dr. Hawking’s overleaves with me, along with those of HRH Prince Charles Prince of Wales, Madonna Ciccone, Prince and Michael Jackson.  Though it is not listed in the overleaves, Sarah stated in an email communiqué that this would be Stephen’s final life; his soul would no longer reincarnate at the conclusion of this life, which would occur near 21 years later.  

Interestingly, as it was his final life, Stephen Hawking in a wrap up of having downloaded his vast intellectual awareness as the ultimate scholar soul would pass or, more appropriately, supernova at the time of the most intense solar storm in long years… there are no coincidences.  I was once guided in a dream and told that the Sun and all stars are the portal through which all sentient and reincarnating souls pass between the planes on reincarnating and passing.  Obviously, there was a great celebratory event as Stephen Hawking at the conclusion of his reincarnation cycle returned to his entity one last time — hence he was facilitated via the solar storm.  

Back on Monday, March 5, 2018, I went to see Darkest Hour with Gary Oldman at the Vue Cinemas in London’s Leicester Square.  Comfortably seated in theatre 8, about halfway into the film, I began witnessing a fair bit of paranormal activity.  I sat in the back row between two English couples, neither of whom were amorous.  From time to time, when actors on screen were in closeup, their eyes would suddenly become black-within-black with fully dilated pupils.  There were times, when I was able to make out Kristin Scott-Thomas’ aura — I found her performance exacting and intense.  More than that, I witnessed foggy, grey-white tall humanoid forms simply getting up from the seats in multiple rows ahead of me, turn either right or left then simply walk through the dark walls of the mid-sized theatre.  

I chose to remain composed because having a fearful response, is all about losing control and homie never plays that.  As the experience unfolded for about 20 per cent of the film, it next ventured into territory with which I had long grown familiar.  Off to the right corner of the theatre and at the ceiling, there was an aperture of light with opened.  Slowly, the light expanded and began a portal of the same soft-focussed yellow/golden light.  I have seen this many time before.  Next, a series of light beings, say the size of a raven began manifesting.  These light beings are illumined from within and have large gossamer, illumined wings which are two-thirds the size of their tiny bodies; the wings also flap about not unlike an elephant’s ears do. 

These creatures arose from the seats before me and progressed from left to right and up and into the light which radiated from the portal.  Soon enough, I was keenly aware that I was the only person experiencing this; I was never fearful.  I did, though, remind myself that personal truth is the only valid reality — at least at moments such as this.  Previously, I have experienced this manifestation when persons close to me are about to pass; this can manifest either at the point of their departure or as early as up to two weeks in advance.  This has never occurred after the actual passing and never more than two weeks out from the actual passing.  What I have learnt, for having done as many overleaves as I have, is that these persons are with few exceptions either entity or cadre mates.  

Where they have not been thusly related to me, they have been famous persons on the global stage.  The last time that this had occurred was at Nelson Mandela’s passing.  This, by the way, I did not experience when the 20th century’s most famous woman, Diana, Princess of Wales, passed.  

With regards to Stephen Hawking, I feel that for being in London and 9 days out from his passing, I was being attuned to his preparations to cycle off his final incarnation.  The movement of the levitating illumined, winged tiny beings towards the portal of soft-focussed light is always a slow, languorous adage that seems to occur within an aqueous medium.  Also, at the time that the overleaves were shared, in a subsequent email, Sarah had shared that he was in greater cadre 4 of pod 129 — the rest of his casting I do not know.  

I have known two persons who passed of ALS, which Stephen Hawking had for decades.  Both persons, as is customary with ALS, passed within a year of being diagnosed.  In the case of one female coworker, she simply became all-consumed and grew fear-shrouded and cocooned.  There was so much fear readily discernible in her eyes.  Incidentally, when she passed, I had the exact same aforementioned paranormal manifestation.  I have not yet done her overleaves but would not be surprised if she comes back as an entity or cadre mate.  Also, after her passing, she appeared to me, in the most intensely lucid dream, very radiantly and thanked me for my support and assured me that she was now at peace with where she was.  Obviously, she was aware that I was distressed at how fearful she seemed at the prognosis of imminent death.  

Clearly, one can’t claim to know what she must have felt at the time; she, however, had simply become straight-jacketed by the fear of death and her own mortality.  Stephen Hawking endured for decades with ALS, likely the first such documented case in medicine, because he had conquered the fear of death.  He was totally at peace with his reality; moreover, he was more focussed on being in the now and completing his task of disseminating as much of the knowledge that he had acquired during the course of his reincarnational cycle.  There was nothing to fear.  Indeed, his overleaves of being a seventh level old scholar soul on his final life was thusly validated as he could not have cared less.  Death he had conquered long ago; the body and obsession therewith served no purpose for him.  He just wanted to get on with the task in hand of sharing his intellectual gifts with humanity.  

More than any other human being of the last two millennia, Stephen Hawking will be remembered and celebrated two millennia hence.  Sweet and blissful dreams and it was good to have been illumined by the stellar light of your accumulated intellectual gifts.  

As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and sweet dreams!   

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©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.