Stellar Galactic Museum of Anthropology.

11.05.202611.05.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

In this the first dream, I was having a very heated argument with a group of Christian fundamentalists. This concerned the book of Revelations in the New Testament. My point was that there was no longer any need for them to fixate on the nihilism of that book. There was no need for them to fixate on the actualisation of the Armageddon construct. I was pointing out that much of the suffering in the world was due to the Christian obsession with violence. For this reason, for the last two millennia, their culture has done nothing but produce men of inordinate violence.

Further, I tried to point out that none of these fatalistic visions were ever prophesied by Christ. Rather, they were the result of a fearful culture’s way of trying to come to grips with having murdered Christ. The New Testament was simply the Christian Church’s way of manipulating the life of Christ, after his murder, to suit their ends. For having murdered Christ, they have been karmically fated to being a violent culture. Seeing that it was pointless to be engaged with these blind and lost souls, I chose to move on. To say the least, the energies between us were tense.

*Then, too, it was best that I moved on. The longer that I engaged them, it proved fairly obvious that I would have to up my frequency becoming light and thus invisible to the blind. Truth be told, they would shortly start ridding me of my soul. After all, I clearly was a heretic in full! END.

An area that seemed like a school, this proved the reality of the third dream, where there were kids who wore navy blue tunics. They were in their early teens and were going out to a courtyard. We were coming back from a precipice. Everyone here represented several nationalities. Some Hispanic kids, who were clearly well-off, attended the private school. Looking down at all these people far below, we were out on a balcony. I thought to myself at the time that I simply couldn’t afford to go falling over this balcony. In the meanwhile, I energetically waved down to the group below. I was encouraging them to financially invest in Africa by supporting African industries.

There was nothing in the world that they had to be ashamed of. They ought to be more proud of their African heritage and their African nations. Indeed, they needed desperately to wake up to the realisation of just how much that they actually had. Some ten feet away were two white horizontal iron bars that formed a container from the precipice. Naturally, one was expected to use common sense and not go beyond the two restraining bars. Going to the right of a guy, who did not want to move, I grabbed a hold of the upper bar. I gymnastically snaked my body through both bars and made it onto the safe side of them again.

One girl was approaching her father, to speak with him, as he was surrounded by people. Though daytime, it happened also to be overcast. For being otherwise engaged, her father couldn’t speak to her. To drive away her disappointment, I grabbed her and started dancing which her father appreciated with a warm smile. She had been quite insistent on speaking to him, however, there was no way that he could have then seen her. I was trying to get her to see that her father’s diplomatic affairs meant that there were times, even to her, when he was simply unavailable. At the time, he was in the midst of being interviewed by a television crew.

I was in a darkened room, at night time, in this the fourth dream. Somehow, Isha da Braga and other family members were also present. A man was lying there on a bed and his physique was that of a warrior or even a king soul incarnate. He was a pure white-haired man. It was the natural hair colour not due to his agedness physically. He had been across the bed on which I lay. At the time, I was not the least bit tired. I was supposed to be in repose and there was an implicit order that he not be awakened. There were several talons – fishing flies, however, they were unlike their waking state counterparts.

Apparently intended for me to keep, they were laid out on my pillow. Beyond the head of the bed was the lone door to the room. The look of the door and the room made it seem fairly sepulchral. Meanwhile, another man had entered the room through those doors. He stood in the centre of the room before me. He wore a gossamer-looking outfit which fell to just below his calves. It was as if a futuristic version on the chainmail suit of ages past. Bronze-coloured, it fitted his body pretty much like a wet suit would. There were some metallic-looking strips that crossed the outfit.

Behind him were the largest wings imaginable. These were definitely not some theatrical contraptions, they were his. Adding greater drama to his entrance, they flared out behind him and upwards. To say the least, he was quite the mythic figure. Sadly though, the intensity of the outfit’s glow obscured the look of his face. For that reason, it was hard to say whether he was Amerindian, Indian, Asian, Black or White. On remembering that dream of September 4, 1988, I instinctively sat up. Straight away, I knew that he would approach the bed. I also knew that whilst standing there at the foot of bed, he would perform some all-important ritual.

Meanwhile, Penina da Braga and Isha were telling me not to get up. That was because I wasn’t supposed to disturb the man, who lay there, soundly asleep. Frankly, I did not much care about the archetypal king/warrior-souled man soundly asleep on the bed with me. As I explained to them, I was more concerned with the winged incredibly tall man. I knew that he was there to collect the fishing flies from me. For that reason, I told them that I was afraid that the winged man may take off, thus making it potentially impossible to get them to him.

Their confusion was distracting; so, with that, I finally got from the bed and left the area. As I left the sepulchral room, I realised that I had been someone who had been quite revered in a past life. Apparently, this had been in parts of the West Indies – the Virgin Islands and mainland America. As I walked from the room, I had been told this by a guide. Seemingly, I had been a skilled diplomat which was when I had earlier been out on the balcony. At the time, I had been looking down to the masses and spurring on their spirits. I was respected and much-loved by the locals.

*The immensely powerful, gossamer-suited, winged and exceptionally tall man was not the Eurocentric angel. He was not, for that matter, some mythic archetype. He was an extra-human and it was also clear that regardless his packaging, he was clearly a king soul. There was no getting around that fact. I found that it was quite impactful being in his presence. I also had a strong sense that he was someone with whom I have been familiar, in the dreamtime, throughout my life. This is one of those rare times that he has manifested in the dreamtime. I do believe that this is the first time that his manifestation has been recorded in this audio-cassette medium. END.

In a courtyard area, I found myself in this the fifth dream, on an estate that was close to the sea. A man was being surrounded by five Italian guys who were being problematic. Clearly, these men were thugs and the henchmen of someone with whom he was acquainted. Eventually, his mother had shown up wearing this beautiful floral-printed dress. The dress was a sleeveless design. She was a short study of the babushka archetype. There was no way to get around the fact that this man was Russian. I had had to tell his white-haired mother, to stop being emotionally panicked, to leave the scene. She could, by her distress, have proven detrimental to his survival. Besides, quietly I had told her to go get help by dialling 9-1-1. Except that when she went to the balcony, she started shining some large spotlights.

Seeing the logic of her actions, I told her that whatever she did, she had to always keep them trained on her son. In the meantime, the henchmen kept on closing in on him. The heavies all wore bathing suits. On the order of Charlton Heston, he was a tall majestic-looking man. A very warrior-spirited, mid-aged man was her son. The house was a papaya-toned, West Indian-orange-into-peach tone, to slight-tangerine-red impressive structure. Surrounding the house, in the modern style, was a large stone wall. There were marvellous sculptural openings in the wall. They were lyrically curvaceous and suggested slow aqueous movement. The style architecturally was really quite timeless. Set some twenty feet from the house, the wall was an impressive complement to it and was some ten-to-eleven feet tall. The wall was the same colour as the side of the house.

The earthen yard was a roughhewed affair, with exposed roots everywhere, as top soil had long ago been wind-and-rain swept aside. The wall was in three phases, to accommodate the sloping grade of the property, dropping a couple of feet along the way. The distance between a drop-off in the wall was roughly ten feet. When one got down to the seashore, there was a van circling in the air overhead. This van had the same green tonality of most military helicopters. The look was of that army camouflage gear that is sported the world over. The craft was definitely not a helicopter. A network of vary-sized antennae shot from all sides of the van-like craft that silently hovered in the air. Down on the shore, parked next to the sea, were a couple of tractor-trailers. Their being placed so close to the ocean, I thought was dangerous. Both of them were white with one being silver in the back. Clearly claimed by the ocean, they had been abandoned there to rust away.

I couldn’t believe the environmental negligence of whoever had done this. Not realising that the henchmen had landed on the beach and entered the house, a man had come and parked his car down on the beach. Meanwhile, the girl – who had wanted to talk to her diplomatic father – had learnt that these same people had savagely butchered one of her brothers. They had then disposed of his body at sea. The man being confronted by the murderous henchmen had come down to the sea. He was there to investigate who they were and why they had landed on his beachfront property. A number of people had seen them come ashore and had yelled out after them. The concerned were neighbours of the Russian man. These people then took it on themselves to call the authorities. With that, the murderous henchmen had fled.

By the rising tides, the butchered corpse was slowly beginning to be dragged out to sea. The murderers had fled, behind the house, to the sheer cliff, rock face where there were several abandoned buildings. These men had split up at once, taking off in divergent directions, to escape being caught together. Running helter-skelter, they veered off in separate directions when fleeing apprehension. Taking cover myself, I then went indoors; once inside, I immediately looked around when trying to get my bearings. There, I saw a man lying on the floor who was bent over. Splendidly furnished with an eclectic array of antiques and mementos of a well-travelled life, the interior of this house was busy. The décor here was in the Santa Fe style and warm it was too.

The man was on the lowest of the three levels, of the split-level house, thus leaving him closer to the sea. Theatrical, the house was wide-open and inviting. This layout afforded a commanding view of the wetness of nature’s womb outside. As each of the three levels had its own sitting room area, he was in that level’s sitting room. The seating was always in the centre of the central hall-like room. There were lots of potted plants that towered up in search of the comfortably far-off ceilings. They were all big-leafed and, for the most part, succulents. In this one area, it was absolutely beautiful – where the guy was knocked out and on the floor. Coming closer, I realised that it was my current lover, Gustavo Vadim. He had been badly beaten up by the marauding, interloping murderers.

**Shore Bird on the Tundra, Kenojuak Ashevak**

One of the henchmen, wearing a skimpy little bathing suit, went down before the Russian man’s mother and started masturbating in front of her. As she sat there, on the chair, the henchman air-jacked off though never having taken his hard-on from his tight-fitting spandex. The poor dear was being totally traumatised by his boorish behaviour. Seated there, she really did want to get a load of that throbbing piece of raw tenderloin. I found it quite comical to look at her. I, at the time, was up on a ledge that formed part of the structure’s girders. Just as outside, in the stone walls, the same sculptural schemata were reproduced on the walls inside the house. There in one of these openings I had comfortably sat. Hiding out of view of them, I had been crouching down. To my left, from where I perched birdlike, was the central living space in which were the sitting areas.

A really beautiful organic house; it was not unlike that sublime masterpiece which I explored in the dreams on Thursday, February 16, 1989. As one walked down the length of the house, towards the sea, the partition on which I hid was off to the right. Beyond the central living space, the same sculptural wall was repeated far opposite across the house. Too, that wall had groovy openings in its three-foot-thick frame. Here too, as outside, the same colour schemata prevailed. Here in this part of the house, it was dark as there were not many windows in the structure. There were, interestingly enough, no central skylights in this house. This, I thought, was a design flaw. As they went off to get dressed in casual wear, one of the Italian guys had seen me. I must say that they were an über-poilu bunch.

The fact that they had been able to inflict a great deal of damage on their target, they openly celebrated. One of them had gone and gotten the guy, who reminded me of Gustavo, putting him on the gas range. Turning on the gas, they then struck a match on his genitals and arse. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Both his anterior and posterior sexes were on fire. Rushing to his aid, I snapped at them telling them to layoff persecuting him. Grabbing his body, I pulled him off the range and covered his singeing sexes. I then reached over and put out the glowing blue-flamed gas range. The Italian guy, it turned out, drank a lot of whiskey then he violently spat out the liquor at me. With lightning ease, I caught it in my mouth and rapidly spat it back at him. He had followed the liquor with a spurt of flame which, of course, was meant to set me alight. The stunt had failed as intended. I had no intentions of being burned as he had intended.

The way in which I blew the breath out had amazed me. The sound of my breath was a thunderous quake. The process was empowering and felt as though a wind tunnel had opened up. Out of my body, there blew all this warm air. Though I had feared that he would throw a match at me, setting my breath and self on fire, it never did happen. In the same position, as a frog’s limbs, Gustavo was crumpled on the floor. Crouched forwards, I turned him back, attempting to right his body. Gustavo, however, remained on his knees. His spread arse cut quite the impressive inviting image. Finally, on seeing his face, I could see a semblance of Gustavo’s face. More importantly, this reincarnationally was the amalgamated face of his soul over the ages. The nostrils were more flared than Gustavo’s.

Though not dead, he was as if in a deep comatose state. Nonetheless, he was sexually inviting, expansive and to the point of being submissive. Furious, I shrieked at the henchmen and ordered them to instantly get the fuck out of the house. They were very rebellious though. Getting outside, I rushed after them and made sure that they were taking their leave of the property. When the authorities pulled up, tires screeching, they had gone down into their car. Tearing from their cars, they abandoned them fleeing on foot. Before the house, there was a sheer rock cliff which was some eight feet high. Where the millennia of water runoff had created deep cracks in it, there were deep fissures in the rock face.

This is what had caused the earth, in the yard, to become so eroded leaving a bare rocklike surface. Whilst I hid out down in a dugout, I saw the arrival of backups. They arrived in futuristic, EHV(extra-human vehicle)-like machinery. As if made from malleable chrome alloy, they were silver. In that sense, they appeared as if animated machinery effortlessly floating through the air. Removing myself from the chaos, I went off on an exploratory tour inside a large complex that seemed like a museum. There, I saw several strange-looking persons who seemed not wholly human. I couldn’t though quite fathom what it was about them that made them, as it were, not quite homo sapiens. Finally, nothing on display made precious sense to me. With that, I took my leave of the complex.

The persons there were also openly making fun of Blacks though not necessarily me. Since I did not appreciate this, I took off. I was then in this area with a guy whom I initially thought was Black. He energetically seemed Black. I had been too distracted, by the goings-on outside, to have paid him much attention. There was considerable fighting taking place outside the dugout. The Italian henchmen were caught in a stakeout with persons who were obviously extra-human. They seemed more so like sentinels – automatons, if you like, rather than humanoids. With a large pylon slab in it, the dugout was metallic and less than six feet deep. On the other side of the pylon was a doorway. The guy was always on my right as we hid out. Soon it became apparent that the EH sentinels were aware of our being in hiding. What’s more, they were actually protecting us from being overwhelmed by the Italian henchmen.

When they appeared to do battle with the sentinels, the Italian-looking guys had the most incredibly large guns. A woman in army fatigues had jumped back away from a bullet. With ferocious skill she had grabbed a bullet, ripping through space, from the air then violently tossed it down into the dugout where we were. Eventually, she had managed to shoot one of the sentinels. Soon enough, they received backup from the army fatigue-coloured crafts that had appeared as if out of nowhere. At the time, for the first time, the guy that I was with pointed out the sentinels to me. Not until they had come close enough did I realise that they were as different to us, indeed, as were we to them. They had spindly arachnidan legs. Their bodies were round squat and robotic-looking whilst their heads were small as compared to their rotund bodies.

However, these were not mere machinery, they were unmistakably sentient. They could fight and were rather immune to battle fire. Seemingly, in composition, their bodies were made of material that was fairly close to steel. Long-limbed, their legs were frightfully skinny. Terminating in a spear-like or pin-like sharp point, their arms were sticklike and long. A bipedal race they were whose locomotion was rather nimble. Their legs were in three sections with no discernible feet. They moved as if their extended feet were perpetually en pointe. The henchmen were tossing out these round pellets which seemed some new sort of anti-personnel grenade. The sentinel would quickly grab a hold of the grenades and instantaneously diffuse them. They managed to throw one down at us and, at that point, the guy got up and made to leave the dugout.

I was uncertain whether or not he had been shot. When he was crawling from the dugout, I could tell from the shortness of his legs – as compared to the length of his back – that he was White rather than Black. This man was, in fact, Gustavo and I called after him and asked him not to leave the dugout. Reassuringly, he told me that he would be back. Nonetheless, I did not like being left alone without his grounding company. When he started coming back, his face was now different. He wore a green mask which had a large diamond-shaped, quartz crystal in it. Another person also came from the hall that went down into the earth. Whilst he was walking there, he and the others all looked like cartoon or animated figures. What they were, in fact, were astral entities that we were witnessing. This creature then came out to do battle with the sentinels.

The creature wore all-black flowing garments that independently billowed in the non-extant wind. A plaque on the slab read ‘Minerva’ or some such ancient name. This woman represented yet another mythological archetype. I went, beyond the courtyard, to explore the inside of the structure. There, I saw an exhibit of species of sentient beings. They were, some of them, humanoid. Some were Black but these species were, for the most part, not members of our own homo sapiens species. As it was an anthropological exhibition, at the time, there were several other persons there taking in the exhibit. With some of the other humans about marvelling aloud at the vast array of sentient life forms, it was all very revelatory. They were all alien to anything that one could fathom evolving here on Gaia.

I had not stayed very long in ‘the hall of species’ which is what it was called. In a soothing blue-walled salon, one hall was adorned with beautiful tapestries. The designs here were most unusual. They sprung from vastly different aesthetic sensibilities than those to which the human experience has given expression. One guy who was there, an older man, was talking aloud of the exhibit. He was White and from time to time kept on looking back at me whilst throwing shade. Here was this asinine human, identifying with EHs, when he hadn’t even been able to accomplish the same with his own kind. He was also Gay and, for greater impact, doing an affected lisp.

He was a tour guide. He was speciously trying to show how these alien cultures also had connections to ancient Greece. This monologue of his was so much bullshit and, yet again, another example of racist absurdities. Dismissing him and his ilk, I moved on picking up the pace of my walk. The entire place was a series of stairs that went up, and then down, sometimes even winding but along them the exhibits were visible.

*The sense of the winding stair-interiored museum was not unlike the layout of the Guggenheim Museum on New York City’s Fifth Avenue. END.

As in the waking state, this undoubtedly was not the conventional approach to museum exhibits. The beautiful courtyard was littered with chairs that were of a pinkish-red-toned iron. They faced up towards the courtyard’s piece de resistance which was a lovely stand of the most unusual-looking trees. The sunlight here could best be described as starlight because its intensity suggested that this was not being illumined by Sol. After having seen it earlier, now I was seeing it in greater detail. They were preparing to serve a meal there. At that point, I did not get too involved. The mythic woman/creature Minerva was also there in the museum of alien anthropology. The other species aesthetically were simply fantastical. The chromium stick-limbed sentinels were also represented in the exhibit. I had taken cover in the museum, which was completely underground, to escape becoming caught up in the fighting aboveground.

Under no circumstances did I want to have to get involved in warfare. The man had been spirited away during battle, by one of the hovering vehicles, by the whitish-silver, sentient chrome beings. The craft had circled the property, before touching down in the sea, away from being overrun by the Italian-looking guys on land. The henchmen had no way of making it out to sea to overwhelm the sentinels’ crafts. There were lots of especially tall coconut trees that ringed the estate of the marvellous split-level dwelling. The craft had made it ashore, at which point, then morphed into looking like an abandoned car. In that way, its transformed shell served as clever camouflage. There were several antennae on it as did all the others have antennae. When they had been in the house, they were in constant communication with their crafts.

This was the point at which I made the realisation that the Italian-looking men, in bathing suits, were extra-human got up in human disguise. This is why it had made it so confusing to fully discern what was afoot. As they were way bigger and more space-aged, than anything native to Earth, the guns that the Italian-looking extra-humans used were a dead giveaway. Though they were young-looking, there was something about them that suggested that they did not fit into the ageing process governed by Sol’s unique vibration. Warrior-spirited, they were an adversarial people. Clearly, they were there to capture humans for their own purposes whether for research or something else.

That something else, whilst I was in the museum of EH anthropology, I thought meant capturing human specimens for sale to museums like the one that I toured. Either way, they were sadistic, extremely unpleasant sentient extra-humans to be around. Theirs was a young-souled focus that was not unlike the rapacious exploitations that began 500 years ago on this planet – which prevail to this today.

These dreams occurred on Sunday, April 25, 1993 whilst the Moon transited both Gemini and my first house. Unlike dreams from this date previously shared herein, on February 16, 2013, these dreams, however, were had during the ‘B’ or second sleep cycle that day. They were, to say the least, rather transformative dreams. As per the Minerva mythological woman in this dream, I am beginning to think that she may have been connected to the same mythological female in that dream set on the Moon. Indeed, this dream may also have been set here on Earth’s Moon. I will also go one further and presume that the dream of the inverted Machu Pichuesque, canyonned civilisation may well have been set on Earth’s Moon. Who are we to say that this is not the case? We are a planetary civilisation where ignorance and superstition are the order of the land.

I think that it makes perfect sense for there to be a museum of anthropology on the Moon. Said museum would, of course, bear examples of all the species which from time to time frequent or have frequented the planet. I am sure with each species on display that there would be a history as to its connection to Earth. Were they engaged in deep sea marine studies or mining – aquatic or land-based? Were they engaged in trade, research, exchanges with some levels of Earthly governments? Again, as with the canyonned Machu Pichuesque civilisation, December 29, 1990. There was the sense of the dugout and that dream of October 6, 1997 wherein the 500-plus-storeyed skyscrapers sat inside portal-like canyons. I do believe that all three of these dreams are connected and were centred on the Moon.

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Raye Live 2025 Montreux Jazz Festival

She’s a dynamite Jazz singer in the making!

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Two rats during the course of eighteen months produce one million offspring. You’ve long transcended being a cultural infestation; you are a fucking plague and Karma, that most vicious of cunts, will yet dispense with you!

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Past-Life Dream Set In Intrigue-Filled Dynastic Egypt.

26.04.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

This dream, set in dynastic Egypt, deftly betrays what a powerfully focussed and strong woman Harella was. The dream was first that day.

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**Iman still from Michael Jackson video Remember the Time.**

I was sat on a wonderful divan in a beautifully opulent place. Instinctively, I knew that this was in Egypt. It was during the height of pharaonic Egypt. There were two stout women here with me who were light-skinned. Hard to tell whether they were Mitanni or light-skinned Blacks. They were cooks and were fussing over me asking me to eat up.I ate from a plate which had these different shoots on it. One of them was papyrus shoots, some bamboo shoots and a wild Nile delta mushroom. It was strictly vegetarian fare.As well, there was a purplish tuber like baby eggplants. I ate with a fork which was very heavy-looking. Clearly, I did possess some rank at birth. I would point out the items I wanted to eat next and would then have it fed to me by either woman.

At one point, I was told by one of the women, “Yes, you even remember what your favourites were last time.”

**Catch of the Day. Drawing. 2008 Arnaqu Ashevak**

At this point, into the room walked a tall Black woman of Ethiopian features and complexion but who was not too dark. Definitely, she was from the Upper Nile region. I can’t quite do justice here as to how supremely regal this woman was. She was quite simply the most regal and powerful creature imaginable. The two eyes that this woman wore were large, brown and soulful. You felt her soul itself looking out and into you. I did not think of her as having been Merlin in a past life. However, it is quite possible that this woman’s soul I knew quite recently as Merlin during its last incarnation. When she entered the room, the women looked at each other and one of them said in a sotto voce, “Ah yes, she’s brought him with her.”

There was a Black man, who was a little darker-complected, there with her. Seemingly a relation or priest, perhaps, he might even have been a eunuch. He remained in an outer room. She was quite simply the Queen, the Pharaoh’s wife. On entering, she began walking around us and speaking. She was very stylised in her movements. She wore a tunic of gold thread and strips of gold filigree. In places, her dress looked metallic. In its sparse, linear, understated opulence, it seemed not unlike something that Cynthia McFadden would design. The dress throughout was festooned with the designs, all in gold, of open papyrus leaves. They were very tiny and sat inside of little squares. In one square there would be a papyrus applied, such that it would be very iridescent, whilst on the next square it was very dull with a matte finish look to it. The resulting effect was one of row after row, square after square, of papyruses. Each square was exactly half an inch square. The detail on this dress was absolutely golden. It was supported by half-inch-wide straps which, of course, had the same square papyrus design.

**Blue Bird, Drawing 2009 Kenojuak Ashevak**

Next to her flawless complexion, she was simply statuesque. Her neck was easily six to ten inches longer than the infamously long neck of Ann Cokossi, Princess of Togo – the regal lady’s neck was longer than Iman’s. Iman was clearly descended from the same stock. It was not Iman. She did have long hair that was finely braided in the fashion of a Maasai male’s. The hair was swept up off her face and into a very intricate arrangement. There were several beads throughout her stylised hair and some of them were cowrie beads. There were other shells and some precious stones as well. Her makeup was exquisitely applied and clearly was a several-hour affair. The eyes, of course, were the most detailed. I really did not get a sense of it being the famous Nefertiti Akhenaten. However, the man that she was with was undesirable and totally untrustworthy. I got the sense that it was someone related to me, as in myself, in a past life. Her companion male never did enter the room. Whilst speaking with the woman who sat there on the chair feeding me, the queen kept on slowly gliding about the room. This woman was like the Queen Mother or, perhaps, the dowager.

**Four Eyes and Groovy, Drawing 2025 Michael Massie**

Whilst she spoke, I was beginning to become refamiliarised with the palace intrigue. Throughout the salon, where we sat, there were a whole series of spies. Soon enough, I could discern the holes throughout the walls so that the spies could get a good command of what was going down. There was a great deal of subterfuge here. There was a whole caste of spies. There were spies who were in the service of the priesthood. Spies of the Queen’s and still there were spies of the Pharaoh’s. Still there were spies of the harem among which were a subclass and more powerful caste of spies for the eunuchs. In addition, all the different levels of the royals had their own battery of spies. All about the room, every one of those holes had a designated spy who reported back to his dynastic figurehead in the hierarchy. This was a very brief dream, I must add here. However, it was very lucid, real and totally lived-in a dream. I had a sense of being there in time. It was not just an observer dream. I was really in the body of that royal child who could have been no more than six years old.

**Arctic Assembly, Lithograph 1996 Kenojuak Ashevak**

This occurred at nighttime and it was somewhat damp in the room though simultaneously briny from the arid desert air. The whole language was about intonation and innuendo. As a matter of fact, the whole language was so ritualised and stylised that it was more slow and subtle than is movement in the Noh theatre of Japan. This was all about gestures and the myriad gestures that could be implied from the relations of one gesture juxtapose to another. It took me awhile to get the knack of it. However, I became totally lucid as to what was going down. It all came back to me. Indeed, even at the age of six, I was already quite proficient in the nuances of this very complex court language. As she spoke, the Queen’s arms and other parts of her body would be perpetually in motion. It was danced – this language. The whole language was codified and layered beyond anything wildly imaginable in this day and age of superficiality. This was deception on the order of high art. What was spoken was mere camouflage. The spoken word was not even an nth of the layered language. Along with it, what her body was doing and the subtlety of movements indicated what was really implied by what was said. More to the point, it was what was not implied by what was not said.

**Birds and Foliage, Stonecut 1970 Kenojuak Ashevak**

By comparison, the most sophisticated Parisienne would be considered a primitive communicator. This was all very complex court politics, indeed. Then, at one point, the Queen went and stood thereby freezing her movement and this is what one had to try and discern. This was because the every placement of every limb and muscle, on her body, carried great impact by way of what was being communicated. This was very much so an African tongue being spoken here. At times, it was slow whilst at other times dizzyingly sped up and rapid fire.

*It seemed more closely to resemble Jazz vocalesing à la Betty Carter sophistication though, truth be told, even Betty Carter’s skills were primitive by comparison. I can’t impress enough how truly complex was this language and mode of communicating. END.

Yet I got the complete picture of what she was communicating. The Queen was speaking of the child – my six-year-old former self. I feigned ignorance at the time though it was obvious that I was the subject of discussion. This had to do with the care of the child. “How was the child coming along?” she had inquired. I could very well have been her child. It was obviously the custom for royal children to be separated, from their mothers at birth, the higher placed they were at birth. I was here in this dream, of a past life experience, in the care of two women who were as if wet-nurses/governesses to me.

**Flower Bird, Stonecut 1970 Kenojuak Ashevak**

At another point, the Queen had produced this papyrus fan from beneath the delicate folds of the heavy-looking dress. It was a plain fan made of papyrus. However, it was covered in hieroglyphs. This was also a very ancient fan which she had inherited. The fan was being strategically used, as part of the deceptive code, to foil the spies all about the room. When coming closer to us, the Queen had smiled a very bland smile in my direction. This was, of course, so that nothing whatsoever could be read into it by any of the spying factions. The Queen slowly leaned in to look at the food that I ate. Inspecting it, she offered the gesture of showing her trust in the cooks by taking a piece of shoot from the plate to eat. This was all theatre for as she had slipped the food to her mouth she waved the fan over her mouth whilst saying, in rapid-fire sotto voce, a couple of very strategic sentences. It was absolutely sublime. It was directed at the dowager Queen Mother who, for being more practised in the art, feigned utter ignorance of anything so paranoid as subterfuge. It was priceless! This was clearly the height of late young soul to early mature soul intrigue. Though she could never have been overheard in saying what she had, the fan was placed to prevent the visiting Queen being lip-read. These spies, after all, were very expert. I do recall one man having been seated across from me earlier. He was a spy and basically he was visiting to learn the every minutia of my mouth mechanics during speech. It was all very subtle, though very archly shrewd and deadly, the way in which he came to do his job and record my mouth’s every idiosyncrasy during speech. The queen had performed, in that one gesture, such a winning sleight of hand. She was letting the Queen Mother know that she trusted her by actually tasting the food that she was feeding the child – me, in that past life. It seemed, after all, to be an impromptu visit which means that the food could well have been laced with poison for unsuspecting me. I suppose that if it were necessary, I could have been eliminated by the dowager Queen Mother or the Queen herself.

**A Birthday Bull for John from Bill, 1990 Drawing Bill Reid**

When she had directly stood in the centre of the room, earlier, the Queen had picked up her right foot off the floor. She had very subtly managed not to have shifted her weight or allowed for any movement whatsoever in her upper body. The Queen then began doing what seemed a predecessor of the frappé and began horizontally waving her foot from the ankle. The movement betrayed a gesture akin to ‘no’. This, of course, did not in the least betray everything that was going on elsewhere in her body. As there were so many items of furniture about the room, it was obvious that from where the holes were placed in the walls that one could not make out the codified foot movements. This was so mind-bogglingly delicious. The foot being incorporated, in the language, was a most clever invention. The moment at which she picked up her foot, it was as though I had sat up awake in bed. It was that vividly recalled from past life experience. ‘Yes!’ I thought to myself and laughed a small breath which the dowager Queen Mother, to my side, immediately stifled with a sharp intake of breath. One clearly did not laugh in the Queen’s presence. The subtleties of the language here, in this point in dynastic Egypt, were phenomenally stratospheric. This was communication taken to heights unheard of since, in any court life, on this planet. There were times as she slowly moved about the room that the Queen had ritually placed the fan to her beguiling face, to fan herself, whilst letting out little phrases for us to hear.

**Electric Raven, Stonecut 2019 Quvianaqtuk Pudlat**

On one occasion, her back was to us and her arm in back made a series of quick gestures that were not unlike sign language. Meanwhile, the fan was to her face giving us a double stream of code to simultaneously decipher. To the point of being frightening, the Queen was very deceptive. It was hard to ever see her eyes. The Queen used language such that the eyes could never have been seen. More could be read from her eyes adding to what she was saying. For this reason, she almost exclusively kept her lids such that it kept her gaze cast out and down to the floor. Her head, of course, was never lowered and the rapid eye movements which she employed were also very strategic. When she spoke, one was never to make eye contact with her. It would imply too much simply because we were being spied on. This was indeed a very restrictive existence. There we were, in a fish bowl of sorts, being spied on by sharks who completely surrounded us waiting their turn to hungrily make prey of us. Since she was the Queen, one could never look at her eyes. However, I was possessed of more than my six-year-old self making me a very probing and curious soul. The Queen picked up on this and was acutely made uncomfortable by it. It was as though there was now some new development in my maturation which spelt trouble. Naturally, you just knew that there was any number of long discussions to come as to what to do with this ‘one’ meaning my poor, possessed self. It was as though, for having stepped into my former self’s six-year-old body, I could have spelt his very untimely and not accidental death. Regardless, this woman and I were deeply connected.

**Mother and Cubs, Lithograph 1977 Kananginak Pootoogook**

I could sense from her a real familial, maternal even, bond. The Queen was very much so in tune with me. There was an element of this communication which was low-level telepathic. Indeed, there were times when she had thusly engaged me. It was chiefly done for putting me at ease. It was also how she had to stay bonded to me for having had me taken from her, of custom, at birth. What was really interesting here was that the concept of reincarnation was definitely fully accepted and religiously incorporated in the schemata of dynastic life. The dowager Queen Mother and governess, too, were both convinced that I was someone in the royal family who had reincarnated. My choice of food favourites were validation enough for them. I was very much so favoured by the Queen. She was warm towards me. However, she never physically expressed this. There was always, however, a very strong psychic fusion between us with most of the energies coming from her to me. She was connected to me – this much was unmistakable. I never did see the eunuch who had accompanied her, however, he was very powerful an influence in their lives. For this reason, more so than the placement of the spies, the Queen never once was demonstrative of her feelings towards me. She did let up on reaching towards the plate of food. One had the sense, of the eunuch who had accompanied her, that he was the one person who had connections to all the spying factions within the inner royal circle. He waited outside in the antechamber and his presence was more closely being paid attention to, than even the Queen’s, at times. There had also been musicians about the room playing music. This was simply to drown out the conversation being heard by the battery of spies. The musicians were placed along all four walls to really drown out the conversation. This then precluded conversation from making it to the periphery of the room and the spies just beyond its walls. This was a very palatial suite. It was dimly lit and sparsely decorated yet in the finest style. A very comfortable and socially elevated milieu it was. A most elevated dream experience.

**Miriam Gone Home, Oil on Canvas 2002 Dorette Pollard**

*As it is the forty-fifth anniversary of Merlin’s birth, I had asked prior to sleep in a lengthy meditation, to become opened up to experiencing aspects of a past life experience between Merlin and me. I asked only that it be of a positive nature and that it be in no way an unpleasant experience. The last thing that I wanted was to have some dream which mirrored the less pleasant aspects of Merlin’s end-of-life experience. Voilà, there it was – a most vivid, awakened dream experience. I have no idea which person here could have been Merlin. I fully identified with the six-year-old and, indeed, I was experiencing the dream inside his body and, at times, from a detached perspective. Then, too, I did identify with the much-feared eunuch outside the door. So I don’t know if he was me or, perhaps, even Merlin. The very loving energies of the Queen Mother could more easily have been Merlin, in a past life, than the Queen herself.

**The musicians about the room, against the far walls, were all distinctly Nubian. They were exquisitely beautiful and the quirk that they each had was that they were, for obvious reasons, each of them both blind and deaf. This, of course, did not detract from their stellar musicianship; at times they did sing. However, for being both blind and deaf they could not be expected to be picking up on any of the codified language and body signals that formed this most layered of spied-on, palace intrigues in dynastic Egypt. I should think, too, that this was at the heights of the Middle Kingdom before the advent of Akhenaten’s ascension. This sort of intrigue, and frankly rut, is precisely what he was likely sick of and seeking to escape when initiating his monotheistic religion. Of course, with so much centuries-old intrigue, clearly he would have been seen as the ultimate obstruction – a heretic who had to be annihilated at all costs and things righted in his demise. This, of course, is precisely what did take place. Again, despite the vogue since the nineteenth century to make a truly African civilisation anything but, everyone one and everything here was distinctly African: the music, the looks, the sense of fashion, styles and hair styles. The Queen’s eyes were not only phenomenally powerful but her head had that distinctly African/Black high-foreheaded look. The Queen’s neck was almost giraffe-like.

She made Iman look no-necked by comparison. END.

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Jacob Lusk singing Bennie and the Jets.

PBS broadcast of The Gershwin Prize for Popular Song to Sir Elton John and Bernie Taupin. I will pay any money to drink the elixir from this glorious human’s chalice in concert. Fly! This man’s interpretation of this song has trigger more than a few flying dreams. Sang!

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Celebrate! George Hawken 80th Anniversary

10.02.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

**George Hawken @ University of Toronto**

On this the occasion of 80th anniversary of George Hawken’s birth, February 9, 2026, I share here a blog from a decade earlier in celebration of his life at this passing in December, 2016. I have thoroughly relished each lucid dream encounter with George since his passing. Always and forever, I love you more, George. Every ticklish silent laughter shared about god only knows what. Most especially when listening to Florence Foster Jenkins or Joseph Haydn’s Paris Symphonies. Ever, George, your memory will be a wonderful explosion of joy. I am especially proud to have been muse, which fostered a very productive creative phase.

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This past Friday, December 23, 2016, I went to my doctor’s to get my test results for HIV. The doctor whom I had not seen in long ages was unusually engaging. When he finally cut to the chase, never had he announced that my test result was HIV negative with so much pleasure; I thought it odd at the time. Brushing past all that, I then inquired of him how George Hawken was doing; after all, George years earlier on my return to Toronto had insisted that I have the handsome Sino-Canadian for a GP as well.

**Marta. Intaglio. ©1974 George Hawken**

As he paused, I told him that I could appreciate his patient-client confidentiality considerations; however, forging ahead, I told him that I had sent George an email more than a week earlier and had not heard back from him. Pressing on, I inquired if George was doing well of late as I had last been in touch a couple of months earlier. In that way that the good doctor had mastered, he haltingly stammered back that yes, George was doing well… We then left it at that as clearly he did not want to pursue the matter further – he had actually stood up to conclude our visit.

**Pink Chair (Moi) ©1992 George Hawken**

About a week earlier, I was feeling especially uneasy about not having had a reply from George to my last email; he would always answer within 36 hours at the latest. By then, it had been about a week; we hardly ever spoke by phone on my return from Montréal. Previously, when we spoke by phone our conversations back in the late 80s and through to mid 90s resulted in an invitation from George to immediately get together where our passionate physicality was intense beyond the norm.

**Gordon and Janet in their Garden. Lithograph ©2009 George Hawken**

To still my worrisome mind, I began playing Joseph Haydn’s Paris symphonies; George favoured the Paris symphonies where I favoured the London Symphonies. George had actually introduced me to Haydn’s music; he insisted that I become better acquainted with the 18^th century composer’s works. When first I sat for George in 1986, at his Brock Avenue loft in the Queen Street West neighbourhood, he always played Haydn… I would always love the way, he would play imaginary keyboard whilst enjoying a cigarette break as I privately sat for him.

die Verwandlung Kafka (Metamorphosis) 11 Franz Kafka Intaglio ©1982 George Hawken

One of the funniest memories of George is lying in bed with him after passionate play at the Brock Avenue loft and laughing hysterically whilst we listened to CBCFM and a Florence Foster-Jenkins performance. Afterwards, we indulged another round of Rottweiler style passion that was part Greco-Roman brawn. On my return to Toronto, George and I never resumed our physical relationship; though, I had at least hoped that I could serve as muse to him again. Alas, it was not to be.

**Fleur du Mal Intaglio Artist proof ©1974 George Hawken**

One morning after work, with Haydn symphonies swirling about my mind as my apartment was sodden heavy with the Paris symphonies, I suddenly made a right whilst coming up Yonge Street and headed along Adelaide Street East. Then, I went one better and hung a left up Sherbourne Street for the morning ride home; never had I done this. Riding up Sherbourne, the familiar strains of Haydn’s Symphony No. 85 B flat major ‘La Reine’ spirited me along as I leisurely rode up the moderately icy, dedicated bike lane.

Just above Shuter Street, George suddenly fell into my mind and I crouched forward towards the handlebar to best face into the cold winds barrelling down the avenue. Whilst coasting up the bike lane opposite Allan Gardens Park, my mind as I whistled Haydn’s symphony began recalling moments of passion with George long years earlier. I thought of those glorious nights of noisy, sweaty passionate play at his McCaul Street loft; I crouched forward even more as my face warmed into a smile at pleasurable memories.

If only, I still had George’s numbers, I would call him on getting home; it was so unlike him not to have responded to the email that I had sent him on December 13, 2016. Peddling harder up the tough stretch of bike lane between Carlton and Wellesley Street East, I suddenly began slowing down as a large black hearse slowly negotiated its way from the Rosar-Morrison Funeral Home & Chapel property at 467 Sherbourne Street; it waited in the middle of the bike lane for northerly flowing traffic to ease up.

**Pink Chair (Moi) Lithograph Artist proof I/III ©1990 George Hawken**

I rolled up and paused looking squarely into the hearse where a cardboard coffin was bound and en route to the St. James Cemetery and Crematorium over on Parliament Street. This was the same route that my father’s cadaver had taken after his funeral in August 2008 which George had attended. I was so appreciative of the fact that he had asked if he could attend my father’s funeral. After the lovely service, I had approached George and we hugged and he seemed really pleased to have made the outing.

**Woman. Lithograph ©1980 George Hawken**

Moments afterwards another of my lovers, Owen Hawksmoor came by to start lecturing me about the importance of having many friends; after all, said he, look at all the people who had turned out to my father’s funeral. Then said, Owen, as can ever be expected of him, “you should at least have six people who would be prepared to pall bear for you.” Brushing him and his big sex cockiness aside, I rebutted, “trust you to always make for a bitter after taste. What’s it to me, I’d be dead; it really wouldn’t matter anymore than it does now.”

I broke and hopped off the bike and intently looked inside at the brown cardboard coffin; it seemed an eternity waiting for the hearse to finally make it off the bike lane and into traffic. In those moments, I again thought of George and that was when it suddenly dawned on me that I was never going to hear from George again. Further, I had the distinct impression that what had prompted me to route-change for the first time, to be humming and whistling one of Haydn’s Paris symphonies: symphony No. 84 in B float major is because George’s corpse lay in the hearse before me en route to St. James Cemetery and Crematorium.

**Myself (Self-portrait) Intaglio Artist proof ©2008 George Hawken**

Without doubt, this was why I was in this place in this moment before an austere black hearse straddling the northbound bike lane on Sherbourne which I had never used before en route home from work. With that, as the hearse slowly pulled out onto Sherbourne and then made a right turn onto Wellesley Street East, the traffic in the icy snowy street was sufficiently slow that I rode alongside the hearse along the side of the cardboard coffin and accompanied all the way to the black wrought iron gates of the cemetery on Parliament Street.

**Ascenseur Rodin Intaglio Ed 4/20 ©1978 George Hawken**

After I got in, had a shower and had my lovely home infused with Hoju incense, Haydn’s symphony No. 104 in D major ‘London’ played on repeat as I grounded anew. Though it was not especially windy out, there was a loud noise on my balcony and wrapping up in my lovely woolen pea coat, I took to the balcony to investigate. The first sight that greeted me was a heavy plume of sooty black smoke from the crematorium’s chimneys as they were being swept southerly in the cold wintry morning air. I lost a tear and on returning indoors, though my Google search on coming home produced nothing for ‘George Hawken Obituary’ I still felt firmly that there was no coincidence to the sequence of events and synchronicity of the past several days which culminated in the black hearse across the bike lane.

**Larger Matchbox III Intaglio ©1980 George Hawken**

As it is always tough to close shut, I gave the door to the balcony a bit of encouragement by heaving my right shoulder into it. On turning away from the door, I noticed one of George’s gifts to me “Woman” was titled off its hook on the cement wall where moments before taking to the balcony it had sat perfectly aligned. Yet another sign indeed. Finally, today at work, as I kept checking the folder which bore all George’s email correspondences, then did a Google search for ‘George Hawken Obituary’ alas there was confirmation. George had died the day before I had sent him my final email; it was one in which I offered to buy a copy of an illustration which he had done for an anthology of emerging Canadian authors.

Again, today after work, I rode up the Sherbourne Street bike lane and it all fell into place. Almost always when I went to our shared doctor, there would George be. Finally, when I saw him after a long spell of not having been in touch, he sat birdlike in the doctor’s office and he was just as stunned to have seen me walk in as I was to have seem him looking so gravely ill. George had said that it was cancer; we there and then made arrangements to get together and did. I was so pleased that he had finally met my lovely sister, Pandora and it was lovely going to George’s Camden Street penthouse suite for dinner with my lovely sister when she was in town from Ottawa.

**Self-portrait (George) Intaglio Artist proof ©1984 George Hawken**

Today, whilst riding up the bike lane on Sherbourne Street, the doctor’s excitable congratulations to my testing HIV negative made so much sense. Too, his response to my query how George was doing of late and his response that he was doing well, indeed, made perfect sense. By Friday, December 23, 2016, George was doing well and in a better place no longer suffering from the wear and tear of his end-of-life monadal illness. Ours was a very private relationship and there were only two persons in George’s life with whom I enjoyed cordial relations: his son and his lover, Colin Campbell. I rather suspect that Colin is George’s task companion.

**die Verwandlung Kafka (Metamorphosis) 7 Intaglio Ed: 18/35 ©1982 George Hawken**

I will ever be proud of having been an inspiring muse to George and for having facilitated the energetic work that he did in the late ‘80s to mid ‘90s. Our passion fuelled his creativity; what’s more, our passion kept me focussed and grounded in this life as Merlin and his ravaging illness and the hideous ghouls who betrayed him in his illness made life at times more harrowing than already the illness made it. George and his compassion and support were invaluable for me and Merlin was aware of it and openly and unselfishly encouraged it; he knew that I needed that support as with his passing the vipers in his circle would readily dispense with me. Alas, all things being mutual, dispense with the ill-evolved lot I gladly did.

**die Verwandlung Kafka (Metamorphosis) Cover Portfolio Ed: 18/35 ©1982 George Hawken**

Sweet and blissful dreams my darling ennobled George; I am honoured to have fostered and enabled your creativity to have lotussed into greater flower. Yours was a most rare and beautiful spirit and yet again our love shall dance and soar to higher octaves. My heart centre is wide open to facilitate your journey in whatever capacity of our choosing in the dreamtime. Ever, will I love you more.

Joseph Haydn Symphony No. 85 La Reine

Hawken, George 9/2/46<O>12/12/2016, Owen Sound

This was a first level old artisan in the observation mode, with a goal of dominance, a spiritualist in the emotional part of intellectual centre.

George had a Mercury/Venus body type.

George had a primary chief feature of arrogance and a secondary of stubbornness.

He was sixth-cast in his cadence and his cadence is second in the greater cadence. He is a member of entity two, cadre four, greater cadre 7, pod 414.

He has a discarnate artisan essence twin and a scholar task companion who is alive and they do know each other but have not worked together in this life.

This fragment is an artisan with priest casting, so his art will always manifest a spiritual component no matter what the medium. This fragment was a well-known painter of placid rural landscapes in the latter part of the eighteenth century in England, and several of his works hang in noble houses.

You were once a student of this fragment’s, in a life in Amsterdam in the seventeenth century and you were lovers for a short time in that life also.

Twice this fragment has illustrated books written by his task companion and he was also an illuminator of manuscripts in the twelfth century of the Common Era.

He was an architect during the reign of Augustus Caesar and several buildings he designed still stand, although one was rather badly damaged by the volcanic eruption that buried the city of Pompeii in the first century of the Common Era.

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As Ever, Nothing but Love for Meghan!

15.10.202528.12.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

**With Love, Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex, Netflix**

Meghan is so incredibly in her element for being happily in control in this empowering chapter of her life journey. Post The Tig, Meghan now has the audience her soul ever desired. She has the backing of Netflix, a first-look deal along with Harry at Netflix. Too, there is the very lucrative matter of having Netflix as a business partner. What the baying jackals of the “left-behinds,” royals and their media hacks, say and do, is of no consequence. Meghan reigns supreme and commands industry attention and respect.

With a crew of 80 plus souls, Meghan had all eyes on her. Everything about the production is impeccable. The music chosen, the thoughtfulness of the guests featured and what their episode would be focussed on, were masterfully researched and perfectly executed.

Catherine, HRH The Princess of Wales, Balmoral, 2025

Looking for all the world like a resuscitated Edward Gorey ghoul, we got ourselves a new do to eclipse that damn yank on the eve of season two of her Netflix “flop” as they have gotten that blasted little fabulist toe-tapping minstrel to shrill from FailedDaily’s Hyde corner. Well, quelle surprise ça, Lady Doolittle Ponsworth’s new do was no roaring success as no one was enthralled and certainly, the lady had likely not intended to have had this chrysalis moment, turn into a meme-crazed object of open ridicule, which it most certainly fast became.

This episode, with Tan France, was one of the most glorious; for me, it was an exposure of Meghan’s true nature. Like all master number 11 persons, she is innately generous of spirit and thoughtful. Meghan got Tan a worn masala dabba, not brand new, but one that was used and the fount of love, memories and a gift that would touch and honour his heritage. It was a truly heartwarming moment.

**Entitled. Andrew Lownie. Yours truly’s copy.**

Having voraciously gourmandised on Andrew Lownie’s exquisite exposé, I have come away having greater respect for Harry and Meghan. What was most disturbing was seeing how Fleet Street was projecting onto Meghan the same phantom, the same persona that has nothing to do with her, which they had previously animated with Sarah, Duchess of York. How in the hell can you possibly compare Sarah to Meghan? They are miles removed and utterly incomparable.

**Meghan: Armani smoking & Anine Bing gold & diamond necklace**

Meghan is a mid-cycle mature artisan soul, whereas Sarah is a third level mature sage soul, the latter with very strong but difficult overleaves. Meghan is an older soul than Sarah, which counts for a great deal more than readily discerned. The Mid-Cycle soul age only occurs at the mature cycle and is between both the third and fourth soul ages. The difference between one soul age to another, third to fourth, is as vast as the difference between a young and mature soul.

Third level lives usually are marked by explosive growth and more than a little bit of karma being created along the way. One of the most beautiful moments of this book is the scathing letter that Princess Margaret wrote to Sarah, Duchess of York, which proves the most staunchly riveting defence of the House of Windsor; it is staggering in its power and beauty.

*’In a gesture of goodwill, Fergie sent the formidable Princess Margaret a bouquet of flowers, only to receive a blistering letter in response. According to a 2010 article in The Telegraph, Margaret wrote: “You have done more to bring shame on this family than could ever have been imagined.”

Then, appearing to make reference to the notorious “toe sucking” pics, she continued: “Not once have you hung your head in embarrassment even for a minute after those disgraceful photographs. Clearly, you have never considered the damage you are causing us all. How dare you discredit us like this, and how dare you send me those flowers?”

Fergie reportedly burst into floods of tears after reading this note.’

The book can’t be said to be an attack on the monarchy any more than the catastrophic damage that Andrew and Sarah have inflicted on the family and institution. Both Margaret and Sarah are mature sage souls. Sage souls, more than any other, will come off as grand and imperious, which has nothing to do with the true essence of a king soul.

**TRH Prince William & Catherine, The Prince & Princess of Wales**

Put aside Harry & Meghan for the moment, but what Entitled brought to light, is how great the strain on William and Catherine is. King Charles III is but a bridge to their reign and they are going to inherit all the bile that was never addressed by HLM The Queen and Charles, too timeworn and weary, to have to address. It truly is not The King’s problem, save it is and besides all that, there is the matter of righting his relations with his darling boy, his son, Prince Harry.

**Funeral of Katharine HRH The Duchess of Kent**

Two very noteworthy things are telling in this photograph, William and Catherine are having to stand there, regally enduring the Yorks foisting themselves on them. The other, something that most people did not notice, because I suppose it was not Meghan. There is no greater hogging the stage and being out of place than the Jewish wife of the 53rd in the line of succession, leaving her place, stepping ahead of William and Catherine to stand next to and speak to The King. It is both a family and a ceremonial royal funeral. Charles in his capacity of supreme governor of the Church of England is alone, because Camilla elected not to attend. No one should have stood next to The King, not even Sophie, HRH The Duchess of Edinburgh who attended alone as Edward was on tour in the South Pacific – Papua New Guinea. However, like her mother-in-law – the archly pompous racist boor, baroness Marie-Christine, the exceptionally entitled has to hog the stage, knowing fully well how the optics from Jo’burg, to ‘Viv to New York City will look. No one during HLM The Queen’s long reign would have dared go stand next to The Queen to chat whilst she was on duty, which was always.

Queen Camilla Being Rude to Catherine, The Princess of Wales, King Mother

After having pulled out at the last minute, the day prior, the funeral of Katherine, HRH The Duchess of Kent, owing to acute sinusitis, there was Queen Camilla turned up to greet President Trump and First Lady Melania for the start of their state visit. And why wouldn’t she have, both women having used their sex rather than intellect to forge their way in the world. There is no way to try to doll this up, yet again, Camilla is as fucking ugly as she is uncouth. How dare she, when little more than a barren fruitless branch of the dynastic family tree, be openly rude to Catherine, future Queen Consort and King Mother. Suddenly, Camilla had miraculously overcome her acute sinusitis, to bark orders at Catherine. Nothing is uglier than an insecure woman being hostile to another woman. She rudely dismissed Catherine who then self-deprecatingly turned off, after having been humiliated before the world.

Harry & Meghan Made to Leave Buckingham Palace Garden Party by Camilla, 2018

At least Meghan could put her foot down and say, “I am not putting up with this. My son will not be subjected to his racially predatory systemic abuse.” Thank goodness Harry listened and got them away from that madness. Can you imagine as per the exposé in the Oprah interview if Meghan had taken her life? They, the House of Windsor and their Fleet Street henchmen, would simply have spun it with lurid headlines of Meghan having overdosed on narcotics as she had been known to be abusing drugs… or similar tall tales of that nature.

Windsor walkabout

Catherine is bound to endure all the abuse meted out by Camilla, which would in turn explain why Catherine would naturally target Meghan in the monarchy’s pecking order. It is also reasonable to assume that in both the Carolean and Guglielean courts much of the worldview is heavily biased in favour of Jews. Jacob the 4th Baron Rothschild daily spoke to Charles for over 50 years until his death; William wedded on the baron’s 75th birthday. This explains why the Jewish wife of the 53rd in the line of succession could break protocol and go stand next to King Charles III at an official event when no one else sought to do so, and quite rightly ought not to have done so. Of course, The Rothschilds have for two centuries been the House of Windsor’s banking advisers.

Catherine, HRH The Princess of Wales Greets HM King Charles III at The Duchess of Kent’s Funeral

Whereas Catherine, who never missteps when it comes to protocol, did greet The King by curtseying, baroness Marie-Christine’s daughter-in-law did no such thing. Just imagine if Meghan had stepped out of line to go stand beside The King and ignored protocol, how she’d be lynched in British media. Ever Entitled, and as ever, pulling rank.

Queen Letizia of Spain Lays Down the Law

Don’t you worry Catherine, if and when the time does eventualise, don’t hesitate to draw inspiration from Queen Letizia of Spain. She is born September 15, same day as Prince Harry, so is possessed of double sixes. Such persons are all about righting wrongs. Both persons, Letizia and Harry, are Rats! The Rat’s motto: “anywhere, any damn time, I will take you to task… know that!” Letizia was deplorably treated by her mother-in-law Queen Sofia who did not even want her marrying her beloved son, King Felipe VI. Not to worry, the moment Felipe’s wife became Queen, Letizia had not kept score for nothing. “Take your damn filthy paws of my fucking children!” That’s how any rat worth their salt would deal with Sofia pulling rank, when clearly she was not allowed access to her granddaughters by her despised daughter-in-law now Queen.

Camilla Has The Sussexes Removed from Garden Party 22.5.2018

Three days after their glorious wedding, look at the optics as a stunned Prince Harry and Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex find themselves having to abruptly leave the Buckingham Palace garden party in celebration of the then Prince of Wales, HRH Prince Charles’s 70th birthday. Just as with Catherine being rudely told off, a rather insecure Camilla, not liking the draw of Harry and his exciting new wife, has them take leave. Just as with Catherine before U.S. First Lady Melania Trump, the Sussexes were embarrassed and left totally blindsided and humiliated.

**Meghan wears Chanel heading to dinner in Manhattan with Prince Harry**

As ever, archly in denial, the story has been spun to target and lynch Meghan, who was overheard, by sources of course, to be rudely saying that she didn’t want to be at the garden party, thus the couple was asked to leave. Again, it all stems from the ‘ugly duchess’ who was quick to rudely cannibalise Meghan as she routinely does Catherine and before Diana, Princess of Wales and likely, Sarah Duchess of York.

Camilla, like William, is a scholar soul; this particular soul type is more likely to interfere, bully and cause disruption in the lives of those with whom they have close relations. Sarah is a sage soul; both women are on their third life at heir soul age – third mature for Sarah and Mid-cycle Mature for Camilla, which means that they are more likely to create karma than repay karma. Meghan, an artisan soul – like Diana, Princess of Wales, is a mid-cycle mature soul; so too is Camilla – that means that they are both slightly older-souled than Sarah whose husband, Prince Andrew is an artisan soul; however, he is a seven level young soul which is why his life focus has been about corruption of ego, arrogance, entitlement and obsession with sexual conquests… to the detriment of the House of Windsor, to be sure.

All three Windsor wives have been bullied by Camilla, which is not surprising for a scholar soul. Diana was a second level mature artisan. An older soul than the other three women: Meghan, Camilla & Diana, Catherine is a fifth level mature warrior. Meghan is a mid-cycle mature artisan, same soul age as Camilla. Queen Camilla has internally abrasive Michael Overleaves, which would leave her inclined to being insecure and thus making enemies of whomever she deemed competition, which in her case is every other Windsor wife. Sad woman. There are two reasons for this, I believe, women in a patriarchal society are groomed to distrust and compete with other women. Secondly, Camilla has no royal heirs, which means that she has no power; even when alone in a room with Catherine, Catherine for being King Mother would never curtsey to her.

Naturally, as the Sussexes are doing fantastically well in their business partnerships with Netflix, the “left-behinds” had to go rushing to American studios, looking to elbow in on the action – as ever desperately attempting to be relevant. Naturally, The King was afforded a Netflix documentary deal to honour the 50th anniversary in 2026 of the now King’s Trust; the production will be narrated by actor, Idris Elba himself a beneficiary of the then Prince’s Trust grants at the start of his career. As Netflix are quite familiar with whom William is, beyond his carefully curated public persona, they took a pass on him on any overture he would have made them. Naturally, as per his connection to Jacob 4th Baron Rothschild, William’s fiendish campaign afforded him a rather tepid affair where action figure come to life William takes SCTV alumnus Eugene Levy on a tour of his magical life-size castle… truly riveting stuff.

Alas, the teeming otiose Black Africans in 19 Commonwealth nations have not seen William since he wedded 14 years ago; then again, he is truly occupied with ending homelessness and bringing real, meaningful, lasting peace in the Middle East! It is clear where the House of Windsor’s loyalty lies. Though King Felipe VI of Spain has strongly condemned Israel’s actions against Palestinians in Gaza and called for a two-state solution, neither HM King Charles III nor Prince William has spoken out on the matter as to do so would invariably offend they who are most beloved by them.

After spending every show ridiculing and lying about Harry & Meghan and their relationship and business relationship with Netflix, did these Fleet Street hacks do anything remotely journalistic with regards William’s interview with Eugene Levy? Did they ridicule the fact that he was rebuffed by Netflix, according to their sources, only to end up with Apple+ which no one watches, relative to Netflix. They never learn…

**Eugene & William, Windsor Great Park**

Make no mistake about it, this idyll set in the grounds of Windsor Castle and therein, was all an empty PR ruse. It was so much froth to say so little. Most of all, it was about covering the festering mess created by the hostile takeover of Sentebale, in which the Windsors pulled the race card, using an MBE – Sophie Chandauka who would naturally be obliged to do William’s bidding, to avoid being directly involved and turn the tables on Prince Harry. Well, Prince Seeiso saw through that nonsense, knowing fully well as he does who William truly is and thus resigned from Sentebale, along with Prince Harry, in a show of support.

Matters not, because not only did William’s interview not make Apple+’s top ten; Eugene Levy revealed in an interview that he still doesn’t know why William contacted him to be on his show. That tells you two things: 1. Netflix had no time for William’s nonsense. 2. William’s exclusive inner circle of Jews made it happen; again, this is the man who got married on Jacob, 4th Baron Rothschild’s 75th birthday… there is no such thing as happenstance on this planet.

Meghan Arrives at Balenciaga Show Paris Fashion Week

More than all that, before anybody could space a block in their weekend to time waste on William’s tawdry fare on Apple+, along came the weekend’s supernova, Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex alighting in Paris at Paris Fashion week to take in Pierpaolo Piccioli’s inaugural designs at Balenciaga SS26. Within mere hours, as ever, Meghan had eclipse yet another foray of William’s. “I told you keep that finger out of my face…” indeed!

Megyn Kelly Exposed

There it is…. it was not about giving a fuck about The Queen and the royal family, about whom she never previously cared. Then the public sacrifice was made and the mask dropped. This racist White fraud then goes on to state that thanks to Obama and his divisiveness, racism has arisen in America. The derangement of racist Whites who think that by banning Black history and reversing the gains of the past 70 years, it is somehow going to eclipse the karmic bond they hold with their enslaving ancestors… that is truly bizarre. Nothing this White Christian Nationalist says about Meghan, along with that peroxide blonde with an arse as wide as the Panama Canal, is credible and unbiased. They hate Black people and it has become abundantly clear that it is quite okay to openly hate Blacks in all media, because one can and more importantly have been gaslighted to do so.

This route proffered by Lady Fuckamere’s rag, FailedDaily, is totally ridiculous. Sugaar Restaurant was the site of the Balenciaga afterparty, which is in the 6th arrondissement where my sister lived. The video and Meghan’s perspective is of the River Seine to her right as she drove home to the hôtel Plaza Athenée on Avenue Montaigne. From Sugaar they would have taken Boulevard Saint-Germain to the Quai D’Orsay, from which the video was filmed. There is positively no reason for them to have journeyed so far west to Pont D’Alma, especially when Meghan just wanted to get home and facetime with her beautiful children 9 hours away in Montecito. The bridge out the window could have been Pont de la Concorde or even Pont Alexandre III, either way they would likely have taken Pont des Invalides as it bleeds into the one-way rue François I that runs northwesterly away from River Seine. That then would bleed into Avenue Montaigne which runs southwesterly one-way and which would take them to the entrance of hôtel Plaza Athenée. There was no sense in going to Pont D’Alma, crossing it would not have allowed access from there to the one-way Avenue Montaigne into which they could then not have entered. They would not, therefore, have gone anywhere near Pont D’Alma or the D’Alma tunnel where Diana, Princess of Wales ws murdered.

Enraged that they have no access and hadn’t a clue that Meghan was travelling to Paris and that her appearance at the Balenciaga show was such a phenomenal success, the FailedDaily rag acted as though the video released by Meghan of her drive at night to her hotel involved her hanging her arse out the people mover’s window and twerking whilst drinking from a bottle of champagne. That did not happen and there was no insult to either Diana, Princess of Wales or Harry. What would have been most offensive was their hounding of Meghan to have enraged Prince Harry.

Meghan Meeting Anna Wintour at Balenciaga SS26

Mad as hell at being the left-behinds, the FailedDaily goes into hyperdrive with one attack piece after another. No absurd claim of theirs is ever too much; and bless their hearts now AI makes their every absurd claim seemingly true.

Faked by AI

Which cosmopolitan 44-year old woman does not know how to kiss someone cheek-to-cheek? Precisely! So intense is the misogynoir and cultural racial animus towards Blacks that merely for having wedded her love, Meghan is the most hated Black woman in history. There is positively no way to deny the disproportionate animus and the ridiculous lengths to which the media will go to incite hatred of Meghan because she chose to reincarnate as a Black woman, after having previously been a member of the royal family as Tudor matriarch, Margaret Beaufort.

**Tom Lamb by Leo Mol Hazelton Avenue, Toronto**

The Lies of the Racially Predatory Boor

Listen to this noisemaking, blithering moron. What makes her think her opinion matters? This hateful, anti-Black racist has the nerve to opine about Meghan at the Balenciaga show in Paris. It is none of your business. She has been vile in the extreme and one never forgets. Nothing she says here is either solicited or credible. Nothing more than a leopard dressed up in a tiger suit!

Look at It!

Talk about having zero awareness. Just look at the queer distance between the knees and ankles; she is no human beau idéal. Go on, take that flat-arsed thermoregulating hideous fare elsewhere; we are not into reptilian-hybrid fare in these parts. Just to be clear, there is no person named Meghan Markle, as the thermoregulating whack job can’t resist throwing shade. She is, Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex! We have the receipts!

**Fall on Tonakela Oil on Panel ©Chuck Beamish 2023**

Harry & Meghan Arrive at Project Healthy Minds

Every lie in no way eclipses the beauty, strength and power of this marvellous human, Meghan and her rock solid partner, husband, lover, Prince Harry. Yes, Harry and Meghan are so irrelevant that’s why there was such excitement when they stepped onto the red carpet in New York City at the Project Healthy Minds gala. In a bid to invalidate this, a reposition of the couple as they embrace on the red carpet is now characterised as Meghan brushing off her husband in further signs of their marriage being in turmoil and the couple being on the brink of divorce. Meghan was seen going to dinner with Jill Smoller, Serena Williams’s agent and now Meghan’s, who also attended the Sussexes’ wedding whilst Harry went to dinner elsewhere with at least one person who was previously employed at the Invictus Games. Obviously, both gatherings would be of greater impact for either person; however, this is deemed another sign of an imminent divorce.

Oh the Lies!

This lunatic woman who saw that racist boor Charlie what’s-his-face on a horse on the ranch that Jesus has given him in heaven, is as fucking out to lunch as the multitude of racist Whites whose delusion leaves them seeing everything associated with Harry and Meghan as a failure and further signs of their marriage being en route to imminent divorce. This ability on the part of so many Whites to wholeheartedly lie, spread those lies and furthermore believes those lies, is precisely why the pathological liar who’s recently suffered an obvious stroke is currently holding the world to ransom.

**TRH Prince Harry & Meghan, The Duke & Duchess of Sussex**

For me, this is one of the best photographs of Prince Harry; his eyes are just as sublimely soulful as in dreams. You shall know the warriors by their dreams, nine of ten dreams with Catherine, The Princess of Wales, she is engaged in some sort of sporting activity. Both are fifth mature warriors; for that reason, they are ever engaged in sporting activities: polo, tennis, field hockey, surfing, cycling, sailing; these souls for being on the action axis will ever be focussed on activities that engage their warrior essence.

As ever, Meghan for being possessed of master number 11, and has a Venus/Solar body type means that she is exceptionally telegenic and photogenic. Meghan chose at the level of soul to be mega-famous in this lifetime and there is no disputing that. I always love it when Meghan wears her hair back, as in Paris, in a tight chignon. At such times, I am always reminded of the exquisite beauty of both actor, Jennifer Connelly and Martha Graham, whom I was fortunate to have seen a couple of times when living and dancing in New York. Martha was a second level old soul artisan and boy did you feel her agedness of spirit when in her presence. As with all three, Meghan, Martha and Jennifer, women of exceptional beauty are possessed of notably high foreheads.

**Birds Cover the Sun. Lithograph Ed: 31/50 ©1960 Kenojuak Ashevak**

What a marvellous addition to my collection and this from a most important milestone year too. This is the year in which Kenojuak began making prints in earnest, starting in 1959. Ever her memory will be a coveted blessing and a source of inordinate pride.

**Katharine, HRH The Duchess of Kent 22.2.1933<O>4.9.2025**

For the August, 2025 blog, I included the members of the House of Windsor whose Michael Overleaves had to that point been revealed. Others can now be revealed, included Katharine, The Duchess of Kent, the recent astral plane habituée, who not surprisingly proved a very evolved older soul and a priest at that. Hence, I an reblogging that list with further additions.

Slaves/One 25% of all souls

Second Mature Slave (Elizabeth)
Second Mature Slave (George DoK)
Third Mature Slave (The Queen)
Third Mature Slave (George VI)
Sixth Mature Slave (Victoria)
Seventh Mature Slave (Louis)

Artisan/Two 21.5% of all souls

Sixth Young Artisan (Beatrice)
Seventh Young Artisan (Andrew)
Second Mature Artisan (Diana)
Third Mature Artisan (George V)
Mid-Cycle Mature Artisan (Meghan)

Warrior/Three 17.5% of all souls

Fourth Mature Warrior (Philip)
Fifth Mature Warrior (Catherine)
Fifth Mature Warrior (Harry)
Seventh Mature Warrior (Charles)
Seventh Mature Warrior (Anne)

Scholar/Four 14% of all souls

Third Mature Scholar (Charlotte)
Mid-Cycle Mature Scholar (Camilla)
Fourth Mature Scholar (Charles)
Fourth Mature Scholar (Eugenie)
Sixth Mature Scholar (Wiilliam)

Sage/Five 10% of all souls

Third Mature Sage (Lilibet)
Third Mature Sage (Sarah)
Fourth Mature Sage (Margaret)
Sixth Mature Sage (Wallis)
Sixth Mature Sage (Edward VIII)

Priest/Six 8% of all souls

King/Seven 4% of all souls

Placements are as follows, if you are the same soul age, the life number that you are living relative to the other same soul-aged person means that the younger of the two will be to the left. For example, both Louis Mountbatten and Prince George of Wales aka future George VII are fourth mature king souls; however, that was Louis’s second life whereas this is George’s third. That makes George older souled than was Louis. And no, George is not Louis Mountbatten reincarnated, though the window of time is appropriate, Louis Mountbatten is in pod 408 and George 418. Your casting never changes from first to last life of the reincarnation cycle.

Both Princes Archie & Louis are seventh level mature souls and living their second life respectively, the former a priest and the latter a slave. Both souls are on the inspiration axis but being in flow would mean that Archie would find Louis’s feistiness a bit intense. I positively adore Louis. When he first presented at the Platinum Jubilee, I was not then thinking of role, soul age and numerology; it was just, good god is he proving embarrassing. However, this is a healthy male human with a five energy body – William and Catherine have struck the jackpot with him. For being a scholar soul, though younger-souled, Charlotte will always seek to tell her younger brother to rein it in; Louis, though, is considerably older-souled than his sister – in fact, Louis is the oldest soul member of his immediate family. Louis will pay positively no mind to Charlotte at such times and will keep on keeping on, which thrills my soul to the core.

Third life at any soul age will always be dynamic and prone to causing ‘drama’ and creating karma as is the case for Catherine, William, Sarah, Beatrice, Anne, Camilla, Edward VIII, George VII (prince George of Wales), Prince George – The Duke of Kent, George V, George VI, Meghan. Third lives are all about expansiveness, being enterprising, seeking out adventure, campaigning, ambitious – they, as can be imagined, make formidable foes!.

**Yacht Wintering Lithograph 30/50 ©1984 Christopher Pratt**

Katharine at seventh level mature, and a priest soul was precisely what one witnessed in a rather remarkable life. Healer of the spirit is the hallmark of priest souls, and boy did she epitomise this more than any other titled royal. Though both are third mature sages, Lilibet will have nothing in common with Sarah, Duchess of York. Sarah’s is a third life at that soul age which means being enterprising and more than likely prone to creating bad karma. Lilibet’s is a second life – more souls pass second lives in wealthy surroundings than not: Diana, Princess of Wales, Archie, Louis, Lilibet, Wallis, Katharine, Charles 9th Earl Spencer, Eugenie, Queen Victoria & HLM Queen Elizabeth II. If they aren’t born to baronial wealth, they are very likely to wed into it.

Harry & Meghan Take Manhattan @Meghan

Both Catherine and Harry are fifth mature warrior souls; however, it is Catherine’s third life and Harry’s fourth life. That gives Harry a scholarly focus to this life. Like every scholar that I’ve ever known, including Merlin, they will up and leave a room, relationship, or job, if there is unbearable discord. Where others will stay, a scholar will not. Scholars literally have to leave a room rather than suffer discord, confrontation, hostilities. Three to five is the usual number of lives passed at each soul age; however, there can be as many as six or more, especially so if it is a sixth level life as all such lives are about paying back all the karma incurred during the cycle of that soul age.

D’Angelo – How Does It Feel

11.2.1974 <> 14.10.2025

Sweet and blissful dreams marvellous creative genius… we love you more.

____________________________________________________

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

_______________________________________________________________________________

Hello, My Darling!

04.12.202428.12.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Triptych August 1972

Oil and sand on three canvases

My five-day trip to the most glorious jewel, London, was bittersweet. I got a call from Vanessa saying that Clive’s cancer had proven stage four with little time left him. There was but one choice, nothing to do but hurry off the phone, book a flight tout de suite to London. Back in late October 1982, after having met Merlin, my friend Clive, studying in the city, I set up on a blind date with Vanessa. She broke off the date at the last minute to rush home to Bermuda and attend her grandmother’s funeral. Undaunted, on her return, I insisted that they get together. By this time, Merlin was returned to New York and holding up at the actor, Patricia Neal’s UWS airy apartment. Merlin had met Clive and Vanessa separately and thought to have them to dinner; naturally, he cooked his favourite dish, chicken paprikash, which he had been taught by Stratford Festival Theatre’s artistic director, John Hirsch.

Manhattan rooftop water tanks

As we dined, with the shadows of water towers beyond the large living room windows, it was fairly obvious that my attempt at matchmaking had proven successful. From time to time, Merlin winked at me and squeezed my knee beneath the table as Clive and Vanessa on their first date had handsomely struck it off. As the blind date was going so well, Merlin suggested that they were welcome to stay and continue visiting whilst we headed off down to midtown Manhattan to take in the midnight showing of Gandhi at the Ziegfeld cinema. Merlin suggested that they could leave the apartment’s keys with the concierge and we would collect them on our return; it was obvious that they were getting along well and needed more time together, minus us as well. Clive and Vanessa laughed a lot and it was clear that they were smitten with each other.

Portrait of Isabel Rawsthorne

Oil on Canvas

Provenance: Tate Britain

Pushing five in the morning, we returned and thought it odd that the suite’s keys had not been turned in. We got off the elevator and on making our way down to the hall, there was the familiar shower of both persons laughing and giggling. Merlin knocked, not loudly, and we were greeted at the door by the smitten couple, each with cake frosting on their nose. They had been up talking and decided that, as it was well past midnight and therefore her birthday, they would bake a cake! Lots of laughter and warmth, whilst the cake set, Merlin decided to make a hearty breakfast of pancakes with Canadian maple syrup! Since that day, Vanessa and Clive have never been separated once; they even slipped into Toronto to visit me a couple of weeks after Merlin’s passing.

The bust of a man

Pen and Ink

c. 1545

Baccio Bandinelli

Hopped off the Piccadilly line, I crossed Green Park, on day one, to alight at The King’s Gallery, Buckingham Palace. The red-interiored salons were familiar, warm and grounding. I was bothered by the fact that the exhibition of Renaissance Drawings among which were works by unsurpassed genius, Leonardo da Vinci, was masterfully curated and hung. Each piece was expertly placed such that you could never evade the glare of intrusive lighting and the works of art hung on the opposite wall. I laughed aloud to a couple of women staffers, then eventually on making to the next salon, a lone silver-haired beauty engaged me. She wanted to know where I was from; naturally, my Canadian accent as articulated with the women registered with her. She lived, it turned out in Mississauga as her husband had worked at the corporate headquarters of the elegantly designed Mies van der Rohe TD Bank (Toronto Dominion Bank) for a couple of decades. She insisted that I make the trek to St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle before leaving; I assured her that the journey was foremost in my plans, having shared that there were 4 governors-general in my extended family to date. She was a gracious human of whom I dreamt two nights later and her aura unsurprisingly was most pronounced.

Reclining Figure

Plaster and string

1951 Henry Moore

Henry Moore & Francis Bacon, Tate Britain

From the King’s Gallery, I briskly made my way to Victoria Station, alighting at Pimlico where after being moved by Chris Ofili’s tribute to the Grenfell Tower tragedy, I scuffed at the Turner Prize fare, which would have been more convincing if there were also homeless persons encamped. The Francis Bacon & Henry Moore exhibition was soul-stirring. By now my feet were beginning to seriously ache as I had forgotten to pack walking shoes. Stepping into the unseasonably crisp sunny air, I hopped aboard the Uber boat and swiftly cruised down the river Thames to the Tate Modern. I was not especially inspired for having visited and for the first time, after so many visits, successfully strode across the millennium bridge where I ended up at St. Paul’s Cathedral. As always, I paid homage to Henry Moore’s plaque. From there, I returned to my hotel in Russell Square. My feet were blistered and ridiculously ached.

Moore, Henry 30/7/1898<O>31/8/1986

Michael: This fragment was a first-level old artisan – third life thereat. Henry was in observation mode with a goal of dominance. A realist, he was in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Henry’s body type was Saturn/Venus.

Henry’s primary chief feature was stubbornness and the secondary of arrogance.

The fragment Henry is fourth-cast in the second cadence; he is a member of greater cadence one. Henry’s entity is six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – he is an entity mate.

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

Henry’s three primary needs were: expression, freedom and security.

There are 8 past-life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin. ______________________________________________

Though I had about 1.5 hours to showtime, in light of the election results in America and because I simply cannot bring myself to make compromises when it comes to Jazz, I chose not to attend the oppressive brutalism of the Southbank Centre and endure Jamie Cullum apeing Black culture. Fuck that! Besides, I realised on arriving at the hotel that the ticket was for a standing room spot; not with with blistered feet was I going to time-waste. When Whites said fuck you, we are not voting for a Black woman, all bets are off that I’ve got time to suffer stubborn racially predatory boors. Whites were enticed by the spectre of Trump’s Bible, which omits amendments 11 through 17, most importantly, the 13th amendment which promises mass incarceration if not enslavement for American Blacks. Thus, I spent a couple of hours talking to Vanessa, Clive and my spouse whilst icing my sorely battered feet.

Fortnum & Mason, Piccadilly

Rested and with lots of buzz from London’s vibe, I decided at 2215 to head to Leicester Square. Got off the tube into the thick of the Friday night throngs, making my way past the Hippodrome Casino. Outside beneath the marquee was a group of statuesque, beautiful Black women in their mid to late twenties, walking past, I said to the tallest with her back to the street, “You’ve the most beautiful hair!” “Oh thank you!” She had the largest afro of the group and wore the most gorgeous, large silver hoop earrings. As I gingerly walked along, they could be heard howling and remarking at the fact that in the middle of the chill late evening air, I was fanning myself – thanks in part to the side effects of one of the medications which regulates my health well into my seventh decade. I then slipped into the Knatchbulls’ formerly owned Curzon cinema in hopes of seeing Gladiator II; however, it was sold out and I would not likely be able to see it until after midnight. Next stop, the Vue cinemas to attempt seeing Wicked; still no luck. Never mind. I then gingerly ambled to Piccadilly Circus and enjoyed the groovy beauty of Fortnum & Mason then headed back to my Russell Square hotel.

Royal Academy of Art

Next morning, bright and early, I got to Russell Square tube station only to be horrified by the note that read that the Piccadilly line would be closed both Saturday & Sunday; perhaps, I ought to have ventured out to Windsor the day of my arrival. Undaunted, I elected to head by bus to Piccadilly circus and made my way to Lilywhites where I purchased a pair of sneakers and chucked the pair of too tight and heavy, foot-blistering nuisance in the bin. Spent little time at RAA; the Michelangelo was underwhelming and too crowded for my ubiquitously masked comfort – my spouse is 24/7 on oxygen; I can ill afford to become exposed to respiratory contagion.

Iris

Oil on Canvas

1890 Vincent van Gogh

Provenance: National Gallery of Canada

Next stop, Trafalgar Square and the rapturously overwhelming Vincent van Gogh exhibition at The National Gallery. Breathtaking beauty that is each canvas was marred by the fact that there are simply far too many persons currently incarnate. Sixty-one phenomenal works of art by the modern Dutch genius, which must have a market value of at least 2B£. Obviously, it is all about the biggest bang for one’s buck but the heat radiating off the masses moving from salon to salon was at times overwhelming. There could have been a system whereby 50 persons max per salon to allow everyone a good appreciation of each piece. As ever, the tallest persons always have a knack for planting their obstructive frame before a painting and taking their sweet damn time before moving on.

Sketch for a Portrait of Lisa (Sainsbury)

Oil on Canvas

1955 Francis Bacon

This exhibition, next-door at The National Portrait Gallery, because it left me so pronouncedly aware of George Hawken being ‘around’ that it, plus the sheer staggering beauty of Francis Bacon’s genius moved me to tears. This portrait of Lisa Sainsbury, the way her eyes mimic Akhenaten’s end up remarkably resembling singer, Thom Yorke’s delicate beauty; even the colours betray the haunting melancholia of Yorke’s soulfulness. By the time that I left The National Portrait Gallery, I was listening to Radiohead’s 1997 debut album, OK Computer. The movement and emotional brilliance of clarity in each Bacon canvas is humbling in its beauty. This, by far, was the most ravishing drink for the spirit. Also the very posh Milanese couple and family members were grounding to be around; they sung the language, which I studied for two years in high school.

Bacon, Francis 28/10/1909<O>28/4/1992

Michael: This fragment was a fifth-level mature artisan — fourth life thereat. Francis was in perseveration mode with a goal of rejection. A sceptic, Francis was in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Francis’ body type was Saturn/Lunar.

Francis’ primary chief feature was impatience and the secondary arrogance.

The fragment Francis is fifth-cast in the fourth cadence; Francis is a member of greater cadence five. Francis’ entity is five, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414.

Francis’ essence twin is an artisan, who is extant, an interior decorator and female; his task companion a sage.

Francis’ primary needs were: expression, freedom and expansion.

There are 12 past-life associations with Arvin and 5 with Merlin. (February, 2018) _________________________________________

Portrait of D. H. Kahnweiler II

Crayon transfer Lithograph

1957 Pablo Picasso

British Museum

Day two of the Piccadilly line being down, and out into the grey-skied chill air, I ventured from the hotel, cutting across Russell Square and proved the first in line on Great Russell Street for the British Museum. Soon, Juan and I were chatting; he is in his eighth decade, enjoying retirement after a career spent at the Prado; he never said what he did. He clearly loved art and came every few months to London where the best exhibitions were to be had. Paris was long passé, Juan declared with a dismissive clipped laugh. After the not very dramatic Picasso print exhibition, I took off for The Japanese Galleries where, as ever, I found centre whilst visiting London. As agreed, we met up in the café, close to the two beautiful totem poles that lord over that sector of the sprawling institution.

Picasso, Pablo 25/10/1881<O>8/4/1973

Michael: This fragment was a seventh-level young warrior — third life thereat. Pablo was in aggression mode with a goal of dominance. A sceptic, Pablo was in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Pablo’s body type was Venus/Saturn.

Pablo’s primary chief feature was exalted arrogance and the secondary greed fixated on accomplishments.

The fragment Pablo is second-cast in the second cadence; Pablo is a member of greater cadence four. Pablo‘s entity is six, cadre one, greater cadre 6, pod 404.

Pablo’s essence twin is a warrior and his task companion a scholar who was known to him.

Pablo’s primary needs were: expression, freedom and security.

There are 3 past-life associations with Arvin and 1 with Merlin. (January, 2018) __________________________

The Japanese Galleries, The British Museum

Returned to the hotel, I quickly fell into sleep’s welcome embrace. As is habit, I dreamt rather lucid dreams, especially so for being in London. Among those eight dreams in 3.5 hours was a rather lucidly awakened encounter with Prince William and his wife; she was cool, tense and disinterested. I had a distinct impression that her mood was more so to do with their state of affairs than myself or anyone else for that matter. The three of us were the only persons. Catherine who had been stooped to the moist, wet ground was planting clippings. She declined to look when William called after her announcing, “Look who’s here.” When she finally stood up, being clipped, dismissive and took leave of more so him than me, William placed his left palm on the small of my back, caressed me with his left thumb; throughout the dream, I could very intensely smell him. He was calm, centred and without the trappings of his waking persona – numerology, chief features and centre. William is an older soul – sixth mature, who like every one in acceptance was gracious and civil – his father, King Charles III is also in acceptance. I awoke and ventured by taxi to an evening with Vanessa, Clive and two of their four sons. It was a very emotional evening and none of the past 42 years of rich memories, family life and subsequent generations would have unfolded had I not acted on spirit and dreams which assured me that I had to set up Clive and Vanessa on a blind date, a lifetime ago.

St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle

Moments after having spent a good two minutes in reflection, head bowed, facing due north, I quickly took this photo looking eastward. I was not the first to have arrived in the line at Windsor castle on day four, but as everyone ventured towards the castle’s staterooms, I turned westward and briskly walked towards St. George’s Chapel. There was an American family who’d never been before. On entering, they turned right, as I turned left towards the great west doors, en route to pay homage. After a few words with the crimson-garbed cleric, I bowed and meditated. Suddenly, the first dream had of the recently passed Elizabeth II lucidly mushroomed in my mind. The dream reanimated about me as I watched myself walk towards the transitioning astral plane habituée and placed a garment about her, keeping her warm, honouring her richly ennobled life.

King George VI Memorial Chapel (DailyMail)

I came to as the American family, having erroneously wandered off to the Albert Memorial Chapel approached. I took leave, allowing them to visit with the large black Belgian marble slab with bronze inlays that marks where Queen Elizabeth II, Elizabeth, her mother, George VI, her father, Margaret Rose, her sister and Philip, her husband are together entombed. Simple, elegant… poignant.

Freedom. George Michael 1990

Naomi

Well before noon and I was returned to London where I alighted in South Kensington. Small, intimate and the two films that accompany the exhibition leave no doubt in one’s mind that Naomi is a Queen. If weight considerations were not a concern, I would have purchased a few coffee table books from the exhibition. I listened to George Michael’s Freedom for the rest of the afternoon until taking a nap. This tiny exhibition infuses the Victoria & Albert Museum with intense beauty and style.

Campbell, Naomi 22/5/1970 London, England.

Michael: This fragment is a second-level mature artisan – third life thereat. Naomi is in caution mode with a goal of rejection. A realist, she is in the moving part of emotional centre.

Naomi’s body type is Saturn/Mercury.

Naomi’s primary chief feature is arrogance and the secondary stubbornness.

The fragment Naomi is fifth-cast in the sixth cadence; she is a member of greater cadence four. George’s entity is two, cadre four, greater cadre 7, pod 414.

Naomi’s essence twin is an artisan and her task companion is a sage.

Naomi’s primary needs are: exchange, expression and freedom.

There are 6 past-life associations with Arvin and 4 with Merlin. ____________________________________________

Andy Warhol & Jean-Michel Basquiat. Michael Halsband 1985

Next stop, I was off downstairs at the Victoria & Albert Museum to be thoroughly consumed by the staggering creative legacy of pieces from Elton John & David Furnish’s art collection. Truly arresting and brilliantly impressive, Fragile Beauty is a masterful exhibition. In light of Quincy Jones’s recent passing, the constrictor enrobed Nastassja Kinski photographed by Richard Avedon proved even more captivating. Why have I yet to get the hype over The Beatles? George Harrison and his vibe, I fully get. Hey Jude will ever be a touchstone, but them as a ‘thing’ remains for me utterly elusive. Billie Holiday captured in song proved more captivating than I anticipated. Some shots brought back memories of living in New York City in the early 1980s. Always found Keith Haring’s pheromones off-putting; he moved in the same art circles as dancer turned designer and lover, Attila Isaksen. Smiled at the memory of Attila and I, watching through a skylight Robert Mapplethorpe engaging in S&M at a loft in Chelsea. Our one sexual encounter was intense; I felt overwhelmed by the inordinate looseness of the man. On two occasions he had been leaving the S&M loft upstairs as I came bounding up the stairs to the second storey loft below his friends’. The third time this occurred, he rushed into the loft after me and our tryst was a noisy, feverish business; it was obvious that he was taken by my explosive kinetic energy. The exhibition’s photograph of Mapplethorpe reveals a possessed ghost of the dazzling persona I had encountered in late 1982; clearly, at the time of the photograph, he was being consumed by AIDS. By far, the best photograph of Malcolm X is part of the Elton John & David Furnish collection.

Trial proof of Self-Portrait: Reflection. Lucian Freud 1996

There could be no doubt why the pilgrimage was undertaken. This Lucian Freud exhibition of prints, though, not disappointing, was not the soul-stirring rapture that was the Francis Bacon exhibition at The National Portrait Gallery. I had been hoping to see Kai, Bella and other more notable works. The whippet Hugo was, without doubt, the highlight of the exhibition… at least for me. Feet sore though manageably so, I was returned to Russell Square and a dream-filled nap with one very memorable flying dream.

Freud, Lucian 8/12/1922 Berlin<O>20/7/2011 London

Michael: This fragment was a fifth level mature priest – third life thereat. Lucian was in observation mode with a goal of dominance. Lucian was a sceptic who was in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Lucian’s primary chief feature was stubbornness and his secondary chief feature was that of impatience.

Lucian had a Saturn/Mars body type.

Lucian’s casting is in the fourth position of the fourth cadence in the sixth greater cadence. He is a member of entity six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – Lucian is an entity mate of both Arvin and Merlin’s.

Essence twin for Lucian is a priest and his task companion is a slave.

The three primary needs for Lucian were: exchange, freedom and power.

There are 17 past-life associations with Arvin and 14 with Merlin. __________________________________________

The Tales of Hoffmann. Royal Opera House

Ah the magic of theatre. Naturally, as the house lights go down, Merlin always falls into my mind. I loved the fantastic elements of the Offenbach opera; so very rich, pandimensional and dream-like. A good seat was mine and adding to the experience was, the man in his early 30s sat next to me. He was possessed of that yearning so common to us the tribe of men. A Briton, he seductively danced as he had since boyhood with his chums. I sat comfortably engrossed in the opera, but was ever mindful of his arm and leg gently, with increasing tension, caressing against mine. By act three, he was sat arms folded his index and middle finger gently caressing my arm. Neither of us had moved from our seats during the second intermission; the date, copine, épouse whomever did leave whilst I sat deeply engrossed in my phone. Rhythmically, his thigh muscle flexing, thus he kept up the dance’s intensity. Though he proved arousing distraction, I was still disturbed after having visited with Vanessa and Clive, the latter clearly not much longer focussed in this world.

The Farnese Hercules. Royal Academy of Art

Last full day in the city where in the 18th century I enjoyed a life (male) at court as a musician. Always indeed, it is good to go home. I was returned to the Royal Academy of Art to finish off my tour of the place. There were, three days prior, too many kids screaming their lungs out. Satisfied, I then crossed Piccadilly and indulged in putting together an F&M hamper of goodies just in time for the holidays. Returned home, I read and rested up for the night ahead.

Tosca, Royal Opera House, Covent Garden

Round two and back for more! Returned was I for a glorious night of Puccini as the most beautiful production of Tosca unfolded. Gloriously improved seating; good to feel the orchestra fully washing over me. This performance was riveting and its staging and design were stellar. During my return from the first intermission, I looked up to where I was sat the night prior. My yearning seat companion leaned forward in his seat to peer down at me. The dance ever endures. The sets were marvellous.

Royal Opera House, Covent Garden

The second intermission and I went outside to make a phone call. Whilst admiring the monstrous Rolls across the street and whose grill is visible in the right corner of the preceding photograph, a concert goer approached and declared that he was alone. Did I smoke? No. Would I like some company afterwards; I had almost forgotten how cocky I used to be when young. My phone buzzed; there was my cue. Silently, I returned across the street and pleasurably relaxed into my seat for Tosca’s final act. Midway through the curtain call, I made a dash for the exit and hung out just inside the stage door for about half an hour then made it to the Covent Garden tube station… alone. Yes, my darling, à la prochaine, London!

Jones, Quincy 14/3/1933 <O> 3.11.2024

Michael: This fragment was a fifth-level mature artisan – third life thereat. Quincy was in the power mode with a goal of dominance. A sceptic, Quincy was in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Quincy’s primary chief feature was arrogance and the secondary stubbornness.

Quincy’s body type was Venus/Mars.

The fragment Quincy is second-cast in the first cadence. Quincy is a member of greater cadence four. Quincy is a member of entity one, cadre one, greater cadre 4, pod 129.

Quincy’s essence twin is an artisan and the task companion is a sage.

Quincy’s four primary needs were: expression, adventure, power and communion.

There are 6 past-life associations with Arvin and 11 with Merlin. _______________________________________________

Quincy Jones & Orchestra

Jazz pour tous

___________________________________________________

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

_______________________________________________________________________________

Pluto in Capricorn & in Opposition – Pandemic & Retribution.

11.05.202129.12.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always… with every breath… it is quintessentially Jazz!

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

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

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

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

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At Last, The Day Has Finally Arrived.

09.12.201831.12.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photography can never do this masterpiece justice.

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

Can you hear my soul purring…

Phenomenal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Dream Chamber

16.01.201801.01.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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

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

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Here’s to You!

09.01.201801.01.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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

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

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Put Your Complaints ‘Ere

02.02.201701.01.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Put Your Complaints ‘ere

Lithograph

41 x 29 inc

Edition: 13/67

Provenance: Collection Arvin da Braga.

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

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Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Category: Prints

Stellar Galactic Museum of Anthropology.

Past-Life Dream Set In Intrigue-Filled Dynastic Egypt.

Celebrate! George Hawken 80th Anniversary

As Ever, Nothing but Love for Meghan!

Hello, My Darling!

Pluto in Capricorn & in Opposition – Pandemic & Retribution.

At Last, The Day Has Finally Arrived.

The Dream Chamber

Here’s to You!

Put Your Complaints ‘Ere