An Orgiastic Porcine Feast (Redux)

25.09.202512.10.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

‡This blog is a return of a dream blog shared more than a decade ago. I am adding it here rather than my usual focus on principals of the House of Windsor and the evolving relations. I have chosen to take a break this month as I am working on a more detailed blog for next round. Besides, after the animus from last month’s blog, “To Be A Princess, You Have to Be Born A Princess.” I am so wary of predominantly Americans having decided that Meghan is Princess Meghan, Duchess Meghan et al. Why must Americans always decide that they must put their take on everything, because as it was – in this case royal styles and titles – of course it was all wrong until they decided to fix it.

**THR Prince William and Catherine, the Prince & Princess of Wales, September, 2025**

Let me take the time to share this photo that left me brimming with joy. Never before has Catherine, HRH The Princess of Wales looked more glorious; furthermore, William wore the Windsor uniform and has his left hand on his wife’s waist. Someone chided me because I posted this image on my Instagram; they wanted to know how I could do so when I hate them. Firstly, you can hate no one. I will never forget how my lips trembled and I grew teary as Catherine stood there in her Sarah Burton for Alexander McQueen wedding dress, at the foot of the aisle. She was in closeup, looking at the dean of Westminster Abbey and smiled her earring matching her eyes sparkle. You can never eclipse a winning wow moment like that. Heck, everyone told me to be quiet as I began yelling at William and telling him to get up and sit properly but to remain standing until his new bride was sat in the landau. Then Meghan came along and they proved themselves far too human and myopic without realising the gravity of their roles. Meghan could never be a threat; they are both in their destined role as further King and Queen Consort/King Mother as was the case previously when William was then King Henry IV and Catherine his first wife, Mary, who died young. As Meghan was Margaret Beaufort and thus no reincarnational pushover, boundaries clearly had to be set and the current arrangement is the best way to have establish one’s self-respect and dignity and not be subjected to a insufferable, racially predatory degrading work/life experience.

**Return, Oil Painting ©2025 Gordon Shadrach**

These next dreams occurred on March, 26; however, rather than 1995, they occurred in 1998. I was then resident in Montréal. What’s more, the day was Thursday and at the time, the Moon transited both Pisces and my tenth house.

It was a rather long, involved, operatic dream and it was an encounter with an extra-human (ET) species never before encountered in the dreamtime. Hey, you want to believe that Mary lay down and gave birth without once having beautifully made love like every other woman and that the universe was made simply for unimaginative human dolts to gaze in the sky and praise their made up deity, knock yourself out.

The purpose of being incarnate is to explore intellect or else we are merely nothing more than semi-feral simians over-breeding and out of season at that… That having been said, the purpose of being awakened in the dream realms is so that one can awaken to the personal truth that all of life is experiential.

It is not for you, dear reader, to project and read into what the dreams shared herein are about, any more than it is good work to go crossing to the other side of the street, more firmly clutching your handbag, at the sight of me – Black male – approaching; I don’t want your fucking handbag… you pigeon-toed dolt…

After having read the next dream, please try and fathom the futility of trying to ‘read’ the signs of dreams. Experiences in the dream realms are as real, at times even more so, as the regurgitated maya-saturated dreck we daily drudge our way through oftentimes somnambulantly…

Why do I dream as I do… choice, of course. I chose to thusly be focussed in this incarnation. I do not nor have I ever done drugs; no shrooms, DMT, Ayahuasca, no LSD, hell, I do not look at television, do not own a television… it is mindlessness… the last time that I watched television was to look at both inaugurations of President Barack H. Obama and between those events, the royal wedding of William & Catherine – so beautiful when any two souls find each other in this vast universe – and you know that I’ve watched it repeatedly on DVD since… I choose being focussed in each moment of being incarnate whether awake or asleep; and trust you me with the amount of fear and bullshit in the waking state one needs the grounding and fluidity of the dream realms to repair the spirit. Of course, being focussed in the dreamtime is a function of being a sixth positioned, late-mature artisan; if I don’t like what’s going down on channel one, I’ve got four other options – who needs TV, seriously? Of course, why do drugs when crystals, isolation tanks and pyramids can do wonders for harmonising and focussing the mind, body and spirit to afford the unfoldment of intellect – especially when focussed in the dream realms… imagination is everything… besides, as a sceptic, it did not take too long before I realised that choosing the easy route in life looked like no end of ennui…

**Tall Tundra Bird ©2013 Kenojuak Ashevak**

Now before you dismissively sniff, let’s move on to the reason why you are here, to be richly inspired by my spirit’s light as it manifests when in the dreamtime… there is negligible growth in fearfulness… pay keen attention to how I chose to respond to the dream experience as it unfolded; I’d be honoured if it inspires you…

Here, in this the first dream, I was lucidly awakened. Night-time found me with a friend whose sex I am not now certain of. The person was about my height and seemed energetically to be a man.

As we walked on a wide boulevard, up ahead I noticed that the street dead-ended. Beyond it was an empty lot. Here it was bright out though not necessarily a full Moon. Here the energies were strange, just a tad off. The buildings all around were made of red brick, like those buildings at Ellis Island New York where Eurotrash descended like feral jackals in the last century.

This place left me feeling as if I were in Brooklyn, New York City. The buildings were reminiscent of Brooklyn brownstones except that these were six to eight storeys tall. Set back a bit from the road, these were though rather colossal buildings. What was weird about it all was that the entire area seemed to have been long deserted.

Something about these houses just didn’t seem right. Sure enough, someone headed down the street towards us. Finding the place a bit on the creepy side, we had only noticed him for having turned around to check out the lay of the land. Swarthy, he had a full thick beard with a look that was not readily discernible. He could well have been North African, Hispanic, Jewish, Arabic or even Italian. His look was a mélange of so many ethnicities.

He wore a parka which struck me as odd as it was not cold out; neither, for that matter, were we dressed for cold weather. Joining us, he began speaking to us warmly with energies that were nonthreatening. I had been the one to have initiated dialogue. When heading down towards the dead-ended street, he had joined us in the middle of the block. As he walked, I encouraged him to walk between us. I pointed out that the buildings seemed like those at Ellis Island which were featured in the film, Brother From Another Planet in which Merlin’s friend the actor, Noëll Saltmarche starred.

As I had never been to Ellis Island, I added that I couldn’t be sure that it was as much. Perhaps, I speculated, it was that part of Brooklyn in the neighbourhood of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. However, he shrugged off the suggestion; he seemingly was more confident of its location than either my friend or I were. As we progressed, I asked why exactly we were headed towards this dead-end in the boulevard anyway. So we turned around and when I went to look up into the face of this burly brawny man to smile, I noticed the sky just beyond his towering face. He was a warrior-spirited man with a great deal of Jovian energies to his body.

Here, there were a phenomenal number of intensely bright stars in the night sky. One constellation caught my eye but left me confused as to whether it was Orion or Pegasus. I pointed out its odd formation in the sky but the stranger pointed out that it was nothing really. He seemed much too casual about it all. Clearly, he was trying to distract me from cluing into what was up here.

Right away, I grew wary of his motives and wondered what all of this was about anyway. My friend looked up and confirmed that this was not the heavens as, in the waking state, we perceived them from Sol local. Absently, he said aloud that there was something weird about this which there was. In the sky was white light in the shape of an arrow which led from what was clearly Orion off to another constellation. I remarked that there were never arrows in the sky before, either from Orion or any other constellation. Obviously, there was something about all this that was not Kansan in the least.

It seemed highly improbable that there would be any manmade objects in orbit that would be in the shape of an arrow. With that I suggested that we walk back rather than proceed any further. Artfully, I claimed, wanting to go explore the other streets. I said that I wanted to explore the architecture in the neighbourhood which I describe as being charming. Though the buildings were mostly red brick, there were some architectural signatures which were of pale sandstone that nicely set off the red brick. They were, however, far and few between. The colossal buildings here tended to have clock towers on them for the most part. The taller the buildings rose in the sky the more they receded ziggurat-like with towers of impressive neo-Gothic spires.

My keen sense impression was alerted to there being something odd about these buildings. To my way of thinking, they seemed merely façade for something else entirely different. Most of all, I knew quite lucidly that I was dreaming – which is to say that, at any time, I could collapse the experience by tuning vibrationally away from this place. Yet my curiosity was piqued by the outréness of the place. This is why I had been keenly observant of the stranger’s energies. For this reason, so as not to awaken any alien and possible inimical response in him, I had been warm and engaging with him.

Even his parka seemed so much cover, hiding god-only-knows-what outréness about his physique, which would prove alien to humans’. In a friendly but dismissing gesture, I went to place my hand on his arm – to affectionately pat him – pointing out that it was good to have seen him and hoped to see him around some time. I again touched him, this time just beyond his wrist, only to feel a skin that was covered throughout with large knobby clumps. For the life of me I couldn’t tell whether these were clumps of his hirsute hairs forming into little dreadlock clusters or the fact that he was diseased. If the latter, perhaps, it was his reason for wearing the parka. Either way, it just didn’t seem all that right to me.

It was as if the skin of a crocodile or at least as one would expect it to feel. Though it was most bizarre, I kept direct eye contact with him; I chose never to betray dread or fear in what sinister extra-human this could possibly be. Saying that he would stay behind to study the stars, he agreed to say so long. As we headed back trying not to do so, too hurriedly, I looked off to the right and noticed a spectacular array of stars in the sky. Both of us stopped to marvel at the beauty and intensity of the stellar concentration. It was as if being close to the hub of our galaxy, it was quite fantastic.

Just then, I noticed yet another arrow streaking through the blackness of interstellar space; this one considerably longer than the one which streaked from Orion. From our extra-stellar perspective, both Orion and Pegasus seemed to have collided several million light years earlier and left an amalgam of both. It was all very strange. The head of the arrow, plus a bit of its stem, had been protruding from Orion. Now with this newly discovered arrow, its light was made of black light.

Even against the blackness of interstellar space, it was a discernibly black light. It was considerably longer than the white arrow. To my right, its point was headed away from the street on which we stood truly spellbound. It was at a fifteen degree angle to the deserted street. Since there was something much too weird about it all, we decided to turn back. What’s more, the man was no longer with us. Though extra-human he may be, it was good to have had anyone rather than no one.

On turning back, though we had only taken a few steps, the man was no longer anywhere to be seen. Certainly, he couldn’t have entered any of the buildings as they were far too removed from the sidewalk for him to have dodged into any of them. Quite simply, he had vanished into thin air. My companion said matter-of-factly, “Oh well. He’s definitely an extra-human and has beamed up.” Even if he had leapt into the sky to take flight, we would have at least seen him aloft, yet he was nowhere to be found. There was definitely something afoot here.

I told my friend that we had to make ourselves as scarce as possible; thus, walking briskly to the point of being on the verge of jogging, we took off. However, looking as menacing as one would expect sinister extra-humans to be posturing, two other men had immediately come from the buildings up the road. Again, they looked pretty much of the same stock as the disappeared, parka-clad extra-human did and were also just as abundantly hirsute. They were exceptionally tall, close to seven feet, and seemed as if hobos.

That, of course, was all part of their camouflage. However, it was not their true identity. I told my companion that we simply had to split up, to confuse them, he agreed.

With that, I pushed off immediately and took to flight. Now I was flying, at great speeds, veering off to the left though I had been on my companion’s left. Going along a street after having sped across a row of identical, red-bricked colossal buildings, I flew on ahead. As I flew on, I looked after myself to find them standing there on the ground. Surveilling me keenly, with an intense fixed gaze, they stood there on the street below. It was as though, by means of telepathy, they were recording my flight to transmit it live elsewhere. I then noticed as I flew overtop the city that there were never any persons on the streets.

However, from time to time, one would see the same kinds of people like the hirsute stranger who in his charming way had at one point had his arm around us whilst directing us ahead. Had we not been aware, he could well have captured us. What was of concern to me, rather than their camouflaged, none-too-convincing human disguise, was how these persons looked in their natural state. Who knows what their agendum was? Were they here to hurt us? Did we represent nothing more to them but food? Were we dispensable collateral?

Were their interests solely in seizing the planet for their species and as such Earthlings were like Africans, squatting on valuable resource-rich, real estate, are perceived by the rest of humanity? This left me thinking of how very vulnerable we are for being here isolated on this planet. We are as if truly alone in this sector of the galaxy. Of course, like any individual long isolated, we humans have been a deeply troubled fragmented tribe. How pray tell would we fare if we were to be visited by an aggressive species of Extra-humans?

One rather suspects that they would care little about who was who on the racial pecking order but see us all as dispensable. We are not a united species and for that there would be no way that we could prove anywhere of a threat to any species with designs of a hostile intervention on this planet. These people walking about in human camouflage were quite Wotanesque in stature and looked very healthy indeed. Clearly, neither Earth nor humans posed an inimical proposition for their agenda however sinister or otherwise. Following the streets below, rather than staying over any of the colossal buildings, I kept on flying over the city. Too, I remained not too high as I didn’t want to be tracked by the Extra-humans.

Besides, who knew if there was some ‘cloaked’ spaceship of theirs hovering invisibly just above the rooftops. This would leave me vulnerable to being readily attacked or apprehended by them.

Eventually, I flew on ahead and came to an area where more of the same buildings enclosed a square. Here the buildings were ancient and were built such that it was reminiscent of being in Lower Manhattan, where that part of town was built during the early part of the 20^th century. On arriving at one building, I hovered above the courtyard or the back thereof. Just as I was about to alight on a ledge, I looked for an open window. I discovered an open window so slowly began alighting towards it. Before touching down, I saw a young Chinese woman inside it who looked like a student. I remained hovering in the air outside and slightly above the window observing her as she paced neurotically about the room.

She was speaking to herself and was noticeably upset about something. Exasperated, she sighed heavily saying, “I just can’t take this anymore. I have to do this…” With that she came and stood on the ledge of the wide-open large window in what seemed like an industrial-building-turned-loft-space. She squatted on the sill, wearing black pants which revealed her wide-hipped with a burgundy-coloured top over top that. She would have been in her early twenties but very intense.

Hers was a cramped, very beautifully laid out apartment which reminded me of my tiny apartment at 425-1915 Haro Street in Vancouver’s West End. Even down to the walls, they were the same cream-coloured affair as that apartment of mine. Before I knew what next, she pushed off and began falling straight down to the ground. Never once did she make a single sound. She landed hard with a thump that had a massive sonic impact on the environment. This I think was because of the gravity of what she had just done. Definitely, there was no way that she had survived this fall. In an old building with high-ceilinged floors, she had been more than five storeys up.

She fell into the courtyard where it was damp below. At the time of her suicide, there was no one about to witness her violent exit. I then landed on the same sill just after she pushed off. I had no intentions of trying to stop her as it was fairly obvious that she was determined to carry out her deed. The whole thing was much too massive, karmically, for me to have tried intervening. I didn’t know the score – what was motivating her to do what she did. Like all suicides, what she was doing carried too massive a psychic burden for me to have become entangled with her.

Since I needed desperately a place to hide out, her place seemed ideal. Her untidy, selfish exit was all very convenient for me. On entering her just-vacated apartment, I began exploring it. The place was a very scholarly-looking dwelling. There was no getting around the fact that this woman was a Scholar Soul. She was quite a well-organised student. Off in one corner was a kitchenette where she clearly did like to cook. Lots of seasonings and drying herbs were stuffed everywhere in the kitchenette. Though a tiny space, every nook and cranny of it was perfectly laid out and compartmentalised.

Taking the time, I tried to get a good appreciation of her just concluded life. To that end, I went pouring deftly through every square inch of the place. I absorbed all the clues to her life and emotional makeup as exhibited by her dwelling. One had the sense that this woman was so tightly strung that suicide would seem to have been a most logical solution to a major crisis. I tried not to leave fingerprints about. To that end, I had grabbed a piece of fabric from the kitchen that was green and white though not checkered. I used it to pull drawers and items open as I poured through the place. All that I wanted to know was where the devil was the door from her tiny apartment that led out to the hallway.

Each time that I opened a door, the cloth in hand covering the knob, it would lead into yet another well-stocked, cramped closet. After having cautiously opened yet another door, only to find no such thing as a door to the hallway, it became a bit amusing. One door, which I was convinced led to the hallway, led right into her bathroom which was fragrant-smelling. To say the least, it was quite nicely stocked and ladylike a place. The kitchenette was beautiful with a wonderful rack system in which she kept all her fresh vegetables. There I saw spaghetti squashes, on one shelf, whilst above that ripening tomatoes. Still below the squashes were onions, garlic, shallots.

Interestingly, she used the slat-filled crates in which produce was shipped to stores, converting them into a drawer storage system in which her produce were stored. In that way, they were able to breathe without growing mold and going bad. This was so beautifully organised that it was quite good to have seen. I was saddened that she had had to choose suicide rather than seek some other resolution to her crisis whatever it was. I thought that for having experienced her dwelling that she was a beautiful person which only made her passing that much more tragic a loss. I was saddened after having taken a tour of the place.

In all honesty, it had never been my intentions to do any such thing but in the end that’s what happened as each door led me to anywhere but the hallway. I wanted to be able to leave the apartment unobserved without, having disturbed anything, giving the impression that I had been an intruder. From there I had planned to go downstairs, and take my leave of the building, so as to blend in with the locals. Off to the left of the window, on entering, was a door which originally I had assumed was a broom closet. In the end, it would prove to be the apartment’s front door but there were no demarcations on it to suggest that it was such.

The bathtub was a tiny affair which couldn’t have accommodated anyone other than a child. Adults would have to stand up and take a shower rather than attempt taking a bath therein. The whole style here was decidedly 1930s, in the deco style though not exclusively. The student had a laptop computer over on a desk on which were, piled high, all manner of books. Rather a beautiful space, this place. An old faded rug dominated the central living space which was not especially large. The main room was not square as over in one corner the lines were broken to accommodate the bathroom area. Diagonally, was the alcove which led to the front door, next to the single large window which flooded the room with light.

The window was a sliding affair whose bottom half slid up to open. A lone futon was the only signs of a sleeping area which I suspect she customarily never had time to open beyond the sofa position. The desk with laptop was directly across the room from the large open window. Off to the left, beyond another alcove, and across the room was the door which led to the kitchen. Once inside, there were tiny, white, quarter inch square tiles covering the kitchenette floor. Intentionally faded, the look was caesarean Rome.

In back of the sofa, there was a wall of bookcases. Every square inch of each crammed, of course, plus there were lively, healthy hanging plants cascading from on top. One didn’t get the sense that she owned a pet besides which I didn’t see one. The bookcase unit created a partition of sorts around which she could retreat to get undressed. Obviously, this woman did not entertain. A very studious woman she was. Wondered as to what could have caused her to have snapped. It didn’t seem as if she were the type to become caught up in some intense amour fou ménage à trois, in which she was betrayed and lost out in the end.

More than likely, she had probably failed miserably on her exams. Or perhaps she had been found out cheating in which case the only way out for her was suicide rather than be expelled and dishonoured. I really did feel for her loss. Going to the apartment’s front door, I slowly pried it open cautiously. Before doing so, listening to see if there was anyone outside who would possibly see me, I had stood there a long while. Seeing that it was the dead of night, I thought better of being so overly cautious as there was likely no one outside. Indeed, hearing that there was no one outside, I slowly opened the door only to have discovered the bathroom. It was hysterical indeed.

Eventually, I did find the nondescript alcove through which one entered and exited the beautiful little apartment. Sure enough, this was the apartment’s front door. The large window was the second to last from the end of the building; however, there was a stairwell close by as soon as you got into the hallway. She was in the back of the building and looking to the courtyard; once outside in the hallway, the building was laid out confusingly. There was a large, grand square formation staircase in this wing of the building which led downstairs.

Looking below it was quite the drop to the bottom which was a marble-tiled affair. A long-haired White male student had just left his apartment and heard when I closed the door to the Oriental’s. His was dirty blond and parted in the center. Familiarly, he had called out to her, calling her ‘Junko’ which is definitely a Japanese name. On seeing me, he became immediately concerned… understandably. He knew that she almost never had anyone in her apartment. Even more awkward was the fact that I couldn’t tell him that his friend had just committed suicide.

More than that, there was the matter of her apartment window being open with her dead body below in the courtyard. This did not look good for me at all. He naturally had every right to assume that for having seen me leave her place – a total stranger – that I had been an interloper who, once confronted, had shoved her to her death. It was the only logical thing to have concluded and race had nothing whatsoever to do with that conclusion. Junko, a loner, wouldn’t have had a stranger there. Seemingly, this was a student’s residence connected to some university or other. Naturally, he would have known that I was not a resident in the building.

Since I was clearly out of sorts there, I doubled back on myself. Only further implicating myself, I made my way into a tiny, narrow wooden fire escape. This was, of course, inside the building itself. On leaving the building, in a bit of a rush, I noticed two women standing outside. Wearing outfits which made much noise when they walked, these women were unusually dressed. There were tiny squares of bronzish-purple colour which were made of pliant hard plastic. They stood at the foot of a wonderful old European cobblestone bridge that spanned a river; it was not as wide as the river Thames is at Westminster Abbey.

All the fixtures here were beautiful, rich with black art nouveau lampposts from a bygone era. Their lights cascaded over, like hanging plant in bloom. They were on the left side of the bridge when looking towards the city’s other bank. Standing there, they solicited by handing out flyers. I for one didn’t want to get too involved in the crowd that they were attracting. Then again, I didn’t want to make myself conspicuous by snubbing them. Instead, after having taken the flyer then feigned reading it whilst hurrying away along the bridge, I pretended to be in a hurry. Here, as I crossed the bridge, the sunlight was beginning to come up.

The first thing that I noticed on crossing the bridge was that all the buildings here were like those first seen which reminded me of Ellis Island. Something was quite so off about this entire place. Seeing a table close by, I decided to go there to sit and get my bearings. There were already three women seated at the table. Approaching them, I asked if they would mind my sitting there. It was a large round table at an outdoor café. It wasn’t until sitting down that I noticed in my hand the same dish cloth, so as not to leave my fingerprints lying about, which I had been using back at ‘Junko’s’ apartment to handle everything.

Discreetly, I placed it on my right thigh to make it look like a napkin. My back was being bathed by the rising sun behind me as I drank in the energies all about me. The women were visiting warmly, laughing and enjoying themselves. These were genuinely happy persons. Not wanting to intrude on them by doing or saying anything, I ordered something to eat. They told me not to mind them as they visited and I assured them that I would be quite okay keeping to myself. The next thing that I knew, however, some undercover cops showed up. They apprehended me and placed me under arrest. Feigning ignorance, I asked what they were talking about. Yet deep within I knew that, my having been in Junko’s university residence and after having been seen by her long-haired friend, I was a prime suspect.

Of course, no one had shoved Junko to her death any more than Junko had willed her way to her death with great forcefulness. They told me to stop pretending because they had gotten a good description of me from a key witness who had discovered Junko’s body. Apparently, many persons living in the complex had seen me leaving. Basically, they had pieced together a scenario not wildly removed from what I had long concluded: that there had been a struggle between Junko and me when I broke into her apartment. Naturally, being larger than her, I had been able to shove her through the window of her apartment to her death. They told me that one of the witnesses had heard Junko scream.

This I knew was bullshit as I recalled distinctly Junko never once having made a sound as she violently tossed her body to her death. Needless to say, this was not what had happened but naturally this made sense as they made a science of pinning me with her death. The officers then instructed me to look to my left as further proof of my having been the perpetrator of Junko’s demise. There, I noticed that the wall was a reddish-to-sandstone colour which looked like fired clay. Nicely camouflaged against it was a ladder which was of the same material and colour. Its purpose was for getting one up to the building’s fire escape system. This, of course, only further cemented their case against me.

They accused me of having used that ladder to make it onto the fire escape. As it turned out that building though on the other side of the river was part of the same complex in which Junko lived. That having been the case, it stood to reason that after having murdered her, I had slid down the fire escape then sat there at the table taking a meal. All of this conjecture when I didn’t even know the women with whom I shared a table. True enough. This definitely did not look good. They got me up, carrying me to a low-riding yellow transport. A lone Black woman stood there looking on at me with a look of deep anguish warping her face.

To protect its passenger, the yellow transport had flaps on it. There was little room inside as I sat down low to the ground – the flap covering me up from being made a shameful spectacle whilst being transported. Soon I was joined by a Black female officer who came inside the already crowded transport. Before I knew what next, she began groping me being really aggressive about it too. More than that, she was really squeezing on my balls. Ouch! Forcefully, without missing a beat, I began violently kicking at her and told her to fuck off. Kicking her aside, I shoved aside the flap and bolted from the transport.

As it travelled, seemingly on autopilot, I had been sitting with my back to the front of the transport as it travelled. My transport was part of a long caravan of similar transports. Obviously, the other cars were filled with other convicts whom they had already picked up. I intended not to be part of their daily catch. As the others were quite prepared to be hauled off to some holding cell or other somewhere, I had no such ambitions. This was much too ridiculous. Escaping, by not running but simply soaring high into the air at fantastic speeds, I simply took my leave of the place. My destination was back to the complex where Junko had committed suicide. If only to somehow right an injustice, I wanted to return to the scene of the crime. I wanted to see if they had already removed the body.

I alighted onto the sill of the open window which was opposite Junko’s across the courtyard. Naturally, this apartment was set up differently as it was reversed to Junko’s. I entered, only to find a young White woman there who was all skin and bones, definitely she was suffering from anorexia nervosa. As a matter of fact, she was so skinny as to look otherworldly as though an astral plane habitué or an extra-human. On closer inspection, I noticed that her complexion was definitely not human rather she was yellowish-white. Not unlike the extra-humans in the, Ron Howard film, Cocoon, was she.

Throwing water on her body, she was seated in the quarter-sized tub. Further scrutiny revealed that she hadn’t any hair on her oversized cranium. This was not a situation where she was bald for having undergone chemotherapy rather she was void any hair whatsoever. Clearly, I had long flown the coop which is Kansas. There was no escaping the fact that this woman was an extra-human. It took a while before she noticed me and when she did she fixed me with jet-black oversized eyes. Quite simply, she was bizarre-looking. Depending on her moods, thoughts or emotions, her skin seemed to glow at varying intensities. There was a yellowish hue to it but not as if she suffered from jaundice.

In that sense she looked as if made of time-yellowed old ceramics. My initial thought was, “Well I’m definitely not going to want any pussy off you.”

With that I didn’t even waste time making for the door, I simply tuned out; thus, I effortlessly moved through the wall of her apartment and went into the hallway. On this side of the courtyard, the building was set out differently than at Junko’s across the courtyard. From there, I went to the apartment where Junko had lived until recently. On entering, I was stunned to find that it was completely gutted and as if having been ravaged by a fire. There was not a sign of furniture anywhere. More than that, the man whom my companion and I had originally met on the street, the brawny, Wotanesque supra-hirsute, was now there. Clearly, he was there to capture me.

With him was an old man who was quite tall. Toothless, the man was at least an octogenarian with a briskness of energies which was reminiscent of Isadore da Braga’s. This, of course, would leave me to believe that this mercurial man was a priest soul. Furthermore, he was the quintessential ‘Dark Priest’ archetype. There was a fanatical zeal about him which was unmistakably priestly. As far as he was concerned, I was the enemy and to that end I had to be captured if not eliminated. He came to get me. At that, I flew up and went beneath a steel staircase where I held on to its underside. Looking like a fly on a ceiling, there I hung upside down.

Both men had been outside on a fire escape a few storeys below where I had been in Junko’s former apartment. They had looked up and seen me there because on this visit much of the building was now gutted, not just Junko’s former apartment. Remaining where I was, I waited for them to enter my wing of the complex. As soon as they did so, I flew out the window from beneath the staircase’s underside. On noticing me, sounding pretty much like a cave filled with bats in heat, the priestly accomplice furiously screamed. Flying close to the building, I dropped down a few storeys and then dodged back inside the building through another of its windows. Once I had alighted, I set off running at full speed through the building’s cavernous labyrinthine interior; thus I tried to lose them in my wake.

I managed to have eventually made my way outside where I saw them again. Much to my surprise, they had already captured the other human with whom I had originally been. Presently, they were torturing him which was not the most pleasant of sights; nor was it anything with which I remotely wanted to have become familiar. He was being fisted by these truly sadistic men with the old dark priest man really getting off on the torture. I shuddered as I watched them reach in and pull out his innards. This was serious shit. Literally! I was immediately reminded of my youth in Sandy Point, St. Kitts when I would go to the market on the weekends and watch the animals being gutted. It was truly grim.

There was definitely something wrong with this image and it had to be stopped. I simply couldn’t abide that being done to a friend. What next happened was truly amazing, I saw that there were lots of pigs in a clearing in a slot. This looked pretty much like one was on New York City’s 5^th Avenue going down towards Amsterdam Square. They stood there in the open area of the abandoned street, in the equally abandoned city. There was a great deal of pig feed everywhere. Looking very white and on the hideous side, all of the pigs were shaved. Presently, they were in a feeding frenzy; the look and sound of them being truly gross.

One of them I noticed had been neurotically twitching. Closer inspection revealed that its arse was exceptionally fat. It seemed as if it were trying to either have a big dump or even give birth. Quite bizarre! The stuff which started coming out of its arse was basically the pig’s innards. Right away, I realised that there had to have been a connection to the companion of mine who had been fisted to the point of having the life, literally yanked out of him by way of his innards. Clearly, these pigs were totemic animals for what few genuine humans there were among this culture of disguised extra-humans; though, as in the case of the female bather, they were not all in disguise.

I thought that, perhaps, they were doing this to the human as this was the way that they achieved a sexual high. It then dawned on me that, perhaps, the pigs were more so representative of the extra-humans rather than being totems which the extra-humans had fashioned of their human captives.

With that in mind, I got a torch and approached the twitching pig’s body setting it ablaze. I figured that it was connected to my companion or the persons torturing him. True enough, I could hear cries of protest from the next block away where the human was being tortured. The other street was off to the left whilst facing the pigs. When I attacked, the pigs were feeding in a tight frenzied cluster. Definitely, it was the extra-human with whom my companion and I had been speaking who screamed aloud as the pig burnt.

The pig was more than his familiar. They were both connected and such that his response was a simpatico psychic phenomenon which didn’t need for them to be in close quarters for the extra-human to have experienced the terror which the squealing pig did. It was definitely his voice. Then and there, I knew that I was on to something. Immediately, I began setting all the pigs afire. Enraged the extra-human stopped screaming and headed in my direction to exact his revenge. Obviously, these pigs were further-disguised extra-humans which were more so in accord with their true nature than not. What was telling about these pigs was that they were the same yellow-white colour as the lone extra-human female whom I had seen taking a bath – in the apartment across the courtyard from Junko’s.

Indeed, it was on seeing the pig’s complexion that I was able to make the connection to the humanoid extra-humans which was more disguise than not. Closer inspection made me realise that the pigs were not feeding exclusively but were rather engaging in group sex. It seemed that they had at least two sex organs in the rear and possibly one or more close to their hideous faces. So their eating was for the most part a sexual act. Their large exposed sex organs in the rear could have made it look as though they were being disemboweled; however, they were in a state of arousal. Truth be told, the pig behaving neurotically was more accurately in the throes of orgasm.

Their bodies were shaped differently to a pig’s. Truth be told, these creatures did look from their long-backed selves more like a greyhound’s or even an upright creature which had reverted to walking on all fours. This was so confusing when initially I had assumed that the twitching neurotic pig was going into labour; rather, it was having sex. The pigs were having sex because their humanoid fellow extra-humans were having a sexual high for torturing my companion. Obviously, both these extra-humans had a symbiotic relationship of some sort. After having discovered their weakness, I set about to destroy the pig-like creatures who were having an orgy disguised as a feeding frenzy.

Whilst doing this, so that together we could suppress the extra-humans among us, I screamed aloud calling for help from other humans. As the other pig-like creatures were being set afire, they were so obese that it was hard for them to have taken flight. Meanwhile, no humans had appeared on the scene to come to my aid. Soon enough, I noticed that there was an outflow of extra-humans from all the abandoned-looking buildings on the street. They were all the same tall, Wotanesque supra-hirsute types as the original extra-human who had befriended my companion and me. They looked truly enraged – deadly even. Without exceptions, they all wore parkas. I do believe that the parkas were to maintain a certain body temperature and to block out as much natural sunlight as possible.

Too, there seemed to be some parasitic culture to which their bodies played host and which needed to be protected by the parkas. Indeed, the parkas were more than likely their space suits as it were. Sure enough, the two extra-humans – who had been looking at me, when I initially had taken to the air – I saw again coming down the street towards me. I was quite aware that though they never took flight, any of these extra-humans, that they were quite capable of doing so. I had seen them do as much. Earlier, when escaping the two back at the abandoned complex where Junko lived, the unusually tall octogenarian-seeming zealot had come flying after me whilst screaming much like a pig so enraged was he.

As they came towards me, they began screaming as if their bodies were afire. They pleaded with me not to do as much to them. The more they tried to come closer, the more their progress became laborious – to the point where they could no longer move. They were arrested by fear and by a psychic terror that was crippling. Their bodies in conjunction with the burning pig-like creatures experienced immolation. Though they were not on fire they were being burnt. As the pig-like creatures’ bodies burnt away, the extra-humans’ bodies correspondingly simply began disappearing. It was as though they were being erased or being made invisible, in patches, throughout their bodies.

Indeed, perhaps, these Wotanesque humanoids were merely holographic projections. Quite frankly, I had the upper hand. Though they wanted me to stop, I told them no way. They had already unleashed their sadistic terror on humans, therefore they deserved just retribution. Before I knew what next, there appeared above them in the sky a massive flame. Blue, it looked like the flame from a gas range. It was a square formation rather than the quintessential flying saucer shape of conventional human extra-human vehicle wisdom. Hovering there, it undulated whilst spewing out little red charges of flame.

The flame was a live entity which immediately began speaking. It did make biblical references to ‘Jeremiah’ and to Christ having been murdered. Telling me that it was wrong of me to have attacked the extra-humans, of which it was obviously in favour, the flame was speaking to me. I didn’t, of course, see his Flameness anywhere in the sky, pontificating whilst my companion was being fisted and disemboweled. The energy given off by the blue flame entity were extremely intense. I was convinced that the flame had appeared to retaliate against me, in the extra-humans’ defence; instead, he was there to deal with the extra-humans.

What I could gather from what transpired here was that the flame was an extra-human bounty hunter; he, the flame, was on the hunt for fugitives which in essence is what this colony of sadistic extra-humans represented. As the extra-humans were afire, this created a tear in the fabric of their cloaking devices which made it possible for the fugitives to be detected. As a result, the flame was – so to speak – beaming up the fugitives who were suffering immolation. Though they feared being on fire, it was clear that they didn’t want to be captured by the flame. For being in distress, they set off the signatures which allowed their pursuers to locale them across Space.

Clearly, these extra-humans had the ability to jump space and possible travel cross time. The voice from the flaming entity in the sky had a booming strong resonant voice which was reminiscent of the actor, James Earl Jones’s. The booming voice made several references to human history – all of which were fairly accurate and impressive. With that, the flaming entity in the sky started consuming the pig-like creatures which were screeching whilst on fire in the middle of the street. As it consumed the creatures, it was clear that they did not relish their fate. There were no illusions as to the fate of these extra-humans. They were being relocated elsewhere and it was definitely to their home which was nowhere on this planet.

I then realised that the buildings, which all looked like they were out on Ellis Island, actually were the extra-humans’ spaceships which were artfully disguised. All the buildings were on dead-end streets which likely had not existed before. This entire neck of the woods had been artificially made. The whole affair had been plunked down in the middle of nowhere yet made to look like part of a large metropolitan area. It was a factory of sorts. By that I mean that, the captured humans were brought there and subjected to various forms of the hunt. Afterwards, they were captured outright and subjected to sadistic torture sessions in which the extra-humans sexually got off.

Quite intriguing, most especially since the real extra-humans were closer to being like pigs than humans.

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Cleo Laine & Ray Charles Porgy & Bess Medley

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

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Redux: Patron Saint & Queen of the Karens. Victim. Virgin Mother!

19.07.202524.07.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

*This blog was originally published in October, 2023. In light of the recent discloser, July 2025, that Catherine’s stylist, Natasha ‘Tash’ Archer has departed with her being exposed as having stalked Meghan and all her inner circle friends and influencers’ Instagram accounts, this does validate my observations that Catherine has used clothing to be racially predatory of Meghan by cannibalising most of Meghan’s looks. Do enjoy anew!

**Jealous Peggalicious Preys Whilst Scorned Ekaterina Deliberately Flirts with Thespian & His Beard**

Well, of course, the Venus Flytrap-pussied broodmare is damn well going to flirt after having been brushed off days earlier at the Polo. So there was she, patron of the All England Lawn & Tennis Club in bitch-dominatrix green – perfect colour for a woman with energy body of 9, reigning at Wimbledon. Just for the cameras, Ekaterina obstinately flirted with actor, James Norton. So what if he is Queer, all men are dogs, after all, it’s just a matter of time before they sniff each other and start humping seen or unseen. Ekaterina, the world onlooking, just wanted to get under the Pegged and follicly challenged boor Wilhelm’s skin. Of course, the fact that both senior Waleses are task companions only adds to the complexity of the War of the Waleses.

**Poor Peggalicious Desperately Fails to Cock Block**

Ekaterina’s Reason for Devoting More Time to The 1851 Trust than Any Other Charity? Big Ben

With the recent departure of Elizabeth II, the snivelling palace sycophants have been reinventing fabulist gossip and tales to make of the Waleses and Windsors that which they have never been, Olympian. These are crass racist charlatans and little else. So after having been outed as a racist boor both on the Oprah interview in March, 2021 and in Prince Harry’s SPARE, along comes snivelling bottom-feeder Valentina Pas-Haut with a revised edition to her specious tome, adding more storeys than the combined felled Twin Towers. Ekaterina insisted that ‘Recollections May Vary’ be kept in because it was important that History judge them correctly. Chile please! The Fleet Street parasites have no control over either facts or opinions outside their cultist island kingdom.

Bitch Get Off Me… Don’t Make Me Slap You. Ekaterina Brushed Off at the Polo.

Well, indeed, it seems that the tide has drastically changed. Prinz Wilhelm von Pegged und Fisted has come out, fighting that is, and with Elizabeth II off the stage, he can damn well do as he pleases and is. No more time to waste on spilled milk; living separate lives does seem to be the order of the day.

HRH Prince George of Wales – The Spook in the Window

I don’t know about you, but that is just not normal behaviour. There was a point at Trooping the Colour 2023, on the Buckingham Palace balcony, George was speaking and his father, Prinz Wilhelm von Pegged und Fisted, snapped at him. In that moment, George became frozen, standing there on the Buckingham Palace balcony and his right arm began involuntarily twitching.

Trooping the Colour 2023. Incident Occurs Between 02:56:00 and 02:56:30

There are a number of times when Prince George tries to get the attention of either parent and instead either parent favours Prince Louis or Princess Charlotte. George has a number of odd twitches and much of them are likely due to being around mercurial parents, who shout at each other lots. Prince George’s numbers do not leave him in good stead next to either parent’s numerology; they would incite a considerable degree of discomfort and fear. Prince George: 22.7.2013 Year of the Snake 4.2.8 = 5. That 5’s placement spells sexual scandal down the line; the 8’s placement means that the family’s fortune potentially may suffer massive setback(s). The 2 mindset means that he is innately creative and his parents are a mystery to, and some degree of distress for Prince George. George has only one number in common with his mother, Ekaterina, 4; he has two with his father, Wilhelm, 2 & 5. 5 represents excess, kink, unorthodox sexual appetite. George, however, with the mindset of 2 may end up being a fantasist rather than indulger and may end up being a collector of erotic art, along the lines of Shunga, Kangra, Chinese, Persian, Arabic, Islamic & European erotic art, books, sculpture et al. 2, also, rules two-spirits, a pronounced feminine principal so that coupled with 5, George may well become genuinely bisexual in nature – what he does in private when an adult, is no one’s business – provided it won’t be with minors. More than that, 2, represents genius level creativity. In George with such strong-willed ‘loud’ parents, his 5’s excessiveness apart from leaving him potentially quite tall, will act out through food, thus, he may end up being rotund for eating to excess, the opposite of his paternal grandmother, Diana, Princess of Wales’s, bulimia.

Trooping the Colour 2023. Famille Wales: George, Louis, Ekaterina, Charlotte & Wilhelm

There is a great deal about the firstborn which is marvellously camouflaged. All the more reason, why they allow the little freak, Louis/Damian to act out, thereby taking the spotlight off George’s spectrum markers. Alas, not everyone chooses to see nothing! George’s softness lends credence to the rumour that George was preceded by an older illegitimate sibling. Indeed, have you not heard about Happy Valley, the Sequel? It isn’t just the alpaca-faced chatelaine in Norfolk, who is a baby mama; indeed, George simply lacks the alpha vibration of a firstborn child. Even within the brood spawned by Prinzessin Ekaterina von Rictus der Gurnalot und Mumbleweiss. By far, Charlotte is more dominant of the three. Queer indeed it is that the Horse Guards Parade photo of George: the spook in the window, has been completely scrubbed from the internet – indeed, they’ve got something to hide. Also of note whilst stood on the Buckingham Palace balcony was Prinz Wilhelm’s animated coughing as though he were rudely saying something to the perpetually rictus Ekaterina, as she kept trying to have her left arm touch his right arm whilst stood side-by-side.

As Happy as a Truly Rictus & Gurning Loon

Just look at her, the blasted gurning loon. She is like an engagingly fascinating coffee table book cover that turns out to have not a single page between the covers. Blithering, inarticulate, quite the mumbling loon, Ekaterina. This past spring, I was at a Sunday brunch when the hosts wanted me to explain the finer points of numerology; it was an exciting gathering that lasted into early evening. At that time, a guest there had been familiar with Jian Ghomeshi and was fascinated to learn how his numerology explained his fall from grace for being caught up in a legal sex scandal. My take on the whole affair – Google is your friend – is that there would have been a great degree of consensual relations. Jian’s numbers are 9.6.2 = 8. First and foremost, all persons with energy body of 9 are all about control; they will always be abrasive and given to being smothering, manipulating – controlling. The one thing that is marked by persons with energy body of 9, is that they are given to ritualised sex that is chiefly consensual and either would be dominatrix or sadist but never masochistic.

Ekaterina at Wimbledon, 2019. Meghan Is Being Verbally Assaulted. Meghan Is Stunned.

In 9 energy body persons dealings with others, they often attempt, usually successfully, to bully and make subordinates their ‘bottoms’ – this chiefly is the dynamic of Ekaterina with Wilhelm and also what she sought to establish with Meghan. Obviously, she failed to break Meghan or the Sussexes would still be in the UK. Look at Meghan’s expression in the preceding photograph and tell me that that is the face of a bully. Look at the optics of that photograph, Ekaterina’s lizard lips are shaped in the same hostile ‘O’ that chimpanzees make when making screaming shrill calls at an opponent. Meghan is sat there before the world, knowing the optics of being ‘on’ and is both stunned and exhausted at this mumbling, inarticulate, crazy bitch, fucking with her and trying to break her spirit. Bitch in what world is Meghan supposed to take shit from your dumb, lazy, leg-spreading, racist ass? The racially predatory Ekaterina just couldn’t wait to have Meghan fully captive, minus Prince Harry, and before the entire world. Sat was Meghan between Ekaterina the dominatrix and her flat-arsed sister, Pippa. You just know, too, that there was a 99.9% likelihood that Ekaterina was all liquored up and in peak bitchy, sarcastic, bullying energy body of 9 mode. Hands down there is no way that Meghan would ever privately describe Ekaterina as pleasant. Ekaterina knows damn well that even if she spat in Meghan’s face, whilst sat there in the royal box at Wimbledon, the whole world would say that the reverse happened or that Meghan spat on her first but it was not caught on camera.

Shunga Print Provenance: British Museum

Alas, Vanilla sexual relations are not the norm for 9 energy-bodied persons as was clearly the case with Ghomeshi. As 9 energy body has to do with ritualised sexual control, obviously, at some point that dynamic corrupts the dominant partner and abuse can ensue. Think of the animal dynamism of sexual play in the 2015, Doug Liman film Mr. & Mrs. Smith, starring Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie – that is the order of sexual play with 9 energy body persons.

Damian: the Possessed & Damaged Spawn’s Coming Out

Okay then, said the striking red-maned Ethiopian with the most strikingly beautiful eyes – in town from London, England by way of New York City, for a wedding, please explain what the hell is that, as she turned her phone and showed us a clip of Prince Louis at the Platinum Jubilee Parade in June 2022. We all hysterically howled. Obviously, the child is crazy and there is nothing cute or adorable about behaviour like that, said she, to which I enthusiastically agreed. Louis/Damian: 23.4.2018, Dog, 5.9.2 = 7. Like his paternal grandmother, Diana, Princess of Wales, this very disturbed individual runs the very real risk of being murdered to be rid of the nuisance that he proves to either his mother or possibly father under duress – either way, he would be rather readily disposed of, and the island kingdom’s somnambulant would think nothing of it. Louis has three numbers in common with his father 2, 5 & 9 and one with his very controlling powerful mother, Ekaterina, 9. Ekaterina was sick to death of him and livid that he was proving a thorough embarrassment before the entire world. Let’s then look at the machinations, of which the then Cambridges were the obvious chief architects.

November 2016

A Statement by the Communications Secretary to Prince Harry

Published 08 November 2016

Since he was young, Prince Harry has been very aware of the warmth that has been extended to him by members of the public. He feels lucky to have so many people supporting him and knows what a fortunate and privileged life he leads.

He is also aware that there is significant curiosity about his private life. He has never been comfortable with this, but he has tried to develop a thick skin about the level of media interest that comes with it. He has rarely taken formal action on the very regular publication of fictional stories that are written about him and he has worked hard to develop a professional relationship with the media, focused on his work and the issues he cares about.

But the past week has seen a line crossed. His girlfriend, Meghan Markle, has been subject to a wave of abuse and harassment. Some of this has been very public – the smear on the front page of a national newspaper; the racial undertones of comment pieces; and the outright sexism and racism of social media trolls and web article comments. Some of it has been hidden from the public – the nightly legal battles to keep defamatory stories out of papers; her mother having to struggle past photographers in order to get to her front door; the attempts of reporters and photographers to gain illegal entry to her home and the calls to police that followed; the substantial bribes offered by papers to her ex-boyfriend; the bombardment of nearly every friend, co-worker, and loved one in her life.

Prince Harry is worried about Ms. Markle’s safety and is deeply disappointed that he has not been able to protect her. It is not right that a few months into a relationship with him that Ms. Markle should be subjected to such a storm. He knows commentators will say this is ‘the price she has to pay’ and that ‘this is all part of the game’. He strongly disagrees. This is not a game – it is her life and his.

He has asked for this statement to be issued in the hopes that those in the press who have been driving this story can pause and reflect before any further damage is done. He knows that it is unusual to issue a statement like this, but hopes that fair-minded people will understand why he has felt it necessary to speak publicly.

In November 2016, Prince Harry released a statement in support of Meghan, defending her against the racial undertones in the media that attacked her integrity. Naturally, by this time, the then Cambridges would have been upset that Harry had chosen a wholly unsuitable ‘girl’ – good god just imagine what the kids would look like. Ekaterina with an energy body of 9, would by now have become livid and seethed at Meghan possibly marrying into the RF. She is Black. Most of all, she is infinitely more charismatic and articulate than her – Meghan is her Kryptonite! Do not underestimate the power of a 9 mother, like a bear and her cubs, Ekaterina, as are all mothers, is extremely protective of her cubs. Ekaterina did not relish Meghan and her biracial kids, close in age to her own kids, coming on the scene. Imagine a ginger, afroed Archie and Lilibet, who by their mere exoticism, would garner greater press coverage. A wholly unacceptable proposition for Wilhelm and, in particular, Ekaterina this proved.

March 2017

Harry & Meghan, Montego Bay, Jamaica. Tom Inskip’s Wedding

March 2017, Montego Bay, Jamaica, Meghan joins Prince Harry as his date for friend, Tom Inskip’s wedding. At the time, the rumour mill and every Karen’s livid little blog, insisted that Meghan had crashed the wedding and was stalking Prince Harry; after all, they knew to be fact that Prince Harry had broken off their relationship in early 2017. All this in a narrative of their own delusional making. Well, all the Karens were sure that the Queen was suffering dementia and Caligula II had to step in and provide greater security for Prince Harry as he was being stalked, harassed by the crazed actress whom they had irrefutable proof was a yacht girl – The 1851 Trust notwithstanding. Just look at how miserable Prince Harry looked at the wedding and how she clawed all over him, touching a royal prince! Never mind, the braying racist masses, but Ekaterina with an energy body of 9 and Wilhelm with a mindset of 9 – defender of the flame and does not like anything that is not traditional or deemed unconventional, were secretly hissing at how Harry was doing this to them, to the family; it was betrayal, plain and simple. The then Cambridges would not have approved of Harry being enamoured of Meghan.

May 2017

Pippa’s Wedding to James Matthews

Pippa’s wedding to the son of a wealthy – though guarded – paedophile, was Ekaterina‘s chance to start publicly fucking with Meghan. Ekaterina whose control of Wilhelm is thorough, laid down the law; however, like all dimwits, she left herself open to unflattering scrutiny. According to the rules, if a woman was neither engaged nor married, she could not attend the wedding ceremony at the church. That being the case, Meghan was relegated to the wedding reception, which was well out of the view of the paparazzi. So there was Prinz Wilhelm arriving with Prince Harry to kill any rumours of Prince Harry attending alone and if that meant that it was over between him and Meghan better yet, even though everyone here in Toronto in the know, knew that Harry and Meghan were still very much so on.

HRH Princess Eugenie & Lover Jack Brooksbank, Pippa’s Wedding , May 2017

Then the most marvellous thing occurred, HRH Princess Eugenie walked to the church ceremony of Pippa’s wedding, accompanied by Jack Brooksbank. At the time, Eugenie and Jack were neither engaged nor wedded; thus, the whole rule of ‘no ring, no bring’ ordained by the rather sooty – not to be confused with snooty – classist boor, Ekaterina, exposed her animus towards Meghan and proved Ekaterina to be not very bright and frankly stupid – receipts matter. Nonetheless, the deed was done, Ekaterina had given her marching orders to the Fleet Street abattoirs, herein after referred to as FSAs, to begin the campaign of deeming Meghan a most unsuitable girl – straight outta Compton, indeed.

July 2017

Cambridges, Poland, July 2017

During or just after their July 2017 royal tour of Poland & Germany – neither of which happens to be a Commonwealth nation, though all importantly not predominantly overrun by Blacks – well , the 9 centric Cambridges like two slithering angry snakes, drunkenly writhed, hearts filled with hatred and scheming… Could she not wait to return home and run off to be further aroused and consumed with passion at The 1851 Trust? Was he, sat there looking bored and witheringly disdainful, lusting to be returned to Norfolk and attend to the alpaca-faced chatelaine and favoured baby mama, not to mention the other baby mama in Happy Valley in the sequel to White Mischief? Whether Big Ben or Pegged Wilhelm, either way, she was soon to be with child. A child it was whose nine months of gestation were passed with its host, ravaged by hatred, racist dread and obsession with Meghan and most likely a few too many glasses of drink those forty weeks.

November 2017

Harry & Meghan BBC Engagement Interview

Well past her first trimester, Ekaterina positively cramped with rage at watching the charismatic, emotional intelligence of Meghan in her BBC engagement interview and increasingly her racism and hatred were being transferred onto the little gestating monster, Damian in utero.

BBC Engagement Interview for Prince Harry & Meghan

The articulate, smooth delivery, charm and eloquence of Meghan’s master number 11 on display, would have proven infuriating for 9 energy body Ekaterina. She must be stopped, Ekaterina and the world’s every racist Karen seethed. Ekaterina was dead set on ridding the kingdom of this interloper, this vile blackamoor imposter. How she must have smoked and drunk more heavily at this time. Ekaterina & Wilhelm would have looked at this interview and felt immensely threatened. You simply cannot underestimate what an affront Meghan in that interview posed to Ekaterina and by extension Britons. Here was someone the product of slavery and the enslaved being so articulate, successful and able to leap into the heart of Britain’s classist inner sanctum. Britons have a pronounced inferiority complex towards Americans, owing to their defeat and loss of the colony and the fact, most of all, that America and Americans are so much more dynamic than they are. This though does not stop Britons from copping hauteur, that god-awful horrid accent of theirs and lording it over the ‘Yanks’ that they do not have a monarchy.

Samantha Markle Before Kensington Palace Payoff aka Financial Lobotomy

Here is Samantha Markel on Good Morning Britain just after Harry and Meghan’s BBC engagement interview. Soon, her tune would radically change as Ekaterina & Wilhelm waged war and had J’anusz der Schmeckel-Snitz start paying off and grooming the Markles on what to say and do to sabotage the upcoming wedding of Harry and Meghan.

December 2017

Princess Michael of Kent Wears Blackamoor Brooch + Harry & Meghan at Christmas Day 2017

What did Ekaterina care? Elizabeth II was old, cancer-stricken and as Elizabeth II never favoured her, why should Ekaterina care what she would think? Naturally, the mother of Prinz Wilhelm von Pegged und Fisted’s minor royal drug dealer, who’s really proud of her Jewish daughter-in-law, would gladly accept the dare to wear a blackamoor brooch. After all, she had called her two black sheep, Venus & Serena; Baroness Marie-Christine der Blackamoor Brooch would definitely go along with the racial harassment of Meghan. How Ekaterina and her bullied, pegged bottom, Prinz Wilhelm must have howled for joy at that golliwog, Meghan, being openly attacked before the whole world. Of one thing, Ekaterina was certain, sooner or later, she will be able to get the Fleet Street hacks to turn on that damn Yank… that damn Black thing. Ekaterina still cramped with racial animus for Meghan, likely drank more heavily over the holidays than is usually her wont. Of course, Ekaterina & Wilhelm would have been egged on by the likes of handlers like Ben Goldsmith and those of his rarefied chosen ilk.

February 2018

Royal Foundation Interview: Harry, Meghan, Ekaterina & Wilhelm

Here is the fabled Fab Four Royal Foundation Forum interview at which all four principals were present including pregnant Ekaterina. The dynamic between both women is rather telling and it is clear that Meghan was acutely uncomfortable, for being in Ekaterina‘s presence. I cannot state enough that for being an artisan soul, Meghan inputs on 5 channels, which leaves her inordinately attuned to spiritual undertones which are more than meet the eye fare. Meghan’s master number of 11 is supra-sensitive to subtle vibrations and energy, which for being energy body of 9, Ekaterina radiates with laser-like focussed animus. 9 energy is very circuitry-jamming by nature. I might also add that as both Ekaterina and Wilhelm are Warrior and Scholar souls respectively, both soul types only input on one channel. This gives them singleness of focus, but it also leaves them with far less subtlety and sophistication than Sages and definitely Artisan souls who respectively input on 3 and 5 channels – Meghan’s five channels of input would be just as baffling as Artisan soul Diana, Princess of Wales’s did for Warrior soul Caligula II and Scholar soul, Milonia Caesonia. Both the then Cambridges, for being senior royals, were dead set against Meghan being in their midst and that they readily telegraphed. Ekaterina here is in her final trimester and passively aggressive, hateful and bullying as any raptor, racial predator can be expected to be. Meghan, of course at the point of the interview, was acutely aware of this and was by then getting the lion’s share of verbal abuse. Can you just imagine the hyper-criticism Meghan would have gotten from the then Cambridges, both possessed of fault-finding, shit-disturbing, bullying 9 energy as they are?

April 2018

Prince Louis’ Christening, July 2018

Prince Louis aka Damian was born less than a month before Prince Harry and Meghan’s wedding at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle. As the preceding photograph reveals at his christening in July, 2018, Prince Louis is damaged goods. Those are the eyes of a child on the spectrum and one who has already proven not the least bit stable. Louis was born 23.4.2018, Year of the Dog (same as his father). Also, like his father, Prinz Wilhelm (21.6.1982 Year of the Dog 3.9.2 = 5), Prince Louis has 9, and 5 in his numerological makeup; this is usually the mark of someone whose mercurial disposition is not readily disguised. Unlike his father, Prince Louis (Damian) will have a harder time disguising his lack of emotional intelligence. Louis’s numbers are: 5.9.2 = 7. Louis, as previously stated, has three numbers in common with his father, Prinz Wilhelm (2, 5 & 9); he is a dead ringer for his father, Prinz Wilhelm‘s, very well camouflaged nature.

Damian, El Diablo Muy Loco & His Psycho Mama

Make no mistake about it, in due course, Louis is going to be the source of astounding royal scandal. Stop making excuses, neither George nor Charlotte were ape batshit crazy at aged four. Louis has same mindset of 9 as his father, Wilhelm; Damian’s father is a sadistic bully and archly unorthodox in his views, so likely will his possessed son be. Furthermore, Damian’s 5 is his energy body – think Tasmanian devil. He sucks the oxygen out of any room and is not remotely sane. This combination of 9 and 5 means that S&M will be his preferred sexual outlet with a gross predisposition towards kink. Anything odd, bizarre, including persons will fascinate and leave him readily obsessed. The 2 speaks to the childlike/autistic wonderment and a sense of infantile and or developed feminine principle. Lastly, that 7 in the fourth position has seen highly placed royals bumped off when they proved themselves a nuisance, liability: Lord Mountbatten and Diana, Princess of Wales. 7 in the fourth position almost always means the murder of an individual in the public eye. Either parent or both would readily have him murdered if he proves too problematic. Of course, as far too many Whites do not assume culpability, Ekaterina and Wilhelm will always lay blame at Meghan’s door. They will rationalise Louis’ predicament, resulting from Meghan having come into the family and causing all this upheaval – god only knows their racist terrorisation of Meghan could not have had adverse consequences for them. Tant pis.

May 2018

Royal Wedding of TRH The Duke & Duchess of Sussex

May 19, 2018, what a gloriously sunny, picture-perfect day it was. As we have since learnt both in the Orpah interview in March, 2021 and from Prince Harry’s electrifying memoir, SPARE, all was not as it seemed. Of course, much of the tension afoot was more readily discernible than others.

Royal Wedding Prince Harry & Meghan, The Duke and Duchess of Sussex

Start looking at the 03:35:00 mark of this version of the BBC coverage of the Royal Wedding of Prince Harry and Meghan. As the couple begin taking their vows, Ekaterina spends her time exclusively looking down at the programme in her lap rather than look at the couple; this betrays her disapproval of their marriage and more importantly, Meghan becoming a member of the royal family. One thing of note is that this recording is a copy of the BBC coverage. The original BBC version has since been scrubbed from the internet; if only because a year after the wedding and the time at which the BBC version was scrubbed, it had been viewed more than 30M times; however, to that point, the BBC’s 2011 coverage of The Royal Wedding of Prinz Wilhelm and Prinzessin Ekaterina had garnered less than 15M views. Today, 2023, that 12 year old video sits on the royal family’s website and has garnered over 49M views; obviously, that is a combination of Meghan haters and the royal family aggressively jacking up the numbers. Of course, there is a ten-year old ABC (American Broadcasting Corporation) coverage of the now Waleses’ wedding, hosted by Barbara Walters, Diane Sawyer & Robin Roberts, which has just passed the 500k mark. The royals lie about everything, just as their Instagram page always artificially had a higher following that The Sussexes’ now defunct Instagram page. You can never underestimate how utterly petty, TRH Prinz & Prinzessin of Wales are. Prince Edward, like Doria Ragland, Ben and Jessica Mulroney and others were there to witness a marriage and looked at the couple throughout as they exchanged vows; not so, Caligula II, Wilhelm and Ekaterina.

Cambridges & Cornwalls Openly Gossip & Ridicule Blacks, Yanks, Meghan & Harry

Now jump ahead to 04:00:00 on the same video of the Sussexes’ wedding, at this point, having signed the registry, both Caligula II & Doria are returned to the quire. As the gifted cellist Sheku Kanneh-Mason starts the final of three pieces, Wilhelm, Caligula II, Milonia Caesonia and Ekaterina commence throwing shade at The Sussexes and Meghan’s culture. This they openly did before Elizabeth II, the world; moreover, this they did to the very shrewdly observant film industry professionals, who directly sat opposite them. Again, the senior royals quite arrogantly have neither couth nor awareness. Caligula II, Wilhelm, Milonia Caesonia and Ekaterina behaved at Harry & Meghan’s wedding not as persons who were concerned about Meghan being a bully. By their open ridicule of Meghan, Harry and Meghan’s culture, they betrayed to the world that they did not care for Meghan and were already having great fun at Meghan’s expense, along with bullying and racially harassing her.

Baby Mango Man Goes Full Crazy Town

All that hatred, predatory racism, bullying from Wilhelm and Ekaterina against Meghan, resulted in Ekaterina‘s bilious womb, serving as stowaway for a rapidly reincarnated soul, likely overdosed in the immediate past-life as crazed crackhead, Louisa, straight outta Compton. There is no greater winning argument in prosecuting the case against Ekaterina as the dominatrix, bully, racial predator than the fruit of her womb as she waged psychological warfare against Meghan for being a Yank, a self-made strong woman, to say nothing of a beautiful and articulate Black woman.

*When first I saw this display, I was horrified. However, at Trooping the Colour, 2024, I saw little Louis doing his little dance and I had an epiphany. I have a data base of hundreds of historical, famous, political and persons known to self’s numerology. As I have not done Prince Louis’s Michael Overleaves, his numerology had entered the data base at his birth and that was that. As he danced his little heart out at Horse Guards Parade, I suddenly thought to look up his numerology. Everything that I said of him at this blog when originally published in October, 2023, flew out the window. This is a child with 5 energy body. They are adrenalin junkies and in that moment, I fell in love, becoming his biggest cheerleader. Think tennis ace, Cameron Norrie, gymnast Simone Biles and many other athletes. They never stand still and are the most intensely focussed kinetic energy in a human body. Of course, he was not going to quietly sit there at The Queen’s Platinum Jubilee parade; he was being overstimulated by all the colour, music and excited humans. I cannot begin to fathom what it must be like to be an expectant mum with a five energy body incoming baby in utero. Louis is a joy to the world and I certainly hope that he fares well in such a rigid institution which also happens to be a family. END.

Ekaterina: 12 Years a Fail But Oh So Soused

Ekaterina was threatened and had the tacit approval and complicity of Wilhelm in a campaign to destroy Meghan. Very telling, too, was Wilhelm‘s remarks at the first annual Royal Foundation Forum summit, of which they would be only one, as he faced inwards towards Meghan and hawkishly preyed on her, ready to scream at her after the event behind Kensington Palace walls. Like her open animus towards Meghan, there has been the one constant: Ekaterina with a drink in hand and not just for show. This, precisely, is why Damian emerged the liquored up monster.

Wilhelm, Explosive Bully. Prince Harry Ever Wary of Wilhelm’s Deceit. Wilhelm Blissfully Unaware

That interlude also graphically demonstrated how groomed and hamstrung Prince Harry, in his role as spare to the arrogant, racist, ignorant Wilhelm, had become. Wilhelm it was, who remarked about being focussed on mental health and specifically suicide, more so male suicide. All that was cover, what he was in essence doing, was mind-fucking Meghan, letting her know by way of suggestion, and before the world I might add, that he wanted her to suicide… to get out of their midst. Wilhelm is after all the father of lunatic Damian. In the preceding photographs, Prince Harry looks exhausted from being bulldozed by Wilhelm & Ekaterina. At the time of his marriage, Harry still held out hope that his pa and brother would come around and accept Meghan. No, Meghan called it correctly, that was no environment in which to bring up their children. Indeed, it was not an environment in which Prince Harry should keep on living if he was to be a true father and husband to Archie and Meghan.

Meghan Gaslighted, Suicide Ideation, Racially Preyed On

Imagine that, Meghan lays bare what racist terror she experienced, at the hands of the senior royals and their lackeys, and for that, she was gaslighted and racially preyed on with even greater frenzy. The one thing racist non-Blacks, in particular Whites, cannot admit to, is that they are racist and that racism towards Blacks is not just sport but is physically, mentally, emotionally and financially damaging. Gaslighting Meghan was about having her stay and take it; goodness me, why ever would she want to leave a life of luxury, the life of a royal? But fuck it all, she flipped the script on the now Waleses. Just look at Meghan in the royal box at Wimbledon in 2019, she is looking at this inarticulate, dumb as fuck monster and thinking, whilst still breastfeeding Archie, “Bitch, I am not putting my child through this shit!”

Family: Abigail Spencer 4.8.1981 Rooster 4.3.4 = 11. Meghan 4.8.1981 Rooster 4.3.4 = 11

Ekaterina was damn confident about having her own little Prissy to slap every chance she got, to say nothing of her damn unwanted half-breed kids. No one laughs harder than a master numbered individual. Abigail & Meghan born same day, same year truly are blood. Nothing master-numbered 11s love more than laughing hysterically at damn fools. “Can you imagine? Mousy, inarticulate, dumb broad, trying to make me her bitch…” followed by the loudest gales of laughter. For an artisan soul with master number 11 like Meghan, that moment in the royal box at Wimbledon would have been like having to communicate with a mentally challenged idiot, trying to form a sentence. It took inordinate grace for Meghan to have endured all that shit, but that she did. Meghan like a strong bear had to not only secure her cub, Archie but she had to break the mindfuck that held Prince Harry captive to two of the meanest, pettiest, most pernicious dumbasses imaginable. What else can fraulein von Rictus der Gurnalot do but shapeshift into Meghan’s outfits; yet the bitch still can’t do more than mumble & fumble attempts at working a mic.

Buster Tripping the Light Fantastic Across the Cativerse

*At aged 20, Buster effortlessly passed when put to sleep at the vet’s. Just as he appears in this photo, he looked us over one last time, placed his forehead down as when blissfully dreaming, waited and like that, he slipped away in February, 2024. Sweet and blissful dreams darling, Buster. END.

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Grooving & Upping the Frequency via Crystals & Music

In the near 50 years since being spiritually focussed, which has included crystals, pyramids, mediums, past-life/reincarnation exploration, I have never once met a White male or female, who has stated that they had a past life in the Americas and West Indies during slavery and were a White slaveowner – god only knows they would never possibly have been an enslaved Black. It is always the reckless abandon of lives lived in opulence in Egypt, at court in Europe or exotic locales, which may venture to China, Japan and India but never Africa where there have always been in excess of 1000 royal families and also never the Muslim Middle East.

Kerry Washington, Kelly Rowland, Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex at Beyoncé Concert

Meghan is as hated as she is, because most Whites are loath to have to address the fact that they are racist boors. More than that, most Whites are not prepared to accept, much as with Donald Trump and his devotees, that Ekaterina could be a racist White boor, which they innately know to be true.

George, Ekaterina & Wilhelm, Berkshire, 2013. Ekaterina & Elizabeth II & Elizabeth II May, 2016

The earliest outward signs that Elizabeth II was mortal appeared just after her 90th birthday. Back in 2013 at George’s birth, Wilhelm who could not then have cared less about his father, Caligula II, decamped with his new family to Berkshire and set up court at Ekaterina’s family. Ekaterina was flexing her fist; the moment that she gave birth to George, she was now the most powerful woman in the kingdom; Milonia Caesonia would never be King Mother as she Ekaterina was destined. Furthermore, Wilhelm secretly hated Milonia Caesonia. With Elizabeth II’s demise, Ekaterina knew that she would be unstoppably powerful. For now, they avoided Caligula II and afforded him little contact with his first grandchild, George. Two things then occurred, Elizabeth II’s cancer was diagnosed and Harry met Meghan. First outward sign of Elizabeth II’s cancer appeared in May, 2016, a month after her 90th birthday. Straight away, Harry pressed The Queen for her blessing to marry Meghan and knowing what vile pieces of works, Ekaterina, Wilhelm, Caligula II and Milonia Caesonia were, Elizabeth II consented and rushed them along. Elizabeth II knew that neither Caligula II nor Wilhelm would sanction Harry’s marriage to Meghan, if she did not speed up the process, owing to her rapidly deteriorating health.

Caligula II & Wilhelm von Pegged und Fisted

Before her cancer could become stage 4, the marriage of the Sussexes was planned and in the books; not before, of course, Ekaterina & Wilhelm went to war on Harry and Meghan. Meghan’s life was made a positively hellish racist nightmare that drove her to suicidal ideation, which no one gives a damn about when you are Black. Outed on Oprah, suddenly vile, lizard-lipped Ekaterina was wounded by something so base as to be accused of being a liar and a possible racist by that Yank and by someone Black. Under no circumstances do Whites give a damn about Blacks talking about racism at the hands of Whites. Suddenly, with Meghan wedded in, Ekaterina & Wilhelm fast became solidly aligned with Caligula II and Molina Caesonia. Here’s a measure of what a truly nasty piece of work Ekaterina is, she could not have given a fuck about the dead Queen, she gladly stayed behind so that Meghan could not attend Balmoral Castle. Ekaterina did not have the decency to go pay homage to the dead Elizabeth II, the most revered woman in the world; that decision tells you all you need to know about Ekaterina’s detestable character.

Elizabeth II Snubs Ekaterina & Wilhelm, December, 2020

Meghan could have gone there with Ekaterina then have Meghan stay away in a separate suite and not allowed to see The Queen’s body. However, future King Mother made it perfectly clear, she did not give a damn about Elizabeth II. Elizabeth II was dead; she was not Queen. Ekaterina was being her vile petty self, in not going to Balmoral Castle, she was saying fuck you to the departed Elizabeth II, for having snubbed her in December, 2020. In a fucked up racialised world, all everyone did, was focus on Meghan and make it about Meghan having caused a rift in the family, when it has always been Ekaterina: regurgitating, pernicious, slithering, vile monster. First act Ekaterina does on Elizabeth II’s death, is lay down the law, “I do not want that Yank, that fucking Black thing anywhere near the body. I don’t give a shit! All those damn fools will see, is how she has caused chaos in this family!”

Ekaterina Philip’s Funeral, 2021. Ekaterina’s Wedding, 2011. Ekaterina Elizabeth II’s Funeral, 2022

It worked, the FSAs were given their marching orders and the royal pantomime did a course correct. It is not entirely out of the realm of possibility that the whole thing, Elizabeth II’s death, was staged to insult and sacrifice Meghan to repair Ekaterina’s shattered and compromised image thanks to the Oprah interview. The House of Windsor performs the function of perpetuating the Virgin Mother mythology/Iconography of the White tribe. At George’s birth in 2013, Ekaterina became a Queen more powerful than Elizabeth II; Ekaterina was figuratively crowned the Queen Bee. From that moment on, she has been Queen in waiting and will ever be King Mother as she has from that moment in July, 2013 on becoming Mother/Virgin Mother/Queen Bee.

Windsor Walkabout:. Ekaterina Openly Seethes at Meghan. It Was Expulsion & Sacrifice

They are frankly that vile: Caligula II, Wilhelm, blithering idiot bigot Milonia Caesonia and most especially Ekaterina. Kill her off, avenge Diana’s murder, put her out of her misery, repay her for sanctioning that damn marriage of Harry & Meghan and crown Ekaterina with styles and titles: White Virgin Mother. Super Bitch. Queen. King Mother. Patron Saint of the Karens. Queen of the Karens. In one move, Ekaterina became Patron Saint & Queen of the Karens. Wilhelm indeed should damn well be wary of her because if he died, she would still be King Mother and it would be far better for Ekaterina if he died rather than being divorced and banished. Thousands stood for days in the elements to file past Elizabeth II’s casket at Westminster Hall, yet Ekaterina who would not have married Wilhelm without Elizabeth II’s consent, could not have given a damn to head up to Balmoral Castle and pay her respects to Elizabeth II’s corpse. With that move, Ekaterina was able to return to her role as heroine, of the wronged White woman, falsely accused of being a racist; she was once again victim, after it was challenged post Oprah interview when the lie of “Meghan made Ekaterina cry” was rather elegantly exposed by Meghan who is infinitely more shrewd than Ekaterina.. than all of them.. and they know it. Queen of the Karens in essence made it known that it was that damn Yank, Meghan, who made it impossible for her to have attended Elizabeth II’s body. The nonsense that Meghan could not go if Catherine did not, was a lie. If that were truly the case then Sophie, the then Countess of Wessex, would not have been allowed to attend Balmoral Castle and visit the dead Queen’s body; however, that she did do.

Ekaterina Perpetually, Racially Predatory of Meghan. Ekaterina Now the Most Powerful Windsor Wife

Catherine stayed behind so that with Meghan also left behind, she could confront her and be an evil, vile, psycho, mind-fucking bitch to Meghan about the Orpah interview. It would have been her one chance to do so and she would definitely have seized the opportunity to go to war with Meghan. She was still filled with animus the following day as they got ready to depart in the car at the Windsor walkabout. Ekaterina forthrightly came forward, and squared off with Meghan by looking at her then down at the ground as if to signify, you are done and truly buried; she was also most definitely hissing something from the set of her jaw and rictus grin. There was no equanimity or truce with the Windsor walkabout. Meghan having been confronted the day prior at Windsor by Ekaterina, who declined to go to Balmoral Castle, because she wanted to confront Meghan, looked yet again exhausted for being around 9 energy bodied Ekaterina which is precisely the effect that a negatively focussed warrior soul (Ekaterina) would have on an artisan soul (Meghan).

Ekaterina, Patron Saint & Queen of the Karens

This is why Ekaterina has emerged in all of this as an icon, SWF, a great heroine – Patron Saint and Queen of the Karens. In the preceding photograph, Ekaterina is being fawned over and worshipped on the eve of Caligula II’s coronation. Naturally, as Ekaterina drove off the Yank/Negro in the royal family, everyone of those women who ‘just love her’ are gushing with love for and pride in Ekaterina because she did what was expected of her and as they would also have done of any Black woman, moving into their neighbourhood or workplace. Get rid of it! And oh what great sport they would have in doing so, which is precisely why Meghan shared the soul-crushing suicidal ideation that she experienced for being subjected to the unrelenting racial animus from Wilhelm & Ekaterina and all the lisping racist sycophants of theirs both within the royal households, J’anusz der Schmeckel-Snitz et al, and the FSAs.

Unhinged Loon Hiding In Plain Sight.

Just as she sat there gurning like a blasted loon whilst the fruit of her toxic womb embarrassed the shit out of her before the world at the Platinum Jubilee Parade – remember how she laughed at Meghan and her culture at the Sussexes’ wedding, so too she fakes it through royal life, being the new, beloved White goddess – Queen of the Karens and killing off Elizabeth II’s image/iconography for all time. Truth be told, Ekaterina is more damaging to the monarchy/Britain than Andrew, Duke of York. When growing up in the Caribbean, I used to visit my aunt in St. Croix – where incidentally I experienced by first racially predatory attack by mainland Whites whose father was a local judge. On Sunday afternoons, my aunt’s church used to go to have service at a senior care home where there also were disturbed youth, some cerebral palsy; at the time, all the residents were Whites. There were Whites in St. Kitts, it was, though, the first time that I had experienced mentally-afflicted, institutionalised young persons. It was sheer madness. I found the experience each time so confusion, I wanted to empathise with them yet all they did was react to us for being Blacks as though we were freaks… seriously.

Ekaterina Boozed Up & Predatory. Banned Paul Emsley Portrait. Caligula II’s Scottish Enthronement

There was one woman there, a patient, who had about half an inch worth of forehead and the largest gums. All she did was hide from us, as we were Blacks, then would gurn and hiss at us, then run away and hide some more whilst laughing her truly lunatic skull off. Fifty plus years later, I always think of that disturbed woman whenever I see Ekaterina gurning. Indeed, as Meghan told Oprah, “the reality is nothing like it seems.” 9s are shrill and borderline unhinged when focussed on being adversarial to whomever they’ve chosen to target and never ever do they cease targeting the subject of their focussed animus – this is precisely why Ekaterina has transposed her racially predatory bullying and harassment of Meghan via cannibalising her through clothing et al.

Make It The Motherfuck Make Sense

How now, sweet little darling, you are still an embarrassing, inarticulate bore who is as charismatic as sodden cardboard. Nothing like a weak, insecure woman; she will destroy everyone around her. Going after Meghan has come at the cost of her marriage and her thirdborn’s mental health. Louis validates that not only is she a drunk but she is that queer oddity, the functionally unhinged; clearly, for Prinz Wilhelm, it has become a total trip and exhaustive buyer’s remorse. Prinzessin Ekaterina for being a meanspirited bully, to say nothing of racist boor, has betrayed her culpability by having waged a racially charged, bullying campaign against Meghan.

Texts Between Ekaterina & Meghan as Shared in Prince Harry’s SPARE

It is clear from the text message shared in Prince Harry’s searing memoir, SPARE, that Ekaterina was hellbent on breaking and sadistically owing Meghan; Meghan of course was professional and infinitely gracious. Nothing of that exchange suggests that Ekaterina is predisposed to crying. She is of coalmining pedigree and exposed to power, she has become drunk on power and corrupted of spirit. Nothing in that text exchange points to Meghan being a bully and a bitch but yeah, the Waleses control the narrative in the tabloids. How fucking bored must one be to be indulging in this petty BS, save of course if you’re bigoted boors, you will act exactly as Prinz Wilhelm and Prinzessin Ekaterina have.

Abigail Spencer 4.8.1981 Rooster 4.3.4 = 11, Fraulein von Rictus der Gurnalot und Mumbleweiss

The psychology of this vindictive, archly petty, shitty excuse for a woman is pretty obvious. Knowing that Abigail Spencer was born on the same day, same year as Meghan, she targets Meghan by wearing the exact dress as Abigail wore to Meghan’s royal wedding. This served as the opening salvo in her long running soft cannibalisation of Meghan through the tabloids by way of her choice of clothing.

Meghan Carries Portmanteau, Followed Thereafter by Ekaterina Doing Same

Now fraulein von Rictus der Gurnalot takes her psychotic stalking directly to Meghan after the Oprah interview when Meghan and Harry were successfully received at the Global Citizen Festival in New York City’s Central Park, five months later in September, 2021. Naturally, the gurning bully showed up to an event, carrying a portmanteau, mimicking and ridiculing Meghan.

Meghan Remembrance at Cenotaph, 2019. Ekaterina Remembrance at Cenotaph, 2021

As a result of the Oprah interview in March 2021, Prinzessin Ekaterina wears a broad downturned hat at the Cenotaph in November, 2021 after Meghan had done so in 2019, Ekaterina‘s obsession is febrile as for one thing, Elizabeth II was close to dying, she has been beyond livid that her true ugliness has been exposed in the Oprah interview.

St. Paul’s Cathedral Queen’s Platinum Jubilee Service, June 2022

Elizabeth II’s Platinum Jubilee Celebrations. Of course, timing being everything, her long reign turned farcical towards its closing hours. For having outed them on Oprah, now comes the revenge. Not only are they now non-working royals – whatever the blasted motherfuck that is? – but they also do not get to stand on the balcony – oh boo-fucking-hoo. Then, if that’s not enough, to drive home what petty fuckers they all are, they have that blasted rhino-stumped heifer, Baroness Marie-Christine der Blackamoor Brooch sat in the row behind the then Prince of Wales and his miserably wedded heir, with Meghan and Harry sat across the aisle and directly in front of Caligula II’s up skirt/kilt Battyman even though with Elizabeth II still breathing, the kilted stud has as yet begun living openly with his debauched and buggered lover, Herr Fatty-Fingers.

Love Is In the Air… Up Skirt & Musky As All Hell

There was the lover, apprenticing up skirt Elizabeth II’s poopy-smelling frockcoats in June, 2022 and a mere five months later, there was he in November, 2022 sat in the royal box at the British Royal Legion’s Festival of Remembrance at Royal Albert Hall.

Meghan The Duchess of Sussex Speech in Full at One Young World Summit, 2022

Harry & Meghan, The Duke & Duchess of Sussex

Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex delivers speech at One Young World Summit in Manchester, England on the eve of Elizabeth II’s death, September 2022. This, in a mere three months, gives Ekaterina, the bullying, power mad, gurning loon the idea to outdo Meghan. Look for sycophant Sir Bod Geldof hardly rise as Meghan takes to the lectern.

Prinzessin Ekaterina von Rictus der Gurnalot und Mumbleweiss Suffers Charisma Implosion

Ekaterina von Rictus der Gurnalot und Mumbleweiss & Wilhelm von Pegged und Fisted

Elizabeth II is now dead and buried and Prinzessin Ekaterina von Rictus der Gurnalot und Mumbleweiss has been getting all the King’s RADA sycophants to try and make a half decent silk purse of this limp, sodden sow’s rectum – god how they must sit around, as actors are wont to do, hysterically shrieking at what a dumb twat she is. Shocker, there she was, wearing an electric red pantsuit as Meghan had months earlier, to also give a keynote address. Somehow, this obsessive boor thinks that for mimicking Meghan, she was suddenly going to be possessed of intellect, eloquence and prove remotely charismatic – fraulein gurn und mumble indeed.

Kate Middleton
Princess of Jazz Hands 😅😅😅 pic.twitter.com/l937jlh5VY
— Veritas (@theroyaleditor) September 29, 2023

C’est très Charmant, Mais Oui, Non. Chile It Speaks with Its Hands!

😅😅 pic.twitter.com/srMjS9DdfJ
— Veritas (@theroyaleditor) September 29, 2023

Keep Your Damn Hands Out of Spike Lee’s Face!

Willy can’t stand Ol Jazz Hands doing her Jazz Hands 😅😅😅😅😅😅😅 pic.twitter.com/kZbFOjEVMf
— Veritas (@theroyaleditor) September 29, 2023

Wilhelm Is Just Biting Off His Lower Lip. There’ll Be More Shouting for That Performance

Together. Our Community Cookbook Forwarded by HRH The Duchess of Sussex

Meghan, The Hague April, 2022, Transparent Racial Predator Ghouls, Grenfell Tower June, 2022

Summer 2022, Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex accompanies Prince Harry to the Invictus Games at The Hague. June 2022, on the fifth anniversary of the Grenfell Tower, Ekaterina attended the ceremony, though at the time, and I was in London during the Grenfell Tower fire, Ekaterina did not look over her shoulder. Of course, she could have sent the newly minted Duke & Duchess of Edinburgh, but Ekaterina as ever had to make a point and tear her flat arse in Meghan’s face. Meghan wears Chanel flats to Invictus Games in 2022, so Prinzessin Ekaterina goes to Grenfell Tower ceremony where Meghan had launched the Together cookbook to assist the devastated residents of Grenfell Tower as another way of letting Meghan know, “Bitch you can run to Oprah all you want, I got you out of here, you are not here and I will never let you back!” So petty is the goddamn gurning loon, Ekaterina, with the little baby Mr. Mango freak, Damian. Just as in January, 2023 and June, 2022, Ekaterina takes the time to directly look into the camera as she bullies Meghan – mostly her racist Karen flock and the FSAs. Prinzessin Ekaterina is saying “fuck you” Meghan whilst looking directly into the camera, thereby betraying how miserably she has failed to own and control Meghan. Her vacuous life passed, plotting and scheming how next to cannibalise/stalk Meghan by way of clothing, shoes at charity appearances.

Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex Wears Signature Aquazurra Bow Tie Heels

Ekaterina on the Eve of Caligula II’s Coronation. Meghan Duchess of Sussex Queen Elizabeth II’s Funeral. Alpaca-Faced Baby Mama, Coronation

Meghan, having quite had enough of small island, small-minded bitches, turned her back on the racist island kingdom. Left to stew in their venom, who could possibly be surprised by SWF Ekaterina on the eve of the coronation saying fuck you to Meghan, who was declined an invitation, by wearing the Aquazurra bow tie heels, which previously Ekaterina had never owned or worn. This woman, Ekaterina, is so immensely petty. How indeed could Meghan not have been driven to suicidal ideation when harassed and lynched by this out-of-control, power mad, racist woman of coalmining pedigree?

With Meghan leaving Spotify under super agent Ari Emanuel, naturally, both Spotify and the Waleses had something to celebrate. Having taped an episode for Shrek & co.’s podcast, they cunningly made sure that the event took place in the same drawing room at Windsor Castle – god only knows there is only one drawing room in Windsor Castle – as the official portraits of Harry & Meghan’s wedding. Naturally, they waited to air said sports podcast, to coincide with the opening of Prince Harry’s Invictus Games in Dusseldorf as a way to overshadow the Games but also to telegraph to Harry & Meghan that they were history; they were being whitewashed from royal history. Of course, good old Shrek just had to go and remind us that Ekaterina is a blasted drunk who is Queen of beer pong.

Meghan at Invictus Games The Hague 2022 Catherine Rugby World Cup France 2023

The next day, Ekaterina who had now replaced Prince Harry as patron for English rugby union was at their match in France at the Rugby World Cup, 2023. Naturally, as Harry was being erased, Ekaterina just had to wear a white pantsuit, clutch and similar round pendant necklace as Meghan had the summer prior at the Invictus Games at The Hague.

Meghan NAACP Image Awards, Feb 2022. Ekaterina Being Functionally Unhinged Dec 2022

Earlier during Black History Month at the start of the pandemic, Harry & Meghan picked up an award at the NAACP Image Awards for their humanitarian work. Fast forward, et voilà, as predictable as a monkey jacking off, there reliably is the fucking sodden cardboard psycho, sporting the same outfit; there can certainly be no mistaking, who ape batshit crazy Damian’s mother is. All this does raise the very pertinent question, how interested is Ekaterina in these charities, if clearly a major reason for showing up, is to further her psychotic aggression against Meghan?

Royal Wedding of HRH Princess Eugenie & Jack Brooksbank, October 2018

HRH Prince Eugenie’s wedding to Jack Brooksbank afforded further insights to the dynamics of the relations between the royal princes and their wives. At the 50:20 minute mark, both TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex arrived, followed immediately after by TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge. It was a hurried affair and likely there were some hisses once waiting to enter the quire and be sat before the world’s gaze. The senior ducal couples are sat in the quire, Prince Harry sat between his wife, Meghan and sister-in-law, Ekaterina. Meghan ever ‘on’ busies herself whilst avoiding Ekaterina’s hissing/sniping and chats with Zara Tindall.

Prinz Wilhelm Restrains Reptile Ekaterina. Prince Harry Foils Pregnant Meghan from the Evil Boor

At the 01:05:50 mark of said video, Meghan can be seen chatting with HRH Princess Anne, The Princess Royal sat to her immediate left as she has no desire to lean across Prince Harry and chat with the fork-tongued, slithering, power mad coalmining offal. Then at the 01:06:55 mark, behind Sarah, Duchess of York & HRH Princess Beatrice, Ekaterina is seen tapping Prinz Wilhelm on the left thigh, he holds her right hand and she goes on to neurotically rub his thigh, as he restrains her inner hissing. Of course, at this point, Wilhelm & Ekaterina are both aware that Meghan is with child and you can bet, the campaign was already begun to drive Meghan mad, have her either miscarry or suicide. They do not want an Octoroon in their family. Just imagine, a curly afroed ginger, Archie would be the obsession of the British tabloids to the exclusion of Ekaterina’s own not-the-swiftest-of-souls sons, though to be sure sure, Charlotte does fire on all engines. Early days yet, for Meghan it was just smile serenely and carry on. Prinz Wilhelm was of course, restraining his venomous wife who was utterly opposed to Meghan being in their midst and wanted her gone. For his part, Wilhelm is still his mother’s son and Meghan is his brother’s wife.

Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex the reincarnated Tudor Matriarch

Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex, Princess Henry of Sussex

Meghan, the most powerful Windsor wife, since her soul was previously incarnate as a female member of the British monarchy, Margaret Beaufort, Tudor matriarch. The importance of Meghan in this current drama is not easily disguised, though, there is a great effort exerted to distract from the truth. At the heart of Meghan’s lynching is the fact that the royals of The House of Windsor have been outed as racist boors. This was not easy for Elizabeth II as she spent her entire life projecting the image of the great matriarch of the Commonwealth and all its disparate races. Meghan was supposed to have sustained that legacy and been the bridge to the Commonwealth when racist Prinz Wilhelm & Prinzessin Ekaterina had no desire to make forays into predominantly Black Commonwealth nations – they still have not toured one of the predominantly Black 19 commonwealth nations in sub-Saharan Africa.

Ekaterina & Mary. Ekaterina & Stephanie of Luxembourg. Ekaterina & King Wilhelm-Alexander

Ekaterina has never once toured any of the 19 African Commonwealth nations. How do you justify being a senior royal and mother of a future Sovereign yet in 12 years of marriage never once having set foot in not one of those 19 predominantly Black Commonwealth nations? Twice she has undertaken Commonwealth tours on behalf of Elizabeth II when she was clearly no longer able to undertake such taxing tours. Instead of her lazy racist hide going on tour, Caligula II and Anne have done the lion’s share of this work and merkin-predisposed Sophie taking up the slack. Ekaterina, the Queen of the Karens, has been on tour to a mere 9 Commonwealth nations, whilst having visited 13 non Commonwealth nations. Ekaterina does not like non-Whites and most definitely, she does not like Blacks. Ekaterina, the overindulged never once had to undertake a royal tours whilst pregnant, yet there was Meghan on her first royal tour, days after it was announced that she was expectant with Prince Archie. Ekaterina has speciously claimed that she has stayed put rather than tour as she wants to bring up her kids; obviously, from the looks of Louis/Damian, Ekaterina has had little to no time to spare on the damaged fruit of her toxic womb.

Ekaterina Holding Dress Avoiding Blacks. Belize Standoff. Ekaterina Rebuffs Jamaican Olivia Grange

If 2022 were not a Jubilee year, Ekaterina would not have undertaken a royal tour of Commonwealth nations. She was loath to have to do so on Elizabeth II’s behalf. At the start of the tour, there was her outright rudeness to the local Blacks in Belize, and later in Jamaica she rudely brushed off the Minister of Sports, Olivia Grange, who tried to take her hand. Ekaterina is as common as an Ozarks redneck full of anti-Black racist venom. The white t-shirt photo perfectly captures the penny dropping moment for the racially predatory pair; if only they had not chased Meghan from the kingdom, she would be the one undertaking this damn tour to be amongst the natives, whom they are so loath to have to tolerate for a damn nanosecond.

Caligula II à La République de la France. Brigitte, Milonia Caesonia & Incitatus. Milonia Caesonia in Dior

As was plain for all to see, there was Caligula II on his official visit to La République de la France with his lover, the kilted Incitatus openly walking alongside Madame Brigitte Macron & Milonia Caesonia on the Champs-Élysées no less. Of course, having Meghan perpetually, unrelentingly lynched takes the spotlight off debauched and buggered Caligula II. Meghan has to be hung from a tree and the White tribe get its jollies so that god forbid Milonia Caesonia should be booed or openly rejected for the pain she caused the beloved Diana, Princess of Wales. Too, Meghan serves the purpose of keeping whispers of the kilted Incitatus being more than Caligula II’s equerry at bay. No need to have whispers persisting as to why Caligula II lives apart from Milonia Caesonia with the virile Incitatus at Highgrove. I for one, as I flatly replied to friend, don’t give a damn what her Dior cost but I do care to know what it cost to replace all that shattered glass at the Palais de Versailles!

Serena Ohanian-Williams. Meghan, HRH The Duchess of Sussex. Abigail Spencer, NYC Baby Shower.

No matter how much Caligula II and his henchmen in the media cast their nets far and wide, they will never be able to affect Harry and Meghan’s success and happiness. One thing that they will never do, is remove Harry & his heirs from the line of succession as some of the media racist boors bleat on. The moment they do any such thing, their greatest fear would be realised: a memoir of Meghan’s detailing the racist abuse that she suffered at the hands of senior royals. Meghan knows her power, this is why she does not set foot anywhere near the lot of them when charitable work takes her to England.

Harry & Meghan with Oprah Winfrey. David Foster & Prince Harry. Meghan & Harry with Kevin Costner

More than all that, showbiz is all about knowledge and the power of secrets; the land of make believe, is all about power to ruin someone by exposing their secrets. Everyone in Hollywood knows the goods on the senior royals at this point. The baby shower in New York City in February, 2019 was for Meghan to decompress from the racist maelstrom that she faced whilst pregnant. Ekaterina & Wilhelm wanted her to suicide; Meghan needed a break from Wilhelm and Ekaterina’s campaign of convincing Meghan that she was carrying Rosemary’s Baby – talk about irony as per Damian’s coming at at the Platinum Jubilee. Talk about karma; they serve up their petty seating for the Sussexes and the next day the universe had the last laugh as Damian, finally let out of his cage, pissed on and humped the dominatrix’s leg.

Tracy Robbins. Sophie Grégoire-Trudeau. Kelly McKee Zajfen.

Lindsay Roth. Misha Nonoo-Hess. Delfina Blaquier

Oprah stated that there was a lot more tape to that interview. Tyler Perry pointedly stated that there was a lot more that Meghan could have said in her Oprah interview, which would have proven injurious to the House of Windsor’s senior royals. David Foster’s wife is Katherine McPhee who went to the same high school as Meghan. The Fosters know the senior Mulroneys, plus Ben and Jessica, not to mention Sophie Grégoire-Trudeau & husband, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau. All these people socially overlap and at their level of society, they rarely ever have fallings out – relationships and connections are of immense financial worth. These are, on the whole, tight, well-guarded, upper social strata bonds that transcend politics and social whims.

Molina Caesonia, Caligula II, Prinz Wilhelm von Pegged und Fisted, Prinzessin Ekaterina von Rictus

No matter what the dog whistling Windsor media henchmen speciously allege on their silly little island, they have no power and their unmasked truth is a known open secret, which makes it the most bankable commodity in Hollywood. Meghan is a devastating threat because with her departure and by taking Harry and their children with her, the House of Windsor is suddenly exposed as utterly vulnerable and frankly irrelevant.

Vichyssoise. Brown Sugar & Butter Roasted Squash. Ossobuco on Roasted Pine Nuts & Baby Carrots

Back in late spring of 1987, Merlin and I hosted an old friend of mine to dinner at our Cabbagetown home. Back in the late ’70s, Ivan was an eccentric artist: painter, sculptor and former dancer from New York City. He lived a rather bohemian theatrical life in a loft across Markham Street from Ed Mirvish’s Honest Ed in Mirvish Village. One day, after I had been by for tea and great conversation, he took me across the street and introduced me, grandly stating that I was now going to start working for them that very day, and I did. Eventually, I was off to Winnipeg to study dance which proved the most soul-crushing, racist experience imaginable. I remember sitting there in the theatre, the house lights going down and the full dress rehearsal for Romeo & Juliet was begun. The only Black in the school, I also had the humiliating experience of being the only student who was not allowed to take part in the production. I was crushed and this was after having suffered the indignity of having another male in the school piss into my locker’s grated door into my shoes and socks, which meant having to venture home in -30°C and colder in the driven snow in piss-sodden socks that were frozen to my feet by the time I made it home from the then studios on Portage to my tiny apartment on Assiniboine. That late spring, Merlin and I slaved away in the kitchen, prepping for dinner with Ivan. As a rule, I never once cooked a meal for any of Merlin’s friends; most of all, none of his friends were ever invited when I had friends of my own to dinner. We started with vichyssoise, followed by halved, baked squash with butter and brown sugar, into which was placed purple rice smothered in melted white cheddar and slivered almonds. The main course was Merlin’s favourite, the most sublime ossobuco sat on a bed of liqueur-sautéed pine nuts and adorned by baby carrots. Ivan was a great raconteur, with the loudest, most irreverent fuck-that laugh, and a ravenous appetite; it was always good to host him and repay his kindness from the decade earlier; moreover, Merlin genuinely loved his company.

Chicago. Halved Lobster Meal. Washington D. C.

Ivan it was who had introduced me to a wealthy friend of his, who was a patron of the arts and lived in Chicago, New Orleans and Washington D.C. He thought that my experience in Winnipeg was ridiculously hellish and I needed to get out. Naturally, his friend’s lover got wind of my existence then called the school and reported, “Ms. Thang was trying to thief her man!” This was great ammunition for the school’s principal who treated my existence in class as though I were truly invisible. Next, the scheming, bigoted principal, an ex-lover of whose told me that I would never get into the company so arch was his hatred of Blacks, went all out to exterminate me. He then set me up with someone for lunch whom I assumed was the hotel manager at the local Holiday Inn. Large-bodied but kind and reserved, I replied after he asked why I was not eating, starved though I was, that my mother’s name was Miriam, a Jew and we neither ate pork nor shellfish. The halved whole lobster before me truly made me feel nauseous. He called a waiter, had it replaced and asked where I was from as I ravenously tucked in whilst schooling him on Nevis. He then gave me his business card and that of the banquet supervisor. Days later, I called him a few times to thank him for getting me the job of waiter/bartender at the hotel – god only knows I was at 105lbs dying on a diet, noon and night, of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I then had a sit-down interview with the school principal, who let me know that there was a complaint against me for repeatedly calling my host at lunch in the hotel. Imagine that, calling someone to say thanks for their kindness and getting me a gig, is deemed suspect? All along, I had assumed that he was the banquet manager, it was Ivan who told me that that manager, Izzy Asper, was one of the richest Canadians who owned the damn hotel! Furthermore, the principal then took it on himself to announce to the whole school that it did not reflect well on him and his school to have students with sugar daddies or any student aggressively looking for sugar daddies in his school. Looking back, the thought that the principal actually used Mr. Asper as bait to accuse me of being a male whore when the gentleman was not remotely Queer, was truly repugnant to me.

Mirvish Books on Art, Mirvish Village. Christina’s World, Andrew Wyeth, MoMA. New Orleans.

Years earlier whilst Merlin was in Toronto filming Fraggle Rock at the CBC studios with Jim Henson, I was still resident in New York City, dancing and spending much time with milliner Frederick Jones & former dancer, Attila Isaksen, who had the greatest feet of any dancer I have ever seen, male or female. Attila laughed at life and was a great spirit whose brief dance career took him from Houston to New York City. Attila born March 7, 1955 had two numbers in common with me and was also possessed of master number 11 – he is also an artisan soul like me and an entity mate. Attila thought that my experience in Winnipeg was beyond absurd. One evening after we had had more fantastic sex, we sat in the tub talking, laughing and sipping on red wine before more robust noisy sexual play. “How did you manage to survive that penal colony, my god?” Attila asked to which we both roared. Of course, I then shared with Attila how I charmed the school principal into giving me the job of school custodian, which he gleefully accepted – never underestimate the stupidity of ‘Whites,’ rather than Caucasians, who are ever convinced that one is never possessed of intellect for being Black. I then proceeded to master cleaning the place in record time, when I had figured out how to do the four hour gig in 1.5 hours, I then set about scouring the school principal’s notes that he kept of all students. Indeed, he dismissed me as unaware and not company worthy. More than that, I got keen insights to his opinions of male students, especially the not remotely Gay ones, of whom he seemed ever keen on grooming – breaking them in. Attila, naturally, was not surprised at any of this; it is par for the course in the dance world.

Soul Crooners: Barry White. Al Green & Teddy Pendergrass

Going on, I then told Attila of my casual lover who lived just off Pembina Highway in the city’s south end. I spent at least two weekends per month with him for about a year. He was a tall, jet-black Jamaican nurse, whose house was covered throughout in plastic as he collected two of every item of furniture, the spare one to be eventually shipped home to Jamaica where he would build a house and retire – this is not as uncommon as one would assume. I shared how after each fuck, I felt splayed and truly as if paralysed from the hips down. Randomly, Attila asked if I was familiar with Andrew Wyeth’s paintings; indeed, I wasn’t then familiar. Devon Bradford had the largest, thickest, big Black cock, I have ever seen; it felt arousing of spirit each time to see what my tiny body had just conquered. Attila shared that I was correct in my observation that truly big-dicked Black men always played damn good soul music to hypnotise you into a spectacular, memorable fuck – Attila’s lovers were all Black. We howled at how many times we had heard the same Barry White, Teddy Pendergrass and Al Green songs; Attila of Scandinavian heritage, by way of Minnesota, had the thickest cock and his arms were covered in the same blonde forest of fur as Prince Harry’s. The next weekend, on a Saturday afternoon, Philip took me to MoMa for my first visit and guided me by the hand with his blindfold covering my eyes. We stopped, he removed the blindfold and we both erupted in hushed giggles. There before me was Andrew Wyeth’s Christina’s World, which perfectly reflected how, having shared with Attila, I felt each time after a soul-jousting fuck with Devon in cold, hellish, racist Winnipeg. Attila thought that I should have lived with Devon, who wanted to put me through nursing school; then again, said I, I would not have met him or Merlin. “Sooner or later that fucker is going to crawl into his casket and rot in hell, eating every pope’s arse,” I quietly told Attila of the racist school principal. Vaffanculo! In short order, Attila and I were returned to marvellously hot sex. There is no doubt in my mind that Meghan’s experience, for being the first Black to have married into the royal family, whilst living in England mirrored and surpassed in its cruelty aspects of the racism to which I was subjected for being the only Black in that school in Winnipeg.

Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex, Whitehall, November, 2018.

Ever, I will be most fuck-all indefatigable in defending Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex against all and everyone and will remain fiercely respectful of her, Prince Harry, Doria, their children, plus the persons who form their secure inner circle… to say nothing of their journey. I stood almost directly opposite Meghan in Whitehall at the time of the preceding photograph and the hatred being directed at this human was devastating. Not since my days in Winnipeg had I felt so racially smothered; Britons are vile racist boors.

Harry & Meghan, The Duke & Duchess of Sussex Invictus Games, Dusseldorf, Germany, 2023

Meghan made it perfectly clear that she will never bow or curtsey to a racist boor by staying away from Caligula II’s coronation. So there was Ekaterina with her team of lisping sycophants at the ready, waiting to see what Meghan would be wearing in Dusseldorf, to replicate it in short order. Well, fuck it! What is Ekaterina to do now? She most definitely cannot be seen wearing YSL sandals in public. Most of all, she cannot break protocol and start wearing shorts to official charity events. The strapless, metallic teal, lace midi was exquisite; most of all, there is no way for Ekaterina to cannibalise that look.

Now That’s What You Call Real Gangsta Cannibalism – Bronzer & an Afro Wig. Foxy Brown Ekaterina!

Silly Ekaterina, that’s what you get for showing up at Grenfell Tower event in June, 2022, wearing Chanel sandals and on the eve of the coronation, wearing Aquazurra bow tie heels. The only way for her to top Meghan’s look in Dusseldorf, is to show up with spray-on full body bronzer whilst wearing a curly afro wig. I would truly piss myself shrieking and you know that Ekaterina is both desperate and competitive enough to do just that.

How to Go Hooking and Sporting; ie Ekaterina Getting the Job Done Whether Bagging Prince or Lover

Everyone keeps carping on about how Ekaterina was so bullied and stressed out by Meghan. Bullshit! Ekaterina is an utterly vapid, shallow, embittered power mad cannibal with the famished soul of a dominatrix. Damn Ekaterina, Meghan is not your bitch to be either pegged or fisted by your febrile, sadistic, terrorising campaigns.

And the Mirror Cracked. Ekaterina’s Mask Slips

Silly woman, didn’t it ever occur to you, Ekaterina, that hating Meghan, is like pulling the pin on a grenade and forgetting to toss it? These mad amateurs think that they can simply demonise Meghan in the media and somehow, they will prove the first time in human civilisation that there aren’t two sides to this historic royal story. Ekaterina has never been on tour whilst pregnant; however, Meghan is shipped off to Australia on tour early during her first pregnancy. Further, whilst she is away in October, 2018 J’anusz der Schmeckel-Snitz is put up to write to Valery “The Fly” du Bout and allege that Meghan was a bully. Prinz Wilhelm & Prinzessin Ekaterina are to their supporters much like Donald Trump is to his followers; regardless the obvious facts, only their warped account of reality sans factual evidence matters and their race, Meghan’s race and that the FSAs certainly see to it.

J’anusz (Pronounced Anus, the J’ Is Silent) der Schmeckel-Snitz aka Herr J’anusz der SS.

As Wilhelm is not the swiftest of souls (3 & 2) he has left himself fully exposed as the complicit architect of so much of this absolute shitefest. If you cannot get the marriage cancelled – Thomas Markle Sr. slipped up on Live Australian TV and said that J’anusz der Schmeckel-Snitz had put him up to the Jerry Springer sideshow before The Sussexes’ wedding, in the hope that the wedding would be called off. In the meantime, since Meghan was pregnant, let’s apply even more pressure and hope that she either miscarries or commits suicide whilst on royal tour in the southern hemisphere. J’anusz, Wilhelm & Ekaterina’s bottom feeder, has access to the FSAs and of course, he knows too much about Prinz Wilhelm’s pegged & fisted proclivities. For this reason, J’anusz has proven himself indispensable and as soon as Elizabeth II died, he is appointed by Wilhelm himself as an lieutenant of the Royal Victorian Order, in December 2022. The little Texan cactus (now there’s a butt plug) merely acted on his own, regarding that email which highlighted Meghan’s alleged bullying of staff, which Prinz Wilhelm von Pegged und Fisted releases J’anusz to go afford the court in a bid to assist the Fail on Sunday in its case against, Meghan – Meghan of course won because the courts saw how utterly amateurish and exposed Wilhelm & Ekaterina have left themselves in this entire tawdry affair. Since then as his secrets are too potentially damaging of the Waleses’ marriage and reputation, J’anusz has now become a major appointee at the vanity Earthshot Prize, which is about as meaningless as Wilhelm shucking oyster or was that a diamond encrusted dog tail butt plug that he was in search of? If J’anusz had to be seduced and bedded to get him to go after the senior Markles then so be it. Now like old Etonians, they are practically inseparable, J’anusz even climbing in next to him on the recent boys’ trip to New York City.

Wilhelm & Ekaterina, 2010. Prince Caligula & Diana Princess of Wales, 1981. Wilhelm & Ekaterina, 2021

Let’s face it, Ekaterina, every day is one day closer to the Prime Minister standing in Parliament and announcing that: “It is with regret that Buckingham Palace announces that the Prince & Princess of Wales are to be separated.” Ten years on, and Ekaterina could not directly look into the camera. Notice, too, Wilhelm’s arms no longer wrap completely about Ekaterina’s body ten years on. So glad that Harry let Prinz Wilhelm have their mother, Diana, Princess of Wales’ sapphire engagement ring; the damn thing is clearly cursed.

“All of Me, Why Not Take All of Me…” Sing It, Peggalicious. Wreath Laying in India.

Just look at that two-way pegged and fisted byway being flagrantly advertised; what does J’anusz der SS not know? Indeed, what debauched peggalicious fun did J’anusz and Wilhelm get up to in New York City from which Ekaterina was banished so that boys and lovers could be pegged and fisted boy and lovers. Naturally, J’anusz has conveniently been handsomely placed at Earthshot Prize, making his companionship less likely to arouse suspicion. What’s more, Ekaterina is not going to Singapore because at the end of the day, Diana is not Ekaterina’s mum, she is Harry’s mum.

Wynton Marsalis solo Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra at Massey Hall 2025

Summer is Jazz season and boy has it been great this year. Here is enduring favourite, Wynton Marsalis leader of the Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra intoxicating the soul with his brilliant creative genius. Jazz is Love. Jazz is Life. Jazz is Art most rare!

The Cannibalising Racial Predator Exposed

So in the week of the French President’s state visit to the UK, during which the Prince & Princess of Wales kept the Macrons waiting for over 10 minutes before arriving, our 1851 Trust patron #ladylegswideopen was irrefutably outed as having waged a years-long campaign of stalking Meghan Sussex by way of cannibalising her through fashion. Trust TikTok creator @matta_of_fact to have sorted it all out. Yes, indeed, Natasha “Tash” Archer announced that she was leaving her post as chief stylist to Catherine, The Princess of Wales after a fifteen-year association to go start a consultancy of her own. What then unfolded was making her, as ever, private Instagram account public. However, in the process of doing so, “Tash” did not take the time to cull her following list before actually going live/public. As a result, it was revealed that all Catherine’s predatory Orca-like fashion copycatting of Meghan, post Megxit, were done for stalking all Meghan’s design and clothing. What this reveals is how truly obsessed both William and Catherine are with that fucking Black Yank whom they cannot stand; they’ve been in a blind white-hooded rage at the every move that Meghan makes. This, of course, also blows wide open the campaign of hostilities and lies from the Fleet Street henchmen, being directly orchestrated by the gruesome, racist twosome whose offices remain Kensington Palace but who knows exactly where they live as their separate lives continue unaffected.

I am inclined to think that as Natasha has resigned, it likely means that there has been a falling out and that she was being relieved of her duties. This might well be because the rift between the Waleses is that severe. Further, the fact that Natasha would do something as self-destructive as go public with her following list exposed, seems to me to be a way of Natasha to reveal to the world that her boss, Catherine is a bully and serious stalker of Meghan’s. There is no such thing as happenstance and I think that this amateurish embarrassment is totally deliberate on Ms. Archer’s part. Either way, it has served to validate what I have stridently stated, based on the overleaves and numerology involved, all along about who Catherine is, which is why I chose to devote at least one blog to the cannibalisation of Meghan by Catherine. This whole think has left Catherine exposed as a vile deranged, petty, single White female of the most venal kind. At the end of all this, I think that likely Olivia Buckingham, Vogue Hong Kong editorial contributor and stylist for Princess Beatrice will step into the void created by Ms. Archer’s departure… if, indeed, she has not yet already done so.

**Meghan Ralph Lauren 2023 & Catherine 2025**

Recently, Catherine went around to a cancer recovery centre and talked her usual hand jive, jive sucker bullshit, making noise and saying sweet fuck all. Let’s face it, Catherine has no more had or has cancer than she is a paragon of sophisticated elocution – stomach surgery is not uncommon for anorexics. There she was in a camel pinstriped Ralph Lauren, which two years prior, Meghan was seen wearing the exact blouse. All the while, she has Lady Fuckamere’s trolls at Fleet Street abattoir, Daily Mail, dissing and doing her catty, racist bidding.

Catherine 2023 & Meghan 2018 Catherine 2018 & Meghan 2018 Catherine 2020 & Meghan 2018

Catherine 2022 & Meghan 2018 Catherine 2021 & Meghan 2018 Catherine 2022 & Meghan 2018

Catherine 2022 & Meghan 2020 Catherine 2023 & Meghan 2018 Catherine 2023 & Meghan 2022

If It Looks Like Stalking…

How insecure, to say nothing of unfocussed and bored, do you have to be that you engage staff to stalk, cannibalise and vilify someone who is not English, who is not White. Good God Catherine, you became the most powerful women in the House of Windsor on July 22, 2013: Future Princess of Wales, Future King Mother, Queen! You won the damn lottery. You staked your ownership on it all, on the 4th Baron Rothschild’s 75th birthday when in that closeup through the veil you smiled at the foot of Westminster Abbey’s aisle and the world fell in love. All this petty drama is so beneath you! Rise above it; there is no way that you cannot own your part in the macabre spectacle. Alas, you are human after all.

The Notorious JTB Sounds Off

I positively love this man. He is, by far, one of the most eloquent and insightful commentators on all things Royal as it chiefly focusses on the Sussexes and the House of Windsor. He is truly a cut above most Sussex Squad commentators.

Catherine & George Arrive at Wimbledon, 2022

July, 2022, two months before Queen Elizabeth II’s death and Catherine turns up to Wimbledon to be lauded by the masses. She wears the same shoes that mimic Meghan’s Chanel flats months earlier at the Invictus Games. More than all that, look at what happens, Catherine arrives separate from William, which suggests that they were at that point, already living apart. That would certainly explain why she never showed up to Balmoral at the Queen’s passing because, she may have been staying elsewhere and therefore could not have travelled to Balmoral separately before or after William. Naturally, Meghan was made to stay behind because of protocol considerations, which proved ultimately false, was to throw everyone’s scent off of William and Catherine living apart and thus unable to have travelled to Balmoral together. Was Catherine is Bucklebury at The Queen’s passing? Was Catherine even in Mustique with the kids and therefore could not have returned in time to head up to Balmoral with William. Either way, William and Catherine’s arrival at Wimbledon separately – Catherine was actually sat next to stylist ‘Tash’ who could easily have sat in the second Range Roger with William next to Catherine and George, highlights their separate live. Obviously, Catherine and George were likely in Bucklebury at the Middleton penitentiary.

**Catherine HRH The Duchess of Cambridge at Wimbledon July, 2022**

A month after having attended the Grenfell Tower memorial with Prince William, Catherine sported the same shoes as then to Wimbledon finals. This she did as a racially predatory taunt of Meghan who at that point, she had successfully driven out of the Kingdom.

**Meghan Invictus Games April 2022, The Hague**

She wore the matching shoes as Meghan had earlier worn at the Invictus Games at the Hague in April, 2022. Catherine first wore the same designer shoes, though with heels, in June, 2022 to the Grenfell Ceremony then to Wimbledon finals in July, 2022.

Meghan, Vancouver February, 2024

Clearly, having had quite enough of that racially predatory psychopathic lush Ekaterina, Meghan turned up in long gloves, knee-high boots, and a poncho… a wardrobe combination that her stalker could never mimic… and it worked, too. Obviously, Meghan was quite aware that she was being abused by Catherine though in Montecito, even as she clearly had whilst in London, which is why they would have been permitted to relocate to Frogmore Cottage at Windsor Castle, though the apartments next door to William and Catherine at Kensington Palace had been renovated for the Sussexes’ use after having lived at Kensington Palace’s Nottingham Cottage.

Prince George of Wales, famille Galles & Catherine at Wimbledon 2025

As a sportive warrior soul, Catherine thoroughly enjoys her patronage of the All England Lawn and Tennis Club aka Wimbledon. This, I believe, is her favourite event of the year. She gets adored, especially so since having faked cancer and aced the sympathy card from the somnambulant of her tribe. She also, as is obvious above, gets to knock back a drink or more. Most of all, Catherine appears and like a silent era film ingenue, she gets to say nada, which is crucial as she is so woefully inarticulate and void either eloquence or charisma. George’s neuroses should by now have been transcended; he is about to turn 12 years old and is way too kooky; it’s made all the more glaringly obvious when anywhere near Princess Charlotte’s orbit.

Catherine presenting the Wimbledon men’s final trophy to Jannik Sinner

Back in 2024 when the palace struggled with how to unravel Catherine’s disappearance, the moment that there was mention of abdominal surgery, I immediately thought that she was clearly anorexic. Of course, conveniently it was savvy to have claimed pre-cancerous sells being treated as this would garner the desperately needed sympathy after she and King Charles III were both exposed in Omid Scobie’s Endgame as the two royal racists, which had been first exposed in Meghan’s elegantly poised interview with Oprah in March 2021. As per her disappearances and re-emergences since ‘treatment,’ it has clearly fooled the mere mortals. Having been in the world of classical dance, Catherine exhibits all the signs of an anorexic. Her 9 energy body lends itself to the rigid, focussed perfectionism and the steely will to compete and win at all costs. As Catherine is phenomenally lazy, playing the cancer card handsomely serves her agendum; it gets her out of performing royal duties and she can pick and choose the ones that she cares about and to hell with the rest. Besides, her Fleet Street henchmen will always slavishly protect her by lynching Meghan ad infinitum.

**TRH The Prince & Princess of Wales at the French State Banquet 2025 at Windsor Castle**

After having missed the last two state banquets, Catherine had devilishly played the lot of us. After all, separated/divorced royals are not permitted to wear tiaras. There was Catherine grinning her best Cheshire fuck you grin whilst owning the room in that gorgeous red dress by her favourite, Sarah Burton for Givenchy. No it had nothing to do with cannibalising Meghan whose wedding dress was a Givenchy – different designer; I believe Catherine chose Sarah who designed her wedding dress and made her a vision of dynastic elegance on the day. I for one was thrilled to see Catherine at the state banquet tiara adorned. Above all else, tiara-crowned Catherine meant that three young humans: George, Charlotte and Louis would not have their emotional and mental health broadsided for life by their parents divorcing. I have yet to have witnessed children of divorce not being adversely impacted by the event and for the rest of their lives too.

Princess Charlotte holding court at Wimbledon 2025

Though I don’t know her Michael Overleaves – nor Louis’s for that matter, if I had to guess, I’d say that Charlotte, like her mum, is a warrior soul. I may be wrong; it could be that she has strong warrior overleaves, casting or a warrior task companion. What I do know, though, is her numerology: 2.5.2015 Year of the Goat 2.7.6 = 6. All two energy body persons are charming, self-aware, creative and have a strong sense of theatre; Charlotte was born being ‘on.’ She keenly understands her role in the drama and commendably acts the part. Poised and like her paternal great-grandmother HLMTQ, she has a mindset of 7; strong, intuitive and a boss. Charlotte is the moment; all others are merely orbital. Like her uncle, Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex, she does have two 6s in her makeup; she like he will definitely make an interesting ‘spare’ as the institution is so intent on role assignations.

Charlotte Holds Court

Recently, a friend took me to task, demanding to know how I could feature Catherine on my Instagram when I hated her. What? I hate no one. In dreams there are no lies and who these people are is deftly mirrored in dreams. Catherine is always cool, adroit and never interacts first; neither do I, for that matter. Of all the royals of the House of Windsor, I have more dream encounters with William than any other. As he has a goal of acceptance in this life and is a scholar soul and Merlin was a scholar soul and also had a goal of acceptance, it is not surprising that I would dream of him more than others. Also, there is the matter of past-life connections, which have been positive in nature. Regardless, he has ridiculously strong overleaves in this lifetime and they are being currently expressed in the negative pole. William a 6th mature scholar, Catherine his task companion is, like Prince Harry, a fifth mature warrior. The King is also a warrior but older-souled than them all; like me, he is a seventh level mature soul. Though, I am not a warrior but an artisan soul, I am on my third life at seven level mature, in the third cadence and the third greater cadence of my entity. Three equals warrior energy so I am not your typical fluid artisan-type. I will say this that dream encounters with King Charles tend to prove chaotic. He appears centred, zen and rather buddha-like; however, it can fast turn adversarial. Older souls – fifth level mature and older – perform magic in dreams: walking through walls, rendering self invisible, or shapeshifting. I am more adept at being lucidly awakened and keenly focussed than most persons when encountered in dreams.

Daily Mail implies that Meghan cryptically wished Camilla happy birthday

Never mind that in December, 2022 Camilla’s friend, Jeremy Clarkson penned an odious editorial in The Sun, a Rupert Murdoch newspaper. Clarkson expressed his sadistic fantasy of Meghan made to walk naked throughout the kingdom and pelted with human faeces. Days later, Queen Elizabeth II not yet dead three months, Camilla hosted Clarkson and other glitterati at Mayfair’s Murano. Yet somehow, Meghan in her need to play kiss-ass house slave cryptically wished Camilla a happy birthday when in an Instastory Meghan wrote, “Sending birthday love – both near and far to my ladies.”

Camilla ridicules Inuit throat singers

How possibly could Meghan have been sending a cryptic message? Meghan’s note was unmistakable; it was addressed to ladies! In a desperate need to earn clicks, Meghan’s Instagram is preyed on then regurgitated in a bid for Daily Mail to have their racist chav readership go into a feeding frenzy. How pray tell would Meghan even countenance that woman after having been lynched in the gutter press by Clarkson then to have had said adulterer, who ruined Meghan’s mother-in-law’s marriage, fete him at Murano. Meghan has long moved on and is little-focussed on small-minded, racist, small-island dwellers.

Samara Joy Massey Hall Encore

This is the encore performance of Samara Joy’s at Toronto’s historic Massey Hall where the seminal live Jazz recording occurred 53 years earlier with Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie and others. This was the most electrifying show and what truly amazes, is how much more august a performer Samara has become in the short space of a year. This was in May 2025 and in late June 2025, I drove down the 401 Highway to Montréal to get in a few performances of this year’s Toronto Dominion Bank Festival International de Jazz de Montréal. Again, I saw a Samara Joy performance, which was far superior to the Toronto performance. Ms. Joy shared that she got her big break in Montréal at said festival and it was there that she had played to more than 100 persons for the first time and with the few thousand spectators outdoors, she realised that Jazz could become a viable career. Truly blessed are we to have her focussed in the Jazz idiom. She is a remarkable performer.

____________________________________________________

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

_______________________________________________________________________________

Patron Saint & Queen of the Karens. Victim. Virgin Mother!

02.10.202321.07.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Ekaterina’s Reason for Devoting More Time to The 1851 Trust than Any Other Charity? Big Ben

Bitch Get Off Me… Don’t Make Me Slap You. Ekaterina Brushed Off at the Polo.

HRH Prince George of Wales – The Spook in the Window

Trooping the Colour 2023. Incident Occurs Between 02:56:00 and 02:56:30

There are a number of times when Prince George tries to get the attention of either parent and instead either parent favours Prince Louis or Princess Charlotte. George has a number of odd twitches and much of them are likely due to being around mercurial parents, who shout at each other lots. Prince George’s numbers do not leave him in good stead next to either parent’s numerology; they would incite a considerable degree of discomfort and fear. Prince George: 22.7.2013 Year of the Snake 4.2.8 = 5. That 5’s placement spells sexual scandal down the line; the 8’s placement means that the family’s fortune potentially may suffer massive setback(s). The 2 mindset means that he is innately creative and his parents are a mystery to, and some degree of distress for Prince George. George has only one number in common with his mother, Ekaterina, 4; he has two with his father, Wilhelm, 2 & 5. 5 represents excess, kink, unorthodox sexual appetite. George, however, with the mindset of 2 may end up being a fantasist rather than indulger and may end up being a collector of erotic art, along the lines of Shunga, Kangra, Chinese, Persian, Arabic, Islamic & European erotic art, books, sculpture et al. 2, also, rules two-spirits, a pronounced feminine principal so that coupled with 5, George may well become genuinely bisexual in nature – what he does in private when an adult, is no one’s business – provided it won’t be with minors. More than that, 2, represents genius level creativity. In George with such strong-willed ‘loud’ parents, his 5’s excessiveness apart him leaving him potentially quite tall, will act out through food, thus, he may end up being rotund for eating to excess, the opposite of his paternal grandmother, Diana, Princess of Wales’s, bulimia.

Trooping the Colour 2023. Famille Wales: George, Louis, Ekaterina, Charlotte & Wilhelm

There is a great deal about the firstborn which is marvellously camouflaged. All the more reason, why they allow the little freak, Louis/Damian to act out, thereby taking the spotlight off George’s spectrum markers. Alas, not everyone chooses to see nothing! George’s softness lends credence to the rumour that George was preceded by an older illegitimate sibling. Indeed, have you not heard about Happy Valley, the Sequel? It isn’t just the alpaca-faced chatelaine in Norfolk, who is a baby mama; indeed, George simply lacks the alpha vibration of a firstborn child. Even within the brood spawned by Prinzessein Ekaterina von Rictus der Gurnalot und Mumbleweiss. By far, Charlotte is more dominant of the three. Queer indeed it is that the Horse Guards Parade photo of George: the spook in the window, has been completely scrubbed from the internet – indeed, they’ve got something to hide. Also of note whilst stood on the Buckingham Palace balcony was Prinz Wilhelm’s animated coughing as though he were rudely saying something to the perpetually rictus Ekaterina, as she kept trying to have her left arm touch his right arm whilst stood side-by-side.

As Happy as a Truly Rictus & Gurning Loon

Just look at her, the blasted gurning loon. She is like an engagingly fascinating coffee table book that turns out to have not a single page between the covers. Blithering, inarticulate, quite the mumbling loon, Ekaterina. This past spring, I was at a Sunday brunch when the hosts wanted me to explain the finer points of numerology; it was an exciting gathering that lasted into early evening. At that time, a guest there had been familiar with Jian Ghomeshi and was fascinated to learn how his numerology explained his fall from grace for being caught up in a legal sex scandal. My take on the whole affair – Google is your friend – is that there would have been a great degree of consensual relations. Jian’s numbers are 9.6.2 = 8. First and foremost, all persons with energy body of 9 are all about control; they will always be abrasive and given to being smothering, manipulating – controlling. The one thing that is marked by persons with energy body of 9, is that they are given to ritualised sex that is chiefly consensual and either would be dominatrix or sadist but never masochistic.

Ekaterina at Wimbledon, 2019. Meghan Is Being Verbally Assaulted. Meghan Is Stunned.

Shunga Print Provenance: British Museum

Damian: the Possessed & Damaged Spawn’s Coming Out

Okay then, said the striking red-maned Ethiopian with the most strikingly beautiful eyes – in town from London, England by way of New York City, for a wedding, please explain what the hell is that, as she turned his phone and showed us a clip of Prince Louis at the Platinum Jubilee Parade in June 2022. We all hysterically howled. Obviously, the child is crazy and there is nothing cute or adorable about behaviour like that, said she, to which I enthusiastically agreed. Louis/Damian: 23.4.2018, Dog, 5.9.2 = 7. Like his paternal grandmother, Diana, Princess of Wales, this very disturbed individual runs the very real risk of being murdered to be rid of the nuisance that he proves to either his mother or possibly father under duress – either way, he would be rather readily disposed of, and the island kingdom’s somnambulant would think nothing of it. Louis has three numbers in common with his father 2, 5 & 9 and one with his very controlling powerful mother, Ekaterina, 9. Ekaterina was sick to death of him and livid that he was proving a thorough embarrassment before the entire world. Let’s then look at the machinations, of which the then Cambridges were the obvious chief architects.

November 2016

A Statement by the Communications Secretary to Prince Harry

Published 08 November 2016

In November 2016, Prince Harry releases a statement in support of Meghan, defending her against the racial undertones in the media that attacked her integrity. Naturally, by this time, the then Cambridges would have been upset that Harry had chosen a wholly unsuitable ‘girl’ – good god just imagine what the kids would look like. Ekaterina with an energy body of 9, would by now have become livid and seethed at Meghan possibly marrying into the RF. She is Black. Most of all, she is infinitely more charismatic and articulate than her – Meghan is her Kryptonite! Do not underestimate the power of a 9 mother, like a bear and her cubs, Ekaterina, as are all mothers, is extremely protective of her cubs. Ekaterina did not relish Meghan and her biracial kids, close in age to her own kids, coming on the scene. Imagine a ginger, afroed Archie and Lilibet, who by their mere exoticism, would garner greater press coverage. A wholly unacceptable proposition for Wilhelm and, in particular, Ekaterina this proved.

March 2017

Harry & Meghan, Montego Bay, Jamaica. Tom Inskip’s Wedding

March 2017, Montego Bay, Jamaica, Meghan joins Prince Harry as his date for friend, Tom Inskip’s wedding. At the time, the rumour mill and every Karen’s livid little blog, insisted that Meghan had crashed the wedding and was stalking Prince Harry; after all, they knew to be fact that Prince Harry had broken off their relationship in early 2017. All this in a narrative of their own delusional making. Well, all the Karens were sure that the Queen was suffering dementia and Caligula II had to step in and provide greater security for Prince Harry as he was being stalked, harassed by the crazed actress whom they had irrefutable proof was a yacht girl – The 1851 Trust notwithstanding. Just look at how miserable Prince Harry looked at the wedding and how she clawed all over him, touching a royal prince. Never mind, the braying racist masses but Ekaterina with an energy body of 9 and Wilhelm with a mindset of 9 – defender of the flame and does not like anything that is not traditional or deemed unconventional, were secretly hissing at how Harry was doing this to them, to the family; it was betrayal, plain and simple. The then Cambridges would not have approved of Harry being enamoured of Meghan.

May 2017

Pippa’s Wedding to James Matthews

HRH Princess Eugenie & Lover Jack Brooksbank, Pippa’s Wedding , May 2017

July 2017

Cambridges, Poland, July 2017

During or just after their July 2017 royal tour of Poland & Germany – neither of which happens to be Commonwealth nation, though all importantly not predominantly overrun by Blacks – well , the 9 centric Cambridges like two slithering angry snakes, drunkenly writhed, hearts filled with hatred and scheming… Could she not wait to return home and run off to be further aroused and consumed with passion at The 1851 Trust? Was he, sat there looking bored and witheringly disdainful, lusting to be returned to Norfolk and attend to the alpaca-faced chatelaine and favoured baby mama, not to mention the other baby mama in Happy Valley in the sequel to White Mischief? Whether Big Ben or Pegged Wilhelm, either way, she was soon to be with child. A child it was whose nine months of gestation were passed with its host, ravaged by hatred, racist dread and obsession with Meghan and most likely a few too many glasses of drink those forty weeks.

November 2017

Harry & Meghan BBC Engagement Interview

BBC Engagement Interview for Prince Harry & Meghan

Samantha Markle Before Kensington Palace Payoff aka Financial Lobotomy

December 2017

Princess Michael of Kent Wears Blackamoor Brooch + Harry & Meghan at Christmas Day 2017

February 2018

Royal Foundation Interview: Harry, Meghan, Ekaterina & Wilhelm

Here is the fabled Fab Four Royal Foundation Forum interview at which all four principals were present including pregnant Ekaterina. The dynamic between both women is rather telling and it is clear that Meghan was acutely uncomfortable, for being in Ekaterina‘s presence. I cannot state enough that for being an artisan soul, Meghan inputs on 5 channels, which leaves her inordinately attuned to spiritual undertones which are more than meet the eye fare. Meghan’s master number of 11 is supra-sensitive to subtle vibrations and energy, which for being energy body of 9, Ekaterina radiates with laser-like focussed animus. 9 energy is very circuitry-jamming by nature. I might also add that as both Ekaterina and Wilhelm are Warrior and Scholar souls respectively, both soul types only input on one channel. This gives them singleness of focus but it also leaves them with far less subtlety and sophistication than Sages and definitely Artisan souls who respectively input on 3 and 5 channels – Meghan’s five channels of input would be just as baffling as Artisan soul Diana, Princess of Wales’s did for Warrior soul Caligula II and Scholar soul, Milonia Caesonia. Both the then Cambridges, for being senior royals, were dead set against Meghan being in their midst and that they readily telegraphed. Ekaterina here is in her final trimester and passively aggressive, hateful and bullying as any raptor, racial predator can be expected to be. Meghan, of course at the point of the interview, was acutely aware of this and was by then getting the lion’s share of verbal abuse. Can you just imagine the hyper-criticism Meghan would have gotten from the then Cambridges, both possessed of fault-finding, shit-disturbing, bullying 9 energy as they are?

April 2018

Prince Louis’ Christening, July 2018

Damian, El Diablo Muy Loco & His Psycho Mama

May 2018

Royal Wedding of TRH The Duke & Duchess of Sussex

Royal Wedding Prince Harry & Meghan, The Duke and Duchess of Sussex

Cambridges & Cornwalls Openly Gossip & Ridicule Blacks, Yanks, Meghan & Harry

Baby Mango Man Goes Full Crazy Town

Ekaterina: 12 Years a Fail But Oh So Soused

Wilhelm, Explosive Bully. Prince Harry Ever Wary of Wilhelm’s Deceit. Wilhelm Blissfully Unaware

Meghan Gaslighted, Suicide Ideation, Racially Preyed On

Family: Abigail Spencer 4.8.1981 Rooster 4.3.4 = 11. Meghan 4.8.1981 Rooster 4.3.4 = 11

Buster Tripping the Light Fantastic Across the Cativerse

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Grooving & Upping the Frequency via Crystals & Music

Kerry Washington, Kelly Rowland, Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex at Beyoncé Concert

George, Ekaterina & Wilhelm, Berkshire, 2013. Ekaterina & Elizabeth II & Elizabeth II May, 2016

The earliest outward signs that Elizabeth II was mortal appeared just after her 90th birthday. Back in 2013 at George’s birth, Wilhelm who could not then have cared less about his father, Caligula, decamped with his new family to Berkshire and set up court at Ekaterina’s family. Ekaterina was flexing her fist; the moment that she gave birth to George, she was now the most powerful woman in the kingdom; Milonia Caesonia would never be King Mother as she Ekaterina was destined. Furthermore, Wilhelm secretly hated Milonia Caesonia. With Elizabeth II’s demise, Ekaterina knew that she would be unstoppably powerful. For now, they avoided Caligula and afforded him little contact with his first grandchild, George. Two things then occurred, Elizabeth II’s cancer was diagnosed and Harry met Meghan. First outward sign of Elizabeth II’s cancer appeared in May, 2016, a month after her 90th birthday. Straight away, Harry pressed The Queen for her blessing to marry Meghan and knowing what vile pieces of works, Ekaterina, Wilhelm, Caligula and Milonia Caesonia were, Elizabeth II consented and rushed them along. Elizabeth II knew that neither Caligula nor Wilhelm would sanction Harry’s marriage to Meghan, if she did not speed up the process, owing to her rapidly deteriorating health.

Caligula II & Wilhelm von Pegged und Fisted

Before her cancer could become stage 4, the marriage of the Sussexes was planned and in the books; not before, of course, Ekaterina & Wilhelm went to war on Harry and Meghan. Meghan’s life was made a positively hellish racist nightmare that drove her to suicidal ideation, which no one gives a damn about when you are Black. Outed on Oprah, suddenly vile, lizard-lipped Ekaterina was wounded by something so base as to be accused of being a liar and a possible racist by that Yank and by someone Black. Under no circumstances do Whites give a damn about Blacks talking about racism at the hands of Whites. Suddenly, with Meghan wedded in, Ekaterina & Wilhelm fast become solidly aligned with Caligula II and Molina Caesonia. Here’s a measure of what a truly nasty piece of work Ekaterina is, she could not have given a fuck about the dead Queen, she gladly stayed behind so that Meghan could not attend Balmoral Castle. Ekaterina did not have the decency to go pay homage to the dead Elizabeth II, the most revered woman in the world; that decision tells you all you need to know about her detestable character.

Elizabeth II Snubs Ekaterina & Wilhelm, December, 2020

Ekaterina Philip’s Funeral, 2021. Ekaterina’s Wedding, 2011. Ekaterina Elizabeth II’s Funeral, 2022

Windsor Walkabout:. Ekaterina Openly Seethes at Meghan. It Was Expulsion & Sacrifice

They are frankly that vile: Caligula II, Wilhelm, blithering idiot bigot Milonia Caesonia and most especially Ekaterina. Kill her off, avenge Diana’s murder, put her out of her misery, repay her for sanctioning that damn marriage of Harry & Meghan and crown Ekaterina with styles and titles: White Virgin Mother. Super Bitch. Queen. King Mother. Patron Saint of the Karens. Queen of the Karens. In one move, Ekaterina became Patron Saint & Queen of the Karens. Wilhelm indeed should damn well be wary of her because if he died, she would still be King Mother and it would be far better for Ekaterina if he died rather than being divorced and banished. Thousands stood for days in the elements to file past Elizabeth II’s casket at Westminster Hall, yet Ekaterina who would not have married Wilhelm without Elizabeth II’s consent, could not have given a damn to head up to Balmoral Castle and pay her respects to Elizabeth II’s corpse. With that move, Ekaterina was able to return to her role as heroine, of the wronged White woman, falsely accused of being a racist; she was once again victim, after it was challenged post Oprah interview when the lie of “Meghan made Ekaterina cry” was rather elegantly exposed by Meghan who is infinitely more shrewd than Ekaterina.. than all of them.. and they know it. Queen of the Karens in essence made it known that it was that damn Yank, Meghan, who made it impossible for her to have attended Elizabeth II’s body. The nonsense that Meghan could not go if Catherine did not was a lie. If that were truly the case then Sophie, the then Countess of Wessex, would not have been allowed to attend Balmoral Castle and visit the dead Queen’s body; however, that she did do.

Ekaterina Perpetually, Racially Predatory of Meghan. Ekaterina Now the Most Powerful Windsor Wife

Ekaterina, Patron Saint & Queen of the Karens

Unhinged Loon Hiding In Plain Sight.

Ekaterina Boozed Up & Predatory. Banned Paul Emsley Portrait. Caligula II’s Scottish Enthronement

Make It The Motherfuck Make Sense

Texts Between Ekaterina & Meghan as Shared in Prince Harry’s SPARE

Abigail Spencer 4.8.1981 Rooster 4.3.4 = 11, Fraulein von Rictus der Gurnalot und Mumbleweiss

Meghan Carries Portmanteau, Followed Thereafter by Ekaterina Doing Same

Meghan Remembrance at Cenotaph, 2019. Ekaterina Remembrance at Cenotaph, 2021

St. Paul’s Cathedral Queen’s Platinum Jubilee Service, June 2022

Elizabeth II’s Platinum Jubilee Celebrations. Of course, timing being everything, her long reign turned farcical towards its closing hours. For having outed them on Oprah, now comes the revenge. Not only are they now non-working royals – whatever the blasted motherfuck that is? – but they also do not get to stand on the balcony – oh boo-fucking-hoo. Then, if that’s not enough, to drive home what petty fuckers they all are, they have that blasted rhino-stumped heifer, Baroness Marie-Christine der Blackamoor Brooch sat in the row behind the then Prince of Wales and his miserably wedded heir, with Meghan and Harry sat across the aisle and directly in front of Caligula’s up skirt Battyman even though with Elizabeth II still breathing, the kilted stud has as yet begun living openly with his debauched and buggered lover, Herr Fatty-Fingers.

Love Is In the Air… Up Skirt & Musky As All Hell

There was the lover, apprenticing up skirt Elizabeth II’s poopy-smelling frockcoats in June, 2022 and a mere five months later, there was he in November, 2022 sat in the royal box.

Meghan The Duchess of Sussex Speech in Full at One Young World Summit, 2022

Harry & Meghan, The Duke & Duchess of Sussex

Prinzessin Ekaterina von Rictus der Gurnalot und Mumbleweiss Suffers Charisma Implosion

Ekaterina von Rictus der Gurnalot und Mumbleweiss & Wilhelm von Pegged und Fisted

Kate Middleton
Princess of Jazz Hands 😅😅😅 pic.twitter.com/l937jlh5VY
— Veritas (@theroyaleditor) September 29, 2023

C’est très Charmant, Mais Oui, Non. Chile It Speaks with Its Hands!

😅😅 pic.twitter.com/srMjS9DdfJ
— Veritas (@theroyaleditor) September 29, 2023

Keep Your Damn Hands Out of Spike Lee’s Face!

Willy can’t stand Ol Jazz Hands doing her Jazz Hands 😅😅😅😅😅😅😅 pic.twitter.com/kZbFOjEVMf
— Veritas (@theroyaleditor) September 29, 2023

Wilhelm Is Just Biting Off His Lower Lip. There’ll Be More Shouting for That Performance

Together. Our Community Cookbook Forwarded by HRH The Duchess of Sussex

Meghan, The Hague 2022, Transparent Racial Predator Ghouls, Grenfell Tower June, 2023

Summer 2022, Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex accompanies Prince Harry to the Invictus Games at The Hague. June 2023, on the sixth anniversary of the Grenfell Tower, Ekaterina attended the ceremony, though at the time, and I was in London during the Grenfell Tower fire, Ekaterina did not look over her shoulder. Of course, she could have sent the newly minted Duke & Duchess of Edinburgh, but Ekaterina as ever had to make a point and tear her flat arse in Meghan’s face. Meghan wears Chanel flats to Invictus Games in 2022, so Prinzessin Ekaterina goes to Grenfell Tower ceremony where Meghan had launched the Together cookbook to assist the devastated residents of Grenfell Tower as another way of letting Meghan know, “Bitch you can run to Oprah all you want, I got you out of here, you are not here and I will never let you back!” So petty is the goddamn gurning loon, Ekaterina, with the little baby Mr. Mango freak, Damian. Just as in January, 2023 and June, 2023, Ekaterina takes the time to directly look into the camera as she bullies Meghan – mostly her racist Karen flock and the FSAs. Prinzessin Ekaterina is saying “fuck you” Meghan whilst looking directly into the camera, thereby betraying how miserably she has failed to own and control Meghan. Her vacuous life passed, plotting and scheming how next to cannibalise/stalk Meghan by way of clothing, shoes at charity appearances.

Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex Wears Signature Aquazurra Bow Tie Heels

Ekaterina on the Eve of Caligula II’s Coronation. Meghan Duchess of Sussex Queen Elizabeth II’s Funeral. Alpaca-Faced Baby Mama, Coronation

Meghan NAACP Image Awards. Ekaterina von Rictus der Gurnalot Being Functionally Unhinged

Royal Wedding of HRH Princess Eugenie & Jack Brooksbank, October 2018

Prinz Wilhelm Restrains Reptile Ekaterina. Prince Harry Foils Pregnant Meghan from the Evil Boor

Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex, Princess Henry of Sussex

Meghan, the most powerful Windsor wife, since her soul was previously incarnate as a female member of the British monarchy, Margaret Beaufort, Tudor matriarch. The importance of Meghan in this current drama is not easily disguise, though, there is a great effort exerted to distract from the truth. At the heart of Meghan’s lynching is the fact that the royals of The House of Windsor have been outed as racist boors. This was not easy for Elizabeth II as she spent her entire life projecting the image of the great matriarch of the Commonwealth and all its disparate races. Meghan was supposed to have sustained that legacy and been the bridge to the Commonwealth when racist Prinz Wilhelm & Prinzessin Ekaterina had no desire to make forays into predominantly Black Commonwealth nations – they still have not toured one of the predominantly Black 19 commonwealth nations in sub-Saharan Africa.

Ekaterina & Mary. Ekaterina & Stephanie of Luxembourg. Ekaterina & King Wilhelm-Alexander

Ekaterina Holding Dress Avoiding Blacks. Belize Standoff. Ekaterina Rebuffs Jamaican Olivia Grange

Caligula II à La République de la France. Brigitte, Milonia Caesonia & Incitatus. Milonia Caesonia in Dior

Serena Ohanian-Williams. Meghan, HRH The Duchess of Sussex. Abigail Spencer, NYC Baby Shower.

Harry & Meghan with Oprah Winfrey. David Foster & Prince Harry. Meghan & Harry with Kevin Costner

Jessica Mulroney. Janina Gavankar. Sophie Grégoire-Trudeau.

Lindsay Roth. Misha Nonoo-Hess. Delfina Blaquier

Oprah stated that there was a lot more tape to that interview. Tyler Perry pointedly stated that there was a lot more that Meghan could have said in her Oprah interview, which would have proven injurious to the House of Windsor’s senior royals. David Foster’s wife is Katherine McPhee who went to the same high school as Meghan. The Fosters know the senior Mulroneys, plus Ben and Jessica, not to mention Sophie Grégoire-Trudeau & husband, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau. All these people socially overlap and at their level of society, they do not have fallings out – relationships and connections are of immense financial worth. These are tight, well-guarded, upper social strata bonds that transcend politics and social whims.

Molina Caesonia, Caligula II, Prinz Wilhelm von Pegged und Fisted, Prinzessin Ekaterina von Rictus

Vichyssoise. Brown Sugar & Butter Roasted Squash. Ossobuco on Roasted Pine Nuts & Baby Carrots

Back in late spring of 1987, Merlin and I hosted an old friend of mine to dinner at our Cabbagetown home. Back in the late ’70s, Ivan was an eccentric artist: painter, sculptor and former dancer from New York City. He lived a rather bohemian theatrical life in a loft across Markham Street from Ed Mirvish’s Honest Ed in Mirvish Village. One day, after I had been by for tea and great conversation, he took me across the street and introduced me, grandly stating that I was now going to start working for them that very day, and I did. Eventually, I was off to Winnipeg to study dance which proved the most soul-crushing, racist experience imaginable. I remember sitting there in the theatre, the house lights going down and the full dress rehearsal for Romeo & Juliet was begun. The only Black in the school, I also had the humiliating experience of being the only student who was not allowed to take part in the production. I was crushed and this was after having suffered the indignity of having another male in the school piss into my locker’s grated door into my shoes and socks, which meant having to venture home in -30°C and colder in the driven snow in piss-sodden socks that were frozen to my feet by the time I made it home to my tiny apartment on Assiniboine. That late spring, Merlin and I slaved away in the kitchen, prepping for dinner with Ivan. As a rule, I never once cooked a meal for any of Merlin’s friends; most of all, none of his friends were ever invited when I had friends of my own to dinner. We started with vichyssoise, followed by halved, baked squash with butter and brown sugar, into which was placed purple rice smothered in melted white cheddar and slivered almonds. The main course was Merlin’s favourite, the most sublime ossobuco sat on a bed of liqueur-sautéed pine nuts and adorned by baby carrots. Ivan was a great raconteur, with the loudest, most irreverent fuck-that laugh, and a ravenous appetite; it was always good to host him and repay his kindness from the decade earlier; moreover, Merlin genuinely loved his company.

Chicago. Halved Lobster Meal. Washington D. C.

Mirvish Books on Art, Mirvish Village. Christina’s World, Andrew Wyeth, MoMA. New Orleans.

Soul Crooners: Barry White. Al Green & Teddy Pendergrass

Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex, Whitehall, November, 2018.

Harry & Meghan, The Duke & Duchess of Sussex Invictus Games, Dusseldorf, Germany, 2023

Now That’s What You Call Real Gangsta Cannibalism – Bronzer & an Afro Wig. Foxy Brown Ekaterina!

Silly Ekaterina, that’s what you get for showing up at Grenfell Tower event in June, 2023, wearing Chanel sandals and on the eve of the coronation, wearing Aquazurra bow tie heels. The only way for her to top Meghan’s look in Dusseldorf, is to show up with spray-on full body bronzer whilst wearing a curly afro wig. I would truly piss myself shrieking and you know that Ekaterina is both desperate and competitive enough to do just that.

How to Go Hooking and Sporting; ie Ekaterina Getting the Job Done Whether Bagging Prince or Lover

And the Mirror Cracked. Ekaterina’s Mask Slips

J’anusz (Pronounced Anus, the J’ Is Silent) der Schmeckel-Snitz aka Herr J’anusz der SS.

Wilhelm & Ekaterina, 2010. Prince Caligula & Diana Princess of Wales, 1981. Wilhelm & Ekaterina, 2021

“All of Me, Why Not Take All of Me…” Sing It, Peggalicious. Wreath Laying in India.

Birthday Cake, August, 2023. Not Mine, It Is Not a Raspberry Encircled Chocolate Mousse Cake

Birthday cake, which in this family of mine, it can only mean leonine birthdays! I was poring through photographs last night and could not find my own chocolate mousse cake encircled by raspberries. I was sharing with my transitioned wife why my disdain for strawberries and told of my 27th birthday party back in Cabbagetown, in 1987, when I flatly stated to Ivan and a friend of Merlin’s in from Montréal, strawberries are rough on the palate; they are coarse. They are like an uncut cock; big though it may be, it is still ill-formed. Now give me raspberries, smooth and elegantly they massage the palate; sensually, indulgently, they are like a big cock with ample foreskin. How could you ever go wrong? Naturally, there were oodles of laughter as Ivan enjoyed my delivery to which Merlin leaned in and stole long warm kisses. This year the eldest of my three sisters was in town; she had not been up from Nevis since before the pandemic’s first lockdown. As I left Nevis at aged 7 months, she is the family’s historian.

St. Thomas Anglican Church, Nevis, Est 1643

I was delighted to see photographs of her attending a funeral during the pandemic where protocol dictated that only 15 souls were allowed. The service was at the oldest Anglican church in the Caribbean, St. Thomas, in Nevis where Alexander Hamilton worshipped. There giving the eulogy was Spice Girl, Mel B, as her dad, a Brown, whose mother had died, had been a maternal second cousin of my mum’s. My mum’s mother had 17 children of which 7 made it to adulthood, and she had close to a ten siblings. On my mum’s dad side are the Sephardic Levine family. On my dad’s side, he was the paternal first cousin of the actor Cicely Tyson. My father’s patrilineal branch is also descended from relations between Alexander Hamilton’s father and a servant. From that banyan, there have been four governors-general and on the matrilineal side, my mum was cousin once removed or second cousin once removed, so confusing at times, of Oprah Winfrey’s partner, Steadman and as every family has a pariah, Louis Farrakhan. Writers, musicians, painters and legal professionals abound. Penina had photos of Mel B. at the lectern eulogising my mum’s cousin, her paternal grandmother.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qCYy6tvKdyA

Strangely, Penina attends every funeral there is and will even island hop to St. Kitts next door or as far flung as St. Croix, Anguilla to attend somebody’s funeral… most odd. In any event, soon it was my turn to start sharing of my latest dream of some recently dearly departed. These are always the best dreams as they are the most intensely lucid affairs set on the astral plane. This Ernie Barnes painting, The Sugar Shack, perfectly epitomises the vibrancy of these astral plane-focussed dreams. At these crossover dreams, there is always a boisterous celebration to welcome the recently departed into the chrysalis state of the soul’s journey. Within these dreams, the music is more elevated and enriching an encapsulation of Black earthly life than you can ever imagine.

https://dreampoetica.com/2023/01/05/oh-to-be-black-jew/

In spring, 2022, an amour fou from childhood passed on and his crossover celebration was stupendous, link to said affair in blog highlighted above. I had not seen so many persons from my childhood as we start dying off; moreover, there were so many souls present whom I was too young to have remembered from childhood. The true elixir that even surpassed the music, was the food. I am still craving some of the dishes tasted then in that dream that I have not indulged since childhood. That birthday proved the most lovely, loving family gathering.

Miles Davis – Trumpet

George Colman – Tenor Saxophone

Victor Feldman – Piano

Ron Carter – Bass

Frank Butler =- Drums

Herbie Hancock – Piano

Tony Williams – Drums

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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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Harry and the 432 Hertz Duchess!

02.12.202210.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Oftentimes, the obvious though staring you right in the face still evades notice. Born August 4, 1981 and therefore a Rooster, Meghan had a signature which explains her phenomenal impact. As she proved to be possessed of master numbers, like myself, I readily identified with her but there was more in the numbers that I still did not get. In numerology when someone is possessed of 432 in their make-up, they are said to be living a Reward Life. They are also said to be possessed of magic because those 432 are perfectly harmonised with 432 hertz which is about being harmonious, smooth, inspiring and uplifting.

https://twitter.com/i/status/1597293865253605376

The voice of eloquence, diplomacy, diction. Voiceovers and thespian command in spades.

Global Citizen Live Central Park New York City 2021

Just listen to that voice.

Meghan to her haters 😂 I love her so much . #ArchetypesWithMeghan pic.twitter.com/PNsAA7r3fh
— Claire (@claireXanda) November 29, 2022

The Soul of Margaret Beaufort Speaks

There is nothing like letting your enemies know that they have failed and never will they succeed. Just you wait until SPARE goes live and the Sussexes are truly revealed to Americans, and the world at large, come to see the House of Windsor for the cabal of racist, peg-loving, homo-obsessed boors that they truly are.

And then something quite remarkable occurred. As I prepared for this blog, I rewatched Harry & Meghan’s interview with Oprah for CBS. Little did I know that as I slept, Meghan’s claims of the structural racism within the BRF was about to be irrefutably validated.

"She’s in the best position of anyone to speak truth to power in terms of the Royal Family and their attitude to racism”

Plaid Cymru's Adam Price says a race incident at a royal event gives “credence to the lived experience of Meghan Markle”
#bbcqt https://t.co/YBG1AWYUUt https://t.co/HbzcqQGKSm
— BBC Question Time (@bbcquestiontime) December 1, 2022

The very honourable Adam Price.

Harry and Meghan have become 'hate figures' because of 'envy' and their ability to make a 'mockery of the Royal Family', James O'Brien explains.@mrjamesob pic.twitter.com/qVfsQFAblY
— LBC (@LBC) December 2, 2022

LBC’s James O’Brien speaking truth to justice.

Prince William's godmother resigns after she allegedly subjected Ngozi Fulani, who heads an NGO for victims of domestic abuse, to a 'racist' line of questioning

'Now there seems to be a campaign to get into people's minds that the Royal Family is racist,' says @angelalevin1 pic.twitter.com/RSmql3sApx
— i24NEWS English (@i24NEWS_EN) December 2, 2022

Oy Rebbe Vake Up. Vake Up Rebbe, Vake Up. Zhe Cushim has stolen zhe Crown Jewels! Vake Up Rebbe, Vake Up Already!

pic.twitter.com/SjEGrvvuc0
— Irène Colombes (@ColombesIrene) December 1, 2022

Then, of course, there is this one. Queen Elizabeth leaves to pass eternity reunited with her one true love, Lord Porchy whilst Philip awaits the arrival of Princess Alexandra of Kent & Penelope Knatchbull, Countess Mountbatten of Burma.

Alas, never you mind all that. As karma would have it, timing is everything. Before the Prince and Princess of Wales could touch down at Boston’s Logan Airport, yet another royal tour was coming undone at the seams. From being booed outright to less than 50 persons showing up outside Boston City Hall to greet them. More telling is that both Caroline Kennedy and John Kerry were a no-show when Lady Susan Hussey’s racist attack proved a nuclear dirty bomb to rock the House of Windsor.

Warring famille de Galles at their KarmaShot thingy…. dommage!

https://twitter.com/i/status/1568548268598038532

Danielle Woottonnette before she discovered pegging and changed allegiances.

Whatever made you think that your savage empire would rape us of gold, diamonds, humans whom you readily enslaved and there would be no karmic retribution?

Netflix Harry & Meghan Official Trailer Docuseries

“What Didn’t You Do to Bury Me But You Forgot I Am A Seed” Meghan Duchess of Sussex, quoting Dinos Christianopoulos.

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OXej1BZ-ERY

Nancy Wilson, How Glad I Am, Concert Carnegie Hall, 1987 JVC Jazz Festival

Go on Nancy, sing the soul out of this baby for the love we bear Harry & Meghan and their enriched inner circle. Mad props to Netflix, Tyler Perry, Oprah Winfrey and everyone who got these two loving souls to the promised land. Sing it, Nancy!

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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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See You Soon… 30 Years On, Merlin’s Magical Departure.

16.11.201909.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Almost instantaneously, as the Moon transited Leo in my third house, my lungs besottedly drank the warm and dank, dark air. Thus I effortlessly drowned into sleep. Whilst wintry winds howled outside the window, this cold early Saturday morning – November 18, 1989 – my lucid focus seamlessly shifted into the dreamtime.

I readily knew that I was dreaming.

Here, just as moments earlier whilst awake and meditating, Merlin was uppermost in my thoughts. I could sense his presence. The shift from one dimension to the other was seamless. Lucidly self-aware, I was immediately come to in a dream that was set in the bedroom where I slept.

I was in bed with the artist Olaf Nordstrom – a source of loving support at present in the waking state. I was lying in bed, leaning on his bony chest, as he sat up in bed. It was obvious from his body language that he did not want to be in bed with me. I felt a still and quiet vibration to this dream. The moment was truly serene and peaceful. This was not a sexual or post-sexual interlude. We were both reflective. It was obvious that we were on the cusp of something momentous. It was the sort of vibration that signalled that something extraordinary was about to unfold.

Olaf behaved as if he was uncomfortable being there – it was a grave moment. He wanted to be there, however, to merely lend his support. It was obvious that he was wary of my clinging. Clinging, however, was not my intention. The moment together was brief – just a preparation for things to come. With that we parted. It was time to get up and participate in the events of whatever was to unfold.

This dream was possessed of inordinate lucidity; its every detail and nuance my faculties absorbed with acuity beyond the norm.

In the second dream, this cold Saturday morning, I found myself in the familiar territory of the Cabbagetown streets where we lived. I went into a store which does not exist in the waking state. It sat just south of the Pet Menagerie store, on the east side of Parliament Street, between Amelia and Winchester Streets.

It was a tailor’s shop that carried rather high-end fabrics. I was there to pick out some fabric because I had a definite idea of what I wanted to wear to Merlin’s funeral. I knew that the only way, to get the look that I wanted, was to make the outfit myself. The kindly, gracious salesman was trying to get me interested in a rather conservative plaid fabric but it simply was not to my liking. My aversion was not because it was plaid; rather, the tone was too sombre.

He was not insistent but let me know that it was appropriate. However, I would have none of it; I simply did not like the fabric or the colours. I simply was not going to have it. Unable to make up my mind and not wanting to make a decision about fabric, as there were so many ramifications to what it all meant, I left the store stepping into the light of day. It had been a very dimly lit, nicely wood-panelled, stately shop.

Once outside, I became acutely aware of Merlin. I was now returned to the yard of Cabbagetown’s 20 Amelia Street, where we lived, and Merlin was present with me. Thoughts of Merlin, on leaving the store, had me immediately posited in the front yard of 20 Amelia Street where I happily joined him. We were watering the lawn even though it was wintertime. Next door at 18 Amelia Street, where at this point Club Monaco designer Alfred Sung no longer lived, there were lots of potted plants hanging from the lone, purple-leaved, sugar maple tree.

Merlin was telling me to water the plants. He then began telling me, rather matter-of-factly, that I had to start taking care of the apartment – I had to make it a home again. Merlin asked me to start preparing things. He meant that this was not the time for procrastination. Of course, moments earlier in the prior dream, I had been procrastinating when down on Parliament Street to pick out fabrics to wear to his funeral. By avoiding the matter altogether, I had chosen instead to forego the purchase. As Merlin spoke to me, I became so aware of him that I completely became self-aware – both in the dream and in my sleep whilst in bed at 20 Amelia Street.

I was standing there very intently looking at Merlin. He, too, was very intently looking at me. Whilst we were unflinchingly looking into each other, I thought aloud with quiet resignation, ‘Merlin has died.’

I knew, too, that Merlin had heard my thoughts in the dream.

At that moment my sister Pandora da Braga, with whom Merlin enjoyed the best relations of anyone else in my life, suddenly became a presence in the dream. She never fully became physically manifested but her energies became overwhelmingly strong. Her energies were just to my rear as she played a loving and supportive role.

Suddenly, introspectively, I recalled a dream which I had had earlier in the week. With everything moving so quickly, in the waking state – with little time to collect my thoughts, let alone overlong time to record any dreams- it had slipped by unrecalled on awakening. However, now it was not merely being recalled, it was being relived in its entirety. I stood there and as I recalled the dream, rather seamlessly, I actually entered the dream which was being reanimated as it was being holographically recalled.

Within the reanimated dream being recalled and relived, I was again on the lawn at 20 Amelia Street in the warmth of the Sun’s rays. Just as in today’s dream, I was on the front lawn facing due north and the house with 18 Amelia Street on the left to the west. As Merlin and I were visiting in the outer dream of today, I had turned my body. Being in the same physical position had triggered the recall and reanimation of the dream from the past week.

To my left, I saw an incredibly ancient-looking, wise being who progressed across the lawn. The slowness of his progression was so measured that one’s experience of time, in the reanimated and recalled dream, progressed outside of time itself. It was simply magical to experience the progression of the very ancient and mystical being. The millennia-ancient figure progressed across the lawn, of 18 Amelia Street, heading towards our home at 20 Amelia Street. The being was male and small in stature; he was hobbit-like. His head was large, disproportionately large, compared to his tiny, frail-bodied frame.

He could not have been more than four feet tall. His head was absolutely massive. His forehead arched up and was high like an African’s. Too, his head was elongated in the back, reminiscent of Pharaoh Akhenaten’s skull. More striking than the majesty with which the august being progressed outdoors, towards our home at 20 Amelia Street, was the look of his face.

It was simply magical. From beneath the translucent skin, soft yellow-white light escaped revealing his very visible aura. Nothing but pure love, along with the same nonjudgmental look that ever peered back from Merlin’s eyes to mine, radiated from this being. The love radiating from the being towards me was awesome, immense – intense. The great being’s progress was purposeful. He was on a mission; he was unstoppable. The process had begun.

I was struck by the uncanny resemblance, which the face of this being bore, to the planet-being in the skies of Sandy Point, St. Kitts in a momentous dream during September 1983. It was a dream whose potency and beauty would lay unfathomable for years to come. The being progressed as though levitating mere millimetres above the rather zingy, extra-green grass of the lawns at both 18 and 20 Amelia Street. Though he did not pause as he progressed, the radiant being did turn and look at me. As though he was familiar with me, he acknowledged me by slightly nodding. However, he continued on towards our home.

He moved past me as I stood there, still and silent, drinking in the majesty of the experience. At soul-centre we were familiar to each other. I knew him. He knew me. I stood, alone and awestruck, in the front yard being refamiliarised by the vibration of his beauty as the effect of his potent powers spatially affected the dream. As he moved past, I was reminded of the film The Dark Crystal, by Jim Henson – with whom Merlin had worked, directing two episodes of the Fraggle Rock television series in its inaugural season. This movie would for several months, after we saw it together in New York City, be our favourite film.

Thereafter for several weeks, whenever we looked at each other – even when not being intimate, we had hummed at each other as the rival beings in the film did when communicating. The being here was much like the good beings in the Jim Henson film The Dark Crystal. The being progressed up the few stone steps, to the wooden veranda at 20 Amelia Street, and began making his way inside the house. As I watched him ascend, from the lawn to the veranda, it was clear to me that he was levitating. Though it was a dream and I too could have levitated and flown, he though had a power which surpassed mine.

This august-souled, mystical being clearly originated from a dimension which vibrationally and spiritually was of a higher plane than the astral, where the dream occurred, and the physical in which I am incarnate. Indeed, the same physical plane from which Merlin was rapidly taking his leave – it was that discernible. The moment the mystical being entered our home, being lost to view, I came to from the inner holographic dream which was a recall and reanimation of a dream that I had experienced within the last week. As I came to, I was about to go indoors to see what had become of the being that had clearly entered our home.

It was then, having returned to being fully focussed in the outer ‘shell’ dream of today November 18, 1989, that I saw Merlin anew. He was standing at the front door looking out at me. I stood there, in the front yard, transfixed whilst the bright daylight bathed my body throughout. The look on Merlin’s face was purely transcendent. He was perfectly still and perfectly radiant. Merlin stood in the midst of a nimbus of dazzling, blue-white light. As he lovingly glowed out at me, this splendid light only intensified.

Merlin was transformed and as his face lovingly lit up, at me, the light grew to more completely envelop his body. Whilst lovingly glowing at me with the warmest, most familiar knowing smile, Merlin slowly brought his right hand up with the palm facing me and more completely smiled. The radiance of his smile soon became lost in the glow of his aura’s light. The nimbus, enveloping his transformed body, radiated even more intensely at that point.

I was blown away. Arrested, I readily knew what I was experiencing; I could feel it. I knew that across dimensions, in the waking state, Merlin had just died.

However, as is my wont, I protested. I dropped the hose which was still bleeding its nurturing water onto the frozen, wintry lawn at my feet. I stood – paralysed. Determinedly, I then bolted for Merlin. I headed up to the veranda as my lover, as my mentor, as my friend stood transcendent in the doorway to what had been the most beautiful sense of home ever experienced. “Merlin!” shrieking in protest, I yelled out his name.

(Detail of oil on canvas by my sister Pandora of Toronto’s Mount Pleasant Cemetery where Merlin is buried.)

Suddenly, the thunder of my protesting breath abruptly drew me from sleep. I sat upright in bed, my arms outstretched and beyond, after having crashed back into my body and no longer astral-projected. From the foot of the bed both cats – Zora and Whoopi – knowingly, silently looked up. I was arrested by the frozen horror-struck face staring at me from the mirrored closet doors across the room.

In the near-darkness of the bedroom, a few rays of early morning light made it past the blood-red, velvet drapes heavily hung at the windows. Those rays starkly cast light on how horribly desolate my life now was. Merlin was gone. His spirit had taken leave from this world. It was that discernible as my world, my very universe, had experienced a massive vibrational shift.

I had been abruptly displaced from the astral plane. I had been lucidly dreaming a dream within a dream. I was being told so long as Merlin, transitioned from incarnate to astral plane habitué, bade farewell to our magically glorious union on the physical plane. I was heartened by the peace and knowingness in his transcendent face because I knew that it was a, “See you soon…” parting, for now.

I knew that there would be dreams aplenty up ahead. Just as he had pledged, he would magically weave in his indelible promise to me, before departing from the physical plane. There was such a cold silence, a stinging finality to the moment, as I sat there in bed. After having looked back at myself, silently waiting, I placed a call to the eighth storey nursing station at Wellesley Hospital.

I was immediately aware that the tone of the nurses, with whom I was by now long-familiar, had changed. In very little time, it was official… Merlin had indeed passed. Truth be told, it was not a surprise; I could sense it on awaking. He simply was not there. As always, I had reached out to sense him on awaking – his energies – just blocks away at Wellesley Hospital. Now, there was nothing.

Then, as if needing further proof, I thought about Merlin calling each morning. He would do so, to lovingly say hello and thereby, to lovingly wake me up. Merlin would then lovingly ask for a call-back, after I had audio-recorded the dreams. Merlin had, thus far, not called. Once again, I saw the stillness of my reflection across the room. I knew then, really knew… Merlin was gone.

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support but if you really want to make me levitate then do buy my books!

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Bullocks! That Is Not A Fucking Clit!

21.08.201909.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Game show host: Famous Quotes. “Bullocks! That is not a fucking clit!”

Game show host: Contestant, respond either A or B to which you think is the correct answer. Who was this said about when seen naked for the first time by her future husband, was it A. Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown or B. Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex?

Contestant: A!

Game show host: Right, you are!

From Alanna Plattapuss, to Pierre-Karol Gorgon, all week long they and the OTT vicereen – she of none-too-dubious gender and the likely need for a surrogate’s services, carped on with their usual vitriol against, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. Just imagine the temerity of the Trenchtown sketel, likkle jagabat rass, carping on about Meghan not being royal and a hustler who needs a new act and all that, commandingly boomed with the rolling vowels and vulgar cocksucker mouth to boot. Then by the end of that week, along rolls the weekend full of karmic retribution et voilà Lord Porchester’s sprog was back in the news for those proclivities of his that has him favouring veal and other minor fare.

Diana, Princess of Wales gave good face; she went in, shook hands, did the doe-eyed routine and sold millions of copies to say nothing of raising funds. I was in London’s Chelsea the night in June 2017, having just returned from Covent Garden where I discovered, Natalia Osipova, when what sounded like several fire trucks, raced through the streets of West London.

The next morning as Grenfell dominated news everywhere on the tube, I watched as first HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge followed after by HM The Queen, visited the site of the horrific towering inferno. Soon enough, having done their duty, they were gone.

Will someone please ask that blasted cross-dresser, masquerading as a woman, toff or god forbid royal, what is not admirable, to say nothing of royal about Meghan, Duchess of Sussex? First order of business, after having so handsomely given good theatre as she commandingly ascended the west steps of St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle to join her warrior-souled entity mate, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex with whom she has enjoyed relations in 20 past lives, Meghan goes and meets with the victims of the Grenfell Tower tragedy.

Now, here is where she goes one better and is the true evolution of all that Diana, Princess of Wales represented, she not only meets with them, however, she devises a scheme whereby those victims can experience a continued sense of community and in the process, she created a cookbook which as part of her charitable endeavours, has greatly assisted these victims in need. Say what you want, but Diana, Princess of Wales never did any such thing. A copy of said cookbook has repeatedly sat on my kitchen counter as I have prepared meals from those recipes.

Yet, there is that blasted jagabat, Vicereen Bianca as pompous and full of shit as they come, hopping on the bandwagon in hopes of earning a few more pence so she can go shopping at Poundland to fill Castle Chav, for which she plays chatelaine whom no one on Avenue Foch to say nothing of Kensington Palace Gardens could care less about. With that cookbook, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex did something that Diana, Princess of Wales and no other royal before her had pulled off or could, she effectively greatly humanised and endeared the royals to not just the Muslims of the Commonwealth but to the 2.5 billion Muslims the world over. Too, it matters with her biracial ambiguity that Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is able to fluidly straddle ethnic, racial and religious lines where others in the royal family cannot.

Someone please remind Vicereen Bianca, Monsieur Gorgon et al who are so quick to racially foam at the mouth that after having been booed at Royal Albert Hall and Princess Michael of Kent, having sported the blackamoor brooch to The Queen’s Buckingham Palace Christmas lunch in 2017, all the more reason why Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex would require being sat alone with her two friends at Winbledon without having persons close to them so that she can enjoy a social situation without having the average garden variety bigot make cutting, racially predatory remarks about her for being within earshot. If you think that this is something which every black does not endure on a daily basis then you are free to go outside and see the Virgin Mother in the next cloud formations – funny how these delusional people never see comeback pussy when cloud-gazing,

Never once have Gorgon, Vicereen Bianca, Plattapuss et al made mention of that outright racist attack on the part of Princess Michael of Kent. First of all, for her deliberate racist action, she should not have been suffered at what also happened to have been a black wedding on May 19, 2018. Not only did she not represent, by her racist attack, HM The Queen, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, HRH Princess Anne, Princess Royal but she did not represent her husband, HRH Prince Michael of Kent and his mother, Princess Marina and her family the Greek and Yugoslav royals. For god sake, stop claiming to know what Diana, Princess of Wales would have thought or how she would have gotten on with Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex when she, Vicereen Bianca cannot produce a single photograph of herself and the late Diana, whose son, Meghan’s loving husband, ought damn well to know more than the fabulist royal, to say nothing of arch-fantasist, or any other racially predatory, vile, obsessed arsehat.

With Jeffrey Epstein once again white hot in the media, far be it from Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown, Alanna Plattapuss and snivelling pompous racial predator par excellence, Pierre-Karol Gorgon who has conspicuously fallen catatonic with revelations of rather unseemly behaviour becoming of royals from the Earl Porchester’s minor proclivities and the minor royals’ being pimped out by crass parvenu fare from the Far East. Just imagine the field day these clowns would have if it were Harry & Meghan? Funny how they have all fallen silent. What a shame that Madame Safra did not expediently have Vicereen Bianca dispense with as so resoundingly Mr. Epstein has been. Alas, why should Madame Safra have when the Vicereen Bianca herself is fucking nobody…. let her live and suffer… indeed, a fate far worse than Epstein’s…. Poor, pompous miserable-arsed Vicereen Bianca über poseur (definitely not poseuse) having to drag arse through life in search of that can’t-come-soon-enough casket of hers.

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All their racially predatory braying, regardless how much they protest it having anything to do with race – the cowards never concede the obvious, this has all been seen before. The same mass hysteria Doria Ragland was familiar with in the 70s as the racial predators foamed and raged at bussing in Massachusetts. Earlier, too, in the 60s, just as now with Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, Doria would remember the water canons and dogs in George Wallace’s gallant South.

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Just know this, no matter how much you vilify, demonise and slander Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, she is going nowhere. Social media and the amount of open racist animus that is directed Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s way is not in the least surprising. Social media is merely an evolution of behaviour on the part of non-blacks when privately looking at television. One of the things I realised and it was something that Merlin actually pointed out to me when we were in the early days of our relationship in Manhattan: when whites are looking at television and someone black appears on the screen, their response will 9 of 10 times be negative. This can run from simply turning the channel, leaving the room or simply engaging in conversation and ignoring the television such that the black person on screen simply is not heard. There is nothing more infuriating than trying to look at a live television concert or event, like an awards show and the moment someone black walks out on stage, the negative noise pollution starts up. At one dinner party, on the Upper West Side, Merlin had invited Frederick Jones to come along as Merlin met with a set designer friend of his. Every time that someone black appeared on screen, the character assassination would kick off. Of course, it did not take too long before gifted milliner, Frederick Jones simply got up and walked out as more yapping ensued when Gladys Knight and the Pips began singing. At this point in life, I never look at television, when rarely I do, in the company of non-blacks; it is simply not worth the ghettoised racialised response, which manifests each time.

She, Meghan, and more importantly her soul when incarnate as Margaret Beaufort, not you Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown, Pierre-Karol Gorgon et al made possible Christ’s College Cambridge and St. John’s College Cambridge as a result of her soul’s effort in a past life. For being a fierce feminist in that illustrious past life as Tudor matriarch, mother of King Henry VII, grandmother of King Henry VIII and great-grandmother of Queen Elizabeth I, has a women’s college, Lady Margaret College, Oxford in her honour been established. Nothing you do here and now can invalidate that soul’s past accomplishments, no more than it can prevent her soul’s agendum in this lifetime.

Of course, it is understandable that with the discovery of King Richard III’s remains in 2012 with their reburial at Leicester Cathedral in 2015, we would discover that William Shakespeare’s portrayal of Richard III as the hunchback monster was misguided. Indeed, it is not coincidental that Richard III would resurface within a couple of years of Meghan Markle’s ascendancy. Meghan’s soul, then Margaret Beaufort in her bid to secure the supremacy of the Tudor claim, had Richard III demonised. Now returned, and also mid-cycle mature-souled, Meghan finds herself beset with open animus. As much as this is in part due to rabid open racial animus, let’s not avoid facts, it is also because mid-cycle mature lives tend to come with a bit of self-karmic drama and some degree of infamy.

For having slandered Richard III, returned here Margaret Beaufort’s reincarnated soul, who is now now Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, finds herself despite her considerable accomplishments when Margaret Beaufort, opposed and rejected. Nonetheless, she is possessed of a Venus/Solar body type, which means that she will, in time, transcend the current open animus and prove immensely popular and well-loved. Moreover, another mid-cycle mature-souled member of the House of Windsor happens to be Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall. She too, owing to whatever went down in past lives, relative to this one, has seen her tried by fire, vilified and demonised; yet, she has handsomely weathered the storm of rabid gutter snipes being bitter bitches to emerge as one of the most loved, warm, august-souled royals. What’s not to love, she champions literacy, literature and hands out the Man Booker Prize each year!

All that aside, no matter how these race-baiting agitators vent, rant and instigate, they will change nothing. Their campaign has been so doggedly juvenile and at every turn, they fail. It all began with the Straight outta Compton missive and it has been one racially charged attack, assumption, innuendo-filled report after another. All have been transparently specious: There will never be an engagement; The Queen would never allow it. Then, indeed, when it happened, HM The Queen was dismissed as clearly demented. Meghan is not fit to be a royal. She has been married three times before. She is actually 41. Samantha is secretly raising her bastard child. She is just a z-list actress. She is a yacht girl, She was not properly vetted. She is a narcissist. She is vile; how could she not speak to her father? Doria is a felon and was imprisoned. She abandoned her dogs. She was living with Corey and seeing Prince Harry. I hate Prince Harry. Oh Harry what have you done? All that The Queen has worked for! That was not a royal wedding. All that gospel crap and all the celebrities; it made a mock of royal weddings. There was clearly tension in the marriage when Meghan brushed off Harry whilst sat in the quire at HRH Princess Eugenie’s marriage. Eugenie’s was a real royal wedding. Meghan’s dress was a disgrace and it did not fit.

Days after having decided that there was trouble in the Sussexes’ marriage, there was the announcement of the pregnancy; this was readily followed by Meghan being attacked: she is selfish and narcissistic, for having announced the pregnancy at Eugenie’s wedding; this of course when they had no idea when the rest of the Royal family was informed of the pregnancy. She bleaches her skin. None of those celebrities at her wedding know her. It was the worse wedding ever; definitely, it was not a royal wedding. All that money on clothes and she never looks good; they are all ill-fitting clothes. Thank god, she is such a terror that the queen has banished her to Frogmore Cottage, right next to Wallis Simpson’s grave. Prince William can see through her. She has caused nothing but trouble in the royal family. They need to be banished. She is Wallis Simpson reincarnated (never mind that you first have to die before reincarnating; Wallis died in 1986, five years after Meghan’s birth. Moreover, there is usually anywhere from 15 to 30 years, roughly twenty before most souls reincarnate). Harry doesn’t smile anymore. Harry is lost. Harry is pussy-whipped. She is not pregnant. Pillow gate. Stop clutching that bump. There is a pillow, see how it moves. She is not pregnant. She is definitely using a surrogate. Oh my god, she is writing notes on the bananas, who does that? Who does she think she is? Thank god William was born first. Kate is a real princess. Catherine is pure class; never puts a foot wrong.

This campaign of race-baiting and hatred is but a macrocosm of the microcosmic dynamic which is acted out in families all too often. A perfectly balanced child is projected onto and bullied into fitting into some ascribed persona within the family’s iconographic dictates. Bob the little devil or Miranda the little Lolita when in fact, these archetypes have nothing to do with the subject of the projection. Daily attack articles and specious speculative articles in the print medium to further incite the public to hatred changes nothing. Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is phenomenally popular across the Commonwealth, in particular amongst blacks. This need to vilify Meghan is rooted in the collective psyche of white tribalism, which feels itself tasked with having to remain top baboon as it were as the white population in Western Europe contracts and is further stressed by the burgeoning Islamic population in its midst. This need to play soap opera with the royals is part and parcel of that dynamic need to be on top… and always winning, One must ever be in control and be first, better than and all that maya. This is why Simon Cowell has become phenomenally wealthy; he is simply tapping into the tribal zeitgeist. Cowell knows damn well that regardless how good a singer is, he can depend on the predominantly white audience be it in America or the UK to choose a white contestant over a non-white any and every time. This phenomenon precisely is why Jennifer Hudson did not win during the year that she appeared on American Idol. There is a grudging need to bar, hamper and eclipse the non-white other, in favour of one’s own. If this truly racialised paradigm existed in the 1960s, there would have been no Aretha Franklin, no Patti Labelle, Chaka Khan et al – simply too black. Indeed, in this racialised caste system, the global paradigm does exist just as much as the current environmental collapse such that were Henry to have chosen a Chinese, East Indian or Jewish bride, though, there would have been pockets of disapproval, it would have been comparably muted at best and nowhere near the lynch mob intensity that animus towards Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has become, thanks in large part to the orchestrated propaganda produced by racially predatory boors like Pierre-Karl Gorgon, Alanna Plattapuss and Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown.

Of course, in all of this, they keep focussing on Meghan as they are so perplexed by the rumbling tectonics in the Cambridges’ marriage. Recently at the revived King’s Cup Regatta 2019 at the Isle of Wight, there was Catherine being her steely warrior-spirited self. After receiving her wooden spoon for placing last, the female who placed second along with William her husband, took to the stage and on receiving her champagne tried to get next to William and in a move that was pure warrior canny, Catherine shimmied with lightning ease into place and thereby blocked the woman from getting close to ‘her’ man. Throughout their stay on the stage William made no mistake about telegraphing how utterly disinterested and fed up he is, having to be stuck with Catherine. Naturally, none of this will ever be reported by the likes of Pierre-Karol Gorgon, Alanna Plattapuss, nor will there be another shrill blast from the pompous ass, Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown herself (himself). Every warrior is the dominant partner in any relationship and Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge is no exception that is why I am fully confident that she will fare better than Diana, Princess of Wales did; moreover, Diana an artisan was doing battle with her warrior partner, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales.

William is immensely innately arrogant for being a scholar and his astrological stellium and his attitude number of 9 are precisely why in the above clip, he does not bow to HM The Queen. He sees himself as a Sovereign – as in all time is present; since he will be sovereign in the future, simultaneously he is sovereign in the past since birth and now. William with an attitude of 9 is incapable of not holding grudges and he very likely regards both his father and paternal grandmother as having been complicit in his mother’s demise.

William like every scholar incarnate will wander but he will always be miserable being with Catherine because she will suffer no Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall – herself a scholar soul. This is why though things got a little too chummy at Houghton Hall, it will only ever be whispered about; the chatelaine of Houghton Hall will never displace Catherine as future Princess of Wales. Try coming between task companions and good luck with trying to displace that task companion, who happens to be a warrior – not happening.

In the meantime, William will just have to merrily go roving along as is his scholarly and princely wont to find other prey. Just as Melissa Percy had no intention of sharing either her man or her bed, so, too, strong-willed, warrior Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge will never be dislodged by another. Thus Thomas van Straubenzee is on to marriage number two, which will no doubt leave William with continued full access to both his loyal public school special chum and Thomas’ blissfully unaware blonde walker.

Fascinatingly enough, as the days drift by after Jeffrey Epstein convenient expiration, there is a gnawing, burgeoning silence as that vile, toxic bigot remains conspicuously silent, News of the World vile snob and bigot, Gorgon. Please dear god, let his name appear just once somewhere in association with Jeffrey Epstein, The Trump-loving, nasty racist parasite… just one photograph; that is all it takes to have the tables turn on that fucking nez brun, snivelling twat, Pierre-Karol Gorgon. These racial predators who use the print medium to race-bait as they know law number one being, familiarity breeds contempt. Yes, indeed, every day multiple scathing articles against Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

What more proof does one need that these gutter snipes are purely racially focussed in their agendum of attacking Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex? Somehow, the very real spectre of paedophilia raises its can’t- shake head and not a peep out of these persons, who so claim to love their venerable institution, the Monarchy. How or when pray tell has Meghan been a paedophile or when did she take funds from crass, foreign parvenu fare? No indeed, not a single winded turn, grandstanding with faux indignation of Meghan being unsuitably common and a dark blemish on royalty that must not be suffered overlong.

Indeed, this is a civilisation where one does not have to think; you are simply groomed to form opinions on anything. Naturally, it is a culture that prides itself on being negative; one sees being negative as a good thing. After 60 years of television, the same negative, readily racially predatory animus towards blacks had a new outlet in being able to comment, anonymously no less, on the internet – just as one has done for 7 decades in the privacy of one’s home when looking at television. With Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, we have reached a new plateau in mob rule… Indeed, it is a new form of lynching wherein Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has become surrounded by a forest of burning crosses as these non-blacks in their lust for blood and addiction to hate have never been more ecstatic. And everyone of these people will let you know that it has nothing to do with race and they all, for one being black, have to mention out of the blue how, they can’t stand or they just hate that Meghan.

Who has time for anything but apathy when seeing Notre Dame Cathedral ablaze indeed. Enough of giving a damn; no more of this Pray for Paris fare on social media… just not worth it. The week following the Jeffrey Epstein suicide, homicide – you decide – old Gorgon goes into hiding and is conveniently on a break – goodness knows, unless he is in hibernation en route to Mars, there is no reason why News of the World potty-mouth should not be foaming at the mouth about unroyal-like conduct. Alas, there is more acrimony against the Sussexes, while the Cambridge’s privately jet to Mustique and they to Spain, though, the Sussex’s trip is less taxing on the environment, the Sussexes are labelled eco-hypocrites.

Then to top off the week, new polling numbers show that Catherine is now more popular than Meghan and even Harry, thanks to Meghan’s negative impact has slipped in popularity. Well guess what Einsteins, Diana Krall was more popular than Natalie Cole, Shirley Horn, Nancy Wilson and Betty Carter combined. Simply put, tribalism is more pronounced with Caucasians than any other group. They will ever hate, hiss and boo Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex in the United Kingdom; indeed, no predominantly non-black Commonwealth nation has yet extended the Sussexes an invitation, though, HM The Queen, appointed them Commonwealth Youth Ambassadors – a title which was largely due in part because HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge has yet to tour any predominantly black Commonwealth nation and with an attitude number of 9, numerologically, nothing would get him to budge on touring such countries. Naturally, with the marriage of Henry & Meghan, though, he has previously toured those countries, predominently non-white, non-black Commonwealth Singapore and Malaysia have invited the Cambridges to tour autumn 2019, in an obvious move to show their disfavour at Henry having married the black woman.

What would move Elton John to make this impassioned post to his Instagram account about the racially predatory abuse that TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex are being subjected to? Elton John like model, Lauren Hutton, James Middleton, Madonna and every gap-toothed adult Caucasian was in his immediate past life black. Not surprisingly, Elton was the only non-black on the AIDS charity anthem of 1985, That’s What Friends Are For. The abuse has gone way beyond the line and one can no longer idly stand by and say nothing.

There she is Madonna and if ever one needed validation that this is someone who is completely at ease and accepting of blacks’ humanity, you need no further proof. There are people the world over, not least Hollywood, who would find it extremely uncomfortable being in the same room as someone black. Madonna’s extended family and the love between her and David Banda as well as all her other children is all the validation one needs that in her immediate past life she was Bessie Smith and prior to that, a few lifetimes before, 17th century Italian composer, Claudio Monteverdi.

“Race is everything and yet it is nothing…” a phrase Merlin often repeated during our seven years together at the incidences of racism which he witnessed for being my lover. Naturally, Canada has yet to invite the Sussexes on a tour – though, one can hardly be surprised at that. 70 million Britons may hate Meghan’s guts but there are close to a billion blacks in the Commonwealth for whom the Sussexes will always matter. Meanwhile, there were no body language experts waxing overlong about William’s aloofness at the King’s Cup Regatta. The fact that Gorgon, Bianca et al are not writing about the obvious problems in the Cambridges’ marriage does not mean that it does not exist. Goodness, they have just spent a whole week in the 24/7 news cycle of 21st century online news media, making positively no mention of Jeff Epstein and the troubling connections that the Earl Porchester clearly had with the conveniently deceased paedophile whose autopsy showed from the broken neck vertebrae that he was a likely murder rather than suicide.

150 years hence, historians will look back at the Cambridge’s marriage and point to whatever drama unfolds between now and then and point to their rowing en route to Buckingham Palace from Westminster Abbey and Catherine’s rude dismissal of William whilst they stood on the balcony being celebrated and William’s fate was being sealed. Who cares how adored you are by outsiders, being trapped in a miserable marriage must be sheer hell. No need to gloat about how more popular Catherine is than Meghan, which would not be the case had Henry married blonde Chelsy Davy or Cressida Bonas. Indeed, if Henry had married a Chinese, East Indian or Jew, though, there would doubtless be resentment, it would by no means be so rabid and unrelentingly feral.

The fact remains, when and where it matters most, it is a public role and all the scathing, derogatory, race-baiting articles notwithstanding, Meghan’s commanding performance at the 2018 British Fashion Awards was a salvo which illustrated why she has more star power than Catherine and no amount of hatred is going to change that. It has been cruel to watch how Catherine is being jousted to get out there and suddenly make speeches.

God lord, the poor woman is not then and never will be in her element; she is glorious at being Catherine, future Queen Consort, sporty and ever steely but being speech-giver is no forte of hers – never has been, never will be. The sad thing about Meghan’s speech at the 2018 British Fashion Awards is that it has been heavily edited and only now carried by the Royal Family’s YouTube channel. It is almost as if, Meghan cannot to be seen to be outshining Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge; moreover, I think that palace mandarins may have deemed Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s speech too political.

One should never forget the song which the Kingdom Choir sung as the newly wedded TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex departed St. George’s Chapel Windsor Castle, This Little Light of Mine. No amount of racial animus or hatred will ever be able to eclipse the light of the soul which, when previously incarnate, was the Tudor Matriarch, Queen Mother to Henry VII, grandmother and favourite adviser to Henry VIII and great-grandmother to HM Queen Elizabeth I.

Good god! Talk about true hypocrisy! Where in the hell are Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown and that louche bigot whose unsavoury deeds precipitated News of the World’s demise, Pierre-Karol Gorgon? That’s right, not a peep out of them. This is the same royalty that they have been defending against the likes of the descendant of enslaved Africa and a hustler to boot, being deemed not fit to be royal. Imagine that, the black woman excoriated with coded language like hustler well at least she is not a blasted paedophile! There is damn value in Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex being welcome as she was by HM The Queen and her gracious father-in-law, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, she is articulate, intelligent, strong-willed and has commanding stage presence; she is indeed the beau idéal when one wants to address and engage the Commonwealth, which is predominantly brown and black.

Well at long last Pierre-Karol Gorgon has come out of hiding! What does the no-balled fucker do, he blithely goes back to excoriating TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex and pretending as though the biggest story in the House of Windsor has not reared its ugly head yet again. Yes, clueless, dickless one, keep caterwauling like the true castrato that you are but ignoring the elephant in the room, does not make it go away. There you go, karma has served up Epstein’s corpse go on carrion, no need to be bashful, go ahead and start feasting on the real story to be writing about and growing incandescent with rage. Fucking no-balled racial predator, you try convincing the rest of us that Meghan is not royal enough and your animus is not in the least rooted in racial hatred.

Your racial animus towards HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex for having married the black woman notwithstanding, do be very careful what you wish for. All this talk about: I cannot support this royal family anymore, they are nothing but hypocrites, nothing but scroungers. as soon as HM The Queen dies we need a referendum on the monarchy; we need to become a republic. In case you have not noticed, your marvellous empire Britannia is no longer a realm of white tribal homogeneity. Within your midst are persons who will never assimilate and within a generation of having declared a republic, you will end up with a succession of presidents, who will not look like you and who will want their religious laws, and get their religious laws become the law of the land. These presidents will have been groomed from birth to perceive you as the enemy who must be vanquished… go on keep being blinded by hatred of the black woman and see where it gets you.

But enough about bothering with blasted racial predators, who as karma would have it, has backhanded them good and hard with Jeffrey Epstein’s convenient, though by no means ended, demise. Now the drama royal, truly gets underway in coming months. Go on, likkle jagabat, let’s see your cocksucker mouth gag with indignation, feigned or otherwise, about the bold audacity to have mere paedophiles in one’s regal realm. Go on, we know you can’t afford to go grouse-hunting, time to eat crow… blasted fraud.

In the meantime, I have pre-ordered my very own copy of Master Andrew Lownie’s deliciously indulgent exposé about one of my favourite rats, Earl Louis Mountbatten… Oh Louella darling, clutch your pearls, lick your lips, it’s going to prove a true bibliophilic gourmand’s wet dream… and infinitely better fare than that trifling garbage that ought rightly to have been pulped! I cannot wait to read this book! When Merlin was first hospitalised with full-blown AIDS, at Toronto’s St. Michael’s Hospital in January 1988, he began ferociously re-reading every book that had brought him the greatest pleasure; this is someone who concluded reading a book each day. One of the books he shared with me as he knew what books I most loved, was this wonderful book about Mahatma Gandhi’s life; of course, one of the first films we saw together was Gandhi at the Ziegfeld in Midtown Manhattan way after midnight, after we had been to dinner, fucked like rottweilers then headed off into the night, holding hands – a thing which back in 1982, you most definitely could not then have done in Toronto, and saw a film that moved us to tears. There within the covers of that biography, I discovered the most ravishingly fascinating couple, Louis & Edwina Mountbatten. Now, there was a true vicereen!

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Prophetic Dream With Diana & Archie

30.06.201909.12.2024 Arvin da Brgha1 Comment

Diana, Princess of Wales & HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.

On the eve of what would have been her 58th birthday, I share a dream encounter with Diana, Princess of Wales. At the time of the dream, July, 1996, Diana was then incarnate and would be dead less than 14 months later. The dream suggested Diana, parenting a male child of mixed race heritage. Naturally, at the time of the dream, she was not then yet involved with Dodi Al-Fayed. Years later, whilst living in Montréal and transcribing the 250 audiocassette recordings of my dreams which spanned a decade, I happened on the dream. By the time of the transcription, Diana was dead and so, on poring through the dream I thought that the male child in the dream to whom Diana seemed a mother, must have been a child of hers and Dodi’s.

Fast forward twenty-three years from the dream in question and I am beginning to think that this exceptional male royal child was actually a dream of tuning into a future in which Diana was serving as protector of her beloved son’s own baby boy, Archie Harrison. The skull of the baby boy in the dream who seemed like a son of Diana, Princess of Wales’, is exactly shaped like that of Archie, Diana’s grandson by way of her son, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex with his black wife, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

Alas, another dream encounter with Diana, Princess of Wales. This one would involve moving into a probable reality scenario which may well have eventualised had she not tragically died thirteen months after having had the dream.

*Then again, it may well have been tuning into a future which has now come to pass wherein, the interracial Sussexes have a male firstborn. END.

As with the dream of July 9, 1993, in which I would have a most rapturous astral plane encounter with task companion, Merlin, here too there would be lots of train travel. This means of transportation, I have come to realise is employed by the soul when one is questing and traversing the astral either to past, future or probable timelines.

In this case, I had clearly dreamquested to a probable and non-too-distant future for Diana, Princess of Wales. Sadly, it was not to be. Obviously, in this probable near-future astral plane dream, Diana, Princess of Wales was fulfilled and had gone on to start a second family and was mother to a rather precocious son; a son whom I might add was clearly at least fourth level old-souled.

At the time, it was Sunday, July 27, 1996 and the Moon then transited both Capricorn and my eighth house. The house of death wherein is posited my retrograde Saturn, gave interesting insights to things as they might have unfolded as others’ agendum precluded Diana, Princess of Wales’s life becoming more of an inconvenience.

*Then, too, as time has unfolded, this rather prophetic dream was actually tuning into a probable reality which has become the collective future of human civilisation and one which we enjoy today. Here’s to TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex and their incredible baby boy, Archie Harrison. END.

Of course, at the time of these dreams, I was then resident in Vancouver’s West End. The dreams were audiocassette-recorded on tape two hundred and seventeen and to be found in volume XXII of the dream opus.

There was much sturm und drang in parts of the dreams as it mirrored the vicious tectonics, long after Merlin’s passing, being played out legally and otherwise with persons whom I am so glad to be finally rid of. Chief among them that STD-riddled, dominatrix poseuse and fag-hag to boot, who quixotically saw herself cast into the world to play Merlin’s protector and saviour – the dreams of lost village idiots… indeed.

At the end of the day, Merlin never liked her and rightly so considered her a damn idiot. At his passing, he had nothing to do with her; hence the fool spent the next two-plus decades being bedpan-changer of Merlin’s betrayers – a poor play at atonement that.

Enough about knock-kneed caribou roadkill; the journey endures. Besides, the bond with Merlin could never have been successfully broadsided.

Come now my magical darlings, mischievously sport that wry smile known only to kindred spirits, slip into a luxurious plié, take my hand and let’s have ourselves a delicious group flying dream. We are better for sharing this journey together; for your support, I love you more.

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Whilst heading down a street in what was undoubtedly Toronto, in this the first dream, it was then daytime. The street seemed like the one just around the corner from the Underground Railroad Restaurant, on King Street West, to the west of Sherbourne Street – Frederick Street. Going down Frederick Street’s incline, I noticed along a back lane that there was a large building. Too, I noticed a great many persons from past workplaces. The building seemed to be an annex to the main workplace as I had known it.

One of the first persons whom I recognised was Milton Bloomfield. He was wearing a pair of dark blue slacks and powder-blue short-sleeved shirt. Excited to see him, I bounded over and went around to the back entrance. Immediately, I began seeing persons whom I had completely forgotten about. Indeed, some of these persons looked as though they were definitely astral plane habitués. In particular, one old White male had that outré habitué look to him. I was simply astounded to have seen some of these persons. Truth be told, I had not thought of so many of them long in ages.

‘How quickly we do forget,’ I thought.

Such a very pleasant discovery of things past, it turned out to have been. That aside, I resumed my search of Milton Bloomfield in earnest. Again, I saw him in the distance. This time he was walking away from me without having noticed that I was there. In the end, though it would have been nice to have interacted with him, I just didn’t see the point in going after him. On going around another corner, since I was amongst persons from the past, I had thought to go in search of Yaramé Snead. I went over by some machines which no longer exist, in the waking state, seeing that she would shortly have shown up at the start of her shift. I then saw her at a desk working away and hurried over to be with her.

Stooping down to her left and rear, I playfully called out hello to her. On turning and seeing me, her reaction had been low-key. I was surprised really as I thought that she would at least have been her usual boisterous self. Her hair was beautifully braided. Frankly, I felt putout as she seemed not the least bit pleased to have seen me. With that, not wanting to be more of a seeming bother, I wrapped up the visit. Since she had declined to have become engaged, I just couldn’t be bothered to have invested much energy in the encounter.

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Part of the focus of this the second dream, a man and I were together and seemingly were lovers. Tall, he was a redhead; as such, he represented one of my more choice sexual partners. Somehow, this man was in showbiz. We were definitely lovers. Whilst looking at TV Rosie O’Donnell had made remarks about him that were rather cutting. Initially, I had thought that her remarks had been about Xerxes Hamelin. The joke had been a crude remark wondering as, to which sex Xerxes Hamelin was.

This was in reference to her having breast reduction surgery. As I did not appreciate the crass put-down of Xerxes Hamelin, I would abruptly take my leave. I then went indoors of a house which, here, was like moving from the veranda indoors of the Crab Hill house. A few persons were inside the house as I ranted, vowing to get that fat ugly dyke, Rosie O’Donnell. There also was much laughter as I added,

“And we all know that I’m wicked enough, to do just as I say. But first we’re going to sue her frigging Mickey ass.” But my lover didn’t want to go through with it, he was a showbiz lawyer. Snapping at him, I said,

“I won’t hear of it. I will not be cutting him or her any slack. Get her fucking ass! There is no way that that no-classed fool is going to insult Xerxes Hamelin and get off lightly. End of fucking discussion. We sue! During the show’s rehearsal when that joke came up around the production meeting table, she could have had the decency to say, ‘no way, I’m not doing that kind of humour’. Obviously, she fucking well didn’t.

“It’s not about the fucking money; she will learn a thing or two, when I’m done with her fat-retaining, tired-looking ass.” What really amazed me was how lucid and lived-in, in the body, I was. I was really killer mad and out to do battle, “There is positively no way that she’d have gone out there and made disparaging remarks about Jews. And if you can’t knock the fucking Jews, you sure the fuck can’t haul your tired grey arse out on a stage to knock Blacks. Just stop and think about it. If a Jew would have her head in a nanosecond, then so the fuck will I.”

After that, we went off together. My lover was ever quiet and reserved whilst I did much of the talking. In that sense, he energetically was much like Merlin. However, it definitely was not Merlin.

As we walked about, we ran into Diana, Princess of Wales, who had a little child on her hip. One had the sense that, after having divorced HRH Charles, Prince of Wales, she had gone on to start another family. Definitely, this third child of hers was a son. Apparently, she had always wanted a little girl but here she was with a dark-haired bouncing boy. Obviously, from the looks of things here, Diana, Princess of Wales was going to have more than one family.

One interesting feature was that the boy was born with almost a full mouth of teeth. I mentioned in passing that I guess if you end up grinning as much as she does, it would not be surprising to have newborns appear grin-ready. Too, the child was already able to say some words at birth. The child was exceptionally intelligent. The young son’s most interesting feature was that even at less than six weeks, he was able to follow conversations.

The eyes on this child were exceptionally old-souled and wise. Not the feigned coyness of Prince William was his demeanour. We were in a huge stately Bentley whilst the child sat on his regal mother’s lap. Diana, Princess of Wales sat on my left with my lover, a showbiz lawyer-celebrity, seated next to me. My lover was of British birth; he was a well-placed Londoner and terribly well-off at that.

He was part of the few in whom Diana, Princess of Wales confided and had done so during her divorce proceedings with the Firm. From the Bentley, we got into another car. Although he really didn’t need it, the precocious son was travelling in a basket here. This child perceptively was quite advanced for his mere few months of life. He represented hands down a case for reincarnation.

Though he could talk, especially for someone less than a year old, he was still rather stubby and full of baby fat. I took the rather self-aware child from Diana, Princess of Wales and headed for the car. I then didn’t know whether she would be sitting in back of the car with us. Considerately, I had opened the front door for her but she told me that it wasn’t necessary.

She then went into the back of the car at which point I returned her son to her. In all of this, the precocious son hadn’t uttered a word of whiny protest for having been separated. He had simply looked me in the eye whilst studying me and not, god forbid, because of something as absurd as my being Black. This woman, his mother, was rather a genuinely sweet-personalitied soul. Not your typical animus-charged, parvenu, New World wealthy snob, like heaven only knows so many North Americans, was she. After we had taken off, I had mentioned that I had heard Prince William – who now was much taller than her – was very well-hung.

Furthermore, he loved roughing it with all the little willing boys at Eton. This supposedly was hot gossip in those circles and which both my lover and Diana, Princess of Wales thought hysterical. She expressed great pride in having produced such a fine stud for the Firm. She mentioned that he had to start his studding practice sometime and far better that it be at Eton than with too many willing little girls the world over. Clearly, Diana, Princess of Wales had no desire to turn grandmother just yet. She was a very funny person with a distinctive snort-like giggle.

We then went into a store that was called something like Mayfair & Browne or something along those lines. A small, high-end department store it was.

*The warm blues here would suggest that it was, in fact, Fortnum & Mason. END.

Afterwards, we had attended the opening of Parliament where Queen Elizabeth II had naturally been present. The Queen had asked the House of Lords to stand and, at that point, they had drawn some heavy red drapes. At this point, there were rituals of an occult nature which were being performed. This had been the custom for centuries and had been nobody’s business. The few priests, who performed the rituals, spoke in an ancient tongue; olde English and Gaelic it would seem.

As part of the ceremony, the queen adopted a raspy, adversarial and tyrannical tone. She snapped at them as they spoke to her. Of course, this was to validate her absolute power as monarch. She had spoken by using the same ancient tongue as they had. Quite illuminating was all this for me. From where we all sat, the monarch sat opposite us at the far end of the stately hall. On the right was the House of Lords.

On the left, was the House of Peers where things were even more arcane and secretive. Clearly, there was much more wealth possessed by the members of the House of Peers than those in the House of Lords; for one, they wore more expensive fur-lined robes. Queen Elizabeth II then stood and put an end to the rituals. When the priests retreated, the curtains rose again and at that point members of both houses of Parliament rose to bow to her majesty, the queen.

The Queen now looked her usual stoical self. Next, a loud debate rang out in the House of Lords; this was the point at which bills were being introduced. All in all, this was a very noisy affair. This was the point at which my London-born lover was expected to have introduced my suit against Rosie O’Donnell. However, he was blowing cold on the issue and tried to back out of it.

What caused him to have hung back was the raucous fight that had broken out between two Lords on some point or other. In point of fact, they had been quite vituperative. Soon after, we took our leave of Westminster Palace. Diana, Princess of Wales was not seated with the rest of the royals. Nor, for that matter, was the more royally scorned Sarah, Duchess of York seated with the royals.

The ride to the department store was no more than ten minutes. Once inside, we had gone some escalators which took us to a cosmetics counter. The look was pretty much like a Clinique counter, though, I really don’t think that it was such. On seeing an extended member of the House of Windsor coming down the aisle towards us, my lover had dropped behind. The focus of my lover’s attention was a rather princely gentleman. He was young with full red lips but not was horsey-looking.

*This princely gentleman was, in fact, James Ogilvy – grandson of the dashing Prince George, Duke of Kent. END.

They exchanged pleasantries and it was clear that my lover was rather smitten with him. I didn’t though get the sense of him, Mr. Ogilvy, that he was Gay. From there, we kept going further down in the complex below street level. Each time that we had come off an escalator, we had headed to the left to get the next. This in turn had taken us down another flight. Eventually, we arrived at a level which was clearly part of the city’s sprawling Underground.

As we walked, there were two little birdlike, old English women whose slow amble gait had gotten me fast impatient. Finally, we managed to have pushed past them and gotten the train just in time. Here we had travelled at fantastic speeds. The trip was for quite some time and, somehow, it seemed as though they used magnetic conductors here in this civilisation. There was a sense too that we had been travelling several miles, at least 100, below the surface.

When finally we had arrived at our destination, we had gotten out into a labyrinth of tunnels which had eventually led above-ground in a Japanese city. We spent not very much time in Japan as it proved a stopover where we changed trains. Moving on, we had travelled on a futuristic-looking train. On board were two stylish, East Indian young women. Both were clearly tired for having travelled a lot and having crossed several time zones. A loud American was on board; she was an overweight woman. As can be expected, she talked aloud for everyone to notice her. She moronically complained about the trains not being aboveground and whined,

“I want it to be aboveground. There’s nothing to see down here. It’s all black and dark.” She said the word ‘black’ with the same customary loathing as she had applied to African-Americans her whole life. “Don’t they realise that there’re lots of tourists and we want to see. It’s so boring being down here in all this blackness.”

‘Such a fucking acculturated bigoted asshole,’ I thought. The train was painted white on the outside with lots of chrome and walnut finishing on the inside. Very comfortable, red leather seats throughout the interior; this was a truly posh experience. We had boarded at the front of the train. We pulled into a station, though, only briefly; the train took off again never having opened its doors. This time it took off in the opposite direction. By now, my lover and I were no longer travelling together; however, I did have a travelling companion with me.

On this leg of the trip, we had moved above-ground at one point where we had passed the most glorious stand of ancient old trees. They were ginkgoes that looked millennia-old. Each was easily in excess of 200 feet. I quite liked it here. Though the vista was beautiful, it didn’t last very long as once again we were below-ground whilst ploughing through the lurching labyrinth of tunnels deep in the earth.

At the end of the trip, we had arrived at a swank hotel which seemed to be in either Switzerland or Austria. From the hotel, my lover and I were reunited and began trying to get in touch with Diana, Princess of Wales. He wanted to write to her instead of speaking so had sent her a fax. Here we were a bit in the future, where everyone was automatically assigned their personal phone number with cell phone/fax.

*Truth be told, rather than a fax, it was a text. Of course, at the point of the dream texting was well ahead of its time. END.

No matter where one was in the world, regardless of the borders, the same phone number managed to get you. Interestingly, they were not excessive amount of numbers. He had sent her a fax (text) with his private number and had asked Diana, Princess of Wales to call him; he had wanted to lend his support in her divorce proceedings.

At one point, when we had been driving, Diana, Princess of Wales opened up and spoke about her divorce from HRH Charles, Prince of Wales. She said that it had left her feeling truly awful. At the end of it, the one thing that she had taken away was the sense that she felt greater empathy for what Blacks suffer globally. Said she, she had gone to a couple of stores to shop, after having been divorced, where the mere salesclerks treated her with scorn.

Nobody wanted to serve her as if she had even been hostile to them. Diana, Princess of Wales said that it had been so overwhelming that in one case she had gone rushing back to her car in tears. For no longer being a part of the ‘Firm’, the public simply treated her as an unfortunate laughing stock. Some clerks had been outright rude to her. She said that she couldn’t believe that anything could have made her so mad.

To have been denied was the most painful experience. They were so mean-spirited and spiteful she claimed. Her voice here was high-pitched and almost feverish when she expressed her rage at the injustices she had experienced. She said that the idea of racial animus that she has heard Blacks speak of, she could finally understand. Diana, Princess of Wales said that she had experienced something pretty close to it in the lack of civility that she had gotten from everyone. Intently looking at her large clear eyes as she spoke, I was much impressed by her remarks. She was rather ravishing-looking and was so in her element for being mother to this exceptional child.

*Long after the dream and as things played out, the male child whom Diana, Princess of Wales had parented in this dream was clearly fathered by Dodi Fayed. Of course, at the time of the dream, I hadn’t a clue of Mr. Fayed’s existence. The precocious boy had his father’s nose and brows.

Clearly, this dream was tuning into a probable reality which finally was not to be. The child was clearly at least fourth level old-souled and may well have been a king or if not warrior soul.

**More thoughts on this dream. The fact that the lawyer who proved a lover of mine in this dream was a redhead, is at this time, I believe, a reference to HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex. As it is extremely rare that I would dream of the latter, it is not a surprise that he was translated here by my waking consciousness as anyone but Prince Harry. Also, in light of the fact that in marrying Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, Prince Harry can be said to be an advocate of sorts for racial reconciliation with regards to the ties that the BRF historically have to the enslavement of Africans. Interestingly, that Diana, Princess of Wales should talk about having empathy for the racism that Blacks experience on a daily basis, is a dead giveaway. The theme of race and racism is a prevalent one where her son, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex is concerned.

For having chosen to wed an entity mate of his (HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex) with whom he has a long reincarnational history and someone who has twice previously been a senior royal in the British Royal Family, is reason enough why the theme of race would be discussed and why Diana, Princess of Wales would be both empathetic and speak passionately about this issue. Naturally, throughout the dream she would be closely bonded with a firstborn male from another marriage; however, rather than being a firstborn of hers in a subsequent marriage, this older soul child would prove to be the firstborn mix-raced child of her son, Prince Harry, who was represented by the redhead lawyer/advocate who happened to be my lover. Indeed, Prince Harry can be seen to be an advocate for addressing and advancing racial dialogue and race relations. Similarly, that his firstborn son, Archie is a seventh-level mature priest soul would indicate someone whose focus in life will be about inspiring, uplift, healing and harmony… god only knows that is sorely needed at this time. END.

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Straighten up and fly right! I love you more than you know…

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Astral Projecting Into Dreamtime.

06.02.201909.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Recently, in the blog: Nancy …. and more, I spoke much of sage entity mate, Milan Newcombe – incidentally, Frans Bloem is also an entity mate. In any event, during that tribute to Nancy Wilson, which also proved a tribute to mature sage entity mate, Milan, I spoke of how for having made love and sleeping together with Milan would frequently trigger the languorous process of astrally projecting from the sleeping body and progressing into the dreamtime whilst remaining lucidly self aware.

Interestingly enough, Jan Hartley whom I encountered on immediately astral projecting is another mature sage soul entity mate of mine and Merlin’s. She is a freak-all fabulous Jamaican amazon, who is just as iconic and statuesque as Grace Jones who happens to be another cadre rather than entity mate. Eden Battersea who appears in said dream, I also dream often of. The energy between us was always simpatico. I think that it is safe to state that Eden is likely an entity mate; however, I have never had her Michael Overleaves channelled.

©Alex Grey

A week prior to these dreams, Milan and I had been to Montréal where we had quite the time at the 350th anniversary celebrations and parade for the continent’s most cosmopolitan French city. At the time of these dreams, it was Monday, May 25, 1992 and the Moon then transited both Pisces and my natal 9th house.

Astral Projected Self-Portrait.

Crayola on Paper

What I love about this self-portrait of myself whilst astrally projected, is that it perfectly depicts what takes place during the process of astral projecting on May 25, 1992. There are many forms that the body takes on during astral projection; as in the self-portrait, in this dream I stayed connected to the physical body by way of the crown chakra rather than the solar plexus chakra. Dream experiences such as these and the process of moving from being fully awakened in the waking state to remaining lucidly focussed into the dreamtime marvellously validate how beautiful it is to be incarnate; we truly are magical beings – and there were no drugs involved in getting one to groove out…

*Prior to sleep, I did a great deal of meditation and energetic work with the crystals. Soon, I became bloated and expansive and fell into a free-flowing awareness. I saw a very large, slow-moving galaxy-like, cluster of spiral light. It slowly rotated and was the most gloriously hypnotic, grounding experience.

At one point, I too felt as though my body was also turning. All sense of the normal parametres bled away and the room and bed seemed to drift away, leaving me slowing turning in the blackness of space. Milan Newcombe was close by, his breathing while already asleep, kept me grounded. Interestingly enough, the transition from this experience into the dreamtime was almost seamless.

Although, at one point, it had become so displacing that I had had to forcefully grab hold of the bed and force myself to sit upright in bed, to come out of the experience. This, of course, caused Milan to stir but he did not awaken. END.

Dream one. I was on a brown and red-covered bed and it was very dark here. Interestingly enough, as the sense of the room about me fell away, I would find myself on this other bed, in a totally different space. I then had an acute awareness of something being there on the bed with me. It was most upsetting.

I could not quite figure out what was going on. It felt like something like a cat but I knew that Whoopi was not about, since I was after all asleep at Milan’s apartment. By the time of the dream, Milan had already gotten up and moved about the apartment. Also I knew that it was not energetically something as terrifying as a snake.

However, it was very uncomfortable and quite weighted as a matter of fact. Felt as though that just below the edge of the futon, on which I slept, that a hole had opened up in the floor, to the right. Seemingly, a hole had in fact opened up in space itself. The wall of the room was as if also impacted with one of these holes.

This one was considerably larger and more powerful than the one on the floor. Sequentially, it had also appeared after the one on the floor. This thing was so ominous that I felt as though, were I to have gotten up, it would have simply sucked me into its vortex. I knew intuitively that were I to have fallen into its pull, I’d have fallen to my death.

There was a strong sense of them being a black void and very ominous but one which I could not quite see. Simultaneously, my body felt so ridiculously bloated. I just hated the way that my body felt, I literally felt trapped in my own body. I simply wanted to get out of the shell of my body.

At that, I willed my self to get out, to get up. Impatient with the feeling of being weighed down, I decided to astrally project, to move beyond my body. Decided that I had had more than enough of this feeling of being helpless and entrapped by my own, leaden, bloated body. Struggling, I pushed against my own body.

It was as if the blackhole which had manifested beside the bed had so much gravity that it was literally crushing my body. My chest and entire body felt as though leaden, as if strapped in to the bed. I simply could not get up. Since my physical body could not get up, I impatiently said, “Well fuck, I’m going to get up.”

It’s as though, I had been infused by Milan’s very intense nonconformist energy, for which I do so truly love him. “No, Arvin. I have simply got to get up. I will not suffer this.”

With herculean effort, I willed myself to a crouched position then made my way down to the foot of the bed. Turning around, I was surprised to see that my body was still lying, a very slow-breathing shell of a space. Knew immediately that I was astral projecting and did not have to freak out, thinking that this was my death. I also did not want to have to see my body and become overly focussed on it, so that I could really trip out, as it were.

Turning around, I got up, keeping my back turned to my body. When I got up, I was still aware of the great void being there. There was a heavy bleed of energy out the crown chakra, atop my head. This was as if I had the crown of a baobab coming from my head’s crown chakra but a baobab of light energy.

It was funnel-like and spiralled out, then moved back down and outwards, before veering off to behind me to my body, lying asleep on the bed. What was really interesting about the vortices’ energy, was that they had warped the funnel of light energy, out and towards them, before it was then trailed back down to my body. It had the appearance of a not fully vertical tornado that manages to swirl way off its central axis, in the cloud, before making contact with ground.

Getting up, I started walking deliberately, as though in slow motion. Moving with focussed intent, I managed to effortlessly move through the closed french doors, in Milan’s Spadina Avenue two-storey apartment and crossed the hallway into the kitchen. The further I got from the french doors and the magnetic black holes, the lighter I became and the easier it was to manipulate in my light body. I had gone there in the first place to collect messages from the answering machine, as I knew that Pandora had tried to call me from Paris, in the waking state, while I slept.

Who should be in the kitchen but Eden Battersea and Jan Hartley, both Black Jamaicans from the work environment. Jan was very much so in charge and in her element, as she cooked and Eden tidied up the rest of the kitchen. It was also unusually dark here, just as it was in the bedroom, where the holes seemed to suck so much of the light from the room. Eden was by the fridge, except that there was more space at the counter beside the phone and fridge.

Eden was there making a sandwich of some sort. Jan was at the table, chopping of things as she had pots going on the stove, preparing food. She was quite warm and friendly, energetically greeting me. I went to the answering machine to check and see if in fact Pandora had yet called from Paris.

However, there were some problems because I could not find the buttons to start playback of the messages. It was also a quite different machine to the one from the waking state. Now, it was an elongated black and brown affair, very unusual-looking. Jan soon joined me in trying to figure out, how the devil to figure the workings of the thing.

But then she turned and looking into my face said, from under furrowed brows. “Buh chile ah wha rang wid ounu face. Chile yu muss tekk kare ah yur face an ting no man.” At that, she drew closer, putting her hand over my face.

Though she did not squeeze or anything, she then said in that loud Jamaican voice of hers, “Clean it way ma…” I then rubbed my fingers across my nose, thinking of things in the waking state.

*Presently I do have a bad cold in the waking state. There have also been lots of problems since I began growing in my moustache, clogged pours more often than not, turning into puss-filled zits. Ick! I suffer from a patch of ingrown follicles at the same spot in the moustache.

Every time I shave it down, it then gets problematic and soon enough gets infected and puss filled thanks to naturally curly black hair becoming ingrown. Charmant. This, of course, because I also have such legendary oily skin. END.

Cleaning my face with a napkin from the counter top, I would see all this puss on my face. I was stunned by how realistic it all was. Jan was so protectively nurturing of me. Then she began rambling away in Jamaican patois, about not having any trust in technological appliances.

She threatened to send it off to the states where she would have two of her sons, fix it up for her. Finally, she could not be bothered, so was not going to do anything about it. Thoroughly enjoyed her energy. Going up on this ladder, I went up onto a stand, in the kitchen.

This was when I realised that the answering machine was connected to another machine; a black box which had these long beaker-like tubes. They were much like the tubes in the old radios. A little red spark of laser light, powered the machinery. Asked Jan if there were not any calls that had come through for me.

Eden then turned around, looking over her right shoulder at me, when answering, “Sorette, or Soret I think it was, called.”

“No you mean Pandora, don’t you?”

“No, I’m quite sure the machine said Saurette.” Finally, we figured out how the bloody machine worked and it was a strange one indeed. Somehow, the calls were being routed off-planet, not as to satellites, but to another Star system. So I thought that perhaps Saurette was the name of a Star from which the messages came.

Thus it was a static-saturated trunk call but one which was travelling through hyper space. Very interesting. Eventually, we got to a message from Pandora, in which she was saying that she would meet me later. She let me know that she was okay and had gotten my message without any trouble.

i then announced that I was going to go back out to the salon, which is Milan’s quarter of the house. Told them that I was planning to go get dressed and go out and meet Pandora. It was then that I noticed that there was a pair of shorts that I’d left behind at Milan’s, sometime before. More importantly, the clothes that I slept in were there but discarded since of course I was in an out-of-body state.

They were the clothes I wanted to put on anyway. An extra pair of pants sat about; they were jeans. I was surprised to see that I had left so many clothes laying around at Milan’s place. They laid across a chaise longue much like Milan has.

A bed, very shortened, sat on this mattress frame. I had been on it before. Jan came in and took it up, banging it against the mattress frame, shaking it out. I helped her move it, after she asked that I give her a hand.

We moved it from the outer room, which looks out onto Spadina Avenue to the salon where the harpsichord sits. The space was like Milan’s apartment but much larger and much more furnished with antiques. Even here, it was more cluttered than Milan’s beautifully eclectic space. We took it out to the inner salon which here was like a dining room space.

There was another bed there with no mattress, which we were going to go use. We were both barefooted at the time, when she noticed that there was broken shards of a mirror, which were laying about on the floor. Some were even on the wooden bed frame. A medium tone wood, it definitely was not a dark wood.

Jan kicked away the shard with her right big toe. When I told her to be careful she boisterously chimed, “Me na kno say ma? Me knoe man, me knoe say ah so de sinting go. Yu ha fe wartch yur self too chile.”

Jan was so refreshingly good to be around. Really, it was quite a pleasure to have helped her out and drink of her spirit. At this point, I was fully dressed, then announced to her, in a convincing Jamaican accent, “Yeah me dear, me garn gu lang dong ya su, fe book up pan me sista an dem.”

She cackled, enjoying my accent then affectionately waved me off, “Okay den chile, laita on, fu uknu.” As I walked, I began going through the closed french doors of the salon. I effortlessly moved through them as before.

Dream two. In an instant from effortlessly passing through the closed glass French doors, I was posited out on the side of this very, very wide boulevard, in broad daylight. Even for me, a seasoned adept at the exigencies of the dreamtime’s pandimensionality, it was a surprising transition. In an instantaneous puff, there I was, elsewhere. I had materialised along this boulevard, which had no vehicular traffic whatsoever.

The thing about this transition was that I had total and clear lucid continuity of consciousness whilst moving from one dream locale to the next. What was even more bizarre about this, was that I was striding westwards going through the closed door. In an instant, my stride continued but now I was going eastwards, in the opposite direction. It was light out whilst in the company of half a dozen men, who were wearing green overalls.

It was militia garb, tucked into very long, thick riding boots. With them, they carried long black, billy clubs like the London Bobbies. I had also materialised in the presence of Penina, Pericles, Pandora, Isha, all my siblings except as per usual, Rio. It is rare that I ever dream of this man, even in childhood when he was around.

Pericles was wearing a brown silk shirt, over his brown, baggy slacks; he looked very dapper. Terribly elegant and very refined with himself, as well he is. Pandora wore a long flowing skirt that was pleated. White, it was covered with beautiful floral designs in blue and red.

Tiny rose petals, in fact, they were. She wore a navy blue jacket with gold buttons that looked like the classic Chanel suit. Very large-buttoned, this beautiful suit truly was elegant. Isha wore a similar suit but there was more colour and flare in her suit.

A less conservative approach than Pandora’s was Isha’s. Penina’s outfit, I cannot even now recall. Undoubtedly, it was not some overdone number, very low key, as is her style. Functional and comfortable, her criteria.

Incidentally, the secondary players in this dream were Pandora and Pericles. On my arrival, I saw this guy and immediately thought of Karl Weller°, from the work environment. Looking into his face, I said to him, “My god, I thought that you’d have been taller.” We were standing on an incline but were face-to-face.

On closer inspection, when looking in his face, I realised how more so he looked like John Milachek. He looked at me with this look on his face, which was so loving and filled with longing for me. Throughout, he remained silent, never once having said a word. Again, I told him that I thought that he’d have been taller.

He was one of the soldier-militiamen, so that was why he could not get too engaged with me. Though he never reciprocated, it was obvious that the feelings were mutual. Another guardsman passingly seemed like Milan; however, I had not spent much time looking at him. There was an obvious, loving bond between us.

This was also about acknowledging the fact that we had just met in the waking state. But it was all done without words; rather, it was done at the level of soul. It was very electric between us. So thrilled was I that I broke into song, singing and winding up me waist and celebrating.

I wind up on the other guy who passingly reminded me of Milan, without giving so much as a damn what others were going to say. My lips pursed, my arsed cock high, out and ready. Yes indeed, I was ready to rock and in heat, too. Pericles sucked his teeth in disgust, turning away from me, saying, “He’s becoming more and more of a problem.

“And a total embarrassment for this family. I just do not know how we can put up with this. Look, what am I doing here anyway?” Turning around on my heels, I grabbed the long riding whip, from a guy and violently struck Pericles, booming into him, “Shut up!

“I’ll have none of this. I have every intention of expressing who I am and being who the fuck, I am. I’m not intent on pleasing you or anybody.” With that, I continued my frenetic attack on him, whipping him into shape as it were.

“Shut your narrow-minded ass, the fuck up!” Forcefully, I cut him down to size and laid into him, all eyes, whip and rage, “I will have abso-fucking-lutely, none of this. You own nothing here, nor are you running anything. You’re not doing anything, except as per usual to stand here on the sidelines, passing judgment.

“That’s all you ever do. So shut the fuck up!” I was truly livid with him or anyone trying to rein me in. Incensed at this sphinctered rigidity, I abruptly took my leave, turning back to head across the extra wide, deserted

Dream three. Almost immediately, it became the lane up Crab Hill next to our house there. This lane, of course, separated us from the very disputatious Florence Pole°. Just as before, while in the midst of my stride, I was posited from one locale to the next. Again, much was different here.

Though there was continuity of lucid awareness, it had also transformed from bright daylight, to the stark finality of night time. When I came down to the road, the McHughs’ house was there. Going out into the street, I was surprised to find that it was considerably wider than in the waking state. There were lots of ancient-looking bas relief. This was so stunningly incredible. Thus the effect was one of her legs seemed improperly attached to her body. This was all about getting to a Space of Spirit and Intellect, where one was then free to creatively explore.

This was in essence a creative incubator, at the level of the astral plane. After all, everything about this experience from the projection out of my body, lying there asleep behind me, was truly about ascending to a higher stratum of the astral plane. This abandonment was so mind warpingly complex, yet paradoxically simple in its sheer eloquence, that all I could do was throw my head back and riotously laugh. Along with myself, there were other waking state locals there experiencing this as spectators.

We were getting such a high at what these great masters could pull off. It was as if, prior to setting out on their impactful incarnations, this is the astral school where souls like Martha Graham and George Balanchine° went to master their creative expressionism. Quite simply, this was the school where great masters went to work it out, before reincarnating with an agendum to take the world by visionary, revolutionary, creative expressionistic storm. Everyone of these people would evolve the art and styles would be created as a result of these souls attending this astral plane school of high priestdom.

This is the only way to describe the scope of this realm’s essence. These were a very august-souled people, who were mastering their art. The art of pure creative expressionism. They then announced, “Okay, okay, okay.

“Here comes the other guys.” This led to the introduction to the opposing team of players. One of them was seemingly the ancestral forebear of the McHughs, our Crab Hill neighbours. There were obviously a great many Europeans in the McHughs’ family tree, on Baron McHugh’s side.

The matriarch on the father’s side was then brought out of the McHughs and proved a very skeletal, ancient white. She had apparently had a double mastectomy. Very senior easily centuries old-looking, she was borne up by a couple of attendants, who were of Amerindian descent. Everybody then started laughing, all the players on both teams, because she was so full of fear.

She was possessed of an enormous amount of sexual guilt because of her nakedness. Her body was truly bizarre. It was quite concave; it was collapsed in on itself and birdlike. When it got down to the hips, they disproportionately ballooned.

Quite simply, she had a hideous mess for a body. More to the point, it was all about how very uncomfortable some persons in the waking state, of southern Eurpean cultural heritage, are so guilt-ridden. This is about how they see sex as being base and dirty. As a result, such persons become so acutely uncomfortable in their bodies.

There was another white who passed by in a blue and white muu-muu. It was hard to tell which sex the individual was. What was really interesting about this all, is the fact that the McHugh matriarch had been initially clothed, then stripped naked. This is what had caused her such distress.

For being so absurd in her self-denial, the others who were perfectly at ease with their nakedness, had begun laughing at the bizarreness of her. She was lost in her beliefs. The person went down between the McHughs and Saunders residences. Two of the most grotesque thighs supported the gargantuanly hideous body.

They were stubby little legs under this grotesquely bloated body. If that were not enough, there was then a third Caucasian who looked like one of those early washing machines, from the 1950s. The ones that had the roll wringers atop the round-lidded container. This individual was Boteroesque in the true sense of the word.

Very baby-souled, indeed, in focus. Totally ill-proportioned and as well completely ashamed of their bodies. They were so not into their bodies, that they were resoundingly subjected to ridicule. They were a moment of Comedia dell’Arte.

At that, I turned around and walked across the street heading as if towards Florence Pole’s verandah. There were many more steps up to the verandah, which here was quite raised off the ground. Going up on the steps, there were several of the naked giant people seated there, who were laughing their heads off at these freaks of daymare fare. Not everyone was naked however.

Going up on the last step, I sat down to the right, passing this woman. On sitting down, I’d looked down into her eyes, with her on my left. Ahead of me there was a guy standing up, who could have been earlier seated where I now sat. The woman turned out to be pretty much so like the actor Kathy Bates, trying to verify, I called out the name, “Kathy Bates.

“Hi, how are you? You know that year, the Oscars were such a low-key affair and then there you were, breezing in with a spectacular win. You were so refreshing and it was so refreshing. Look, I’m really happy for you.”

She energetically thanked me. Kathy wore a brown large blouse. Refreshingly, she wore no make-up whatsoever, a lot like that other grounded actor, Tyne Daley that way. She was so refreshingly real and normal.

Very clear, strong brown eyes, that were totally self-possessed, centred and contented. Good for her. The skirt matched the blouse, both covered in these daisies in various stages of maturation from bud to full bloom, then on to withering expiration. Some were tight buds, buds breaking open.

Daisies opening, others still in full bloom, still others past their prime. Some after their zenith, some with three or four petals left. A few still with only one withered petal left and some more with nothing but a petal-naked seed pod. There were all very tiny, all the full bloom daisies less than one third the size of a dime.

Quite a beautiful ensemble and I rather admired it while we spoke, from time to time pulling away from the unobstructed beauty of her warm eyes, to look at them. Even for me, it was a bit humbling to have to look into so serene a pair of eyes. Excitedly she called out to a man who was down below the steps, who turned out to be her husband. Energetically, she had him come up and join us.

He was a stout man and he reminded me of the actor, Jeffrey Jones, who played emperor Franz Joseph in the cinematic tour de force Amadeus. He carried a wonderful little child who had the sweetest, sunniest disposition. The husband did, though, have a rather distended stomach. At one point, she got up and went to sit on the edge of the verandah.

I knew that she had gone there because she had found my eye contact a tad too direct, which it always is, whether in the waking state or dreamtime. She had kept on looking away, for no other reason than that my gaze was a bit too intense. I was not upset by it, accepting her choice. Alas, it was not the end of the world.

Her husband remained where he was, originally on her right, with the boy. He was excitedly speaking about what the naked giants were able to pull off with their bodies. He seemed about 37 years old and undoubtedly an actor; theatre or perhaps an acting coach. They were a really refreshing group of persons to be around.

It turns out that they were mostly white on the steps. The boy sat on his father’s lap, wearing a sunny shirt to match his wonderful personality. It was covered throughout with sunflowers in bloom. This little man had such beautiful little teeth, against his generous gums.

Perfect teeth, on the four year old. His hair was brown to black, with a beautiful natural oily sheen to it but one that was not problematic, falling in a bang on his forehead. He had such beautiful, smiling sunny eyes. God it was breathtaking to look at him because here was a soul incarnate in the most sunny of childhoods.

Spectacular! He was happy and a precocious, charmer. As I looked at him and he was smiling, he suddenly got dead serious on making eye contact with me. Time seemed to stand still as the most intense fusion occurred between us; it was really quite powerful.

“I wonder if you are Merlin?” I thought to myself whilst reciprocally looking directly into his. He looked at me saying absolutely nothing, his lips pursed, knowing, then broke into the most glorious, knowing laughter. It was as if to say, “Well, you tell me. What do you think?”

It was very direct and very connected. With that, I reached out to him, rubbed his little thighs, to which he giggled with utter abandon. This child asked so many questions, of adults who actually took the time to be there for him and not relegate him as a bit player in their agenda. Very impressive parenting approach, to which he was focussed.

Goodness, this kid was so filled with life, positive life. Good for him. Kathy Bates then leaned forward, asking after me. She then drew to my attention, the vista across the way where our Crab Hill house used to be.

There had been a fire, burning the entire structure to the ground. Apparently, it was arson but the saving grace was reconnecting with the genip tree, which though considerably larger, towered seemingly more so, without the grounding of the house. The trunk was so thick that I squealed with delight, letting everyone know that I was the one who had planted the mango tree. It had been singed on one side, during the fire.

Remarkably, it had survived the fire and not burnt down, for which I was grateful. Looking across the street to the McHughs’ yard where their truck used to be, there was now a majestic poplar tree and in St. Kitts at that but it was quite sturdy and strong. Quite handsome and though thin-trunked, I was quite pleased to see it in these parts. It was not unlike a columnal oak, spiralling up as it did.

Every time that the breeze blew through it, the leaves rustled, beautifully laughing; it was the most exquisite drink. It affected a great tranquillity to the evolved Chi of the place. Standing up, the steps were quite high, as I looked down into the road. As a matter of fact, the lane was considerably wider and being used here as a street.

At that point, I saw Pericles, Isha and Pandora. I had pulled up my leg, on seeing this young black boy. He was beautifully dark-skinned and slightly over weight. As he walked towards us, on noticing Whites on the step, he immediately became very subdued and self-conscious.

As a matter of fact, he was quite afraid of being taunted and harassed by whites.

*Which finally is a reality that all blacks experience, with varying degrees of intensity and frequency. It was all about the psychic abuse that one is perpetually subjected to. Outright ridicule, crossing to the other side of the street, women clutching their handbags. Being sniffed at rudely and spat at with cutting aggressiveness.

Nasty, animalistic behaviour, all of it. Aggression that is daily perpetuated, to justify the absurdism of their arbitrary superiority. Finally, their acute insecurity about being arbitrarily superior. A very mad, twisted little World that we all inhabit, in the waking state: both blacks and whites, for its a displacement of spirit that we are as if unable to constructively address and affect.

Quite interesting to experience this degree of WST (waking state transference) and I really reached out compassionately to the young black man. Finally, I knew that I could only do so much for him; he would have to make his own way. Penina then came over, bearing this pair of pants that was on a hanger. It came with a pair of briefs attached inside.

She instructed the young boy. She was letting him know that it was time for him to go run the race and she had not spent all this time coaching him, for him not to win. She was her usual feisty self. Humorously, she went about bolstering his spirits.

It served to pull him away from the vortex of predatory racial animus that he was succumbing to. This exactly was what he needed then and there, being spirited away from the black hole of racism. This was about the debilitating effects of racism on black males in the waking state. Excusing myself, I said, “Oh good, there is Pandora.

“Allow me, to go down and greet Pandora, again.” Rushing down, she beamed at me as we warmly greeted each other. Wrapping arms about the other’s waist, we walked away with her on my immediate left. Languorously, we had kept directly looking into each other’s eyes.

You could feel the mostly white waking state humans back on the steps, admiringly looking on at us. Pericles was coming towards us and it was obvious that he could not be avoided. However, we lapsed back into looking into each other’s eyes, in that way snubbing him, letting him know that we had no intention of acknowledging his narrow-minded energy. He was royally pissed off at that, as well he should have.

Finally, we did not care for his arrogance. Isha was there with Gina Morton and some other girlie friends, ponging ‘tory, as is their wont. Hurriedly, I invited Pandora to come along, at which point we walked around the road past the Crab Hill property. I was supposedly taking her to the poplar tree.

Dream four. Yet again things immediately shifted and now it was an entire city block, which was not like anything in Crab Hill at all. Turns out, this strange city had been burnt completely to the ground. Quite so, it seemed to be an industrial complex, with all these exposed frame work of the larger buildings. Many of the skyscrapers here still had their steel ribbing in tact.

It was all very garish a sight. As we crossed, I pointed out all the exposed pipes and burnt out wood everywhere. Somehow, many of these wasted structures had become organically transformed. The wooden beams were now exposed, black charcoaled sculptural signatures.

In one locale, a set of pipes came up out of the ground. Conscientiously, I pointed out that we had better get out of there. My concern was that the pipes were bleeding gas, which was not only invisible but unscented as well. Noticed as I inspected that one of the pipes had a heat vapour rising from where it was broken; this was not a good sign.

So we decided to turn right, heading down this off-street from the major thoroughfare. Along it, there were lots of exposed pieces of plastics which were mixed into the mortar along the side of the road. It was quite interesting to see how this civilisation chose to recycle its plastics, burying them in the mixture to help make more affordable and durable roads. The road did incline downwards as we went along it.

This then took us to this large, old wooden building, which still stood. It was pink with louvres which covered the outside, where just inside there was a verandah with an indoor garden. Glass louvres shut out the elements allowing the plants to grow healthily. But in the very last apartment, I noticed that there were two of them that were totally abandoned.

I was thinking at the time that we could easily move into them. Fixed up, they’d prove wonderful large apartments and a wonderful place to live. Saw no reason why we could not fix them up and end up getting good rates for them, on resale. Arriving at the last apartment, I excitedly announced to Pandora, that it was where Hélène Plotte-de Visage lived.

We were able to peer inside the apartment. It was reminiscent of the cottage that she owned on Ontario Street; however, this was differently laid out. It was then and there that I recalled being there to visit with her, earlier in another dream. It was a beautiful apartment, laid out so that it was like a stage set, on several levels.

No walls just different levels, adding a sense of spaciousness to the space. A piano then began playing, which was soon accompanied by a chorus of singing kids. Realised then that she was a pianist and a school teacher to these kids. We went walking past as Hélène got up to sing a Christmas carol, which they were rehearsing, at all of summertime.

To hear the carol at summertime, reminded Pandora and I simultaneously of our childhood Christmases in Crab Hill, where it was of course a perpetual summer. Looking at each other, we had a moment of true intimacy, smiling lovingly at each other. We were so moved that we sweetly laughed whilst enjoying the tight groove that only the two of us, could have fathomed then and there. Hélène’s apartment was at the end of the complex, that led to a wonderful garden, to the side of the building.

Here the road dead-ended into this beautiful large park. There was a road that ran east-west, because we had gone due south, along the road. The east-west street presented us with a choice and I suggested that we go right and so we did. We walked on the south side of the street, which inclined, with the park close by.

We’d originally turned right to get onto this street. We crossed to the north side to get on the same side of the street as the park. When we got up, this street dead-ended into a plaza before the park. There were lots of people just hanging out, kicking back.

Here, it was very mellow. Mostly, they seemed to be a bunch of hippies, with several of them wearing the same high-riding boots. Though the garb bordered on that of some skinheads, they were, however, not such persons. A long backed, high-yellow woman was there with her family.

She had two daughters and a son. One of the daughters had great potentials of becoming a spectacular model. She did look not unlike the East Indian-German, beauteous supermodel Yasmine Ghauri, though, a younger version. She wore a blue bathing suit, which I noticed when she got up off the picnic blanket to stretch out.

They were in our way but not obtrusively so. We continued along and happened on these very young-souled Americans. We instinctively held on tighter to each other because these people were so aggressively young-souled. It was fairly obvious to us that we were likely to be at least verbally attacked by them.

Thus we chose to shield ourselves from their potentially stinging sarcasm. As we moved along, I was amazed to find that one person to our left, in passing, was Bruno Lambsdorff. Saw another young, high-yellow girl because she so reminded me of Martha Wexler, I called out to her. She wore a white silk blouse.

When we came over, she joined us immediately, holding hands with us and walking between Pandora and me. A dark-complected black girl then came up, whose hair was braided. The other’s hair, like Pandora’s was gathered back in a loose bun. So too was mine, for that matter.

As we intimately progressed, enjoying each other’s company, we were aware of the onlookers, trying to fathom the extent and nature of our connection. It was as though to them, the high-yellow girl was too beautiful to be an offspring or sibling of ours. Most of all, we were gathered thus to shield and protect ourselves against the vicissitudes of rough-going racial animus that foamingly swirled about us. Arriving in the plaza area, the two girls had these yellow-handled camcorders.

The rest of the tiny machines were black, which they placed over their eyes, with their right hands, to begin filming away. Isha started dancing, at which point, I suggested that Pandora ought to go join in the dance. Myself, I let them know that I was unsure whether or not I wanted to be dancing. Pandora was decked out in these high heels, doing these wonderful, elegant movements.

Isha, quite out of character, was also wearing high heels. She was dancing away to which I added, by energetically scatting away. Soon enough, people started materialising, to check out our performance but I, however, did not want to be so hemmed in. Further, I suggested that they visit while I head off to explore some more.

Pandora, however, decided that she wanted to continue along, in my company, so I galdly accepted her offer.

Dream five. We headed off and soon got aboard this tour bus, where there were all these Japanese persons. We began reading this book together; that famous Hindu book of worship. It was a new version of it. It had been updated, because a new religion had recently been born to the world.

This was all very scary for us, as we read on. It spoke about after the history of things. Accordingly, after Lord Buddha there was the ambisexual Buddha, which did not make much sense. So I read the fine print of this blue covered text, of religious writings.

Here there were poems and historical accounts of events. There were excerpts from the Lotus Sutra to the front, of the text, with newer religions in the middle section of the publication. The end of the book, spoke of this new religion’s rise. It informed that the Great Master was known to have been born in Israel.

The complete statistics of his birth, astrologically, were listed. At the time, all that I could think was that he was implying that the reborn Christ was going to be reborn in Israel. Twice in a row, I thought. Talk about lightning striking twice.

This of course was a reference to Christ who had long come and gone but interestingly enough, he was referred then as the Buddha. This was very current; the moment that we stepped on board the bus. The bus seemed to be on Canada’s west coast. This was a very densely populous Asian city.

There were also a ton of whites here, as well. They also had very thick Australian accents. I found it all so bizarre that anyone could so casually be sitting around reading this book. But almost everyone on the bus was.

These people were very young-souled and frenetic. Pandora and I were the only blacks here. Incidentally, who should be on board but a blond guy, who was wearing shorts. He was Australian and stood there, looking down at me because I was reading the book.

Soon, he leapt into this whole sermon that was of a religious, fundamentalist bent. He was, though, not a Christian fundamentalist but a zealous devotee of this newly formed world religion. These people were terribly zealous and went about trying to confiscate the book, from so many people who were on the bus. It just was not right.

I fast blew my cool and leapt to my feet, “Hey now, wait a minute! You have no such, fucking right. Stop it!” The incredible thing about this dream too, was that one had to have a tattoo of the national flag of one’s country of origin.

It was then that I knew that they were definitely from Australia. The Asian tourists meanwhile were very young-souled but younger still than the zealous Australians. They all stood there on the bus, holding it hostage for many people. Stealthily, Pandora had gotten up and charmingly excused herself from the bus.

When I had turned to say something to her, found out that she was nowhere at hand. An Asian man now sat next to me, whose face much reminded me of Rio’s. He was however Chinese and very fat-faced and his face was ravaged by acne. They were eating quite ravenously together but soon it turned out that they could not digest food because they would immediately throw up after eating.

The windows on the bus, were constantly being opened, allowing them the chance to throw up their food. They were like babies whose digestive system were not yet fully developed. This was clearly a reference to where these people were at reincarnationally. They were quite simply a bus load of baby-souled tourists.

One couple had actually had to stick their baby out the window, in a bid to have it fully throw up everything, along with its parents. I was so fucking incensed and had no intention of idly sitting by and tolerate any of this repressive outrageous shit. Shrieking at the standing Australians, I let loose, “Damn it, get off the bus! With your fucking, goddamn-assed insolence… get off!”

At that, I began taking the books, anything and forcefully began ejecting them. When that couple had put out the baby to throw up, a large group of people; mostly whites, had begun piling onto the bus. Some were also Australians but different to the original group of fanatics already on board. The Australian fanatic who had started the attack wore these silver-rimmed glasses, which did not contain the wild intensity of his close-set eyes.

He was tall, wearing unusually short, cut-off jeans. On his thigh was the tattooed flag. The pants were quite ripped up, completing the look were his weathered Birkenstocks. He wore a large backpack, over top his cut-off-sleeved shirt.

This man was very arrogantly blind in his young-souled awareness. Quite gung ho as a matter of fact was he. Of the new arrivals a white couple stood out. The man was so pale-skinned that his near white completion made him glow in the intense light; it was incredible.

He carried a baby of about six months old. Both father and child had unusually large heads, with the child being just as pale as him. At the time, all I could think of was Srivatsan Gurucharan. They were in profile, on the steps at the front of the bus, waiting for others ahead of them to settle in, before they could properly enter.

The East Asians on the first set of seats, had had to put out their child to throw up. During emergencies the windows could be opened from the bottom, which is exactly what was being done. The windows were extended to a maximum of forty five degrees, allowing just enough room for an infant to be shoved through, to vomit. The father held the child by the armpits and the crotch in a diving position so that it could throw up.

And boy did the infant ever go on a binge. Everybody here, had these little bowls that they ate what seemed steamed bamboo shoots and other foods. For some strange reason, all of these adults lacked the capacity to fully digest their food. Pretty soon, I was beating the living shit out of everyone on the bus.

Simply could not tolerate having any of this shit go down. My main target was the bespectacled zealot. Grabbing him, I began kicking and shoving him, to get him off the bus, all the while screaming expletives at him, “How dear you? Get out of here, with your fucking goddamn-assed, stupidity and damn insensitivity!

“Get out!” Using the book, I whipped, pushed and kicked all of them, out of my sight. Frankly, I was surprised at my own behaviour. I had not a clue where I was getting all this energy from.

Just could not tolerate their stinking insolence. They were completely stunned by my energy. They themselves, knew in their heart of hearts that I was wrong. After all I was black, not an Australian.

Though they could not deny my eloquence and greater awareness. Honey chile, I was one wrongly provoked, coloured queen, in this experience. Was going to have none of this shit. Soon enough, I got all of them off the bus.

Those who did not get forcefully ejected, did themselves some good and scurried out of there, knowing that all hell had broken loose and I would come after them too. They knew only too well that this bus was not going anywhere, as long as there was one irate coloured queen on board. You simply had to bail out, toute de suite. We soon got off, when I realised this guy who was seated next to me, was not in fact Pandora.

I went outside in search of her, going up the road. Then when I returned sometime later, realised that the front of the bus had this large staircase leading up to it. The bus driver then called out to me, asking if I was coming along or not. Now the bus was more so like a Hovercraft rather than a bus.

This was a rather long transport and definitely not a bus, though, not a train. So, perhaps, these persons had been throwing up earlier, due to possible sea sickness. Although I do doubt very much, if this were the case. I think rather that this had much to do with the fact that this had everything to do with their being baby and early-young souls.

Dream six. I then went up this hill, where there were lots of tall, beautiful old-souled looking trees. There I found Pandora and she had said very sleepily that she did not think that she wanted to go along after all. She encouraged me to do so but surely I did not have to stay with her. She was being very introspective, claiming that she would rather be alone.

Reassuringly, she let me know that we woud doubtless reconnect later on. She was being accommodatingly amiable. I then went up and climbed over this banister, to get up this iron plank. As I did so, there was a fat, stubby-legged, lobster red, tanned Australian coming off.

He was coming off the transport and passing him, I brushed back my hand forcefully, saying, “Come on, get off the damn thing and get going.” At that, he was sent rumbling down the ramp, though, he had been trying his Jurassic best to inch down, fearful as he was, of possibly falling. I then got back aboard the transport, which when inside seemed, conventionally enough, to be a bus. Settled in again, my stomach lurched at the intense smell of all the vomit everywhere.

It was then that I wondered, if my being on the bus, meant that I too was a very young soul, a la baby or early-young soul at the most. Possibly not even young-souled as yet. I had always thought myself a much older soul than that. After all, look at the degree to which I dream.

On further reflection, I thought that perhaps I was mature-souled. For one, the dreaming suggested as much. Furthermore, mature souls tend to be plunked down in the mire of baby and young souls, who try their every which nerve. Seeking some air, I had turned to open up the window, only to have the smell slap me in the face.

The stench was even worse when I shoved open the window. An up draught brought the putrid smell of vomit on the ground, outside the window, high up my sinuses. Overwhelmed, I decided to awake and be rid of the stench.

*Interestingly enough, when the book spoke about the Ambisexual Buddha, it was clearly speaking of Christ. The dates for his birth, were not using the Julian calendar. It was clearly the Jewish calendar. However this was clearly a reference to Christ.

Here, he was depicted as being very lusty, passionate, with a strong martial element to his body, all of which was borne out by his chart, whose statistics were included. This made absolute sense to me; after all, how could it not have been the case. This was a king soul on his last life. As someone at the penultimate level of old souldom, he would have been very casual and indifferent to the gender preference with regards to matters of intimacy.

All he would have seen was a soul incarnate, a soul which innately has no sex. Certainly, there must have been some physical intimacy between him and the prostitute, Mary Magdalene. In this way he would want to show her acceptance, as well to heal her of any bitterness or guilt she may feel for being a social outcast. How too, could he not have had some moments of physical intimacy with some of the more passionate, older-souled members of his disciples.

Same-sex experiences have always been part of the human condition and certainly the incidence of male same-sex experience, has been widely documented in Middle Eastern cultures.

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To paraphrase Scotiabank: you are more magical than you realise! Put away the crutches and excuses, take a deep breath, accept that you are phenomenal and deserving, let go, move within and start living the magical wonder that is you… and don’t forget to push off and start flying.

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Gosh That Was Fun!

26.11.201809.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Hot Rhythm.

05.02.201707.12.2024 Arvin da Brgha1 Comment

Hot Rhythm

Oil on Canvas

40 x 48 inc

Provenance: Chicago History Museum.

Love this rousing masterpiece!

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Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Category: Realism

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Hot Rhythm.