To Be A Princess, You Have to Be Born A Princess!

Meghan Discusses the George V Convention re: Titles/Styles

The purpose of this blog is to address the runaway assumptions, effrontery… ignorance of many of the Sussexes’ supporters, #sussexsquad who insist on referring to Meghan as Princess Meghan. If you are going to be focussed on a subject, any subject, do know about whom or what you speak or you simply lose credibility and are dismissed as ignorant and a waste of time. Blindly referring to Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex as Princess Meghan serves to incite animus towards and ridicule of both Meghan and Harry. For all that they have been through and all that they have survived, just please show both humans their due respect by correctly referring to Meghan as she is correctly styled: Meghan, HRH The Duchess of Sussex – the HRH style was agreed to not to be used as part of the Sandringham summit in early 2020. She was not born a princess, therefore it is a disservice to her and those so born to refer to her as Princess Meghan.

To Be A Princess, You Have to Born A Princess

Into that sparkling May sunshine in 2018, Meghan walked into St. George’s Chapel and remained unaccompanied up the aisle until she was escorted by then HRH Prince Charles, The Prince of Wales, her father-in-law. She walked in born a commoner, a self-made, independent woman, an American, a Black American. To be a princess, Meghan would have to have been born to a prince, Queen or King. It is a great disservice to Meghan, if you are truly a supporter of hers and respect her, to doggedly insist on referring to her as Princess Meghan.

Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex

Meghan has never once referred to herself as princess. When did any of you, #sussexsquad, hear Meghan refer to herself as princess or Princess Meghan? Meghan knows the importance of these things and would never incur further animus by doing any such thing; to do so, would further embolden the racially predatory detractors to increase their attacks on her and question her credibility. I do know, however, that a lot of animus towards Meghan comes from royalists, especially those in the UK and Commonwealth, who watch Meghan being referred to as Princess Meghan when this is not the case, all thanks to #squaddies thinking that they have a damn right to inflame already febrile animus towards Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex of whom one claims to be a supporter.

Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex

Honestly, you don’t get to decide that Meghan is Princess Meghan because you are American and no one is going to tell you what to call her. You, whether supporter #sussexsquad or detractor do not own Meghan! She is a human being, a wife, mother, entrepreneur and humanitarian… she owes none of us anything. However, at the very least, you can have the decency to respect who she is and not call her Princess Meghan. It is just as disrespectful as the British Media still referring to The Princess of Wales as Kate Middleton fifteen years on, simply because she is not of aristocratic birth. Trust me, I am old enough to remember these things, but Fleet Street did not go around year in, year out referring to Diana, The Princess of Wales as Diana Spencer – even after her divorce, the tabloids did not resort to calling her Diana Spencer. That, indeed, is testament to the viciousness of classism in the United Kingdom.

TRH The Duke & Duchess of York

Back in summer, 1986, I was invited by Cabbagetown neighbours to come for tea and champagne to watch the royal wedding on the CBC. They were all a crusty clique of old monarchist queers who were just thrilled for another royal wedding, five years on from Charles and Diana’s wedding at St. Paul’s Cathedral. Some liked ‘Fergie’ because she was so refreshingly normal; others thought her a right kook. Either way, it was a lovely gathering. No one then referred to Sarah as Princess Sarah and never once has anyone ever done so nor has she ever referred to herself as Princess or Princess Sarah. Sarah, like Meghan, married in and was not born to a blood prince, King or Queen.

Riiibbit Ben Davidson. Hope Robert Davidson. T’sing Ben Davidson. Winter Moon Susan Point

King George V was the grandson of HM Queen Victoria and grandfather of HM Queen Elizabeth II. It was George V whose convention established the current system of titles and styles how and when they are to be used and more importantly by whom.

George V Letters Patent 1917

“The children of any Sovereign of these Realms and the children of the sons of any such Sovereign and the eldest living son of the eldest son of the Prince of Wales shall have and at all times hold and enjoy the style title or attribute of Royal Highness with their titular dignity of Prince or Princess prefixed to their respective Christian names or with their other titles of honour”

Heron Alex Colville. Sockeye Salmon Bill Reid. Prismatic Loon Kenojuak Ashevak

Edward, the firstborn was The Prince of Wales, but as he had an energy body of 5, he was a wanderer. He was also madly in love with both Edward ‘fruity’ Metcalfe and his relations with Louis Mountbatten, the Viceroy of India were an open secret. The same Louis Mountbatten with two 7s, one of which was his fourth number, was violently assassinated for his proclivity for minor meat. Wallis for being American was shown the wrath of Britons with their obsessive inferiority complex towards Americans since King George III lost the American colonies – though they’d never admit to it, Britons have never gotten over that defeat. Edward VIII became HRH The Duke of Windsor. Edward VIII, of course, abdicated and had no issue… so that was that. Edward, a sixth mature sage soul with 5 energy body would have found the whole notion of sovereign and monarchy far too restrictive for him; Wallis was a welcome get out of jail card as he would have perceive his life circumstance.

Prince John died as a child; he had been afflicted by illness. King George V had six children, one of whom was a daughter. As female line royals may not pass on their titles, Princess Mary, The Princess Royal wedded The 6th Earl of Harewood. Because of primogenitor and female line royals being precluded from perpetuating their titles, Mary’s husband, Henry Lascelles did not become a prince or duke on marrying in, only male born royals are made dukes and usually at their wedding so that their spouse on marrying in, can become titled. Also, as she has married in to a blood prince and afforded a title, thus her sons and daughters will be royals. Hence the prince’s new bride is made a duchess so that she may be titled on becoming a mother. The Lascelles have gone on to distinguish themselves but Mary’s issues were not permitted to be styled prince or princess, though, they technically were.

Raven Song Susan Point. Promenade Kenojuak Ashevak.

George V’s son, Prince Henry was styled, The Duke of Gloucester on marrying the daughter of the 7th Duke of Buccleuch. Alice at birth was styled Lady Alice Buccleuch as the daughter of a non-royal duke. On her husband’s death, as it was customary for widowed duchesses to be styled dowager duchess, Queen Elizabeth II permitted her as widow to be styled Princess Alice, The Duchess of Gloucester as her son, Prince Richard’s wife Birgitte was also Duchess of Gloucester. The couple’s firstborn, Prince William of Gloucester tragically died in a plane crash in 1972. Prince William, the current Prince of Wales was named in honour of the tragic prince; the Gloucester prince had no issue at his passing.

The current Duke of Gloucester, as the grandson of a monarch, is styled HRH; however, his son Alexander, The Earl of Ulster will not be similarly styled an HRH when his father dies. At such time, he will merely be known as Alexander, The Duke of Gloucester.

Lenin Dorette Pollard. Shore bird on the Tundra Kenojuak Ashevak. 4 Standing Figures Henry Moore

Windsor, HRH Prince George The Duke of Kent 20/12/1902<O>25.8.1942

Michael: This fragment was a second-level mature slave – third life thereat.  George was in the caution mode with a goal of growth.  A pragmatist, George was in the moving part of emotional centre. 

George’s primary chief feature was self-deprecation and the secondary of was mild arrogance. 

George’s body type was Saturn/Mercury. 

The fragment George is second-cast in the fourth cadence.  George is a member of greater cadence three.  George is a member of entity one, cadre six, greater cadre 7, pod 418. 

George’s essence twin is a slave and the priest task companion was known to him. 

George’s four primary needs were: security, communion, exchange and expansion.

There are 5 past-life associations with Arvin and 4 with Merlin. 

__________________________________________

I’ve included Prince George, The Duke of Kent’s Michael overleaves herein as he is an entity mate of HLM Queen Elizabeth II, Prince Harry & Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex. Also, in cadre 6, greater cadre 7, pod 418 are, along with the aforementioned: King Edward VIII, Prince George of Wales, Prince Archie, Princess Lilibet and Doria Ragland. Like Diana, Princess of Wales, Prince George, The Duke of Kent was a second level mature soul, but a slave soul – Diana is an artisan soul. The Queen, too, is a slave soul. George, The Duke of Kent was one of the most fascinating members of the House of Windsor in the 20th century. Though she married in, George’s wife was a princess at birth, Princess Marina of Greece & Denmark. Thus she was styled Princess Marina and when she became widowed as she was a princess at birth, though not British, HM Queen Elizabeth II allowed her to remain styled as Princess Marina as it was her birthright. I especially love that her great-grand daughter Flora Vesterberg elegantly mirrors her grace and nobility.

John Lennon Dorette Pollard
Princess Olga of Greece & Denmark

11.6.1903 Year of the Rabbit 2.8.3 = 4.

Darlings if you are going to pass a lifetime as a royal… take notes. Like Princess Charlotte of Wales recently holding court at Wimbledon, two energy-bodied ladies are the most innately stylish, witty, great conversationalists, self-aware, funniest and the most fascinating woman in any room. Just look at the neck on Princess Olga!

Princess Charlotte of Wales holding court at Wimbledon, 2025

Princess Charlotte Wimbledon Men’s Finals, 2025

Katharine HRH The Duchess of Kent, until Diana, Princess of Wales arrived on the scene, was my favourite royal. Her husband, HRH Prince Edward, The Duke of Kent is a very contained human; his numerology betrays just that 9.1.1 = 11. Possessed of master number 11, he does though have a 9 in his makeup – his energy body. 9 and 5 are two numbers that are found quite liberally in royals/aristocrats. 9 is about being a gatekeeper, an alarming snob more often than not. 5 brings the potential for debauchery of spirit and it most certainly has been manifested in House of Windsor senior royals. Keen to note is the fact that both Prince Edward, The Duke of Kent has two numbers in common with Catherine, The Princess of Wales. Both have the same energy body and both have mindset of 1. They are kindred spirits of sorts, though, I really don’t know his Michael overleaves. 9 energy body men are less socially aggressive than the female, simply because it is a man’s world and 9 energy body women literally feel themselves threatened at every turn. Furthermore, with mindset of 1, such persons are not showy and are more private than most. Both these persons would rather stay in than be out, like Diana, Princess of Wales, being here for ‘battered this, battered that’ as the beloved Diana put it. We 1 mindset people do find the idea of being around crowds and all manner of humankind icky at best. My numerology: 2.8.1960 Year of the Rat 2.1.8 = 11.

Part Doris Day, part Caroline Stanbury, her look that is, Katharine was the original epitome of the royal mystique. In my youth, I religiously watched the Wimbledon finals just to see her walk onto Centre Court and hand out the trophies after having congratulated the players. Never before nor since her reign at finals day, has there been a more gracious, elegant, ethereal patron.

Katharine 22.2.1933 Year of the Rooster 4.6.4 = 5. Whenever you see 6 in someone’s numerological makeup, you are dealing with someone of great empathy, compassion and it is always indicative of someone whose soul has chosen to be devoted to a life of service. This is why Prince Harry, Queen Letizia of Spain and Crown Prince Daniel of Sweden were all born on September 15, affording them the focus to be devoted to a life of service and compassion, whilst simultaneously having two 6s. It is about healing the spirit and uplifting the vibration at large through a life of service. That mindset of 6 is why Katharine HRH The Duchess of Kent openly extended herself to a distraught Jana Novotna and in the process healed her spirit and uplifted all our hearts by her gracious, selflessness and empathy. Not surprisingly, she is the only royal of the United Kingdom whose aura has ever been readily discernible in the few dream encounters that I have had. She is the real McCoy! Again, as a commoner marrying in, she has never once been referred to as Princess Katharine by anyone. Nor for that matter is she ever mistakenly referred to as Duchess Katharine.

1 Susan Point. 4 Kenojuak Ashevaks & 1 Benjamin Chi Chi

HRH Princess Alexandra of Kent 25.12.1936 Year of the Rat 7.1.2 = 1

No woman is more reserved, refined than a seven energy-bodied lady. And as there is always a but, they also happen to be the most amoral of all women. They will have multiple affairs with a host of married or single men, send the former home to their wives and always emerge in society looking unruffled and not the least bit concerned as to what it might look like or god forbid what others will say. They think it highly uncouth for a woman to become enraged and want to seek revenge against them. That is the numerological portrait of a 7 energy body woman, which is not to say that this applies to the rather refined and inordinately gracious Princess Alexandra of Kent.

As Princess Alexandra is a female-line royal, the moment that she married Angus Ogilvy, her heirs and successors lost all right to be styled with royal titles; this would also have been the case if she were to have married a royal from any other royal house across the planet. I always thought that James Ogilvy, her son, is the most handsome royal male. His daughter, Flora Vesterberg is among the most elegant ladies of the extended royal family and true to her heritage, which exudes her paternal grandmother’s reserve, she is equally cool and reserved – unlike Lady Amelia Windsor, who with a moustache is the reanimated spit of King Felipe IV, socially flitting about in drag…

Dried Sunflowers Dorette Pollard
TRH The Prince & Princess of Wales

Prince Michael 4.7.1942 Year of the Horse 4.2.9 = 5. Princess Michael 15.1.1945 Year of the Monkey 6.7.8 = 3. Prince Michael has almost serene numerology. Like many high-born aristocrats/royals, he does have 9 in his numerology; they are all snobs and can tend towards being conceited gatekeepers. However, they do not all have to be, and usually aren’t unpleasant. He does though have 5 in the fourth position, which is always about scandal and being debauched of spirit. This is the classic example of someone being socially exposed and embarrassed by the scandal(s) created by their partner. This most definitely is the case of baroness Marie-Christine his wife – a right blasted, pretentious racist snob.

TRH The Prince & Princess Michael of Kent at royal wedding in Monaco, 2011

There we have the parvenu, racist gilt cakewalk down the stairs of Monaco’s Hotel de Paris. Imagine her great fortune, two high-profile royal weddings in the same year and both televised. She plays up for the camera, even going so far to look off to the footmen and fake laughing as though she’d do more than spit at them if the cameras were not rolling. She is a pretentious, show-off with zero awareness how revoltingly hideous her flat-assed, no-calved hybrid-reptilian body is.

Revolting racial predator

There is the haughty baroness Marie-Christine, bringing the House of Windsor into disrepute. All that HLM Queen Elizabeth II had done to solidify and promote inclusivity across the commonwealth and along comes the racist boor openly attacking Meghan at her first family gathering after her announced engagement to Prince Harry the month prior in November, 2017. She has a well-documented history of being racist and though she has no 5 in the fourth position, her vulgar racism implicates her noble husband and the rest of the royal family all the way to The Queen. She has done irreparable damage to Prince Michael; regardless what he thinks, it is not her place to implicate him as a racist boor by her ugly displays time and again.

All three women married into the royal family to blood princes and thus they were titled as befitting the wife of a prince. In the case of Marie-Christine as her husband, Prince Michael of Kent, was the grandson without a ducal title of a sovereign who at the time of his marriage was deceased, his wife could only be styled by his name. Thus, she is HRH Princess Michael of Kent. She is not Princess Marie-Christine and is never styled Princess Michael; it is always Princess Michael of Kent. With Sarah on marrying a blood prince, Prince Andrew, he was made the Duke of York so that she could be styled as an HRH royal duchess but not a princess. Similarly, when Meghan married HRH Prince Harry, The Queen conferred the title of Duke and Duchess of Sussex so that she would become a royal wife but not a princess. No one has ever referred to Sarah as Princess Sarah; it has always been Sarah, The Duchess of York, losing the article ‘the’ at her divorce. The Late Queen made no dispensation for Meghan such that she could be styled as Princess Meghan. It is not the done thing and it was not done.

As they, Lord Frederick & Lady Gabriella, are the children of a grandchild (HRH Prince Michael of Kent) of a sovereign, King George V, they are not styled as HRH. This is the case with all male-line princes who are the grandsons of the sovereign; their heirs are never styled as HRH.

Pink Chair Artist Proof I/III ©1990 George Hawken

*Recently, whilst at the Festival International de Jazz de Montréal, I suffered an attack when a guest proved both bipolar and a serious drug addict, got drunk and totalled my pyramid and did serious damage to some of my art collection. This piece, having been the most damaged, had to be reframed, but all is well. END.

George VI 14.12.1895 Year of the Goat 5.8.4 = 8. Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother 4.8.1900 Year of the Rat 4.3.4 = 11. That’s right, Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother had the exact same numerology as Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex and her gorgeous bestie, Abigail Spencer who was born on the same day as her Suits castmate, Meghan. When Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon wedded into the House of Windsor, she was made The Duchess of York, which is usually the ducal title afforded the sovereign’s second son. Prince David was, of course, The Prince of Wales and briefly became King Edward VIII but as he clearly was made to abdicate to be with his American fiancée with whom he was intent on spending his life, Wallis Simpson, his brother became King George VI, after having been The Duke of York.

Though the children of a blood princess, Princess Margaret, as David & Sarah were female line born royals, they immediately were not styled as prince or princess. Also, for marrying in and a commoner, Antony Armstrong-Jones was merely styled Antony, The 1st Earl of Snowdon. On marrying in, Antony Armstrong-Jones did not become a prince anymore than did Sarah, Meghan and Catherine became princesses on marrying in.

Grand Dame ©2009 Kenojuak Ashevak

Not only did she have fantastic Michael Overleaves but HLM Queen Elizabeth II had fantastic numerology. 21.4.1926 Year of the Tiger 3.7.7 = 8. Like all mindset of 7 persons, Elizabeth could see auras and was able to quite accurately read persons, which also included strong intuitive insights to everyone. She was an extraordinarily sublime human. Like all mindset 7 persons, she knew to keep her mouth shut about ESP data to which she was innately privy; after all, her name was not Princess Alice of Battenberg! Energy body of 3, she was gracious, radiant, diplomatic and always unruffled. What HLM The Queen perfectly understood was that she was but a caretaker, her role was transitory and her duty was to uphold the institution, leaving it in better stead than she had inherited it. The role was more than herself. She, her ego, was not the Sovereign because true slave soul that she is – and will always be from lifetime to lifetime, she innately understood that as sovereign, her role was one of service, of serving the common good, the common man and that is why she was such a phenomenal monarch.

As Prince Philip was a Prince of Greece & Denmark on marrying Princess Elizabeth in 1947, he was styled HRH The Duke of Edinburgh. He was not styled a prince though foreign born. It was not until, well into her reign did his titles change and he was then styled, HRH The Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh. King George VI did not allow Philip, though a foreign born prince, to be styled an HRH Prince on marrying his daughter and heir. As the Prince of Wales is only ever held by a male heir to the sovereign, Princess Elizabeth was not styled Princess of Wales. Also, a King’s wife is styled Queen Consort or Queen; however, a Queen regnant’s spouse is never styled king because in a patriarchal monarchy, that would designate a Queen and wife as subordinate and a King more senior to her, which can never be the case; that is why Philip was elevated from The Duke of Edinburgh to HRH The Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh as the spouse of Queen Elizabeth II, the Queen regnant. Again, as with Meghan, no one in his sixty-eight years of being married to The Queen ever once erroneously referred to Queen Elizabeth’s spouse, Philip, as King Philip.

HRH The Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh. Portrait

Prince Philip 10.6.1921 Year of Rooster 1.7.1 – 9. Again, like many aristocrats/royals 9 makes up part of the numerological energetic portrait in the chosen life therein focussed. Of the royals whose Michael overleaves I am aware of, Prince Philip is the only one in pod 408. Each pod has 2.4m souls within which are 49 greater cadres with each greater cadre containing 7 cadres. What I do know, is that not only are Princes Philip and Harry warrior souls, but they also have an attitude of sceptic; these persons are all very irreverently blunt and do not gladly suffer fools. Philip was fourth mature on his second life thereat whilst Harry is fifth mature on his fourth life thereat. Charles is seventh mature and in pod 404. William & Catherine are in pod 208 and task companions, which makes them entity mates – task companions have a very strong push/pull attraction. King George V is in pod 380. Diana, Princess of Wales is also in pod 380 and she is an entity mate of singer Chris Martin, Dodi Fayed, and Charles, The 9th Earl Spencer her brother. Interestingly, Jacob, The 4th Baron Rothschild is a cadre mate of theirs. Diana, Princess of Wales and Dodi Fayed were entity mates with 26 past lives in which they were related in some fashion. Because of that exceptionally high past life bond, Dodi became magnetised to her to facilitate her rather violent exit, as one would be a fool not to conclude that she was murdered, especially so when her fourth number was 7, which is more likely to be associated with assassinations than not. Of course, who had Diana removed, is the question. Then again, one is more likely to be murdered by an entity or cadre mate than not. The ties that bind are not always readily discernible…

Buster (2006-2024) chilling in the collapsible pyramid

A bit of Michael Teachings clarification. There are seven soul types, also referred to as fragments or essences. As in numerology each role corresponds to a number which roughly translates to Michael Math. Slaves are 1 and pair with Priests on the inspiration axis; priests are the 6th role in essence adding up to 7 – perfection. Artisans are 2 and are on the expression axis with sages who are 5 which equals 7. Warriors are the third role in essence and on the action axis; also, on the action axis is the King soul whose numerical value is 7. However, kings for representing perfection do not pair with warriors as such though they are both on the action axis. The warriors often pair with scholar souls who do not pair with any role for being the fourth essence role. 7 souls of the same type make up a cadence which are part of a greater cadence of seven and all of the same role. There are roughly 1000 souls in an entity, usually anywhere from 3 to 6 roles in an entity. No entity ever only has one role. 7 entities make up a cadre of 7 thousand souls which would contain all 7 role types. There are seven cadres in a greater cadre making that roughly 49 thousand souls of all 7 roles. There are also 49 greater cadres that make up a pod which is roughly 2.4 million souls. You will more likely run into entity and cadre mates during the course of lives, venturing during the young soul cycle and beyond to encounters with souls from other pods. See end of blog for royal examples of royals and soul age.

HRH Princess Anne, The Princess Royal

Though a blood princess, for being a female-line royal, Princess Anne’s children are not titled and her husband was not made a duke on marrying her on Prince Charles’s 25th birthday on November 14, 1973. That explains why her children, Peter Phillips and Zara Tindall, are not styled prince and princess respectively. Captain Mark Phillips was a commoner marrying in to Princess Anne, thus as a male, there was no ducal title bestowed on him.

Prince Andrew, The Duke of York

HRH Prince Andrew, The Duke of York. 19.2.1960 Year of the Rat 1.3.1 = 5. As son of the sovereign, HLM Queen Elizabeth II and the second son at his marriage to commoner, Sarah Ferguson, he was styled The Duke of York. As that 5 in the fourth position alludes with his numerology, Andrew wasted little time in exposing himself as the quintessential debauched and scandalised 5 in fourth position male – of course, his being of royal birth nicely facilitated his illicit proclivities.

Sarah, Duchess of York

At no point was Sarah ever styled by herself or anyone anywhere, Princess Sarah. She has been Sarah HRH, The Duchess of York. On her divorce after her adultery was exposed in the tabloids, she lost the all-important ‘the’ and HRH, becoming on divorce, Sarah, Duchess of York. On becoming divorced, Sarah has not thereafter been known as Princess Sarah, just as she was not on becoming Prince Andrew’s wife.

Both Jack & Edo wedded into the house of York and as their wives are blood princesses, owing to them being female-line royals, their spouses were not bestowed titles and were not styled as HRH. More importantly, they were not gifted with a dukedom to have made their children styled as princes and princesses. Both Beatrice and Eugenie for being blood princesses and granddaughters of the sovereign, can never have their two daughters, Sienna and Athena and two sons, August and Ernest respectively be styled princesses and princes. Two very admirable couples, to be sure.

TRH Sophie & Prince Edward, The Duke & Duchess of Edinburgh

As the dukedom of Edinburgh had been intended for The Queen’s lastborn, HRH Prince Edward, at their marriage in 1999, Edward and Sophie were styled the Earl & Countess of Wessex. Naturally, for having married in, Sophie has never been erroneously styled, Princess Sophie. Again, Edward in an agreement with the sovereign, his mum, accepted the earldom, on the proviso that his children would not be styled prince or princess. To be so styled, one would have to have been born to a blood prince and his ducal wife; at the time of their marriage, Sophie was not a duchess. The ducal title allows the commoner wife of the blood prince’s children to be styled prince and princess.

Diana was, as in all things, utterly unique compared to all the other women who married in. Unlike Catherine, who only became styled as Princess at the death of Queen Elizabeth II, Diana for marrying The Prince of Wales, was styled Princess from day one, July 29, 1981. Again, being styled princess for being the wife of the Prince of Wales does not make one a princess; thus it is erroneous to have called her Princess Diana as it would be to call the current Princess of Wales, Princess Catherine.

Diana, Princess of Wales, and future King Mother

Unlike Sophie, Sarah, Catherine and Meghan, Diana married the heir, The Prince of Wales and thus she was unique. Too, on June 21, 1982, she became King Mother, on the birth of Prince William the future sovereign; Diana will ever be King Mother, albeit posthumously and that will never change. To be clear, though, the Princess of Wales in both instances, princess is still not a title that either Diana or Catherine possess. Neither is Princess Diana nor Princess Catherine, though, they are so styled for being the Princess of Wales, but as neither was a born royal they are not truly Princess Diana or Princess Catherine; however, this is a style which distinguishes them from other wives of the House of Windsor.

All other women who married into the House of Windsor since the Letters Patent of King George V, in 1917 were style in the manner of a commoner: Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, HRH The Duchess of York, Alice, HRH The Duchess of Gloucester, Wallis, HRH The Duchess of Windsor, Katharine, HRH The Duchess of Kent, Birgitte, HRH The Duchess of Gloucester, Baroness Marie-Christine, HRH Princess Michael of Kent, Lady Diana Spencer, HRH The Princess of Wales, Sarah, HRH The Duchess of York, Sophie, HRH The Countess of Wessex aka The Duchess of Edinburgh, Catherine, HRH The Duchess of Cambridge, Meghan, HRH The Duchess of Sussex. Their blood prince husband is presented a ducal title, thereby making the bride a Duchess as she cannot be styled princess in her own right. Thus a blood prince’s wife becomes as per the following, Sarah, The Duchess of York, Katharine, The Duchess of Kent, Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex, Catherine, The Duchess of Cambridge. However, Catherine, The Duchess of Cambridge proved that most rare of royal brides for having married, Prince William, the future sovereign. Thus Catherine joined Diana, Princess of Wales on September 8, 2022 as Catherine, The Princess of Wales. For being The Princess of Wales, both Diana and Catherine are the only two royal wives who for having married in are styled Princess in their own right and in the case of Catherine not a day before Prince William became The Prince of Wales. Princess of Wales is the style of the wife of the sovereign heir and applies to that time when Wales like Monaco was a royal principality. Again, the moment you separate/divorce you lose that all-important ‘the’ in the title; more than all that, you are no longer styled HRH and are not permitted to wear a tiara as per Diana, Princess of Wales and Sarah, Duchess of York.

HM Queen Mary HM King George V’s Queen consort was Princess Mary of Teck; she was born a princess in Europe. So too was Princess Marina of Greece and Denmark born a princess when she became the wife of HRH Prince George, The Duke of Kent. All other royal wives who married into the royal family from King George V’s daughter-in-law Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon to Meghan, the daughter-in-law of HRH Prince Charles, The Prince of Wales aka HM King Charles III were commoners on their wedding day. Only two have become princesses, Lady Diana Spencer, and Catherine, The Duchess of Cambridge when she became The Princess of Wales – Diana on her wedding day and Catherine at the death of Queen Elizabeth II, eleven years after her marriage to HRH Prince William, The Duke of Cambridge aka The Prince of Wales.

Charles Attempts to Change the King George V Letters Patent

Meghan was so very shrewd, true to her master number 11, to have made clear during the Oprah interview that Charles and likely William, wanted to change the King George V convention. The reason for wanting to do so, was so that Archie and Lilibet, Harry and Meghan’s children and Charles’s grandchildren would be excluded, though the grandkids of the Sovereign’s heir would be styled as prince and princess respectively. Of course, Meghan was not lying. Just look at what Prince Harry discovered during the disclosure in his case before the courts: Charles his father contacted all the world’s governments, requesting that they not afford Harry and Meghan security if they were to decamp there. The same Charles whom we learnt via Omid Scobie’s strategic exposé in the Dutch edition of Endgame that Charles and Catherine were the royal racists in question. Surely, if it were that important to Charles to streamline the monarchy going forward, at the time in 2011 when the primogenitor rules of succession were changed, by Queen Elizabeth II, why not have insisted that the exclusion of grandkids not born to the sovereign’s heir, The Prince of Wales, be denied the title of prince and princess.

Never underestimate the sensitivity of the royal family towards Americans joining their ranks. One of the stipulations of Wallis, an American, marrying Prince David, The Prince of Wales which would have made her the Queen Consort to Edward VIII, was that she was not allowed to be styled HRH when the King, her husband, King Edward VIII abdicated. Indeed, Wallis was only allowed to be addressed as HRH within her household… just outside Paris! How rich is that? Naturally, the institution and courtiers saw to it that the couple did not marry until 1937 when Edward had conveniently abdicated. There is no way that Wallis being an American, apart from also being a divorcée was not the dominant reason for Edward being forced to abdicate. A citizen of the former colony, which they lost in the War of Independence, was a non-starter. There is no way that the American, Wallis, would be permitted to be wife of a King and bear a future sovereign, even though she was 41 years old at her marriage to the future king, all of which were circumnavigated with Edward VIII’s abdication. Similarly, the need to exorcise the shame of King George III’s defeat and lost of the American colonies, Meghan was told by Prince Harry that there were open discussions about changing the George V convention so that only the grandchildren of The Prince of Wales’s heir, rather all the children of the sovereign, and so on would be styled prince and princess accordingly. Added to all that, Meghan’s Black heritage proved disquieting and lead to Charles and Catherine being exposed in Omid Scobie’s Dutch edition of Endgame. Yes, indeed, the royals loathe Americans and are unmistakably racist. The American wives of Windsor have certainly taken a bruising from the island kingdom.

HM King Charles III

Unlike his mother, King Charles III is a 7th level mature warrior soul whose numerology and overleaves did not leave him inclined to being focussed on his duty as caretaker of the institution of monarchy as his late mum, HM Queen Elizabeth II. King Charles III, 14.11.1948 Year of the Rat 5.7.2 = 5. Like HLM The Queen, Charles has a mindset of 7, he knows his place relative to history and performs his duties well. The 2 leaves him inclined to indulge in gossip, pettiness, drama, subterfuge, bigotry and to have two fives in his makeup, especially so when one of them is in the fourth position, meant that he stood no chance in not becoming debauched and corrupted over time. I do believe that his corruption of spirit had much to do with the long decades he passed, waiting to become monarch. Too, as with the pen outburst, at the time of his impatient display at St. James’s Palace and later a similar outburst in Northern Ireland, that’s the result of the impatience that comes with having an energy body of 5, think Prince Louis his grandson – such persons can be royally short-fused. 5 also introduces the element of greed and being both obsessed and debauched by outré proclivities.

Young Birds Kenojuak Ashevak

Meghan became a duchess May 19, 2018, Catherine a duchess April 29, 2011. Catherine became a King Mother, July 22, 2013 and The Princess of Wales September 8, 2022. Meghan is not a princess; there is no one named Princess Meghan. If she cared to, Meghan could be styled Princess Henry (Harry) but never Princess Meghan. The title of Princess has been afforded to only two women who married into the House of Windsor, since King George V, they are Diana, Princess of Wales and Catherine, The Princess of Wales… no others. Though princess is in both princesses of Wales’s title, they are neither styled princess Diana nor princess Catherine of Wales. All duchesses do not have their title before their Christian name, because the only title that goes before a royal female’s name is princess. For that reason, it is always the Christian name followed by the title. Thus it is Sarah, Duchess of York, Catherine, The Duchess of Cambridge, Katharine, The Duchess of Kent, Sophie, The Duchess of Edinburgh and Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex. It is never Duchess followed by the Christian name of the royal wives who married in because only royal born females have their title before their christian name. Again, Duchess Sarah, Duchess Catherine, Duchess Katharine, Duchess Sophie and Duchess Meghan are all incorrect. For the love of Meghan, please stop calling her either Princess Meghan or Duchess Meghan, no such person exists. Princess Anne, Princess Beatrice, Princess Eugenie, Princess Margaret, Princess Elizabeth aka Queen Elizabeth II, Princess Alexandra, Princess Mary were all born princesses, they did not marry in, and for that reason they and only they are styled with princess before their Christian name.

The above nine ladies are the only princesses born to the House of Windsor since the reign of HM King George V.

To Be a Princess, You Have to Be Born a Princess!

Meghan Through the Years

Happy birthday Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex, fellow Leo, myself, (2.8.1960 Year of the Rat 2.1.8 = 11) congrats on being focussed here in this world for 44 years. As ever, the very best and every continued success to you, Meghan, HRH The Duchess of Sussex! Meghan 4.8.1981 Year of the Rooster 4.3.4 = 11.

As Ever Rosé
The World Is As Sharp As The Edge of A Knife ©1993 Robert Davidson
Wynton Marsalis Solo JLCO @ Massey Hall

Slaves/One 25% of all souls

Artisan/Two 21.5% of all souls

Warrior/Three 17.5% of all souls

Scholar/Four 14% of all souls

Sage/Five 10% of all souls

Priest/Six 8% of all souls

Seventh Mature Priest (Archie)

King/Seven 4% of all souls

Of all the royals of whose Michael overleaves I am aware, Prince Archie happens to be the oldest soul with the grooviest overleaves. He is also an entity mate of Prince George of Wales his cousin with a high number of past lives shared and priest souls are notable peacemakers in times of crisis.

Manawanui ©2005 Roi Toia. Susan Point & Todd Cooper

You cannot believe how many moons passed before I finally saw the eagle in this masterful piece. Art is everything, indeed.

Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra June 2025 Massey Hall

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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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©2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

K_’aax_ada awg_a

K_’aax_ada awg_a (Dogfish Mother)

Serigraph

27.5 x 22 Inches

Edition: 95/95

©2020 Tyson Brown (Iljuuwaas)

IG: @tysonisnotbrown

Provenance: The da Brgha Collection

It’s all here, ovoid, formline; Haida excellence and agedness of spirit, elegantly, masterfully expressed.

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Ray Charles & Betty Carter – Baby It’s Cold Outside.

Ray Charles – Vocals & Piano

Betty Carter – Vocals

ABC Records

©1961

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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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©2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Autumnal Mood

Heron

Serigraph

13.25 x 34.50 Inches

Artist Proof

©1977 Alex Colville

Provenance: The da Brgha Collection

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The first dream that I had of Merlin, occurred four years prior to meeting him in the waking state. In that dream, there was the most beautiful heron which flew close by; it blinked and when its lid reopened, the eye had become liquid eventually transforming to the most intense white light. Forty-two years ago, after a four-year wait, Merlin sexily slipped into my life at my Hell’s Kitchen walkup. For the next seven years our dance together was truly sublime.

Heron at Cowichan Estuary, Vancouver Island, B.C.

The last time I saw Joop, whom I had met five years prior to Merlin, I stayed at this lovely home in Victoria B. C. for a couple of weeks. We drove up the TransCanada Highway to the northern tip of the island one weekend, stopping off at the Cowichan Estuary and Cathedral Grove. On the drive back, we were followed by a lone heron as we drove southward through Cowichan Estuary a local nature preserve for herons. I was reminded of Merlin whilst holding hands with Joop. Joop was the oldest and most sensual of my lovers; too, he has been the oldest soul of my lovers. It was sad to say so long to him last summer.

Sir Anthony van Dyck, Self-Portrait

van der Pelster, Joop 12/1948 <O> 8/2023 

The fragment who was Joop was a fifth level old artisan – second incarnation at this level – in the observation mode, with a goal of stagnation, a pragmatist, in the emotional part of intellectual centre.   

This fragment had a Saturn/Lunar body type.   

Joop’s primary chief feature was stubbornness with a weak secondary of self-deprecation.   

Joop is sixth cast in his cadence and his cadence is fourth in the second greater cadence.  He is a member of entity one, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod/node 414.   

Joop has a discarnate artisan essence twin whom he did know in childhood and an incarnate priest task companion, with whom no plans were made to meet in this lifetime.   

This was a resting life for this fragment, whose three primary needs were: security, communion and exchange.   

He was a sculptor in Russia – at the time of the 1917 revolution, took a stand with the communists and was killed in a riot in St. Petersburg.  He chose not to be reborn during the Second World War, in Western Europe, but in an old soul country (Netherlands), rather than a mixed young/mature society.   

At that time, the Soviet government was very early-young soul repressive, while the general population was mid-cycle mature and even though he was only 30 when he died, in that previous life, he chose not to be reborn in the Soviet Union and took a resting life in the Netherlands.   

Arvin felt a connectedness with Joop because they are in the same cadre, and Joop had a great deal of service in his casting as does Arvin.  Here is a priest-cast artisan who is a member of an entity one, so he has needs to serve both the higher ideal and the common good.   

There was a great deal of the “Visionary” here, which is one of the seven aspects of the artisan.  He was also a “walker” in that he could pierce the veil between the planes at will, even though he did not call this phenomenon by name.   

He and Arvin have known each other in many previous lives.  They have been lovers of both sexes and of both hetero and homoerotic orientation.  Joop has filled the mentor position in Arvin’s support group three times.   

Perhaps the most notable life that this fragment had was in the late sixteenth century-early seventeenth century, when he was the Flemish portrait painter and depicter of religious themes, Anthony van Dyck.  Anthony was later knighted and is known historically as, Sir Anthony van Dyck. 

Massacre of the Innocents, Oil on Canvas. Peter Paul Rubens 1611-1612

He was a good friend, sometimes-lover and collaborator of Peter Paul Rubens – during that lifetime, I was then briefly a lover of Peter Paul Rubens, female and a muse; the relationship was not long-lived.  Both of these men, Anthony and Paul, were bisexual and lusty and enjoyed the company of both men and women, even though they pretended to be very good Catholic boys.   

Interestingly enough, the fragment who was Peter Paul was in the immediate past life, the imminent American photographer, Ansel Adams – same great artistic ability, different medium.   

Joop did have great ability to make his lovers feel loved; this is something that generally goes along with the latter part of the old soul cycle.   

They are no longer so concerned about their own sexual pleasure, mainly because it is easier for them and rather commonplace but they do generally enjoy bringing others to the heights of ecstasy.   

Every mature soul should have a late old soul lover at least once, just as the opposite is true.  The mature soul brings to the sex act the passion and the fire, while the very old soul brings to it the skill and patience of so many lives.   

All told, Joop to date has had 18 past lives with Arvin and 12 with his task companion – who was recently – Merlin Ben-Daniel.   

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Duke Ellington & John Coltrane: In a Sentimental Mood

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Cover Photo: Portrait of Cornelis van der Geest

Oil on canvas

1620 Sir Anthony van Dyck

Provenance: National Gallery, London UK

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Self-Portrait

Oil on Canvas

1640 Sir Anthony van Dyck

Provenance: National Portrait Gallery, London UK

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Massacre of the Innocents

Oil on Canvas

1611-1612 Sir Anthony van Dyck

Provenance: The Thomson Collection, Art Gallery of Ontario, Toronto.

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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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©2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Bitch! I Don’t Need Fucking Gaydar!

President Obama bestows the Presidential Medal of Freedom on Vice-President Joe Biden

What you would want to do, is take you, your teeth, your crossdressing beard, take your private jet and vaffanculo in Italia. Keep the usual tumescent fare in your mouth, but do keep Biden’s name out your fucking mouth! Ton blasted cul… Lèche! As I once turned to someone at a dinner party at Les Karpinski’s Sentinel Hill home in tony West Vancouver and eloquently stated with vituperative panache, “Bitch I don’t need fucking Gaydar, I have had a life in showbiz and I am quite confidently in the know on this one.” At the time, there was discussion about the sexuality of a film actor with whom Merlin had had an affair. When I shared what I knew of said subject, I was readily dismissed by yet another pinched, bigot of the lisping and cum-farting brigade as telling tall tales. Thank you, President Biden and Dr. Jill Biden for your service to America. For five decades of the highest civilian service of putting nation above self. Love, respect and history will always honour you for what you’ve done for the American people.

Lady Naugahyde’s new Joker face

Human civilisation comprises one planet in one star system; there are no secrets. Long years ago, I briefly worked in the theatre, and a friend of Merlin’s, I came to know; contacts like these, which are all about the best gossip to be had, are most assiduously curated. I happen to know that someone whose relative is a famous international plastic surgeon, who resides in Britain, is confident that Catherine had a facelift. It goes without saying that this is woefully obvious to anyone not a somnambulant, mere mortal on the Isle of Baby Reindeer. Truly bizarre how preventative chemotherapy can leave one looking, 173 days later, on the backend of a facelift.

Alleged cancer-stricken Catherine initiates kiss with Wimbledon champ, Barbora Krejcikova

Again, please explain to me which woman having or having had chemotherapy goes about initiating kisses with strangers whilst being immunocompromised. I have friends and relatives who have been in remission for years and would never think to handshake, let alone kiss, a stranger. Of course, this is the same workshy, charlatan, liar who after claiming Hyperemesis Gravidarum was known to have jetted off to Mustique and observed frolicking in the Sun with no signs of HG.

Walking the facelift at Horse Guards Parade, 2024

Just look at her on leg one of her post royal racist PR makeover. Looking for all the world like an aggressive-pussied femme au foyer; there was fraulein Naugahyde, swishing away as though arriving for a long afternoon visit at her gynecologist’s.

Catherine, the White Queen, is NOT racist as the White tribe attests

Then here she is, the lying, vile racial predator, who not only made Meghan cry but whose pegged and bothered illegitimate husband was curtly told by Meghan, “If you don’t mind, keep your finger out of my face,” putting in her only appearance at Wimbledon, the men’s final match. Like clockwork, she came in playing shy and demure, an act that she can deftly pull off for being of 1 mindset. Such persons, myself included, are not only lone wolves, but they genuinely do not like crowds, being on and all that. However, make no mistakes about it, this was about finally vanquishing the assault by a slave’s descendant of being a racist royal. Nothing infuriates and drives Whites to ready denial than being accused of being racially predatory anti-Black racist boors. But, you are darling, all nine parts, mumbled hissing, venom and aggression. There is positively no way in high hell that had Jasmine Paolini won the women’s championship that Catherine would have initiated a kiss.

Prince Harry & Meghan, The Duke & Duchess of Sussex at the 2024 ESPYs

Of course, two days prior, an ocean away, the slithering Lady Naugahyde looked on at the ESPY Awards and the call was made to fight back. Morning, noon and all goddamn night, they weaponise the media and her racist social media sycophants to vilify, demonise and have at Meghan. How exactly does it make the mumbling bore any less inarticulate than a pretty frock and fascinator make the Beard and Merkin’s cockeyed daughter any less ugly?

Prince Harry accepts Pat Tillman Humanitarian Award on behalf of the Invictus Games Foundation

Anyway, after their weaponised Fleet Street hacks’ febrile campaign to demonise Prince Harry for being this year’s Pat Tillman Humanitarian Award recipient, there was Harry, cool, suave and slaying in his Armani suit with, Meghan, the most elegant royal bride this century by his side. Graciously, he shot back at the same Fleet Street hacks who made of Mary Tillman an identical racially predatory boor as they have coached and handsomely paid Thomas Markle Sr. to be. By acknowledging Ms. Tillman in the same breath as a reference to his elegantly ennobled mum, Diana, Princess of Wales, Prince Harry temperately told the racist royals and their weaponised press to go fuck themselves.

One only has to look at the guests in the royal box at Wimbledon, 2024 to see the inscrutable way the Waleses taunt the Sussexes with their racism. Three separate days Baroness Marie-Christine attended Wimbledon and was ever given pride of place. The plan, of course, was for Catherine not to have attended the tennis championships altogether with The Duchess of Gloucester lined up to hand out the championship awards.

Naturally, the ever predatory and jealous Catherine could not have had Sophie, The Duchess of Edinburgh do the honours as she is more senior than, Birgitte, The Duchess of Gloucester. As Sophie is blonde and far better-looking than the older minor royal, she could not be tolerated to step in for Catherine. This gives further insight to how threatened Catherine was by Meghan being so senior a royal, Black with kids whose exoticism would have been a threat to the coverage of her children.

Day 12 and Day 14 of Wimbledon championships, the dates of the men’s semi-finals and final, Prince Michael of Kent, who is 52nd in the line of succession and his unabashedly racist wife, baroness Marie-Christine were in attendance. Always they were sat in the front row of the royal box and never on the fringe seats of the royal box where consistently, Earl Snowdon, Princess Margaret’s creative son is sat each year. David Armstrong-Jones, The 2nd Earl Snowdon is 25th in the line of succession.

On day 4 of Wimbledon, the grandparents of the future Sovereign, King George VII, Catherine’s son, were sat in the royal box. There sat Carole and Michael Middleton but once in Wimbledon’s royal box, yet the entitled, pretentious boor, baroness Marie-Christine, attended twice; she is not even wedded to a minor royal of note who unlike the Duke of Kent, his brother, does more royal duties. The 2nd Earl Snowdon is seen on arrival at Wimbledon’s royal box on day 12.

On days 6 & 14 of the Wimbledon tennis championships, there were Baroness Marie-Christine’s odd-looking son with the bizarrely deep-set eyes sat in the royal box. Naturally, for the DailyFail, they got maximum coverage and as the 53rd in the line of succession’s wife is Jewish, they were treated as though, he, rather than Prince Harry, were the Sovereign’s second son. Good god there were even photos of them at their wedding. Indeed, it is not enough to lynch Meghan at every opportunity, but it is as if their Jewish princess and her coke-headed hubby deserved to be made Duke & Duchess of South Kensington and moved into the unoccupied 21-room renovated apartment, next door to apartment 1A, the Waleses’ home at Kensington Palace. Her hubby is neither 5th nor 6th in the line of succession, yet there they are given coverage as though they are regularly on tour throughout the commonwealth, in service to King and Country. To whom pray tell is this couple’s existence important in the scheme of things that it warrants multiple photos, fawning remarks, replete with a photo of their ancient wedding as though it were a true royal wedding? I suppose in due course, Peggalicious can adopt the 53rd in the line of succession as his true brother, an adopted half-brother, and create a duchy for him as is the custom for sons/brothers of the Sovereign and future Sovereign respectively.

Now to the business of royal racism and using Wimbledon’s royal box to one-up Harry & Meghan, straight on the heels of their successful appearance at the ESPYs. Day 3 saw the ever glorious Maria Sharapova & her super cool hubby, Alexander Gilkes in the royal box. Others were not so lucky, like Marvin & Rochelle Humes, Jodie Kidd, Hannah Waddington and the always intoxicating, Emma Weymouth, Marchioness of Bath. This early in the championship, the big names are not out in force; furthermore, there was no need on the part of Peggalicious to eclipse Harry & Meghan’s appearance at the ESPYs.

Day 4 saw the grandparents of the future Sovereign, King George VII, Carole & Michael Middleton. The next day, 5, saw Oscar winner, Dustin Hoffman and wife, Andrew Lloyd-Webber recently installed as a Knight of the Garter and NFL Kansas City Chiefs champion quarterback, Patrick Mahomes & wife Brittany. They did not make it to the royal box.

On day 6, the royal box began the daily parade of sports luminaries, of which there were a few. Among the attendees was Sir Ben Ainslie whose suspicious closeness with Catherine, The Princess of Wales has seen him relocate to America, supposedly in preparation of the America’s Cup; but did it require having to sell his house, too? Also, in attendance, Chris Hoy. Cricketer Ben Stokes, an exceptionally handsome human and wife, Clare Ratcliffe. Gareth Edwards, Skater Jayne Torville along with Christopher Dean – not featured herein, Jos Buttler with wife. Rugby champion, Lawrence Dallaglio also in the royal box. Tennis great Mark Philippoussis also on day 6. Lastly, Peter Fleming was sat in the royal box.

Day 8 saw an actual royal in the royal box, Prince Albert II of Monaco with a female relative. Actor & philanthropist Lenny Henry with partner and Oscar winning actor, Mark Rylance all occupied the royal box.

Day 9th at Wimbledon saw the 28th in the line of succession, Lady Sarah Chatto and husband, Daniel Chatto. Michael McIntyre & Stephen Fry held court in the royal box. Also, in the royal box were Princess Beatrice & Edoardo Mapelli-Mozzi who’s commendably effected the princess’ blooming empowerment. On Stephen Fry’s other side was American actor, Lena Dunham. The other luminary couple in the royal box, actress Sienna Miller and beau, Oli Green.

Day 11 and the Wimbledon royal box was well attended. Queen Camilla & her handsome sister, Annabel Elliot sat front and centre at the ladies semi final matches. Also present was Bjorn Ulvaeus of ABBA fame attended. Camilla was sat between her sister and Deborah Jevans. Jemima Khan and actor Richard E. Grant were sat behind statesman, William Hague. After having been dumped by his wealthy sugar mama, Lindsay, Peter Phillips and his rebound fuck du jour were also present in the royal box. The Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby and his spouse were also spotted in SW19. Elusive actor Keira Knightley attended with her rock musician hubby. Former Governor of Bank of Canada and Bank of England, Mark Carney attended and chatted with William Hague.

On day 12, the men’s semi final, Annabel Goldsmith held court; she is the mother of Jemima Khan and Zac Goldsmith who also attended, same day as his mum and not the day prior along with his sister. Elisabet Ebenstein accompanied the dry-witted actor, Hugh Grant. Edward Norton attended with his mum, as did actor Rami Malek attend with his mum-in-law. Shirley Bassey was wrapped in a shawl. Birgitte, The Duchess of Gloucester was present; I don’t believe that I’ve ever seen, Prince Richard, The Duke of Gloucester, her spouse, in attendance at Wimbledon. Actor Stanley Tucci attended along with Tristram Hunt. The men’s semi-final was fantastically gripping.

Day 13 and the ladies championship. The young Black Italian, automatically precluded Catherine putting in an appearance. Win or lose, she was not prepared to go handshaking or make like nice to another Black female tennis player, in this case, Jasmine Paolini, who frankly choked for making it to the big time.

My lovely sister, Pandora da Brgha, her hubby, James van Hammer and our doctor niece, Edwina de Lavallée, who jetted in from New York City attended the ladies final at SW19. Persons who attended but were not in the royal box: Zendaya, looking as ever chic and elegant. Also, in attendance was actor, Pierce Brosnan who made a rather commanding 007 in his heyday. I am not certain if Tom Cruise was sat in the royal box that day, though, he definitely was the day following. Hugh Jackman was sat with the ravishing Kate Beckinsale, who days later demanded that that little twat, Lady Windsor, the royal kiss-ass and Middleton lapdog, retract an article in the DailyFail, in which the lying guttersnipe and anti-Black racist with an arch animus against Meghan, was called out for telling lies on the actress, Ms. Beckinsale. The Fleet Street vermin never learn. Also, in the royal box were broadcaster, Trevor McDonald and entertainer, Cliff Richard. Back for more, was actor, James Norton, looking less formal than the day prior. Lastly, in the royal box were Darcey Bussell one of the Royal Ballet’s true gems of her generation and fellow dancer, Johannes Radebe.

Carlos Alcaraz & Novak Djokovic

Finally, day 14, men’s championship; sadly, Carlos Alcaraz’s good luck charm, King Felipe VI was not present. Over the years, I have come to truly love Novak Djokovic, despite his vaccine politics. Myself, owing to my spouse being 24/7 on oxygen, we both have to get the latest Covid shot and I wear multiple masks at all times when out my front door. So no more annual subscriptions to the BOTS – Ballet, Opera Theatre & Symphony, but I will make the odd exception then take every possible precaution; the alternative is simply not an option.

Catherine looked sensational in one of the two official Wimbledon colours. The gold earrings beautifully complemented the purple dress. There was one odd moment where, when briefly in closeup, her mouth did this involuntary square smile, which she neurotically covered by abruptly collapsing her mouth shut. This sort of quirk, I have witnessed after persons have recently had work done when the new tautness results is muscle twitches as the new normal is being adjusted to.

On the final day, the royal box was flushed with powerful guests. After the Sussexes triumph at the ESPYs, you knew that the Waleses would respond. Catherine was accompanied by Princess Charlotte, who like her mother seems to be a warrior soul. Warriors and King souls are always the dominant partner in any relationship/dynamic. Future Sovereign or not, Catherine’s overleaves validate her being the dominant partner in their relationship in this incarnation; William and Catherine are, after all, task companions. Though she has always reminded me of Wallis Simpson, you first have to die before reincarnating; that rules out Pippa Middleton-Matthews having been Wallis Simpson in her immediate past life, the latter passed in 1986 whilst the former reincarnated in 1983. Really good to see Andre Agassi at the men’s final. I remember when his rock star vibes ruled at the SW19. Julia Roberts was a big get for the royal box; this only validates the BAFTA president, Prince William, The Prince of Wales, using his clout to try and show up the Sussexes. Does he not realise that Julia grew up knowing Martin Luther King Jr.’s family and would never countenance the anti-Black racism that the Waleses make no bones about projecting to the world, despite their denials. Tom Cruise was definitely in the royal box on the final day of Wimbledon. Benedict Cumberbatch and his wife were also sat in the royal box on the Wimbledon’s final day. Rod Laver, the Australian tennis maverick was present; good to have seen him.

Supremacist Baroness Marie-Christine’s relations

As ever, the royal family’s racist Baroness Marie-Christine and her gang were in full force, acting as though they were senior working royals. Then again, their presence was all about taunting Harry and Meghan; never forget how utterly obsessed, racist and petty William and Catherine are with Harry and Meghan. Finally, it is always good to see London mayor, Sadiq Khan, who thankfully is not a chav-like, blasted buffoon like a predecessor of his, who whored as Prime Minister in a bid to keep up support payments for his brood with multiple women.

That’s right, Peggalicious, losers never win and “never coming home” proved true of the UEFA trophy and Prince Harry, who made it perfectly clear that he has no intentions of bringing Meghan and his children back to Britain anytime soon. Indeed, congratulations to HM King Felipe VI and the Spanish football team for having won the 2024 UEFA Championship trophy.

Prince Harry Tabloids on Trial ITV Documentary, July 2024

Despite Harry making it perfectly clear during a sit down interview for ITV’s documentary, Tabloids on Trial, which aired on July 25, 2024, the tabloids still cakewalk as though, they had no knowledge of the documentary.

Fabricated headline based nowhere in either fact or reality

Furthermore, as though Prince Harry is not now engaged in legal proceedings against the Daily Mail, they persist with attacking and lying about both him and his wife. Meghan’s numerology is 4.3.4 = 11. There is nothing wishy-washy about this woman; for Meghan, no means “fuck off, you are dead to me.” Of course, the next day, DailyFail then published an article that Catherine was going to be able to spend the long summer spell at Balmoral Castle. This suggests two things: her cancer treatment is going splendidly and more importantly, the Sussexes are snubbed because they cannot be allowed to be around Catherine after the ‘negress’ had speciously alleged that there were racist concerns about Archie’s skin tone and what that would mean and look like for the royal family. Catherine has never had cancer and this was used for two reasons, to eclipse her revelation as one of two royal racists and to allow her plastic surgery procedures results to fully heal.

Never forget that Charles will never forgive Meghan for having outed him as one of the two royal racists – which eventually Omid Scobie in Endgame did, during her sit down interview in March, 2021 with Oprah. This is why when The Queen passed, Meghan was not allowed to attend Balmoral, why she was not invited to Charles’ coronation and why he will never see her blasted little pickaninnies. Charles is a fucking petty, vindictive, racist boor. Above all else, we Blacks know that you can never, ever expect Whites not to be White. Omid is truly commendable in having exposed the two royal racists’ names. After all, Prince Harry chose to backtrack and state during his ITV interview with Tom Bradby at the press rounds of SPARE that his family perhaps unknowingly suffered from unconscious bias. Well, thank goodness Omid cleared that up for Harry and Meghan in Endgame, leaving no doubts as to whom those royal racists are, Charles and Catherine; of course, they can hardly be expected to be the only members of the House of Windsor who are anti-Black racist boors.

As predictable as flies on shit, along comes another Meghan thrashing in that shit-stained Fleet Street cumrag, DailyFail, gloating over the fact that the royals yet again have not wished Meghan a happy birthday. Master numbered persons are thoroughly dismissive of persons who do not count for fuck all, Meghan included. Next day, along comes yet another article, crowning the racist baroness Marie-Christine’s daughter-in-law for her birthday. Of course, said article also had throwback photographs of her wedding in a dress that looked like cheap silk curtains that are usually seen in photographs with linoleum-covered floors. Even on her birthday, there was our darling princess on the cover of Tatler – that ode to White classist British snobbery, being celebrated for her desirability over the likes of the American whose birthday it was the day prior. You certainly won’t be hearing Chelsea Handler, Bethenny Frankel, Sharon Osborne, Angela Levin, et al, bitching with unbridled hatred about how the untrustworthy bitch, whom they do not like, is not deserving.

Prince Andrew, The Duke of York

Let’s be very clear, the House of Windsor principals, Charles and William are letting the world know that they do not give a fuck about being perceived as anti-Black racists. By parading baroness Marie-Christine, she of the blackamoor brooch and the two black ewes named, Venus and Serena, they are telling the world that being anti-Black racist is not an issue. After all, this is a world where Apartheid existed in South Africa and the racism in Britain, from the ’70s riots in Brixton to the current racist attacks, the Sovereign(s) have not part lips, thereby showing their firm resolve that they do not give a living fuck. Tough! The fact of the matter is that Prince Andrew has all but been rendered invisible; he is not allowed to public functions as his exposed paedophilia is a source of embarrassment. More importantly, Andrew cannot be allowed to provoke the public’s wrath as to do so, will get people starting to talk about Charles’ association with Jimmy Savile, Gary Glitter and others who were/are known paedophiles. Mere mortals are readily played but parading racist baroness Marie-Christine and her ‘exceptional’ actress daughter-in-law who with her offspring were not problematic for the House of Windsor. Never mind that her kids are right little gubbiloutettes*, she is paraded front and centre and in the company of senior most royals as Charles, William and their spouses let the world know that they do not give a fuck about Blacks being butt hurt by their racism. Go fuck yourself is there staged response. Baroness Marie-Christine and her daughter-in-law do not end up at Wimbledon more than any other royals in the royal box in 2024, then turn up on the cover of Tatler if it were not sanctioned by Charles and William. William, of course, was quickly shielded way back when, as it emerged that he was doing cocaine in the company of baroness Marie-Christine’s son!

William & his horribly scraggly beard

Go on, you two, go out of your way to spite Meghan even more, by making your darling Jewish princess, The Duchess of South Kensington. If only one would read the fucking planet because in this post-October 8, 2023 paradigm, no one, having seen what – thanks to social media being at the epicentre of genocide, we have borne witness to, have long ago ditched what was a most suffocating jaundiced status quo. Go on, as Olivier a Montréal friend always sarcastically said in imitation of Oprah of Hollywood and its Brahminism, “You get an award! You get an award! You get an award!” Blasted murderous thugs.

Never mind Tom Cruise, what has Catherine had done to her face?

Again, please explain why this tactic was not taken on Catherine’s return after 173 days. There was that photo in Berkshire where her face was unusually bloated. At that time or since, any number of plastic surgeons could have been employed by the Fleet Street thugs and done an honest assessment of what work Catherine had done and by a number of leading plastic surgeons.

Instead, we keep to the line that she has cancer; of course, Tom Cruise can also be savaged as he is, after all, a mere Yank at the end of the day. I will say this much, as is clearly obvious, no amount of plastic surgery ever succeeds in glossing over the look of a hard-faced drunk. For her petty, racist obsessive grudge, which clearly extends beyond Meghan to now include Blake Lively, you can never fathom how petty these senior royals are.

Blake Lively for having provoked the wrath of the royals and their Fleet Street thugs, has found herself in hot water. Of late, she has been character assassinated, on a daily basis, with the DailyFail going to great lengths to show what a dishonorable person she is; all this because she made a quip about Catherine, The Princess of Wales when she was in hiding recovering from her facelift and not cancer as they have speciously alleged – there is no such damn thing as preventative chemotherapy. Let’s face it the House of Windsor has for generations had serious credibility issues.

She said what the hell she said and there is no reason for her to have turned around and obsequiously apologised when Britons do not give a goddamn about ‘Yanks’ and are having quite a go at eviscerating Blake’s character. Look at the campaign by British tabloids to have Blake cancelled for having given offence to their boring, inarticulate princess whom they damn well know does not have cancer but had a facelift and they fully understand, it was all a PR stunt. Blake is American, a proud self-made one at that; why should she be lynched by racist boors whom Americans defeated near 250 years ago. All this BS because the Waleses are toxic bullies and vindictive in the extreme. This headline is precisely why Blake’s SM presence is being swarmed by legions of royalist zombies hurling abuse at her. Don’t they realise that Blake is a core friend of Taylor Swift’s and her husband Ryan Reynolds will scrap with anyone in defense of his wife?

Farcical Misogynoir hatemongers

The Misogynoir Hatemongers’ Ball, an affair about as socially relevant as Pluto is to Sol. They peddle in lies, anti-Black racism and hatred and vilification of the first Black woman who broke a glass ceiling, in this case, marrying and bearing two children to the son of the Sovereign. Naturally, their stock in trade is to deny the existence or the legitimacy of Harry and Meghan’s children. Meghan for these vile trolls is no different to Michelle Obama, Dr. Jocelyn Elders, Vanessa Williams, Kamala Harris, Oprah Winfrey and many others. They are all firsts in their own right as Black women and for that, they are reviled, and no end of hatred and lies are told about them all. As Merlin said of bad productions like that masquerading on YouTube and elsewhere, “They may think it’s theatre but it is no more than farce!” Just look at it, lady my ass… Bitch you neither bleed nor breed!

Jumbie Fire

When I was a child growing up in St. Kitts with its French, English and most definitely mysterious African influences, there was the most fascinating event that occurred when I was an eight-year old boy full of laughter and most lucid dreams. A family which had relatives in the U. S. Virgin Islands and travelled there from time to time, then received a parcel, at the holidays as one does. These parcels are seen as major status symbols. Well, the most fascinating spectacular soon befell that family. At all hours of the day and with no regularity, there would be screams from the house and clothing and suitcases, thrown from the house into the yard. They would be ablaze with the most white-hot looking blue-white flame. The flames had the most peculiar smell, which I have never smelt since; oddly enough, the flames made no sound. The flame would last for several minutes soothing up the item(s) aflame and then abruptly the pyrotechnical oddity would suddenly cease with an abrupt plopping out of existence. There were times even whilst fully clothed, the family members would be set ablaze. As school children, my chums and I could not wait for recess to rush across the street and take in the spectacle of the jumbie fire*. There was no getting around the fact that there were unseen forces at such times when the flames were active. This only ever occurred within the confines of the family’s home and property. Then at the exact six-month anniversary, the ‘obeah*’ induced jumbie fires simply stopped. During the course of that time, the family lost its status with at least one member fleeing the island and going off (going crazy). The tale was that the family had provoked someone’s wrath and as a result they were obeahed and that was that. For these vile racist trolls, who relentless lie and racially prey on Harry and Meghan, what a pity that Meghan’s maternal family were not West Indians…

So you know that Catherine and William are nasty people, there was Catherine in Soho on the eve of the coronation, familiarly speaking for long minutes and taking selfies with the subject on the far right in the photograph taken at the hatemongers’ ball. That troll spends night and day online, inciting anti-Black racism against Meghan, which like all cowardly racist Whites, will be readily denied as having any basis in racism and besides they always have some fucking absurd anecdotes about their Black friends and, of course, like Blacks for Trump, they’ll always be some self-loathing fool glad to be within the clique by hating Meghan even more vociferously than most. William made an attempt to have Catherine stop speaking to said troll and move along. Finally, when the Waleses were returned to the Range Rover – duct taped sideview mirror and all – as they began pulling away, William could be heard reaming Catherine as she looked out the window, doing her usual, “Fuck you, I’m a rich White girl and I don’t give two fucks,” rictus smile. The photos were captured from TikToker London City Walks livestream that day. All those professional trolls are a testament of just how much we Blacks are obsessively stalked and hated by the racial predator. I cannot think of anything more base a displacement of humanity than to make money off someone you actively hate with consuming ugliness of spirit. Truly, not fit to piss on… except on their graves.

Kamala Harris

Well, will you look at that. Perhaps, in the pre-October 8, 2023 paradigm, Kamala Harris would feel obliged to choose Josh Shapiro as her running mate. Of course, from the word go, the misogynoir surfaced, with the same accusations as levelled at Meghan being regurgitated about Kamala. Then there was the all-out racist vitriol in the comments at English language Israeli newspapers online. The usual canards were ubiquitous: she is an anti-Semite. We know the Blacks hate us. We are all voting for Trump. Well, if you are going to be so selective, could it just be that Harris and Shapiro simply would never get along? Oxes (Josh) and Dragons (Kamala, and Walz, for that matter) do not make good business partners of any kind; their numerology is also at odds.

Joan Rivers Lies about Michelle Obama

Oldest trick in showbiz, as Merlin would say, how does a Jew be racist towards Blacks? Tell a lie and make a joke of it, “ha ha ha” and readily one is believed and, of course, it is true. Well, there is the little wingless monkey from The Wizard of Oz, rotting in hell and ugly the fuck as ever. Go fuck yourself, racist gilt! That, and never having found the time to pull a second best actress Oscar from high up your ass to award a Black actress, couldn’t possibly be reasons enough why Shapiro is not on the ticket.

Racist Briton not voting for Kamala. Truly shocked…

Treat people like shit, being racist boors and expect them to either forget or suffer you… In what world, pray tell, would this even make sense? Seriously, how does your boohoo grudge even matter? 70% of the American electorate, you are not. Straightaway, the markets went into freefall, and did anyone even give two fucks? It is after all SOP. The ugly grudge behind Joan Rivers’ ‘joke’ is that Michelle Obama, like Meghan is a Black woman and first – first Black First Lady and first Black to marry the Princely son of a then future Sovereign, and for that on this planet, she will be the subject of the most virulent misogynoir.

Vanessa Williams, first Black Ms. U.S.A winner, 1984

Just look at what happened with another first, Vanessa Williams. Vanessa having been the first Black Miss U.S. A. had to be cancelled. Her victory was an affront, and by whatever means, she had to be disgraced and fall from her Icarian heights. Near the end of her reign as Miss U. S. A., Penthouse magazine published nude photographs of Ms. Williams, which were grounds enough for her to have relinquished her title and be disgraced. Had this ever happened to any of her predecessors? Of course not. Had any of her predecessors modelled in the nude prior to having been crowned? This very likely had been the case, but there was no scandal to be had in thusly exposing a White Miss U.S.A. Penthouse publishing the photographs, was about letting Vanessa Williams know that all she was, was a cheap whore and not deserving of the Miss U. S. A. title.

Kamala, Meghan, Vanessa, Michelle Obama and many others, including Oprah. They will always racially prey on these trailblazing Black women and lynch them in the media and by any means necessary, especially if they can do so via sexual scandal. That is the ugliness of misogynoir. Another trailblazing Black woman is Dr. Jocelyn Elders; she was appointed by President Clinton as the first Black female Surgeon General of the United States and only the second woman. Her appointment was seen as controversial. Everything this woman said was met with consternation and ridicule as though she were an uneducated, unqualified, unemployed woman from the sticks, who had been appointed to the job as a prank. Eventually, Dr. Elders had to resign because of her comments on masturbation. It is not just a matter of NIMBY (not in my neighbourhood), but it simply is a matter of being lynched and disgraced for having made it into the history books. Of course, we are today arrived at a chilling moment where racist boors like that homo-repressed jackass, Ron DeSantis go around banning Black books and there is a White tribal campaign that would like to remove Black history from the American education system altogether. Please then stop insulting us by squatting all over Jazz; positively nothing is more repugnant than having Black culture thusly violated.

Jeremy Clarkson incites anti-Black racism against Meghan

Another example of DailyFail’s relentless campaign to defame and incite racial animus against Meghan. Jeremy Clarkson, that ugly racist White male asshole, launches a second attack on Meghan, criticising her baby shower in New York – five years on, and positively every comment becomes an excuse for racist mere mortals to rabidly regurgitate lies and indulge in racist animus towards Meghan, the Black woman who dared to shatter the mythos of their princely fairytale.

Harry, Meghan & The Queen royal ascot, June 2018

No assholes, the baby shower was a way to escape the surveillance and racially predatory hellhole of courtiers and the Waleses so that plans could be put in motion – one always needs a Plan B when possessed of master numbers. Clearly, for Meghan, the experience of life at court was insufferable. The Queen did as much as she could; however, both The Queen and The Sussexes knew that there was no getting around Charles and William when she was fast en route to the crypt at St. George’s Chapel. Like a true entity mate, The Queen knew the wisdom in bestowing her blessing on The Sussexes’ union, because with little time left her, there could be no lengthy courtship. The Queen knew that were she to die, neither Charles nor William would have sanctioned the marriage of Harry and Meghan.

Pimped by gangsta playa, Snoop Dogg

So many moons later, just look at the desperate for approbation, “we are very much not a racist family” go out and lasso Snoop Dogg. Do these clowns not realise that their racism is an open secret in Hollywood, Black Hollywood most of all? Baldy tryin’ to flex and as ever, coming up short. They are racist boors and people never forget the way you made them feel or the wrong you did to them and continue to as you persist with pimping out your Fleet Street whores on the Sussexes.

Ms. Thiel’s log cabin hussy, never goes tricking without her Maybelline

Goddamn those log cabin Christian Nationalist Fascists; first they wanted closeted Mike Pence a heartbeat from the Presidency. Now, they want this pretty-eyed crossdresser with eyeliner like Elizabeth Taylor’s on the ticket. Certainly, he is not gonna set off Gaydar before November 5. What this log cabin madness has brought to the surface, is the abiding open racial animus from White Gays towards Blacks. Naturally, as Kamala did not choose Pete Buttigieg, White Gays have been pissed. Twice I was openly verbally attacked in the Gay Village for merely being on the sidewalk with my bike en route to or from a store. Come 2025, I hope that director, John Waters is able to convince J. D. Vance to star as Martha in a crossdressing musical remake of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Kamala could not for being Black and female have chosen Buttigieg as a running mate. She would readily lose centrist, Christian voters for whom Gay marriage, lifestyles and politics are a compromise that they are not able to morally address as open-minded as they see themselves.

Lena Horne Believe in Yourself 1981 Tony Awards

Another incident occurred post-Kamala’s campaign kickoff, which coincided with the 77th anniversary of Merlin’s birth, as I stood in line waiting my turn at the depanneur. Without fail, bigots emboldened by whatever they’ve seen and said on social media or on TV, they head out into the world intent on being racially predatory. Sure enough, along came Karen number 1 billion, 8 hundred million, five hundred thousand and sixty-one; just shy of six feet, she vulgarly barked down at me, “Look buddy, I was in the line first, get out of my spot!” Slowly, I turned and looked, “Yeah you, I’m talking to you!” Naturally, as she is White cisfemale, no one said fuck all, which made it my turn. “Bitch your ass is flat for a fucking reason, go the fuck home and take more cock up your fucking flat ass. Do I look like I just ate a goddamn Rodney King sandwich for fucking lunch?” Born a West Indian, I rudely sucked teeth at her and soon it was my turn to ring in my purchases. Her little scene not quite going as she had intended, the racist boor began baying blah, blah, blah, over which I loudly drowned her out by reworking the lyrics with a coloratura coda of vocalese, “What a little sunshine wouldn’t do….”

Spiritual lightsabres and music to keep chakras, aura centred & fortified

The Asian male cashier, acting as though the vituperative contretemps had not occurred, nervously said hello then graciously wished me a good day, as I took leave – you’re damn right, it was a fucking good day. Every goddamn day I head out my art-filled home, I will experience racial aggression in varying degrees of intensity; that is simply the state of the world and both a world and personal truth. I am also acutely aware that every goddamn day on this planet, White males in alarming numbers are on every continent, having sex with minors without little to no repercussions or media the world over addressing this sexually predatory pandemic. Somehow, this 5’4″ Afro-Sephardic Queen is being treated as though I had just humped that lunatic racist boor’s fucking chihuahua. Da fuck? Thus, I came home and had Lena Horne’s magic repel that low-vibrational ghoul and her hideously dense energy the fuck off my aura.

Charlie Drinkwater & Doug Wilson, 1977

Charlie Drinkwater and Doug Wilson were two of the most gloriously idyllic friends and lovers from my youth. I met Charlie when I would sneak off to The Quest disco on Yonge Street after studying at the Metropolitan library on Yonge at Asquith, I would then hightail it down to Yonge and Hayden Streets, where I danced my heart out oftentimes with Charlie. They were the loving and most nurturing role models of mine. I was not yet eighteen, when I met Charlie and years later, I would meet Doug in about 1985.

Toronto Reference Library

Doug came to a garden party at our Cabbagetown home with a mutual friend, who had actually set up Merlin and me on the blind date that started it all. Doug and I looked into the other’s soul, said hi, kissed, purred and our past-life bond was reaffirmed. Charlie was the first person whom I kissed who smoked cigarettes; it took some getting used to. Charlie loved foreplay and a super kisser of the rarest kind, he certainly was. Doug was the most flagrantly idealistic, gentle-souled lover imaginable. It goes without saying that he is an entity mate with whom I have shared many past lives, our late 20th century encounter being the 36th, which is a lot. Charlie and I were sharing our 19 reincarnational association in fin de siècle Toronto. Charlie, like Doug, is an artisan soul in my entity. Doug and I had a robust, casual sexual relationship, which was always about the most soul-soothing intimacy imaginable. They protected me and watched out for me in a way that was not commonplace in the Gay community. They made me feel at home by having me contribute to their passionate activism by helping to make posters for the marches and demonstrations. Also, among my role models was the actor, Errol Ramsay; the Bajan was the sweetest most kindhearted human imaginable. Thus, quite jarring it has been for me with all these persons long passed of AIDS, to currently experience the open racist hatred from twentysomething and thirtysomething White Gays.

Two days running as I did errands on my bike, I was accosted by tall aggressive bottom-looking White Gays who predatorily approached me as I rode on my bike. One told me to get the hell off the sidewalk and out of the neighbourhood. The day following, the three Gays who likely lived in the Vaseline Tower in which the depanneur is situated, aggressively made for me. One of them shoved his hand in my face as I hopped on the bike to ride it off the sidewalk. It is a very wide sidewalk and there was no one save the three of them and a few others coming towards me, and at a distance to the three Gays’ rear. “Get off the fucking sidewalk!” There was so much hatred in his tone; of course, I knew that it likely was rage at Kamala Harris not having chosen Pete Buttigieg as her running mate, Ducking my head as his right index finger came at me, I broke and hopped off my bike, and shot back. “Yeah, you want some, come on, you fucking backward-pussied, ass-eating cunt! Come on!” “Keep off the fucking sidewalk,” he shot back as they kept walking away. As though he so much as owned the damn sidewalk. “Trump’s gonna win and too bad for you,” called the blond in the middle. “Becky shut the fuck up and crawl the fuck back in your Vaseline log cabin,” I called after them as they kept walking away. The level of animus and racist aggression has since July 21, when President Biden stepped aside, is palpable; I cannot begin to imagine what it must be like in America.

Winter Moon

Serigraph

32 x 32 Inches

Artist Proof: II/III

©2023 Susan A. Point

Provenance: da Brgha Collection.

Before he passed last August, my oldest friend and lover requested that I purchase a First Nations piece that I could use when meditating and on reflecting on his life and our abiding love. Sweet and blissful dreams my darling.

*Gubbiloutette – unfortunate looking. (Posh patois of creole origin; St. Kitts was both a French and English island).

*Jumbie fire – Jumbie is patois for ghost or occult/obeah phantoms.

*Obeah – patois for voodoo, the occult, sorcery.

Modern Jazz Quartet North Sea Jazz Festival 1982

Modern Jazz Quartet grooving the souls of the spiritually evolved.

Percy Heath – Bass

John Lewis – Piano

Milt Jackson – Vibraphone

Connie Cay – Drums

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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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©2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Piñatas Get Whacked!

Queen Margrethe II 16.4.1940 Dragon 7.2.7 = 7

I have always admired this Queen, Margrethe II, and it never failed to impress on me that she is possessed of three 7s. That’s a powerhouse. Thus it was that during her New Year’s message when she announced that she was going to abdicate on January 14, 2024, the 52nd anniversary of her ascension, I wickedly howled then exclaimed, “And that is how you whack a piñata!” Despite that little battyfaced fabulist in the Fisher Price château, spending 25 minutes talking readily fished filler on Google, I knew without doubt Margrethe II’s reason for abdicating – the Danish constitution forbids the monarch from divorcing!

Crown Princess Mary of Denmark, breaks down in public whilst in New Zealand

So as the beautiful Crown Princess Mary had a meltdown in New Zealand over the Christmas break after being humilated by that orbital minor aristocrat with big dreams inspired by Queen Camilla, at all of three 7s, Margrethe had other ideas. No, indeed, unlike her recently departed third cousin, HLM Queen Elizabeth II, Margrethe II had no intentions of having her beloved grandchildren (Crown Prince Christian, Princess Isabella, Prince Vincent & Princess Josephine) endure the mental/emotional stress of a divorce’s fallout. Like a truly shrewd/amoral woman with first number of 7, Margrethe II signed the abdication papers at the Danish Parliament, got up, her grandson, Crown Prince Christian handed her, her cane and with that she announced, “God Save The King” turned and walked out, all before King Frederik X could sign and thus officially become king.

Trying to force a divorce by calling the paparazzi and masquerading the morning after in Madrid

Two libidinous piñatas whacked with the stroke of a pen. No need, lovely Mary to feel dispair and break down in public, Margrethe II has got things in control. Margrethe II was Queen for half a century; she’s got balls and knows her power. No protracted drama in the tabloids of cheating, scandals, separation, divorce and a possible remarriage replete with mariachi band for aspirant Danish Camilla.

King Frederik X & Queen Mary, January 14, 2024, Copenhagen

So before you could fan yourself and throw some serious side eye, Conchita deleted her social media presence within days of Mary rightfully taking her place in history as Queen, not having been divorced and dispensed with à la Diana, Princess of Wales to be replaced by a Camilla full of fillers. In short order, Margrethe II signed those documents, grabbed her cane and declared, ‘Now get out there and make my grandchildren’s mother, Mary, your Queen!” Damn right, Margrethe II does not run a pantomime.

George, Louis, Catherine & King Charles III at Sandringham, Christmas Day, 2023

Speaking of piñatas getting whacked… On Boxing Day, (December 26, 2023) I awoke from a rather lucid dream that was brief but potent; it was the last dream before awaking that day in late afternoon. In this the final dream, I came to where there was a couple engaged in kinky sexual play. Initially, the couple’s identity was not readily discernible as I came to in midstride into a bedroom where the couples heads were closer to me and down. Over the bottom’s right shoulder, the top partner’s head was buried whilst aggressively ploughing the bottom whose hands were bound to the bedposts with head turned away to left; the bottom was clearly gagged. The room was dimly lit and sparsely furnished. Ritualised, the couple hardly made noise, save for the bed’s motion; it was rough play.

Rough Play Bed

Abruptly, the top got from the bed and it proved to be Catherine; she would stilettos, a glossy PVC black bodysuit and wore a rather large-headed, upturned strapon. Aggressively, she took her leave of the room with William, #Peggalicius, remaining in bed spent. Prior to that, I had come to in another dream encounter with Catherine. This time, I onlooked as she arrived on what I assumed was Mustique where traditionally the family vacations at the home of the late Princess Margaret. This, though, was much too heavily trafficked; there were lots of yachts in the crystalline waters. I decided that for such a private island, there were too many super yachts here. Could it be St. Thomas U. S. Virgin Islands; however, there were no cruise ships. Not until several days later, in mid-January did the dream’s locale make sense. I then realised that the dream undoubtedly was set in St. Barths.

I swooped down from onhigh, after having arrived in an intensely lucid flying dream. I alighted and as I walked unobserved, I knew that my astrally projected dream body remained invisible. I strode along after a party of about eight persons. I continued on as the party was well removed from the noise and play of the wealthy persons about. There was a tall woman in a colourful muumuu, wearing a broadrimmed straw hat, large shades with blonde hair that bobbed at her shoulders. Stunned was I as I watched the overweight woman, once in a large private suite, get out of a fatsuit, toss aside the blonde wig on the bed, revealing that it was Catherine in disguise. She then came outside to a walled courtyard where a riot of creaping bourgainvillea blooms crowned the awning, affording shade and privacy. She sat in a long white lounge chair, wearing large predatory black shades whilst firmly speaking to someone on the large white phone; her tone was raspish, vile… predatory.

Dream foretelling HM Queen Elizabeth II’s passing

As with the preceding dream, it was dreamt on the eve of the73rd birthday of Prince Charles, the Prince of Wales in November, 2021. Readily, I committed the dream to this blog as I instinctually knew that HM The Queen would pass within the coming year; the following early September, 2022, she passed. There would be little credibility to the dream if I were to have shared it after The Queen’s passing. I awoke and knew straight away that I had to share the prophetic dream. So, too, were these sequential dreams of Catherine, Princess of Wales on Boxing Day, 2023, possessed of the sense of knowing and they were dreams which presaged things to come.

Top to Bottom: Centuries Old English Oak, Cedar of Lebanon at Althorp House & Millennial Yew

The next dream of a senior royal occurred just a couple of days after New Year’s Day, 2024. Since becoming sovereign in September, 2022, it was the first dream had of King Charles III. It is not uncommon to dream of persons with whom you have past life history that was positive; if they happen to be famous and thus recognisable from the waking state in the dreamtime, it is rare. Most times, such persons may well be alive but unkown to self and therefore a mystery though familiar in the dreamtime. This dream was one of high moment. HM King Charles III wore the most glorious saffron robe that was not golden and it draped on the zingy grass after him.

Healing Park of Tuning Fork Trees

Just as in the above dream entitled, “Come on, Let’s Go For A Ride!” All the trees here as in that park were perfectly shaped into topiary tuning forks. They were massive on the order of the giant redwoods of the American northwest; however, here these trees easily were thrice as tall as those ones. The air was pure and inordinately oxygen rich. There were only three types of trees in the dream as represented above: oaks, evergreens and yews, each a colassal trunked column whose branches halved and towered upwards forming perfect tuning forks. I had been in this place before, though, never with Merlin. I had been measurably gliding along drinking in the super negative ions of the place, upping my frequency in the process. I had thrown open my eyes and seen King Charles III coming towards me. Immediately, his exposed hands did not betray the thickened fingers of the waking state; they were long digits that were fluid, sensitive… creative. His age here betrayed his agedness of spirit; King Charles III is a seventh level mature warrior soul – Prince Archie, by the way, is also seventh level mature but a priest soul. They are both the oldest souls of all the senior royals whose overleaves I am aware of. These three majestic arborial species were triple-rowed and along a wide path that easily was wider and longer by ten times than both Windsor Castle’s and Blenheim Palace’s long walks.

Buster Meditating in Pyramid flanked by three George Hawkens, A Bill Reid & A Henry Moore

Comfortably ensconced in my trusty pyramid and lucidly self-aware, I began upping my vibration, drawing in the power and frequency of the trees about me. Swirling about me, the energy soon took on hues of blue-white light, which I directed upwards and outwards whilst King Charles III stood comfortably distant. The light grew more intense, the power more potent until effortlessly my lids fluttered and I awoke with the crystals still in place at the chakra points which rarely they remain during sleep.

Harry & his pa, Charles and his darling boy

Days later, as I looked at live TV, Prince Charles’s former communications secretary, Kristina Kyriacou, said on ITV, “No one could make Prince Charles laugh louder than Prince Harry could…” At that moment, you could have heard a pin drop; no one was better placed to have known this. Indeed, half of King Charles III’s healing was doubtless affected as Prince Harry walked into the salon at Clarence House and they greeted each other, “Hi pa” “Oh my darling boy,” they hugged and both lost tears. Nothing else, not the fabulist bullshit of that battyfaced crossdresser or the other royal experts whether outed by Archie Manners or not – they are all the fucking same… blithering, snobbish, bullshit artists.

EE BAFTA Awards Statuets

Talk about guilty conscience. Just looked at the 2024 EE BAFTA Awards and darling, I honestly had no clue that the shitty li’l racist island’s BAFTAs was specifically an awards ceremony for Blacks. Naturally, as #Peggalicious is president of BAFTA, the #EtonianPoofter has seen fit to fight back against the family having been categorically outed in Omid Scobie’s Endgame as dire anti-Black racists – as if it were not readily obvious at Prince Harry & Meghan’s wedding. Of course, going by those dreams, King Charles III would turn out to be stricken with cancer, hence the giant yew trees in the energy transference dream encounter – extracts from yew bark is used in cancer treatments. Of course, what better way to be rid of the otiose #Middledumb zombie but to push for a divorce. Naturally, as all is slight of hand with The Firm, Catherine has been mysteriously ill and indisposed for a least several months – has she been embalmed and The Firm awaiting the right time to stage the news and disposal. As per the dream, I rather suspect that whilst at Sandringham at Christmas, #Peggalicious violently demanded a divorce, #Middledumb the mute dominatrix, fled to Bucklebury and hightailed it to St. Barths by private jet, in cropped blonde wig and fatsuit no less, where for now, she is staying put with 80m£ worth of missing royal jewels.

HM King James I & his lover, George Villiers the Duke of Buckingham

Christian Jones, the Duke of Buckingham & Norfolk and Peggalicious besotted & Incandescent

Certainly, I cannot see them offering #Middledumb more than 40m£ to go away. Naturally, she has taken flight, not wanting to suffer the same fate that befell the eternally beautiful, Diana, Princess of Wales. It most certainly will be interesting to see if in due course, #Peggalicious makes Christian Jones, Duke of Buckingham & Norfolk; King James I certainly set the tone when making his lover, George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham.

#Middlemuted Missing but is she missed?

Is it piñata whacking time one wonders?

At the one hour & twelfth minute mark of this landmark live performance in New York City on December 4, 1992, Diana Ross performs the best rendition of Strange Fruit since Billie Holiday. And what a stellar assembly of Jazz musicians it was!

Liner Notes:

Arranged By [Music Arranged By] – Gil Askey
[The BIg Band], Alto Saxophone – Frank Wess (tracks: 15 to 18), Justin Robinson (tracks: 15 to 18)
[The BIg Band], Baritone Saxophone – Gary Smulyan (tracks: 15 to 18)
[The BIg Band], Bass – Ron Carter (tracks: 15 to 18)
[The BIg Band], Drums – Grady Tate (tracks: 15 to 18)
[The BIg Band], Guitar – Ted Dunbar (tracks: 15 to 18)
[The BIg Band], Piano – Barry Harris (2) (tracks: 15 to 18)
[The BIg Band], Tenor Saxophone – Jerome Richardson (tracks: 15 to 18), Ralph Moore (2) (tracks: 15 to 18)
[The BIg Band], Trombone – Garnett Brown (tracks: 15 to 18), Slide Hampton (tracks: 15 to 18), Urbie Greene* (tracks: 15 to 18)
[The BIg Band], Trumpet – Gil Askey (tracks: 15 to 18), John Longo (tracks: 15 to 18), Jon Faddis (tracks: 16 to 19), Roy Hargrove (tracks: 15 to 18), Stanton Davis (tracks: 15 to 18)
[The Band], Alto Saxophone – Justin Robinson (tracks: 1 to 10)
[The Band], Bass – Ron Carter (tracks: 1 to 10)
[The Band], Drums – Grady Tate (tracks: 1 to 10)
[The Band], Guitar – Ted Dunbar (tracks: 1 to 10)
[The Band], Piano – Barry Harris (2) (tracks: 1 to 10)
[The Band], Tenor Saxophone – Ralph Moore (2) (tracks: 1 to 10)
[The Band], Trombone – Urbie Greene* (tracks: 1 to 10)
[The Band], Trumpet – Gil Askey (tracks: 1 to 10), Jon Faddis (tracks: 1 to 10), Roy Hargrove (tracks: 1 to 10)
[The Sextet], Drums – Grady Tate (tracks: 11 to 14)
[The Sextet], Piano – Bobby Tucker (tracks: 11 to 14)
[The Sextet], Tenor Saxophone – Jerome Richardson (tracks: 11 to 14)
[The Sextet], Trombone – Garnett Brown (tracks: 11 to 14)
[The Sextet], Trumpet – Gil Askey (tracks: 11 to 14), Jon Faddis (tracks: 11 to 14)
Executive Producer – Diana Ross
Leader [Music Director] – Jon Faddis
Producer – Ben Sidran
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Rage! Especially at a time like this, rage is the passion one feels at you having the audacity to speciously claim that Jazz has its roots in Klezmer… live on-air! You just know that faster than a sneeze, I was manically dialling up JazzFM and vituperatively emasculating the little fabulist fraud. You can squat all over the culture all you want; however, you are to Jazz what wings are to ostriches. Seriously, what do ostriches know of flight? More to the point, eagles do not give a goddamn that ostriches have wings. The audacity of you as one, enraptured by the language of Jazz, stratospherically soars twenty thousand feet above the oddity of you stealing, squatting… noise-making! Happy Black history month. Jazz, above all else, is the spiritual manifestation of that intensely enriched Black history!

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©2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Pink Chair I & II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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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©2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Pluto in Capricorn & in Opposition – Pandemic & Retribution.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always… with every breath… it is quintessentially Jazz!

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

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

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

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

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©2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Buster En Repose Pyramid Green Room.

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(L to R,) Yonge Street Mask (George Hawken Lithograph 1971), Pink Chair (George Hawken Lithograph 1990 of yours truly; there are only three copies in existence) Woman (George Hawken Lithograph 1980) Sockeye Salmon (Bill Reid Lithograph 1991), Four Standing Figures (Henry Moore Lithograph 1978) 

Buster is a really keen familiar.  Recently, someone of dubious intentions visited my home; needless to say, I had dreamt of the encounter days prior.  As he spends long hours therein, Buster came from the pyramid and promptly hissed at the individual then returned to the pyramid where no doubt, he communed with his Egyptian ancestors.  He only ever enters the pyramid at the eastern corner and when meditating will face one of the four corners in the sphinx position and remain thus for long hours.  

Buster loves that duvet; therefore, year round I have to sleep with one.  Now that it is summer, I avoid roasting beneath the down duvet by having the AC on high 24/7.  Bad carbon footprint; then again, I don’t drive.  

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©2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

The Dream Chamber

Pyramid2

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

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

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©2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Here’s to You!

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

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

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©2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.