The latest red carpet parade of the now Prince & Princess of Wales 3.0, (William & Catherine), Charles & Diana – The second Elizabethan Age’s original Prince and Princess of Wales, Charles & Camilla 2.0 – did not disappoint in its hissing drama. Naturally, the Fleet Street abattoirs did not surprise the sceptical in their quaint sophistry, to paint this gaudy Picasso portrait as though it were a sublime Gainsborough tableau.
As you are well aware, this hissing red carpet tango has been going on for years. Catherine can be seen brushing off William at the top of the stairs at the Royal Albert Hall as they stood with the senior royals for obligatory photo call at the premier of the James Bond film No Time To Die. Also, Catherine on joining the senior royals on the steps, could be seen cutting her eyes at William, with whom she had been earlier rowing on the red carpet. All throughout her seething animus, William kept pursing his lips as he enjoyed getting under Catherine’s skin as he is cockily assured in his relationship with Rose, Countess Rocksavage. William’s pursed lips betray the fact that though it is his wont to be loud and verbally abusive, he could not do so in public. This, of course, gives Catherine an advantage as she can grin, hiss and cuss him out at such times without him verbally assaulting her.
Fast forward, post HLM Queen Elizabeth’s death and the now Prince and Princess of Wales, still at war, are in Boston. God only knows why? So lovely it was to see President Biden, meeting him on the Boston waterfront like one does a whore, then the President returned to Washington D. C. where he had been hosting French President Emmanuel Macron. Desperate to squash the truth, William again in the #WaroftheWaleses brushes off Catherine’s attempt at handholding. Now married near a dozen years, this handholding business they never engaged in. William in 2013 had an affair with a banker in the City and thereafter, they did not start handholding. Of course, with Harry and Meghan’s supernova on the royal scene, their handholding and genuine love for each other proved disruptive. Similarly, like a supernova 400 light years away, before you knew what next, the Black American woman was erased from the royal portraits as the #WaroftheWaleses turned outward and were united in cannibalising that “Yank,” that damn Black ‘bully’ American from their midst.
Now fast forward to the recent BAFTA Awards, which rather extensively will be the subject of the next blog. Here’s when the hissing peaked in their usual style of continuing the #WaroftheWaleses. Catherine makes to hold hands and is again rebuffed by William. This, of course, came days after he had spent St. Valentine’s Day with Rose, Countess Rocksavage.
Just listen to that woman with female genitalia in the middle of her face, Camilla Tominey, engaging in more specious revisionism. Though there are none so blind as those who deliberately choose not to see, some of us are neither blind nor given to obsequiousness. Camilla Tominey is a known liar. Catherine tries to hold hands with William, he rebuffs as in Boston, she then immediately hits his bottom after he pulls away and conveniently waves to the little people. Betraying her energy body of 9, her being a warrior soul and one of her personal needs being power, Catherine immediately shot back, “Or What?” whilst grinning her fake-assed face off.
So then, let’s break down what is really going on here! Firstly, William and Catherine would never have gotten dressed together; therefore, on coming down when their car arrived, William would have been livid. Catherine deliberately wore black opera gloves to make a point. All Toffs know that one always wears matching opera gloves. Therefore, Catherine ought to have been wearing a black or smoky grey dress with black opera gloves. Had Catherine elected to wear white gloves with the white Alexander McQueen dress that she wore, she could not have made her point.
That’s right, Catherine was outing Peggalicious! As there is never just one hanger in any closet, Catherine in the #WaroftheWaleses upped her game. If William will not spend St. Valentine’s Day with her, she was going to take the war to the red carpet. Again, do not ever underestimate the resolve of a warrior soul when they choose to do battle; for all warriors, fighting is foreplay. Prince Henry, is also a fifth level mature soul Warrior like Catherine, and SPARE certainly does lay bare his warrior mettle through and through. Catherine and William’s rowing would be like Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt in their rivetingly combustible film, Mr. & Mrs. Smith.
As previously shared on this blog, (Pink Chair I & II) in October, 2021, https://dreampoetica.com/2021/10/24/pink-chair-i-ii/I have been into S&M and all its play. And it was my experience that all males who are into being pegged, also go in for being fisted. That’s right, Catherine was aggressively outing William’s game. Not only is he Peggalicious but he also loves getting good and fisted. For obvious reasons, one never wears long white latex or rubber gloves in fisting. Catherine has to know that she has to go all out, because the day the Prime Minister stands in Parliament and states, “It is with regret that Buckingham Palace announces that TRH Prince and Princess of Wales are to separate, it will be open season on her. Faster than lightning striking the CN Tower, the Fleet Street abattoirs will then turn on Catherine.
In the #WaroftheRoses, Catherine broke with tradition and wore a white dress to highlight the black opera gloves, which were a nod to long, black latex or rubber fisting gloves. Catherine is shrewd and one of the interesting observations that Meghan, Duchess of Sussex made in her Oprah interview, is that Catherine is a good person. By so doing, like equally shrewd Catherine, Meghan who never once mentioned his name, was alluding to what a anti-Black racist boor, William is, which his number 9 second position (mindset) attests and which has been validated in Prince Harry’s phenomenally successful SPARE, which I’ve now thrice read.
If you are going to wear a white dress to an important function, where the Prince of Wales is president of BAFTA, you do not wear black gloves with a white dress. It is always monochromatic from head to toe. Catherine did not give a damn about being royal next to mere Hollywood and the Oscars coming up this month; if she cared, she would have worn her hair up as she did at the premier of the James Bond film, No Time To Die, in September 2021 at the Royal Albert Hall. Of course, along with the opera gloves, weaving some pearls into her beautifully coiffed hair would have carried off the look and made it truly royal. As it is, Catherine came off as nothing more than coalmining fare, playing at being a royal.
Frankly, 12 years on, it is time she changed her armour, starting with her hair; she would be better served with a close-cropped hairdo. A dozen years on, it is too much hair and too much of the damn boring same. In the #WaroftheWaleses, Catherine is literally fighting for her man, for her life and everything that entails. Unlike both Diana, Princess of Wales and Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, Catherine is void charisma and is embarrassingly inarticulate – unlike Meghan, she will fare miserably if William were to serve her with divorce; if that were the case, I rather suspect that she will walk away with the little bastard, Damien. Honest to god, is it any wonder William is off watering Rose’s garden. Some femme au foyer that, talk about 12 years a fail. How in the hell can this woman not cook? And, of course, the Fleet Street abattoirs just laughed it off but they are keeping score and will change colour and pounce on her faster than an octopus its prey!
At the end of the day, Catherine is a woman in deep pain and with all that rowing in public, there has got to be a lot of emotional and mental abuse from both sides behind closed doors. Regardless of anything else, I will always support a woman in an abusive relationship, especially in this dynamic. No matter what, like his father before him, William will not adversely suffer, if he were to dispose of Catherine by way of divorce or god forbid worse; that is the nature of the game. Her escalated ageing can be put down to the fact that Catherine is clearly a serious drinker and also is mightily stressed about the fact that like Diana, Princess of Wales, there are three persons in her marriage. Certainly, the Courtesan Queen will be of no solace to Catherine.
Just look at Catherine, she stumbles and what proves a fitting metaphor of their relationship, William does not react. He is long over this woman, he just wants her gone from his life. It truly is a sad state of affairs. In the meantime, we await the coronation, which every entertainer and their shadow is shunning thanks to SPARE and their loyalties to the Sussexes. Let’s see if the Courtesan Queen’s grandkids are kited with coronets and tiaras on the day whilst the Sussexes’ son, Archie, on his fourth birthday remains not styled as a prince.
Something has definitely shifted in the #WaroftheWaleses. Since Catherine’s rude brushoff in 2019, William clearly enjoys the upper hand and can care less about her. He knows that the kingdom is aware of heir marital strife; he is also keenly aware that she will never win that PR war when it arrives. Especially so if he ends up with Rose, Countess Rocksavage, Catherine will be discarded to the Fleet Street abattoirs, much as Diana was, where they will truly flay her soul. At least Diana was charming, radiant, beautiful and beloved by most everyone.
Certainly, it will be a smooth transition moving into the role of Duchess of Cornwall. Plus que ça change, plus c’est… mais oui. Honest to god, I swear there is a strap-on imprint on Rose’s gown. Look at how much happier Peggalicious looks – that just-pegged glow is undeniable. Indeed, look at how much more regally Rose oozes the royal mystique. All things aside, the no-chinned ‘model’ scores only a few points less on the all-important toddler scare-ometer than the Courtesan Queen. Clearly not breeding material, House of Windsor sidepieces are therefore not chosen for their beauty.
The latest salvo of the House of Windsor is truly myopic. As Fleet Street gleefully reports, the #TampaxKing in a fit of rage, instigated by the #CourtesanQueen has evicted the Sussexes from Frogmore Cottage. Hooray for that! At 120 rooms, the Earl & Countess of Wessex’s Bagshot Park costs then £90,000 per annum. Similarly, the kinder-lover Yorkist paedophile pays on his 30 room pile, Royal Lodge a whopping £12,000 per annum. Now get this, after having paid back the costs of renovations, and installed a £5,000 copper bathtub, the Sussexes were having to pay £216,000 per annum for the 12 room Frogmore Cottage. What more proof does one need of the House of Windsor being a racist hellhole when the otiose Black wife, the ‘Yank’ has to cough up 2.4 times as much as the Wessexes to the Crown Estate and 18 times as much as the harboured Yorkist paedophile. Let’s hope that the Sussexes rip out that damn copper bathtub and have it shipped to Montecito. Thanks for desperately seeking to score brownie points with the island kingdom’s shitty racist boors but you’ve just saved the Sussexes loads of cheddar. In all of this, you can bet your bottom shilling that the warring Waleses, in particular the pegged & fisted Bourbon bastard, was behind the drive to have the Sussexes evicted. Oh thank you dumb and blinded by racially predatory obsession your gormliness. Good, now that you’ve gotten the Sussexes evicted just Keep Calm et Va Chier!
Get it Iris! So despite the #WaroftheWaleses, life keeps on boogieing right along with Prince Harry’s SPARE performing brilliantly. At this rate, I think for being banished to Ray Mill House, the Courtesan Queen will demand titles for her Parker-Bowles offspring, whilst still nothing for Archie and Lilibet. Seriously, who the fuck are these people? There is a point at which, you cannot expect intelligent people to buy this nonsense about unconscious bias. The royals are part of a racist institution; they know it and they themselves are as well and don’t give a damn that it is fairly obvious to all with eyes to see. Well, they damn sure got rid of the Black woman in their midst; however, does this mean that their volatile marriage will adapt and the #WaroftheWaleses just become another convenient institutional partnership, like Philip and Elizabeth with each taking lovers and having children with other lovers as was the case with recently departed Philip and Elizabeth? Who knows, who truly fucking cares?
Well, if you can’t flip pancakes and can do little more than gurn like a lost, famished fox, from September 2021 to February 2023, you had better be able to shake it like Iris Chacon. No matter how you cut it, sooner or later, task companions or not, there is a very strong likelihood that this marriage which is clearly in its late stages of viability, will likely end in separation, followed by divorce.
Wayne Shorter Quartet, 2012 Paris Salle Pleyel
Wayne Shorter – Saxophones
John Patitucci – Bass
Danilo Perez – Piano
Brian Blade – Drums
Wayne Shorter, 25.8.1933 [Rooster 7.6.4 = 8] <O> 2.3.2023 Sweet and blissful dreams ennobled Shaman. Your memory ever will be a blessing of the most inspired dreams.
Whenever I travel to a city, I always stay within close distance to a crystal store. I want to be exposed to their vibration and thereby harmonise with that city’s groove. In November 2018 when in town for the 100th anniversary of Armistice Day and Royal Ballet’s production of La Bayadère, I stayed at a hotel in Russell Square so that I could be in walking distance to the British Museum, Covent Garden. I got to the Astrology Shop in Covent Garden and took my time, trying to find a couple of crystals that I could keep in my pockets at all times. Besides, the best most fragrant sagebrush can be found at the Astrology Shop. The day of the Remembrance Ceremony, I stood just to the right of the Cenotaph and opposite the balcony where eventually Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex stood with the German President’s wife. I wanted to be there because I knew that HLM Queen Elizabeth II, looking at the state of those canker sores on her shins, was not much longer for this world.
Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex Remembrance Ceremony, 2018
Standing there, at times I had to reach into each pant pocket and clutch the crystal therein after the vile hateful remarks of positively everyone about me made of Harry’s wife, Meghan, before she and the rest of the royal party came to those three balconies. There were times when for sending focussed light energy directly to Meghan to protect from the island kingdom’s racially predatory, hateful focus, the crystals actually became warm in each palm. I was exhausted at the end of the ceremony, eventually making my way to the Queen’s Gallery at Buckingham Palace and taking in a beautiful exhibition that celebrated Queen Victoria’s empire building family, not before the most hilarious cab ride.
The beauty of Prince Harry’s book is that it so undisputedly validates what I have expounded all along about the major royal principals, based chiefly on their numerology. Yes, of course, I have also relied on their Michael Overleaves; however, what I have never done is focussed on their astrology, which is often not remotely accurate. The truly leonine person, for example, is not someone born with the Sun in leo but someone with the Moon in Leo, though, that is obviously possible. Though a Leo, my Sagittarian Moon is a more accurate insight to my emotional makeup than anything else. That aside, the numerology, which never lies, is the real measure of any person’s true character.
Princess Eugenie & Jack Brooksbank at Pippa Middleton’s May 2017 wedding
When initially the Telegraph’s royal reporter, Camilla Tominey speciously reported that Meghan had made Catherine cry, I knew after a quick review of the principals’ numerology that it was a lie. Clearly, the church guests rule was specifically intended to ban Meghan from attending the church portion of the Middleton-Matthews wedding. If Meghan were seen attending the church service then both Catherine and Pippa would readily have been eclipsed. This was an early example of specious and wholly arbitrary rules employed to keep the Yank, the Black Yank, out of the picture.
As Prince Harry, King of Hearts, has poignantly documented in SPARE, the truth, his and Meghan’s had to be revealed to show the extent to which the Waleses’ monstrosity was being protected by the Fleet Street abattoirs. How could these Britons realistically think that they could dismiss a ‘Yank’ in their midst and it not get out. It is not the age of steamships and telegrams. Everything is out there. What the senior royals and their Fleet Street abattoir hacks did not envision, was Henry & Meghan walking.
Obviously, the book is hands down a winner! Here are my takeaways. As to why Harry was so self-revelatory; this has always been one big high stakes PR game. In revealing chatter about his todger and drug use, he readily squashed any potential of the tabloids coming out and releasing this to eclipse his book and, as it were, shame Prince Harry. The most hysterical thing for me was when I was called by a friend and asked if that was a lucid dream that Harry was having when staying at Courtney Cox’s place. That provided a good laugh as I assured him that he was talking about the effects of doing drugs at the party but since nothing less than 9.5 inches ever goes in my mouth and I’ve never done drugs, it had to have been about a drug trip but what drugs I hadn’t a clue. Certainly, dreams don’t go there as in that experience that Harry described.
Young Virgin Auto-Sodomized by the Horns of Her Own ChastityOil on Canvas 1954 Salvador Ali
Sometimes, what passes for reality is truly as though a bad drug experience. Though I lived at 380 Assiniboine Avenue’s Bessborough apartments in Winnipeg, I spent evenings from time to time at Arjun’s tiny apartment on Broadway Avenue. One afternoon, in the midst of winter as I walked home in shoes and socks that were soaked with loud-smelling piss, he had pulled up, and offered me a ride; it’s too cold to be on foot, he negotiated with the warmest smile that matched his large, light brown eyes. He truly was a godsend. I got in hardly able to walk and he thought that I had injured myself; my shoes and socks were frozen to my feet. Someone, though, I had a pretty good suspicion who it was, pissed into my locker with the grated wire door and into my socks and shoes. This only ever occurred when there were snow squalls and the temperatures well below -30°C with the wind chill. He drove a cab for extra cash as he struggled post divorce. Arjun was horrified when he saw my swollen, frozen feet with socks and shoes hard to remove. He made a mean curry chicken and after he would give me a beautiful massage after having tied me off and performed the most maddeningly slow, warm-oiled manual massage to climax whilst we sat opposite each other, naked on dining room chairs. Most of all, Arjun taught me numerology; he felt it was necessary as he discovered that I had master number 11. I always recalled him saying that my little accidents at the Royal Winnipeg Ballet school whenever it heavily snowed was like a bad dream. Faithfully, as promised, he was always there waiting for me outside when it snowed and was bitterly cold as I emerged in piss-soaked socks and shoes. The moment that I saw Princess Michael of Kent in that blackamoor brooch, I became a staunch supporter of Meghan’s. I knew what harrowing put-through it was to be a lone Black, entering into what is a traditionally all-White institution, an institution which after having amassed fantastic wealth from the enslavement of Black Africans could not be expected to be anything but racially hostile to Blacks, which has been most focussed in William and his wife, Catherine.
Standing there at the Cenotaph in November, 2018, and seeing HM The Queen for the last time, I was keenly reminded of how important it was to support Meghan. First hand, from all the people around me, who said the most vile hateful things, all I could do was visualise. Holding on to those crystals, I sent her light energy from the crystals, to enlighten and protect her from the hateful maelstrom being directed her way. As the ceremony endured, I thought of that energy being used to replenish the bile being projected onto her which I then drew away and had the plane trees on either side of me absorb, send to their roots to have it eaten, cleansed and returned from the warm earth, travelling to me via the plane trees’ crowns and the cycle perpetuated. There was no way that Meghan would not have been the focussed campaign of rejection and racial animus from William and Catherine for both being possessed of 9 in their numerology.
Too, it was good to have gotten a thorough appreciation of warrior soul, Prince Harry’s time in the combat zone. He was as soldier who had performed in the war theatre and had survived. Harry needed to have devoted the second of three parts of his inspiring memoir to his military service as a way to present himself to his newly adopted homeland, America.
Above all else, Americans respect veterans. This is such a poignant photograph of soldier Harry. He has been on a mission to avenge his mother, Diana, Princess of Wales’ murder and nothing and no one will deter him on his quest. All the successes of the Sussexes are directly a result of Diana, Princess of Wales being there in their corner.
This book is not just about the structural racism of the House of Windsor and British society as a result of its past as colonisers and enslaving imperialists, it unveils a rather telling aspect of post colonialism. In all my seven decades, I know of no one Black: rich, middle class, creative or otherwise who has ever once spoken of a desire to go on an African safari, have been or know of such things. Prince Harry accounts of his retreats to Botswana’s Okavango delta speak volumes. Here is a realm of human experience, which just a few thousand miles away, tens of millions of Blacks are held captive in poverty, the vestiges of post-Apartheid colonial South Africa, which still stridently exists – political window dressing notwithstanding, and about this they know positively nothing. Seeing this aspect of human civilisation through Prince Harry’s eyes, was deeply inspiring but profoundly devastating. The very essence of Africa, one giant getaway for predominantly Whites to enjoy unencumbered by the misery of Black Africans, Blacks elsewhere about which they have no input, was plainly revealed in Prince Harry’s journeys. The most devastating part which made me break down and cry was listening to Prince William, he of the prejudiced 9 mindset, insisting that Africa was his not Harry’s; A whole fucking continent, the homeland of a diverse, culturally rich people the world over of Black African descent, being spoken of as though Africa were the exclusive property of a blasted White male who could not be anymore out of touch with the 21st century than if he were teleported back in time to Han Dynasty China. Of course, what William was referring to, was the rich animal kingdoms in Africa which exists nowhere else; he couldn’t in the least have given a shit about the dredged scourge that is Black Africans’ lives and their culture.
Of course, in that moment, I was reminded of the vast disconnected that exists between Blacks, the diabolical lengths we go to, to deny our Blackness and our connectedness to other Blacks. Knowing that he was going to die, Merlin wrote letters to many of his professional associates, most in the States. As they shared the same eponymous agency, Joyce Ketay, which later became part of the Gersch Agency, Merlin wrote to actor, Joe Morton whom he had directed in plays and who starred in in the film, Brother From Another Planet. They always got on famously. On receiving the mail in November, 1989, Joe called up from L. A. and said that he would be coming up to see Merlin. It was the most noble gesture. Joe flew into town and my sister and I met him at Toronto’s Pearson International Airport and the evening was both healing and bucolic. I ordered Chinese takeout and went around to Parliament Street to collect the food with Joe and filled him in on how long Merlin had been ill; we got in and my lover who had not been able to hold down a meal in several days, joined in and picked at the food and did not even throw up. As this was the age, long before cell phones’ ubiquity, Joe used our phone to call his wife in L. A. and check in. Some time later, we were having refreshments, they coffee – I can’t abide the stuff and I tea. At some point, Merlin had misjudged his strength and the distance to the coffee table piled high with books, one of which was Luigi Serafini’s magical masterpiece, Codex Seraphinianus. From my perspective across the room all the spilled coffee had not been sopped up and not wanting it to damage the books, I got up and used my napkin to clean up the rest of the spilled fare. Almost violently, Joe snatched his Sprint phone card, from atop one of the large coffee table books, creating an awkward millisecond of social aggression. This is the sort of thing that if Merlin were not ill and he were not staying in our house, I’d have walked Joe to the door and violently slam it on him. After he got up in the early hours, my sister came by and drove him out to the airport where a very large moon was close to the horizon. When I got back to the house, Merlin apologised and said that it was most devastating because he realised that if he were Black rather than Jewish, Joe would not have bothered to fly into town and visit him. It was one of the many times that Merlin, an ardent student of Black literature, who relished just about every Black author there was, touched on the subject of Black on Black racism. I always remember him saying, there is no such thing as being half Jewish, mixed Jewish. You are a Jew! Period! Yet the vogue has been for so many Blacks, exhibiting the most embarrassing self-loathing, claiming not to be Black. As Merlin once joked, well if you have a Black parent how can you not be Black, do these people think anyone mistakes them for Chinese? Said Merlin, what is a Jew with a single Jewish parent referred to as, a Goyish, a mixed Goy. Trust Merlin to always see the humour in everything; however, this need to deny one’s Blackness, is precisely why Joe never procreated with a Black woman. How the hell do you go to someone’s house and consider them a damn thief in their own house? I’d be rather surprised if with his success, Joe has ever been on a safari to Botswana. Merlin passed exactly a week later.
Two men could not have been more different. Indeed, it is a good thing that William is the shit-disturbing, stubborn, pugnacious, bully that he is. He truly represents the collective psyche of White Britain, having to face up to its past as colonisers, enslavers and just blood-thirsty savages. That history has given rise to royal heirs who are archly anti-Black in their perspective and conversely pro-Jewish in their preferences. There is nothing wrong in their preference but you cannot be so daft as to put out there your embarrassing perceptions. Furthermore, it does one’s credibility little to no good when a disproportionate number of the pundits who are savagely attacking Meghan and Harry are Jewish. Recently, even Judge Judy has gotten on the bandwagon of preying on the Sussexes. One of the things that all these persons are keen to do, which Merlin first pointed out to me in the early days of our relations in 1980s New York City, is that when being racially predatory towards Blacks, Jews are ever mindful never to bring race into their discussions and open animus towards Blacks. As he then pointed out, once challenged, one can then scream to the rafters that one is being anti-Semitic. One of the errors of all such persons as they savagely prey on Meghan and being openly racist, is not one of them so much as said boo fuck-all when George Floyd was savagely murdered. It was no business of theirs; of course, in having said nothing by way of protesting, one was clearly supporting such hideous racially predatory savagery. Then along comes Meghan et voilà, Methenny and others are barking mad with rage against that Black bitch Meghan whom they hate; of course, as Merlin long ago pointed out and has been validated, they never once mention Meghan’s Blackness.
Carefully chosen words from a man who could not be more disinterested in Black civilisation than if he were a Klansman. Indeed, there were times on that tour where they were supposed to be representing HLM Queen Elizabeth II where their relationships disrepair could not have been more obvious. Of course, Catherine just had to be photographed standing around with a drink in hand… drunk and debauched indeed.
Of course, we finally got validation of Catherine’s energy body of 9 being revealed as the bully behind who made whom cry. Not only was she a rude, dismissive, confrontational 9 energy-bodied boor, Catherine had to go one step forward and lay down the law as to who was boss, she wore a white dress to Meghan’s wedding – so, too, did Camilla to Diana’s wedding in July, 1981. The bitch wore white, that’s how you know who made who cry. All the incidents reported by Prince Harry in SPARE are evidence of both Meghan and Harry being racially harassed and racially preyed on in the workplace. One of the signatures of 11 master number is that it gives one a keen intellect; one is ill-inclined to gladly suffer fools. Who is Catherine to a self-made accomplished actor? Catherine is a blithering idiot who can do not more than gurn like a mad loon because finally, you cannot expect a fucking mad loon to behave like a self-possessed, strong woman.
It may be a family; however, it is also a workplace and it is fairly obvious that Meghan was the target of a campaign that involved mental and emotional abuse, which was orchestrated by the Waleses and in concert with Courtesan Queen Camilla as it suited her to be an ugly duchess who just could not resist going there as she so relished with Harry’s mother and Meghan’s mother-in-law, Diana, Princess of Wales.
What I am thoroughly convinced of, by Meghan’s body language when they emerged at the Cambridge Gates at Windsor Castle in September 2022, is that she exhibited signs that not only was she regularly yelled at and abused but either or both, Catherine or William; however, either or both may well have physically assaulted Meghan whilst she lived at Nott Cott. How could they live at Nott Cott when in the palace proper was that vile racist bully, Princess Michael of Kent.
“If You Don’t Mind, Take Your Finger Out of My Face.” Meghan, Duchess of Sussex to HRH Prince William, Prince of Wales.
What Meghan was making perfectly clear, William is milquetoast and furthermore, she did not want his smelly, bussy-poking finger anywhere near her goddamn face. There is no mistaking who had the upper hand in that power dynamic, William and Catherine’s vile machinations notwithstanding.
As much as we know that Prince William loves getting pegged, part of that psychosexual dynamic of being bottomed, is almost always being violently impatient, rude and bullying. This is a scene with which Prince William would be intimately familiar. For one thing, his fourth number of 5 guarantees being debauched and it always means sexual infamy – scandal or multiple scandals that are sexual beyond the norm will manifest and more importantly, make their way into the culture, becoming common knowledge. It is not about Prince William being Gay or Bisexual, it is simply a psychosexual dynamic which at its core is sadomasochistic. William’s desire to be pegged, bottomed and owned, comes as a relief from the domineering, bullying almost brutalising aspects of his personality when he is not sexually focussed. Again, William is moving centred so more than most, he ever would need a sexual outlet. Fourth number of 5, rules excess, infamy.
There is magic all around, you just have to be accurately focussed to capture those moments, which are ever present. These moments of magic, like the incident related in SPARE of the crash of the Queen Elizabeth Christmas tree ornament, are moments which reinforce that Diana, Princess of Wales is not far off. Indeed, loved ones with whom one remains bonded, will never lose being focussed on us here and now. As there are another 400 pages of this memoir, SPARE, yet to be released, I fully expect more of the Waleses, Charles and Camilla’s ugliness to be further revealed. Beautifully written, this is a most raw, honest and scathingly focussed memoir. Godspeed Henry, Meghan, Archie & Lilibet your work is ably fortified by Diana’s guidance and protection. God save a most noble Prince Harry, King of Hearts.
John Coltrane – Soprano & Tenor Saxophone
Jimmy Garrison – Double Bass
McCoy Tyner – Piano
Elvin Jones – Drums
This handsome gem played nonstop as I pored through SPARE, getting to know Henry’s raw, inspiring, beautiful soul. John Coltrane’s creative genius certainly got me through some rough patches in the book, especially, his early trauma at the violent murder of his mother, Diana, Princess of Wales. I cannot state enough, but whenever I have dreamt of Henry he has always been relaxed, unpretentious and barefooted, which really made me sit up and take notice during the Netflix & Archewell Productions, co-production of Harry and Meghan, the docuseries. Above all else, special mention must be made of J. R. Moehringer, SPARE’s masterful ghost-writer; he did one hell of a job.
As ever, life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!
These utterly stunning dream experiences occurred on Thursday, February 16, 1989, whilst the Moon transited both Cancer and my second house.
I was on a street and just beyond the other side of the street was the edge of a cliff; it looked down into a distant valley. It was very sunny out. I was seated in front of a house.On my right was a man who had come home from work in a car. He looked very Italian except that he seemed to be very hirsute – as though he had quite dark skin.However, on closer inspection, he turned out to be rather hirsute. A little later on, he came outside again. His neighbours were looking at him, kind of strangely, like they weren’t already accustomed to looking or reacting to him in a strange manner.
He sat down next to me outside, on the neighbouring bench to my right, both of us with backs to the neighbours. He turned and looked at me and his face was rather ape-like.It was the colour black and his hair was quite different. This man had a long widow’s peak and his face was literally the colour black. It was quite ape-like. He said nothing. More than that, he seemed rather friendly and nice.Along that street, there were kids when a car had pulled up. They were very teenage kids – all boys. A boy came out further along and returned to join one of his companions.
Then it turned out that his companion was in a car that was black and seemed to move, as it were, on air-cushioned rubber wheels. This black car of his was rather aerodynamic.After his friend took off, he then – this is the little blond timid guy – went over towards the cliff. Directly in front of the hirsute ape-like man, who was seated to my right, the blond guy went into the bushes.The young guy turned out to have been his brother – that guy who looked like a twin of his or resembled a brother. They hung out together and then he went moving on.
As he passed me, going from right to left, a friend of his was coming down the road. The road had a curve in it and went steeply up a hill. The hill, in fact, looked like the hill at Toronto’s Prospect Cemetery on the south side of Kitchener Street. His friend came down and he was wearing a helmet because he had been on some sort of vehicle. He removed the helmet, carrying it in his right hand, as they greeted each other.Strangely, they greeted by grabbing each other around the hips and rubbed their crotches together, joked and laughed. In essence, they engaged in clothed frottage.
I thought it interesting that two males would engage in open sexual play, however, this seemed the natural standard way of greeting in this culture. Clearly, this was a sign that this was not exactly Kansas.I had the distinct impression that the twin blonds had gone into the gorge to do drugs. As they were blissing out, only the crown of their golden mops was visible.They were using the very intense lushness of the rolling hills, in the valley way below, as a stimulant. Everything here was so pronouncedly healthy, even the star that shined seemed more intense and pure than Sol.I carefully looked at some of the trees and realised that they were bonsai, furry, mossy centuries-old plants that seemed to hum at a frequency higher than their arboreal counterparts on Earth.
I was able to zoom into the plants in the valley way below and experience them in intimate close-up. Of course, this I accomplished whilst remaining seated on the bench where to my right on another sat the über-poilu, intensely warm, handsome ape-like man.The helmet was the same black, light, metal-plastic alloy material as the car. It seemed to have the ability to absorb the intense sunlight, which was not scorching, and cool the interior.The blond who greeted his Italian-looking helmeted friend – they were all, incidentally, the same hirsute ape-like stock as the jet-black man seated to my right – had patted the car as he moved around its rear into the road to meet his dark-haired friend.He had patted the car much like one would a trusted horse. At that, the car had hissed and lurched to the road from its hovering stationary position a foot off the ground.
Later on, in the second dream, I was still on the same street. There were all these little kids. They were on skateboards. They came down about four, five, six, of them – little guys. One of them was Black. He was quite light-skinned. They were from a high social class. They were very friendly and nice and I warmly interacted with them.However, they were quite reserved and it wasn’t as though they weren’t friendly. As I was a stranger, for that reason, they kept me at bay.On the lower part of the street, where I was with them, it was clearly a cemetery. As far as cemeteries go, it was quite different an arrangement. It had quite large tombstones in it – monuments.
There was one woman there in black who was seemingly Italian. She was carrying on; she was grieving by this one monument. It had on it a very interesting design and some of the graves were fresh.I explained to them, the little boys, that this was where one went. However, then one came back from there and was able to live a life again like they were now living.I explained to them in those terms, however, I did not force them to look at funerals. People’s focus on funerals as the end and fear of death was the trap, I explained to them.
In this the third dream, I was under these hugely tall trees and was working at the time. Clearly, I had been working for someone like Pete Wilkens or someone like him.I had left a shovel around. The shovel had been left about and from a long, long time ago. This was on the grounds of a park-like setting where there were lots of skeletons about. The skeletons were covered with a whole bunch of ants. It was strange because it seemed as though the bones were the remnants of lunch and had just been eaten.They seemed like the skeletons for fish except that the head bone of the fish – skull – was quite flat.
The head had three sides to it and the skeleton was again a narrow filament that had two identical spines that trailed the unusual-looking skull.The skeletons were quite white and were flexible like the white cartilage of a chicken breast. There was a bunch of ants all over them.I might also add that these flexible, double-spined, fish-like skeletons were covered with ants that were quite feathery and lumpy. These ants were almost like miniature tarantulas because they were so bulky, dark, rich and, in a way, nice to look at.
There was a shovel sitting about and I realised that I had left it there, when I worked last time which was some time ago, last season. However, nobody had actually moved it because it meant that it was my responsibility to have moved it.So I ended up moving a couple of rakes – they were, in fact, more like pole saws. When trying to clear the space, I took them from one area to the next.I must say that I was quite struck by the face of that particular man that I did see, whilst he sat on the neighbouring bench to my right, in the initial dream. Even here in another dream entirely, I kept seeing him in my mind’s eye.
The fourth dream found me going back to an apartment where Merlin and I were living together. There were ants all about the apartment.I told him,“You have to get out and go away for a while so I can clean away the ants.”I then went about disinfecting the place and got rid of the ants. I was even disinfecting beneath the floorboards… everywhere.Owing to his being full-blown with AIDS, I did not want Merlin being exposed to the harmful chemicals in the disinfectants. That, certainly, could have resulted in horrific consequences on his vastly compromised immune system.
With the fifth dream, I was in a large department store. There, I saw Isis da Braga who was there to buy a scarf. At the time, I was with two males; it was a Gay situation.Owen Hawksmoor was talking to someone who had a very large nose. The man to whom Owen spoke was Black. He seemed like we vaguely knew each other. He seemed, in fact, like Don Baxter.However, the face on this man was black and had hues of red in it. Not the colour black but as Black people look. More than that, such that it looked like the nose of an animal’s would like an aardvark or some such, the nose on this man was more like a snout.He wore white; both he and Owen did. There was some function, that one had to go to, for which Owen had complimentary tickets.
These two people, whom Owen and I had encountered, were saying that they did not know where their complimentary tickets were. I said that I knew I had mine. Anyway, Owen left them and went back up a flight of steps.It was quite light out, up the staircase, as though there was a skylight hung high overhead. Owen moved on and I went in search of Isis who had passed by. She was quite embarrassed, in fact, at seeing me with my arm about a Gay person.She went in and picked up a scarf and the scarf was worth 52$, I think, because she was putting down the balance of the money – the other half – 26$. She was there shopping.It was a black scarf and it had beautiful… the borders were red and green designs. It really was quite nice. I came and leaned on the counter and said hello to my sister.
She was reserved, cool and detached. She turned to me and was beautifully made up and looked very young with beautiful, flawless, flawless skin.She spoke about the fact that she did not go shopping with me anymore. She insisted that my accusation that she did not go shopping with me anymore because I was with men was not true.She was wearing a beautiful mustard-coloured jacket and a scarf about her neck. Indeed, she was quite well-off.
*The thing about these unusually droopy noses is that they looked as though this was a race of extra-humans (extra-terrestrials) which had evolved from simian mammals who were descended from proboscis monkey stock rather than not. It is a race of primates native to Borneo and the faces of those simians are rather human.This is how this man and others in this dream would appear. However, it was more than that look. END.
In the sixth dream, I was in an office that was like an indoor greenhouse. If you like, it was a mausoleum rather than greenhouse. It was sky-lit and there were a lot of caskets about. Some of them had flowers and some of them did not.When you came in, you went down some stairs and into a more open area. There you saw a burial crypt. It was an indoor burial crypt. There was a man about as well as a grand piano.Whenever the employees of the place came in, there was a woman standing about and she would excitedly say,“We have to go out, we have to go out.”I was with those little children, from the earlier dream, who were skateboarding and whom I had instructed earlier about the whole idea of reincarnation. These children were mostly White. We were also being hustled out of the place.
The woman then said,“What is he doing? There is not another service. Why is he trying to start up that piano?”The man at the piano was large and bent over and he looked somewhat out of place being there. Before we could be ushered out of the place, I managed to run up and put some flowers – some yellow flowers, on one of the brown caskets that was there.
*He was inordinately tall and hence drooped over a lot. Whilst seated at the grand piano, his towering height made it look as though an adult seated at a dollhouse piano. Too, he was inordinately pale… END.
As we were going out, the procession was coming in and people were being hustled in. It was quite a fast procession. I stuck around and tried to see the place and see why there was so much hustling.There and then, it turned out that I saw the casket. It was very flat and plain and I thought,‘Well why is it being hustled out? If it’s a funeral why would the relations be so ecstatic?’However, it turned out that because the burial box was so flat I thought it was going to be cremated. It turned out, however, that it was for the office. There was going to be a surprise party.
It was actually a cake. It was covered up in wonderful, colourful wrapping paper. There was going to be a celebration and those were all the workers from the company. The atmosphere was quite nice and friendly.
In this the seventh dream, I was in a very, very large and busy restaurant where I ordered myself a bowl of soup. I was going to go upstairs to the bathroom but I had my bowl of soup in my hand.It was very Gothic-styled. It seemed, in fact, like the inside of a château. It was in the Gothic style except that the walls were rose granite – rose-coloured granite. It was, however, rather smooth-surfaced.I then accidentally spilled my bowl of soup. The waitress who had come to my aid was dark-haired – short, dark hair. She looked like a dancer who danced with the Winnipeg Contemporary Dancers when I was living in Winnipeg – the one who was Lebanese and had had a back injury.
Anyway, this waitress went off and I was waiting there being quite embarrassed. I was trying to rush to the toilet. I asked someone where the toilet was and they said,“No, no, not upstairs.”It turned out that the washrooms were, in fact, to the rear. So off I went to the bathroom and I was quite embarrassed. I tidied up myself and I came back out and my white cotton pants – nice, beautiful trousers; they were baggy but they came in tight and folded in a pleat at the end at the hem – were quite stained by the soup.It was a dark sort of pea soup. A dark brownish fare, like a lentil soup, it was. However, it was not like a lentil soup because it was red.
I was trying to ask this man to move, in order to get by him, en route to the washrooms. There was a couple behind a man and they were very lovey-dovey.The man had to ask them to get up to let me get to the bathroom. He did not want to get up or anything like that but he finally realised he had to get up. So he basically moved and he was quite unusually blond.Everybody in this place was very unusual-looking. They had extraordinary features about them. They were excessively good-looking but they had an outstanding feature that made them seem Thothesque.Again, noses here were very long, droopy and bent over. Their noses were almost beaklike in that sense. That was the extraordinary thing about that jet-black skinned man, in the initial dream, as well as this blond man who had the same feature.
These persons were all exceptionally tall. They were each on the other side of seven-plus feet. Also, they were so über-poilu, it made it look like they were either jet-black when Black or yellow-white for being blond.Finally, he did move and when I was leaving, I looked at him. He was looking down at me because I was out of sorts, out of place, being there. Standing before him, he really did tower over me.Clearly, these persons were EHs – extra-humans or ETs.Another person had come by and tidied me up. He busily got me back to where I was seated. Then he had mumbled something like, “Why don’t you get out of here real fast?”
So I went out into the vestibule and I was waiting and waiting for the waitress to come by because I wanted to pay her for my bowl of soup. I think it was going to be $3 or something like that.Isis just said,“Why don’t we just get out of here?”We were waiting out front and it was busy so I finally got out. However, I was arguing and said,“That’s not the point of it.” I strongly felt that I should be paying my way. So I thought to just go back and put down my money on a table somewhere – I would feel better.However, I did finally leave, after having been more or less harassed by Isis without having paid. She was asking, “If you can save the money, why not save it?” that was her attitude.
When we were leaving there was a tall, enormously tall, man. He was White. Again, he had the same beaklike nose and there was something about his face that I found immediately sexual. His face was intensely sexualised.I was going to indulge and not leave because I so wanted to explore this man. However, Isis hustled me out of there.
Dream eight found me in the streets. I was walking with a baby – a little Black baby who was light-skinned. I carried the baby on my shoulders.It was rather nice. This time, out on the street, it was dark out and it was night time. This place we went to, that was quite busy, was bustling with lots of wonderful, wonderful people. It was very cosmopolitan here. A brief dream it was too.
I next found myself in a ninth dream experience that had a great deal of uproar and tumult to it. There were figures in black who were part of some sort of religious sect. These persons were just alarmingly fanatical.They were terrorists and they wore black. They had some sort of insignia on their bodies. As a matter of fact, they were looking for me; there was no mistaking that fact.I was in what would be Catherine Angelica Montpelier’s yard. I was trying to hide out there. There were, somehow, attempts to get me out.Then there was this truck which the people who were like security guards used. I was told where to find them and where they weren’t.
So I went into this yard and it seemed like part of Catherine Angelica Montpelier’s property and the neighbourhood in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. However, it was differently set up here.There was an Indian-looking girl – Amerindian-looking and not Dravidian. She, too, had a beaklike nose and I tried to explain to her,“Well look, you know I’m being pursued…”
“Oh yes!” further, she made reference to the fact, “Oh yes, you’re the one who killed Bob… or somebody.”Up on the roof was like Bob’s brother, whoever Bob was, but it wasn’t a name that I recognised. His name was Bob, however; it was Patrice Wellesley, of all people, who was keeping a lookout.He was supposed to notify the guard-like people. I intuitively knew that on the far side of the wall, of the place where I was hiding out, was a guy and a girl. She had very long black hair and was quite militant. They were looking out for me and talking.
I was telling the Amerindian-looking girl with the Thothesque nose, who was talking to me and dropping pieces of information, to just shut up and calm down, “You don’t need to say everything and carry on and on.”However, she still kept on blabbing away.I then managed to go around the side of the house. She was with her sister and they were playing some sort of game. So I thought to actually go around, to the front of the house, to ask her who her sister was.I then went around to the front of the house and there was her sister who seemed like Diana Nottingham – with whom I modelled at OCAD and did that pose with her at OCAD that Olaf Nordstrom had painted.
Anyway, she was quite wonderfully made up in whiteface. As though she were a Kabuki actor/actress, she wore white pancake makeup. She was, in fact, an actress. She was waiting to go on and perform a role of hers.It was quite interesting because she was, in fact, filling me in on what was going on,“In point of fact Arvin, you know, basically someone died because in self-defence in a rumble with them… it was just a lazy man about town, an idler and a drifter.”He apparently ended up dying because, during some sort of attack on me, as I was defending myself he was accidentally killed. As a result, I was on the run and there was a plot – the militant group was out to get me.
She told me that what I could do was go behind the Methodist Church in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. The place, however, was set out as if a mélange of Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts and elsewhere.So she told me to go across the railroad tracks. On coming around, I would be able to come home free to my home in Crab Hill. However, she pointed out that all along the route there were the same guards – militant fanatics.However, I just had to play it safe. She confidently assured me that they could be headed off. I was grateful for her advice and took her directives to heart.Well, low and behold, the girl – the militant sibling – came around the yard and caught me. When she caught me, I fled in escape. I went and hid behind the wall.I am not referring to Diana or one of the two sisters who had been around the backyard but there were two other sisters. These other two sisters were part of the militant group that was on the hunt for me.
The girl pulled out a weapon and it had a little blade on it. It was quite deadly and I kept hiding myself trying to extricate myself out of the place. I did so by holding up one of the sisters, in front of me, as a hostage.Someone got spliced in the left hand. I don’t recall that it was me or if it was me, I simply did not feel any pain when attacked. The vicious-looking wound had self-healed right away. I had focussed my light energies on the wound and caused it to instantaneously self-heal.Anyway, I was able to push the sister onto them. I then made my way around to the back of the house. By this time, the brother was coming around the house from the other direction.
When I say I went around to the back of the house, it was where I had originally encountered the two militant sisters. By that point, she had already called for help from the guardsman. He was somewhat ecstatic as he came around. However, this was my chance to flee. So I climbed over the fence and immediately there was a lot of plastic on and all over everything. When I climbed over the wall it was, clearly, what in the waking state would be the very back end of the Methodist Church estate.It was covered with a heavy plastic and there was a lot of wood. There was scaffolding everywhere. I climbed along the wood and the sister – the white-faced, actor of the two sisters – had told me that I could get immunity by saying that I was coming to work on the grounds or some such.
Next, I crawled along the scaffolding and looked to my left. However, this being a dream, it had semblances to being Sandy Point but it wasn’t really Sandy Point either.I realised that there were apartments, tiny apartments, which were glass-enclosed. They were all quite in disarray. People lived there but nobody seemed to be home.Here I was trying to make my escape and if anybody had seen me, of course, I would be squealed on. Then I finally jumped down, out of the ceiling-like area, because there were crates and boxes and a straw-stuffed bed under me directly below the window.I came down to an open area and there I saw a much darker version of Artemis da Braga, my niece. She was sitting wrapped with a telephone cord about her as she played with the phone.I greeted her but I did not want to get her excited because I wanted to flee the area.
Next, in dream ten, I came out of this beautiful house and came out into a wonderful backyard. Immediately, whilst there, I saw another of those vans. There had also been a van in the earlier dream that showed how these people, the militant people, worked.They had a van and it had another little van on the inside when it opened up claw-like. It appeared that the top and the bottom, the back rather, could open up. Inside it revealed another vehicle that was covered in a brownish greasy goop. The most interesting feature of this entire affair was that, although they looked human enough, the militiamen were not human. They were extra-human. So too was the machine which, from its goopy fluids, was sentient.It was an EH species which they were using to capture and feed one to. It seemed that the machine-like EHs were, in fact, in control of the militia-type EHs rather than the reverse.
It seemed more creature than a vehicle and, somehow, this was what I was supposed to be put in when captured. These two Black men, who were guarding the house and who let me know that they were guarding the house, were saying,“Aha! Now we’ve caught you.”You know, I thought about it and there was just no way that I was going to let them capture me.‘I’ve got to get away,’ I thought.At the time, one of them was taking a pee – both these men were Black. They were quite casual about having caught me. They apparently were going to get their supervisor who would take care of me.
The supervisor came and he looked like the guy from Trinidad who had worked as a chef at the Underground Railroad Restaurant when, long ago, I worked there. He did, at least, seem like that man.This man, who was their supervisor, was also Black. He had the semblance, the air about him, of that chef but he did not so much look a great deal like him. He was rotund and fairly light-complected.He lived in the house. Rather, he did not live in the house but he was staying in the house as a caretaker. I thought,‘I’m not going to be captured. I’m not going to be caught. I can disguise myself.’
I immediately started accelerating my energies and, as a result, I was able to transform myself. As I upped my frequency, I heard an increase in the universal hum.I looked down at the backs of both my outstretched hands, keenly observing the intense sunlight react to my skin in a glowing sizzling manner, until my aura intensified and became visible about my body.My aura’s light grew brighter as my skin actually glowed with increasing intensity. It continued until the skin, throughout my entire body, was indistinguishable from the rest of the intense morning sunlight. When they went down the hill and came back with the guy, I was standing there right in front of the house. It was this particular, large wooden house.
It wasn’t large, for being a bungalow, but the door was large. This house was definitely not part of the landscape in Sandy Point, St. Kitts. As I looked on, the guards came bearing the portly gentleman.I was aware from the way he – the supervisor, Zen sage – was talking that he was aware that I was there. Perhaps, he could see me but the other two – the militant guardsmen – couldn’t see me.I realised what I had done: I had made myself light so that I blended in with the landscape and couldn’t be seen. I had rendered myself invisible!
I then decided that I could further transform myself. Next, I made myself into this little white piece of what seemed like string. However, it was more like nylon. It was like shiny waxed dental floss.Such that half way there was a loop in it, it was tied in a knot. It was doubled on itself so that it was, I would guess, three to five inches long at the most.I obviously was astrally projected to another world where, rather lucidly, I was dreaming and interacting with extra-humans. The dental floss-like string was the cord of light which keeps one’s astral body connected, to the waking state body, when astral-projected during sleep.
Immediately, the caretaker guy took the cord – the wax-like cord – which was my transformed-dreamer self in his hand. It was my astral body’s cord which was left rendered visible whilst I remained invisible.He began giving the two guardsmen a walk-through of the house in which only he should have been. It was a house that was no longer lived in. It was wooden all about and very organic.It was a house that allowed for natural light to pour in. There was a skylight. The house was low in the sense that it was dug in. The house was built such that it was somewhat half-buried below the surface. In that way, it was kept cool because it was partly below-ground. All about, on either side, as you walked in every part of this beautiful, sprawling bungalow were every manner of cactus.
These were cacti that were shaped like trees that had leaves. Absolutely stunning and incredible, they enlivened the house throughout.He gave me a tour of the place with the two guardsmen, who could not see me, in tow. As he walked them back to the front door he said,“So you see, he really couldn’t be here. You go off and look for him.”He tossed me or what was my representation – the wax-looking string or my astral body’s umbilical-like cord of light – from his right hand sending it through a doorway of the house. He then went about his business and showed them to the door and got rid of them.At this point, I rematerialised back to my regular dreamer self in this dream and I was able to let on to him that I knew that he knew of my being invisible. So I called him, on another phone in the house, and I remained absolutely silent.I then telepathically shared my thoughts with him. I inferred that I knew that he was aware that I was present in the house though invisible to most. Of course, he knew that I was there but he was just not going to acknowledge my being friendly with him.The fact is that he knew that I was in trouble. He was just trying, out of the goodness of his heart, to help me out. However, he wasn’t going to befriend me or anything like that.
So anyway, on my own I began exploring this beautiful, beautiful labyrinth-like bungalow. The walls of it were wooden. It was a reddish wood like redwoods normally look. It had a shiny hue to it because it was polished.I was talking about it to someone, later on in the dream, and it was in fact the same guy – the caretaker – who had accompanied me at one point. I said it seemed like it was built by Frank Lloyd Wright and he said,“No. Not really…”It seemed like it but it was a different style altogether; however, it was more or less like Frank Lloyd Wright. Seriously though, it was a totally different style.So I went about exploring the place. I went in this one room that was clearly a bedroom. I opened the door and went in – it was a glass door. I went in and on the left were shelves.
There were tiny, tiny, little cacti in pots and some of them were large and some of them were blooming. They were heliotropically craning over to one side.This place had been abandoned for quite some time. However, all the cacti in the place had managed to grow quite large. They were big, bulbous, beautiful and wonderfully lifelike.The spread to the bed was turned down and discarded. It had been left just as when last used by the owner. There was a bulldog; it was not a live one but a statue of a bulldog.This person had a great deal of style and was quite successful. I realised that the owner, the former occupant, was Black. I saw the face and I can’t say that I can recall the face but, somehow, I got the impression that the face was a face of mine if you like.
It was interesting because when I saw the face that is basically the information that I got from looking at the face in the photo. There was a tiny time-faded photograph of a face. It was of a Black man.This was the sense that I got from it, that it was me, in fact.There were beautiful trousers about. As well, there was a large armoire with tons and tons of beautiful, silk robes that I had worn in that life.They were worn around the house by the former occupant. There were, on the bed, some clothes. Too, there was a table beside the bed.Everything in this bungalow was very organic: the bed was very organic, the desk was and even the fixtures were very organic. As well, the cloth was very organic – by organic, I mean that it wasn’t inanimate.
It was organic because it was lifelike. More than that, it was organic because it was breathing. That’s why it had lived so long because it was quite some time since last occupied by the owner.However, it was very much so still alive. The sheet and bedding, on the bed, were woollen and greyish-coloured.The only reason why I had entered the room, in the first place, was I wanted to roam – to see if there were any signs of underwear… there was. There was tons of underwear on the shelves behind me.I wanted to check and sniff his underwear, to see if he had masturbated.
Anyway, when I got into the room, that little adventure had totally evaporated. For having seen the photograph, if you like I was quite interested in exploring the place and getting to refamiliarise myself with the place.The bedroom was just absolutely beautiful. Off to the left, rather behind the shelves and straight ahead, was the closet and the bed was to the right of the door.
Down this long hallway that was sky-lit were the tables and tables of clothing. There was a door past the shelves, on the left, and it looked into more and more clothes.I then came out of there and I went about exploring all over. This time, I went to explore all the cacti in the place. There were tons and tons of them.Shortly thereafter, I was joined by Carl Leroiderien, Merlin and someone else who seemed like Mario of Paris – Mario D’Agostino, however, it wasn’t him.I had a sense of Maxime Gascoigne-de Montigny being about and Carl Leroiderien had seemed like a custodian of the place. Carl was a caretaker or curator of the sprawling bungalow which now seemed like an historic site.When he was excitedly walking everyone through the place, to show them the place, he was referring to the owner. I was there but, again, none of these people had any awareness that I was there – not even Merlin.
He was sort of filling them in on who the owner was. From what I could see, Carl was doing a good job of it.There were cacti that were tall. There were also red ones. There was one cactus that was tall and it had needles on it. It had large, large leaves and two or three leaves like those of a royal palm’s.Most of it was like a palm tree but it was like a breadfruit leaf or some sort of leaf like a maple leaf – albeit an extra large maple leaf. It was, however, cactus.Everywhere there were plants on either side of the skylight hallways. The bungalow was a series of long halls that were all connected and veered off in different directions.
However, it was a house that had basically become a living garden such that it was organic. The cacti truly were the lungs of the house. The air was really nice and it was cool.The humans were able to live with the cacti because it was a totally self-sustainable dwelling. As the light came in heliotropically sustaining the various cacti species, it added breath, depth and dimension to the space thereby making it equally organic.Too, because it was partially submerged belowground, there was a lot of moisture from underground that kept these plants alive. The cacti were quite happy and they had grown so beautifully.It was as if they were bonsai cacti. It was quite incredible how they were all over the place throughout the house.
Then I went down some steps to another open area of the bungalow. Again, there were more cacti. We moved off and came to an area where Carl said,“Oh let’s go downstairs, I can show you the basement. You can see all these wonderful things.”When you looked out the skylight area, it was of the street, the pathway into what would seem Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. So I immediately was afraid to be seen yet I was assured by Carl as he stilled my nerves telepathically saying,‘Oh, it’s okay… it’s okay.’I was concerned about the people, who lived across the street, reporting me to the militia-types. There was bamboo, organic bamboo if you like, that was made into a fence.It seemed like the backyard of what was the neighbour’s house and they weren’t there. I was told it was quite safe that it was okay. The neighbours weren’t there to squeal on me.
Before you went down the steps, into this other area, there were all these beautiful, beautiful organic works that are quite common in the Orient. For example there were many objets d’art.These were objets d’art which were beautiful temples and totems. They were all made from the ivory of elephants’ tusks. It was all beautifully detailed and in miniature – all the miniature designs were made of ivory.That was the sort of stuff. This particular objet d’art was large. It was square-shaped so that it wasn’t like an elephant’s tusk. More like an obelisk, if you like, it was.They were more so little temples. They were shrines and Greek temples if you like. What was truly fascinating was how incredibly detailed they were though scaled down versions of the real architectural gems.
We moved on and now we came to an area that had nothing but wares. There were lots of baskets everywhere because this was where the ornaments were kept. They were all stored therein.Carl was the caretaker of these things. He was quite familiar with every item and, again, there were bamboo basket-like wares and objets d’art.I was told that this was, in fact, like a wine cooler. It was so delicately and intricately made. Also, the item was collapsible. It could open. The objet d’art was like a valise and it could open up.Merlin went and opened it and was prying into it. It had two African skulls or heads on it and it was quite beautifully detailed as a matter of fact.
We then moved on and came into the downstairs area. This place was like a cellar. Somehow, copious rays of sunlight made it to this part of the sprawling, multi-levelled bungalow.Even though we were further underground yet, somehow, the sunlight came in. However, I soon realised that it wasn’t sunlight. It was just this light that was white and somewhat diffuse.It was quite soft and nice to the touch. Among the many stored wares, there was something that had a white bamboo-like coil. This thing had a piece of string attached to it with two yellow sticks or shoots like chopsticks.
You could insert it and it was, in fact, quite sexual. The Mario D’Agostino character immediately grabbed it up. Whilst simulating sexual play, he was playing around with it.He was making noises filled with sexual innuendo and then said,“Umm, get undressed and put it on your cock because that’s what it’s made for.”Oh he was so happy to perform and went off to try on the item.
*Here now, some further comments set in the dream in the beautiful house. Here, the atmosphere in this house was one of serenity and it was a reflection of that particular life that one had led whence the proprietor was Black.Tall and very erudite, he seemed a man of the world. He was well-travelled. He loved beautiful music and he had a collection of things in his bedroom that were totems from his travels.He was obviously tall because there were lots of khaki and white summer pants which all gave a sense of his height. When I had first entered into the room, there was also a rack that I had bumped into.I hadn’t noticed it because it was suspended from the ceiling. It was racked with leather suspenders and an enormous collection of belts: broad belts, narrow belts, as well, skinny belts.
There were all kinds of beautiful belts. They were very expensive and they were also very organic and ancient. They weren’t brand new any of them.It was all a reflection of the person’s spirit. You never met the person but you knew the person through the house. It was beautiful and wonderfully planned out.The sprawling, organic bungalow was so multidimensional; it went off in all these directions and avenues because that was who this person was in that lifetime. In a box to call home, he was not contained or restrained.The organic house constantly veered off. It had many apartments and veered off and had many cul de sacs. There were areas where he could go and be removed from all the other areas yet be surrounded by plants.
At all times, he was surrounded by life itself and it was healthy… quite nice.Whilst at the restaurant having the lentil-looking soup, the reason for the extra-tall, obvious extra-human being impatient with me was more subtle than one may assume. With their sophisticated proboscis, it is safe to assume that smell was the most developed of this extra-human race’s senses rather than sight as is the case for we humans.Likely, there was something very off-putting to my pheromone makeup which left the seated extra-human uncomfortable. I don’t think that it was a matter of my race, Black, but my species, Earthly human, which made the über-poilu, blond extra-human uncomfortable.
As I was in his home world, he naturally felt put upon for having the unfavourable aspects of my pheromones anywhere near him. At the end of the day, he was an incarnate ensouled fragment who is one of seven soul types and with the same selection of overleaves as any Earthly human. Any Earthly human would have similarly responded to having someone of outré pheromone and species in their midst.
A very serene dream it remarkablywas. END.
As ever, Life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!
Simply stunning; the hue of the wood suggests an agedness as though it were centuries old; rather than the expectant lustre of bright gold, the subdued golden hue alludes to the agedness of the British monarchy which is in its second millennium. So then, the beauty of this portrait, the frame; now to everything else.
This photograph deftly betrays both princes’ true posture. Harry a fifth level mature warrior – same soul age and soul type as Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge – is always going to be proud in stature and not given to slouching. William a sixth mature scholar soul and task companion of his wife, Catherine, slouches, partly for towering over most persons at 6.3 feet tall. However, William has hyper-extended knees and as such, his body naturally counterbalances that stance by bearing his head and chest forward and in a concave manner rather than not. Though evocative of regal portraits from times past, in Jamie Coreth’s painting, that posture simply is not innate to HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge.
Admiral Viscount Horatio Nelson, Alexander Hamilton, 1st Duke of Wellington, HM King Charles I, HM King George III, HM King George IV, Napoleon Bonaparte & SM Roi Louis XIV.
All these portraits depict the historic figures standing, weight on one leg with the other leg’s foot forward and turned out. It is a commanding position. Of all historical portraits HM King Charles I’s is my favourite, partly because his death was so comically tragic. More than that, Charles I’s swagger and pride remains unparalleled. I am also partial simply because those magical eyes and goatee of HM King Charles I’s are not dissimilar to Merlin, my task companion’s, look during his most recent past life.
Prince William is made to affect this posture; however, it is obviously foreign to his persona. He has a goal of acceptance which is the great goal and such people are always warm and open; however, with a second number of 9, mindset, he is anything but warm. He has unequivocally demonstrated that he is archly bigoted and a rude dismissive snob. To make matters worse, his wife, who happens to be his task companion, also has 9 but in the first/energy body position. Both persons have primary chief features of stubbornness and secondary of arrogance. Stubbornness would most definitely mitigate his being open to anyone when he was born and groomed to be the ultimate snob. Furthermore, persons with a primary chief feature of stubbornness are persistently shit-disturbing, obstreperous and infuriatingly difficult.
Catherine’s resting face as ever is no oil painting. Catherine is possessed of an energy body of 9 and such persons, especially so when born female, are toxic in the extreme. They are also bitingly sarcastic, difficult and unrelentingly unpleasant socially. As a mature warrior soul in perseverance mode with a chief feature of stubbornness, you could not find a bigger shit-disturber and conceited bully. Couple all that with having to be wedded to an equally difficult mature soul and both equally insecure, Meghan, self-made and vastly more intelligent and articulate plus unacceptably of Black blood, did not stand a chance with these two.
This masterful oil on canvas, Paul Emsley, which permanently hangs at the National Portrait Gallery, perfectly captures the essence of who Catherine is; it is full of nuance and dark undercurrents, which readily betray the complexity of spirit that she and every mature soul know during the course of each lifetime. One of the lessons of the mature soul cycle, is having to learn pretty tough life lessons for being spiritually stagnant. The accompanying photograph, taken whilst on royal tour in the Bahamas, March 2022, captures the woman’s true nature. In the case of Catherine, and William, they have been gifted with Prince Louis. As everything is choice; they could have chosen not to have a third child and a third child could have been born to them without obvious mental/emotional issues if during gestation, Catherine was not engaged in such racially toxic behaviour towards the Sussexes. It does the Cambridges no favours that everyone in the kingdom has painted the drama surrounding the Sussexes as though it were completely one-sided and that the Cambridges were not at the very heart of the rift; regardless, how this is all made to seem a one-sided affair, it does still take two hands to clap. Not only is the Cambridges’ conceit encouraged but their glaring stupidity has been exposed, regardless how the British media and society blindly choose to act as though the Cambridges are in no way culpable for or play any part in the affair, at its heart centre this whole mess is all about racism. Since it is too damaging for the Cambridges, just let the Sussexes fuck off and stay gone as this is the only only way to save, in due course, the Cambridges’ reign.
No matter how much these two row in public, which is increasingly ubiquitous, British media simply pretend as though it does not exist. In point of fact, the Sussexes have largely been used as a smokescreen to deflect attention off the Cambridges’ very turbulent marriage. No matter what, at least for now, the Cambridges cannot be seen as anything other than a loving couple, adored throughout the kingdom.
This whole affair has brought to sharp focus how the White tribe simply fabricate reality as they would have it. These past few weeks of watching CNN’s coverage of the January 6th commission hearings on Capitol Hill, the Trumpian perspective is a poignant exposé into the White tribe’s collective psyche. One boldly tells a lie and for repeating it loudly and long enough, it becomes fact. Thriving almost exclusively on negativity, that vile liar, President Trump, was been able to incite an insurrection and for merely being a moneyed White male, he has not only been believed but he has commanded fierce, blindly unwavering loyalty. Though he is as guilty as sin, the Democrats are utterly paralysed with fear to arrest, charge, prosecute and imprison a President who for the first time in over 250 years attempted a coup d’état. Trump epitomises the White tribe’s zeitgeist: at all costs, we win, we are always right and no one gets to be perceived as being better than us; more importantly, we can never be perceived as either being wrong or having failed.
What I love about this masterful portrait, is how cleverly the artist makes a reference to King Juan Carlos, the Bourbon King of Spain, as the nose is decidedly neither the Spencer nor the Windsor nose. As the saying goes, when you know, you know.
This succinct painting is of a gormless-looking Prince William by Welsh artist, Dan Llywelyn Hall, in which the painter masterfully captures the essence of William’s persona. William is neither the swiftest of souls nor the most emotionally august. From his open ridicule of Black culture at the Sussexes’ wedding to sanctioning the recent seating arrangement at St. Paul’s Cathedral during HM The Queen’s platinum jubilee, neither he nor his wife can claim ignorance of racism within the royal family. They are at the very heart of the racist campaign against the Sussexes; nevertheless, within the kingdom and beyond its shores, the golden royal couple are universally deemed a paragon of superior, racially pure virtuousness in a land where the royal propaganda is not dissimilar to the blinding sycophancy afforded North Korean leaders.
In the couple’s 40th birthday portrait, they are seen to be closing ranks, as well they have. More importantly, they are neither looking at each other nor are they smiling as they are deeds done between them and against the Sussexes, for which they would rather remain mum. The Cambridges or for that matter their propagandists do not have the ability to whitewash the truth neither indefinitely nor beyond their kingdom’s shores. True love as alluded in the recent photographic portrait of the Cambridges does not bear tarnished fruit as is obvious with their third-born, Prince Damien. There is a direct result between the Sussexes’ treatment as a consequence of the Cambridges’ machinations and Prince Louis being the damaged goods that he is.
Charles Mingus / Bass
Eric Dolphy / Alto Saxophone, Bass Clarinet
Dannie Richmond / Drums
Jaki Byard / Piano
Johnny Coles / Trumpet
Clifford Jordan / Tenor Saxophone
As ever, life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!
Michael: No, this is not the fragment who was previously Dorothy Dandridge. This fragment is a second-level mature artisan – second life thereat. Halle is in the observation mode with a goal of growth. An idealist, she is in the moving part of emotional centre.
Body type is Solar/Venus.
Halle’s primary chief feature is skewed impatience and the secondary is stubbornness.
The fragment Halle is fifth-cast in second cadence; she is a member of greater cadence three. Halle’s entity is six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – an entity mate of both Merlin’s and Arvin’s.
Halle’s essence twin is an artisan and her task companion is a slave.
Halle’s primary needs are: exchange, adventure and freedom.
There are 16 past-life associations with Arvin and 12 with Merlin. ________________________________________________
As I am a sceptic, I looked on at Halle’s historic best actress win speech and though I trembled and cried, I was also detached and shrewdly aware why she had won. Indeed, she was the vessel, at long last, because months earlier the twin towers were felled and who knew what strange new nightmare we had entered. Just to be safe, what do you know, none-too-liberal, the archly discriminating gatekeepers in Hollywood decided that it fiinally was time to “let’s make like nice, whatta say, let’s give her the award.” Oh Please!
In a truly great American cinema, Dorothy Dandridge was just as deserving to have won best actress Oscar for “Carmen Jones” as was Elizabeth Taylor damn well deserving to have won best actress Oscar for her riveting performance in “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” Naturally, to cancel the threat of the very brilliantly talented Diana Ross, singer/actor, winning the best actress Oscar in 1973 for “Lady Sings the Blues,” she was pitted against my father’s paternal first cousin, the actor Cicely Tyson in “Sounder.” A Briton, Maggie Smith was a spoiler vote, so that the sizeable British voting members of the Academy, could cast her a vote rather than vote for either Black nominee. Then there was another foreigner, Liv Ullmann, when the Academy awards are an American awards rather than film festival – the difference is plainly obvious. All this left one other candidate for best actress Oscar, Liza Minnelli, who was just as vapid and untalented as she has remained. And thus, neither Cicely Tyson nor Diana Ross won a best actress Oscar that night in 1973 and, of course, neither would go on to do so.
Just look at the 02:13 mark of the featured video of Halle Berry’s best actress Oscar acceptance speech for her turn in “Monster’s Ball” in 2002, there was sat Helen Mirren, onlooking as though she were looking at this imposter freak, someone being allowed to take a damn award that rightfully ought to have gone to, Judy Dench. There sat Helen Mirren who did not stand up as Halle, an American actor, winning an American award, said, “tonight this door has been opened.” Helen sat there livid at Halle high-jacking the awards with all this affirmative action claptrap. Never mind the Briton small-minded bigot, at least Sidney Poitier (old soul sage) was present to witness the historic moment. Well, you can bet Prada-heeled Britons in Hollywood, went all out to quickly slam shut that door because why should ‘they’ have received such a prestigious award? They are not even RADA graduates. Americans fought a war to rid themselves of the tyranny of these people and their colonising conceit and arrogance. Let’s face it, a BAFTA award hasn’t the cachet of an Oscar; it should be of negligible worth if an American actor is either nominated or wins a BAFTAaward. It is not an Oscar.
Why in the hell is American cinema being steamrolled and bullied into submission by these holier-than-thou poseurs? No Briton with the exception of Elizabeth Taylor, who was riveting and compelling in every role she ever played, been deserving of being awarded an Oscar. What right have Kate Winslet, Olivia Colman, Helen Mirren, Emma Thompson, to name far to many, to be in the same league as Katherine Hepburn, Bette Davis, Barbara Stanwyck, Grace Kelly, Mia Farrow, Meryl Streep to mention a mere few?
Ever since the fairy dust of Chuck & Di’s 1981 pantomime, arriviste Hollywood have been bowing and scraping as though these were pre-1776 times. Since that best actress Oscar acceptance speech by Halle Berry in 2002, there has been a plethora of decidedly non-American actors, walking off with an Oscar in a parade of spiteful arrogance. Why Kate Winslet has won a best actress Oscar is beyond me, her every performance is just plain, insipid… uninspired. Winslet and her foreign colleagues are void magnetism and merely use the snobbish hauteur of their British accent as their cachet for being perfectly entitled to an Oscar. Who are these people to be in the same league as Faye Donaway, Jane Fonda and Meryl Streep.
Let me tell you something, that award right there is the most bold-face looting in recent memory. Just like Angela Bassett was robbed of the 1994 best actress Oscar for “What’s Love Got To Do With It” so, too, was Viola Davis robbed of the 2017 best actress Oscar. Viola won best supporting actress Oscar for a role in August Wilson’s “Fences,” which won best actress Tony on Broadway; it is not a supporting role. They even tried to see if they could snatch it from Viola’s rightful clutch, as they did with Cicely and Diana in 1973, in 2017, by also putting Naomie Harris and Octavia Spencer in the mix. Not only was it insult enough to have been misplaced in the nominations category but there was a strong likelihood that Viola could have lost out, just so that she could be put in her place for being so damn good. Bar none, she is the best actress under 60 in English-speaking cinema. Period.
Seriously, though, what can one expect of Hollywood when they had the temerity to tear their arses in the world’s face by having you and me believe that the statistically impossible truly had occurred, affording a tie in 1968 to Katherine Hepburn and Barbra Streisand for best actress Oscar. An Oscar has been of negligible worth since. And as such, it has become a members only club, to keep Black actors at bay; indeed, they go looking elsewhere for actors to whom they award Oscars, chiefly to Britons. To hell with Mr. Darcy. American cinema, to say nothing of actors, are being robbed. Where are the films, telling the story of Cuban-Americans in Miami, Lakota families and their rich history in the north. There are a thousand stories to be had in each of the 50 states of Black, Latino, Jewish, Irish, Mexican, Cuban… all Americans and it is not being told. Yet, you have these arrogant Britons, dragging on a fag and copping hauteur, though no doubt more jizzed than a Grand Central Station urinal during evening rush-hour, grabbing an Oscar time and again and toffing up their accent to bedazzle the none-the-wiser, silly little Yanks.
The one thing that the past five years has taught us, is that Britons are alarmingly racist and not only are they more racist than Americans but unlike Americans, they refuse to admit to being racists. Whether you are black or white, you are American and Americans are second to no one. Period. Why is the acting heritage of American greats like Hepburn, Davis, Stanwyck et al being eclipsed by non-Americans, chiefly Britons, marching in grabbing an Oscar; obviously if an Oscar had comparably less cachet than a BAFTA, no British actor would time-waste, courting an Oscar. Indeed, the age of neo-colonialism is upon us. Helen Mirren is leaden and starchy and does Helen Mirren, time and again. Same with Maggie Smith, Judy Dench (the dame means nothing to Americans) Emma Thompson, Kate Winslet, Olivia Colman the whole lot of them, it is all third-tier smoke and mirrors by way of copping Toff hauteur and using voice (à la Dune) by way of that accent on the oh-so-unsophisticated Yanks. Hell, in 2016 Helen Mirren even argued that there was nothing possibly wrong with only one Black American female having won a best actress Oscar to that point, in the 78-year history of the Oscars.
There are two types of looting with which we are all familiar. One, Black people looting at the drop of the hat; it is expected and an excuse to be reviled by the rest of society. Secondly, though not readily admitted, planetary looting of which we as a species are wholly guilty, which will cause our civilisation’s ruin in due course.
Ah yes, then here we have the most invidious looting. Britons looting an American award because clearly the BAFTA award hasn’t the same cachet. The Academy awards are an American award; they are not part of a film festival, which by its very nature is open to all nationalities, they are a uniquely American award. Then, there is the most egregiously invidious looting: Whites looting Black culture because… well, one can. To fuck with you, Jazz is too good for you; to hell with you, you could not possibly have invented this… This is American music; if indeed it were American music, god only knows you would never have deigned to have afforded us access – like your Oscars – to the art form, which boasts an unrivalled pantheon of musical geniuses. But hey, stay over there in your parallel universe, making your trifling music, as if anyone Black, on returning home after racism’s bile being spat their way 1 to 1000 times for heading out the door could care less. Please go ahead, piss yourselves silly, thinking that somehow any Black has time to waste when at home, to listen to music of the people who hate us, who murder us because… well, one can. Stay there in your parallel universe, lying to yourselves about how great you are – greater wealth and market share does not make for superior art; it is merely damn good business as much as so as are drugs. Don’t, however, for nanosecond get carried away with your deluded, revisionist sacrilege, talking knee-on-our-neck odious crap, “Jazz has its roots in klezmer!” “Jazz is American music! Nope, not having it!
Red Azaleas Singing and Dancing Rock and Roll Music
Acrylic on Canvas
73 3⁄4 × 158 1⁄2 × 2 1⁄2 in.
Provenance: Smithsonian American Art Museum.
How could you possibly expect us to suffer you anywhere near Jazz? Your perception of us; indeed, your notion of what we are and how we should be perceived and celebrated, are as dumb-no-fuck, bug-eyed blasted coons at whom you get to laugh. An Oscar is nothing more than these TV singing competitions where the winner is determined by the votes of well-groomed Joe & Karen Bigot where the outcome will almost always be predictably White. Imagine that, the year that Jennifer Hudson appeared on American Idol, she did not win the competition. The Academy has deemed that Black women are not deserving of a best actress Oscar, anymore than they can damn-well sing. Imagine, Bette Carter, Ella Fitzgerald, Nina Simone, Sarah Vaughan to name but a handful’s legitimacy, determined by the purely predictable, racialised bias of the Academy and its none-too-liberal members. There really ought to be litigation all the way to the U. S. Supreme Court to determine once and for all, if foreign-born actors are eligible to win an American award, the Oscar, when the awards are an American rather than a film festival’s prize. The very heritage of American cinema demands nothing less.
Jazz is Black culture. Jazz is Black high art. Jazz is Black spirituality. Jazz is the assertion of our humanity in the face of your savagery. Jazz music is the language of Black culture’s high-priests, its poets, its genius visionaries. Jazz… it’s about us.
As ever, life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!
Without doubt, though the most reviled black woman on the planet, I knew that though cited as the instigator in the tabloid media, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex could not have been the cause of the obvious rift between Diana, Princess of Wales’ sons: HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex. When someone is guilty of having wronged, denigrated or slandered another, that guilty party is always acutely uncomfortable in the presence of the subject of their animus. This past Christmas church service at Sandringham, HRH Prince William unwittingly unmasked himself as the guilty party. I never for a moment believed that Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge was the instigator.
In September 2017 when HRH Prince George of Cambridge was widely photographed attending his first day of school in Battersea, one thing stood out in the reporting at the time: his father’s very close friend and cousin, Lord Frederick Windsor’s daughter Maud by actor wife, Sophie Winkleman also attends the same school. This is the same cousin whose cocaine addiction had caused HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales to put an end to the close relations his sons enjoyed with their cousin; however, HRH Prince William remained close to this cousin.
One of the things that struck me is the interviews given after their engagement was announced in late November 2017.
Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall was her usual adroit, eloquent self, and her husband,
HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales was the second most upbeat.
At the time, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge was less upbeat, did not mention Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex; rather, he essentially characterised his brother as a thief.
Similarly, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge spoke of their happiness but never mentioned Ms. Markle and this came a day later after her husband; indeed, it was as though, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge had been tasked with doing damage control after William’s snub of Meghan by nmentioning her name.
A month after the engagement announcement, though not yet a royal bride, Meghan Markle was invited to attend HM The Queen’s traditional Christmas lunch with her especially enamoured fiancé, HRH Prince Henry of Wales. So as not to be mistaken, the continental put-on wore a starkly white coat such that her blackamoor brooch would not be properly photographed on a dark coat. At the time, there was justifiable furore in the press and the narcissistic twit was made to issue a rather disingenuous-sounding mea culpa. Clearly, she could never in a million years have acted on her own.
Later that month, Christmas Day, 2017, again Meghan not being from Britain was invited – though not yet a royal spouse – to HM The Queen’s Christmas Church Service at Sandringham. On looking at the video, it was clear that there was tensions between the two senior royal couples. By that point, there was widespread open animus towards Ms. Markle and though it was never directly addressed and always vehemently denied, her race was the source of the vitriol. Whilst entering the church, there was smugness from HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge towards Ms. Markle. As they left the church, there was no denying HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales’ open affection for Ms. Markle and in the above photograph, he is beaming directly at Ms. Markle, making her feel welcome whilst the keenly onlooking HRH Prince William in the rear was tense-looking.
A couple of months later, when appearing as the ‘Fab Four’ charter members of the Royal Foundation, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge spent most of his time crouched forward; his posture was predatory and he was keenly eagle-eyed as he monitored Ms. Markle’s performance. As ever, HRH Prince Henry of Wales looked nervous, Ms. Markle was poised though her chief feature tended at times to get the better of her – more on that later. I shall do a thorough overview of these major royals’ Michael Overleaves, which were channelled by two authentic Michael channellers and by none of the ever burgeoning scores of two-bit charlatans.
Finally, the big day arrived for Diana’s younger son; and what a wedding it would prove. There sat HRH Prince William displaying those urges for which a life at public school leaves one possessed of certain proclivities. In the above photograph, William is eyeing Ben Mulroney – well, because he can – at the time neither of his inner circle chums (Thomas & Charlie van Straubenzee) were present in the quire. At least on two other occasions, William openly coveted Mr. Mulroney during his brother’s nuptials.
On her arrival to the altar to join her husband, Meghan looking more confident and radiant than most brides was being suspiciously eyed by her brother-in-law in his role of disproving, to say nothing of delusional, final arbiter.
As the newlywed TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex departed St. George’s Chapel in the Ascot Landau, all the members of the Cambridge family at the top of the west steps waved off the couple save, of course, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge. He kept holding George’s hand and the order of service in the other.
Windsor, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge 21/6/1982 London, England
Michael: This fragment is sixth-level mature scholar – third life thereat. William is in the observation mode with a goal of acceptance. A pragmatist, he is in the intellectual part of moving centre.
Body type is Lunar/Mars/Saturn.
William’s primary chief feature is stubbornness – death of his mother, Diana, Princess of Wales, was the triggering event and the secondary arrogance.
The fragment William is third-cast in sixth cadence; he is a member of greater cadence seven. William’s entity is four, cadre one, greater cadre 6, pod 208.
William’s essence twin is a scholar and he has a warrior task companion to whom he is married, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge.
William’s primary needs are: exchange, freedom and security.
There are 6 past-life associations with Arvin and 3 with Merlin.
Windsor, Catherine HRH Duchess of Cambridge 9/1/1982
Michael: This fragment is a fifth-level mature warrior – third life thereat. Catherine is in the perseveration mode with a goal of growth. A pragmatist, Catherine is in the moving part of intellectual centre.
Catherine’s body type is Saturn/Mercury/Venus.
Catherine’s primary chief feature is stubbornness and the secondary, arrogance.
The fragment Catherine is fourth-cast in the sixth cadence. Catherine is a member of greater cadence one. Catherine’s entity is four, cadre one, greater cadre 6 pod 208.
Catherine’s essence twin is a warrior and the task companion a scholar, her husband, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge.
Catherine’s three primary needs are: expansion, power and expression.
There are 10 past-life associations with Arvin and 8 with Merlin.
Windsor, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex 15/9/1984 London, England
Michael: This feisty fragment is a fifth-level mature warrior -– fourth life thereat – to his sixth-level mature brother, William. Henry is in the power mode with a goal of growth. A sceptic, he is in the moving part of intellectual centre.
Body type is Mars/Saturn.
Henry’s primary chief feature is arrogance and the secondary stubbornness.
The fragment Henry is first-cast in second cadence; he is a fragment of greater cadence three. Henry’s entity is one, cadre six, greater cadre 7, pod 418 – Henry is an entity mate of his paternal grandmother, HM Queen Elizabeth II.
Henry’s essence twin is a warrior and he has a scholar task companion.
Henry’s primary needs are: freedom, adventure and exchange.
There are 9 past-life associations with Arvin and 5 with Merlin.
Windsor, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex 4/8/1981
Michael: This fragment is a mid-cycle mature artisan in the tradition of the deceased mother fragment who was Diana, Princess of Wales — third life thereat. Meghan is in the observation mode with a goal of acceptance. An idealist, Meghan is in the moving part of emotional centre.
Meghan’s body type is Venus/Solar.
Meghan’s primary chief feature is self-deprecation and the secondary of mild impatience.
The fragment Meghan is fourth-cast in the fifth cadence. Meghan is a member of greater cadence four. Meghan is a member of entity one, cadre six, greater cadre 7, pod 418 — she is an entity mate of both her spouse, HRH Prince Henry of Wales with whom she shares 20 past lives and also an obvious entity mate of Her Majesty, The Queen.
Meghan’s essence twin is an artisan and the task companion a warrior.
Meghan’s three primary needs are: expression, acceptance and expansion.
There are 4 past-life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin.
Incidentally, this artisan has been a member of the British royal family twice before.
Firstly, as Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond and Derby, she was the cousin of King Henry VI and mother of King Henry VII. As such she was the matriarch of the House of Tudor. Her grandson was Henry VIII and her great-granddaughter, Elizabeth I.
This artisan in that lifetime was involved in the sacraments of the church being included in the newly established college system. She founded Christ College, Cambridge and was instrumental with the founding of St. John’s College as well.
Secondly, she was HRH Prince Edward, Duke of York and Albany and younger brother to George III, whose father the Prince of Wales, HRH Prince Frederick died before ascending the throne after George II. In that lifetime, the artisan (now Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex) was interested in military structure. He, of course, died young of a then unknown illness but which had to do with dysentery.
Incidentally, in the current incarnation, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has suffered from gastroenteritis, which is related to the last-life health issues – this is the immediate past life and not that in 18th century when the artisan died aged 28.
Windsor, HM Queen Elizabeth II 21/4/1926 London, England
Michael: This fragment is third-level mature slave –- second life thereat. Elizabeth is in the perseveration mode with a goal of dominance. A realist, she is in the moving part of intellectual centre.
Body type is Venus/Lunar.
Elizabeth’s primary chief feature is stubbornness and the secondary self-deprecation.
The fragment Elizabeth is fourth-cast in fifth cadence; she is a fragment of greater cadence six. Elizabeth’s entity is one, cadre six, greater cadre 7, pod 418.
Elizabeth’s essence twin is a slave and the task companion is a priest.
Elizabeth’s three primary needs are: security, adventure and exchange.
There are 6 past-life associations with Arvin and 4 with Merlin.
Mountbatten, Prince Philip HRH Duke of Edinburgh 10/6/1921 Greece
Michael: This fragment is fourth-level mature warrior – second life thereat. Philip is in the observation mode with a goal of preferred dominance. A sceptic, he is in the moving part of intellectual centre.
Body type is Saturn/Mars.
Philip’s primary chief feature is stubbornness – due to early death of a family member and the secondary subdued impatience.
The fragment Philip is seventh-cast in first cadence; he is a member of greater cadence six. Philip’s entity is one, cadre six, greater cadre 7, pod 408.
Philip’s essence twin is a warrior and he has a scholar task companion who is known to him.
Philip’s primary needs are: exchange, acceptance and power.
There are 14 past-life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin.
Frances, Diana, Princess of Wales July 1/1961<O>August 31/1997.
Michael: The fragment who was Diana Frances is a second-level mature artisan and was in the passion mode with a goal of acceptance, a pragmatist in the moving part of emotional centre.
She had a Lunar/Mercury body type.
Diana’s primary chief feature was stubbornness with a secondary, not of self-destruction but of self-deprecation.
Diana Frances was first-cast in her cadence and her cadence is fifth in the greater cadence. She is a member of entity one, cadre six, greater cadre 48, pod/node 380.
This fragment’s essence twin is a discarnate artisan and her task companion is a discarnate sage, both of whom are staying near her, waiting for her to become oriented to her situation.
Here, we had an artisan with drama in her casting but also with a very deep need to serve both the common and the higher good, which she did with grace, charm and a good deal of conviction.
Windsor, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales 14/11/48 London
Charles Windsor is a seventh-level mature second-cast warrior. Charles Windsor is in observation mode, with a goal of acceptance, and attitude of pragmatist, moving part of intellectual centre.
Charles’s body type is Mercury-Saturn.
Charles’ primary chief feature is stubbornness, secondary is self-deprecation.
He has an incarnate warrior essence twin with no plans to meet and a discarnate priest task companion, who exerts considerable influence on him.
His casting is virtually the same as Robert Bateman’s: entity two, cadre four, greater cadre 16, pod/node 404 but he is a second-cast in a fourth cadence, entity four, cadre four, greater cadre 16, pod/node 404.
Windsor, Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall 17/7/1947 London, England
Michael: Yes, this scholar is at the mid-level of the mature soul cycle — third life thereat. Camilla is in caution mode with a goal of growth. A pragmatist, Camilla is in the moving part of intellectual centre.
Body type is Lunar/Venus.
Camilla‘s primary chief feature is impatience and the secondary arrogance.
The fragment Camilla is third-cast in sixth cadence; Camilla is a fragment of greater cadence seven. Camilla‘s entity is five, cadre six, greater cadre 7, pod 129.
Camilla’s essence twin is a scholar and the task companion is a warrior.
Camilla’s primary needs are: exchange, freedom and power.
There are 10 past-life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin.
Now for the esoteric Michaelese breakdown of what all this means. All told, there are 9 major players chosen here; of them warrior souls predominate with four such persons: Catherine, Henry, Philip and Charles. Two scholars: William and Camilla. Similarly, there are two artisans, Diana and Meghan. Lastly, there is but one slave, HM The Queen, who happens to have the strongest overleaves of them all. As HRH Prince William is the subject of this blog, I shall explore his overleaves lastly.
First and foremost, there are only two ways to approach all of life, either from a place of fear or a place of love. That having been said, there are both positive and negative poles of all overleaves. Similarly, just because an individual is an older soul does not mean that they are a more evolved human being and is all good. Of all these 9 royals, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, is the oldest souled member with Diana, Princess of Wales having been the youngest soul among them. Bear in mind, too, that some of these persons are if not entity or cadre mates, at the very least are pod mates. I am going to go through these nine souls in order of soul age and though Charles is the oldest of the group, I will discuss William’s last even though he is the second oldest soul.
Diana: Second-level mature artisan; she lived the charmed life, great overleaves. She had the great goal of acceptance, which incidentally so too do William, Charles and Meghan. There was considerable Maya involved and she created a ton of drama out of sheer boredom and also as a way of fighting back when realising that she was in a loveless marriage and nothing but a pawn. No idea, if she is yet reincarnated.
HM The Queen: A third-level mature slave soul, she is on her second life at that level and is in dominance. This is as close to perfect and positively manifested the overleaves of anyone within that family or elsewhere. These are great overleaves, which are positively manifested.
Camilla: She is a mid-cycle mature scholar soul and a pragmatist in growth. This woman is a solid and as gracious a scholar as you can find. No surprise that she focusses on literary charities and organisations and hosts the annual Man Booker Prize awards. She is a scholar’s scholar and does not do drama. Camilla is another BRF (British Royal Family) member who gets it right and is manifesting in the positive pole of her overleaves like HM The Queen.
Meghan: Like Camilla, the Duchess of Sussex is also mid-cycle mature; however, like Diana, Princess of Wales she is an artisan. As is obvious from her overleaves, she chose to reincarnate to do something. Where she is is precisely where she is supposed to be. One does not end up with body-type of Venus-Solar and do nothing and does not become a major player on the global stage. Incidentally, usually only one life is passed at mid-cycle mature; it is a bridge lifetime between third mature and fourth mature and it is the only soul age where this occurs – there are exceptions to everything as this is Meghan’s soul’s third life as mid-cycle mature. At the end of fourth mature, more of the brain is used going forward and there is greater complexity to the persona. Meghan, having been Margaret Beaufort in a past life when she was the most pivotal Lancastrian woman during the War of the Roses, matriarch of the Tudor Dynasty, cousin of King Henry VI, mother of King Henry VII, beloved grandmother and mentor of King Henry VIII and great-grandmother to HM Queen Elizabeth I. Furthermore, Meghan is an entity mate of both HM The Queen and her husband HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex. They form a troika that is unshakeable. She is an idealist in acceptance; she will always be emotionally and empathetically open and mature. Sadly, though, the fact that this soul chose to be black in this lifetime has meant that she has become the most reviled black woman on the planet for having married into the BRF and its most loved prince. Incidentally, her husband, HRH Prince Henry was black in his immediate past life. Meghan’s primary chief feature is that of self-deprecation which is never attractive and this leaves her copping the shy smile routine and in particular placing her hand over her mouth. Your chief feature is a cactus never to be cradled… that said, this soul who as Margaret was first wedded before the age of two and had four husbands will be striking it out of the park in this lifetime again.
Philip: Fourth mature warrior in dominance, this is an equally solid soul as is his wife, HM The Queen. A warrior’s warrior to the core.
Henry: A fifth-level mature warrior; this man is the most interesting and underrated royal. First of all, at fifth-level mature, he is more complex than any of the other royals thus far; he is also a sceptic and the only other of the nine being the rather shrewd Prince Philip. This means that he is all 9 parts intellect, sees straight through everything and is able to think outside the box. Fifth-level is also synonymous with the goal of acceptance; therefore, this man will always have great appeal within a group dynamic. He is also thoroughly unpretentious and in growth. As a warrior, he inputs on one channel as do scholars and kings. Similarly, as a warrior, Henry will never forgive disloyalty of any kind; a betrayal of any kind is unforgivable.
Catherine: Like Henry, Catherine is not only also a warrior but she is also fifth-level mature. These two are rather simpatico and there is no way that they would never get along; there would be nothing but mutual respect and understanding. Fifth-level mature is also a time of incredible creativity, especially among warrior souls. Catherine also happens to be not just an entity mate of her husband’s but they are also task companions, which is as close a relationship at the level of soul that you can have as is possible. Task companions are like oxen sharing the same yoke; they get things done and Catherine also has a goal of growth like her brother-in-law, Henry but she is in perseveration mode. Catherine is all steel and will endure much and scale any mountain to get the job done. Admirable lady.
Charles: the fourth of the warriors, he is also the oldest soul of the senior royals. Dream encounters with this man are truly evolved. Naturally, as a seventh-level mature warrior issues of stewardship of the planet would be paramount among his concerns. He is also a warrior in acceptance and lives a life that is truly a positive expression of his overleaves. Kind and inclusive, he is understanding and truly accepting. Like every warrior there ever was, he does not forget or forgive disloyalty.
William: He is the second scholar soul and also the second oldest soul of the group. Sixth-level mature, William is at that all unforgiving sixth-level where those lives are all about paying back karma and having to work in the larger arenas of life and providing stewardship. William, born on the summer solstice, was also born with a stellium in his astrological chart which among other things means that he is prone to being very narrow in his focus; more importantly, it indicates someone who cannot see the forest for the trees when expressed negatively.
Though William has a goal of acceptance, he also has a chief feature – no chief feature is ever positive – of stubbornness, which means that he is rarely regardless of his perfected persona ever either at ease or accepting of anyone. Moreover, when a scholar is not in the positive pole of its role – as Camilla is – then that scholar will be an obstinate (stubbornness) negative and prejudicial (acceptance’s polar opposite rejection goal).
This is why it is almost 100% likely that William not only knew of HRH Princess Michael of Kent’s intention of wearing the blackamoor brooch to the 2017 Christmas Lunch at Buckingham Palace but he likely was the one to have sanctioned it. William is very close with Frederick who with his Jewish actor wife spend lots of time in Los Angeles where there is inordinate racial animus towards blacks.
Wearing the blackamoor brooch to HM The Queen’s Christmas Lunch was tantamount to wearing a swastika to said lunch the first year that Sophie Winkleman attended, knowing fully well that Lord Frederick Windsor’s wife is Jewish. The idea that somehow Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is behind a rift between both princely brothers or is contentious with Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge – who as a warrior is more likely to be openly hostile towards Meghan than the other way around – couldn’t be further from the truth.
I think that it is safe to say that the Middletons have become rather high and mighty with themselves as evidenced when James Middleton was seen being socially hostile towards ITV’s royal correspondent, Tom Bradby outside St. George’s Chapel at the royal wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex.
Here are further examples of HRH Prince William being rejecting, obstinate and plain rude. William and not Meghan refused to have Sarah, Duchess of York attend his wedding. William and not Meghan sat in the Chapel at St. George’s Chapel and openly ridiculed Reverend Curry to his father, HRH Prince Charles. It was William and not Meghan who decided after the birth of HRH Prince George of Cambridge that the infant’s paternal grandparent would not be afforded access to his first grandchild. William rather than Meghan told Dave Clark that he was not desirable as a husband for his cousin, HRH Princess Beatrice, thereby putting an end to a relationship that was no business of his.
One of the most disarming things to know about HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge is that he is basically stupid and lacks awareness. This is how he always comes off in very lucid dream encounters. Furthermore, like all scholars in the negative pole of their soul/role, he is given to being discriminatory and readily judgmental. As a scholar with a chief feature of stubbornness, William is not given to being open to change and has an inordinately corrupted, almost delusional, sense of self. There is high conceit when dealing with this man. Indeed, he has taken his brother Henry, with an attitude of sceptic, none too seriously and definitely not as an equal; however, HRH Prince Henry does not – for being a sceptic – take this man too seriously nor does he take personally his hyper-inflated sense of self.
During their engagement interview, Catherine sat on the edge of the sofa; only once did they touch and it was her initiating. William during the interview self-congratulatorily referred to his great sense of humour – blind conceit. Catherine’s hair almost covers her eyes so that she can remain tunnelled in focus and not become overwhelm by William’s intimidating nature. Catherine’s mouth is pursed and turned down at the corners, betraying her discomfiture for being in William’s presence; this suggests an unpredictable nature and a violent temper. Frankly, Catherine looks as though she fully expects to be slapped at any moment and with some regularity.
Catherine as she appeared on entering Westminster Abbey and being greeted by the Dean of Westminster. Her smile is warm, relaxed and she radiates her inner beauty; indeed, it is uneclipsed.
Catherine, now in the presence of William becomes clenched, clipped and her radiance lacks its lustre. All this because of the unpredictable nature of the man she is about to marry. This very man is also her task companion; however, his perfectly good overleaves have become corrupted and are not positively expressed in the least.
William the none-too-bright finally figures out how to properly fasten his gloves.
William enters the carriage and sits with his back to the horses drawing the carriage; he had even looked back over his shoulder to the horses, yet still sat down in the improper position in the carriage.
William in this photograph has now changed seats after having been instructed to do so by the footman, wearing the white-plumed hat; the footman did so under his breath.
In this shot, after having told William to properly sit, facing the front and not the back of the carriage, the footman could be seen looking at Pippa Middleton and she looks at him with a knowing and dismissive look and smile. This interchange between both the footman and Pippa indicates that it is common knowledge by those in the know that William basically is stupid.
A keenly observant HRH Prince Henry on entering Westminster Abbey with his older brother on the day of William’s wedding. This is the look of someone with an attitude of sceptic. He knows that he has to hang back and take everything with a grain of salt as basically, his brother William is dense and unaware.
While being hosted by the dean of Westminster, Henry ventures a comment and like a scholar in stubbornness and who has been groomed to always be deferred to, William in essence tells his brother to shut up with a dismissive remark. At all times, like a person in stubbornness, William’s body language is rigid and controlling with his hands ever clasped, the same few remarks and the same loud vacuous laughter and of course that ever present smile that is evocative of his mother Diana, Princess of Wales.
Scholars in the negative pole of their role/soul can be the biggest bores; ever, they are a font of useless information and often unsolicited. Here the newlyweds ride up the Mall to Buckingham Place; at least three times on the ride from Westminster Abbey William became impatient with Catherine and they rowed. Here, he is shouting at her and telling her to be observant; she like the warrior she is, anywhere and anytime, she will sound off and protest without so much as thinking twice. Love her!
Do not be fooled by Catherine’s smile; he is grilling her and she is fighting back. This, of course, is a healthy part of their relationship as long-term lovers and also for that matter for being task companions.
After the harsh words, naturally, William was a sulky petulant bore. Warrior to the core, Catherine leans in and nudges him with her left shoulder and gets him to get out of his funk. Catherine is one of the strongest royal women going.
Once on the balcony, William becomes a right bore with the endless drivelfest of observations. On more than one occasion, one captured above, Catherine simply dismisses the ennui that is William by pointing instead towards the Canada Gates whilst he was directing her to look down the mall towards the approaching planes taking part in the flypast. And at all times, Catherine maintains equilibrium with that Cheshire cat grin.
William simply assumes because he is destined to be king and is never challenged, he could do as he pleases and attack his brother’s lover without there being the slightest repercussions.
Newly engaged, Henry and Meghan openly displaying their love for each other and both possessed of emotional intelligence that speaks to their reincarnational history, their being entity mates and the fact that as a yogi who has mastered the kamsutra, Henry is a happy camper. Xerxes, a seventh-level mature warrior friend sums up the warrior’s motto thusly: feed me, fuck me but do not annoy me.
Here, Henry on taking his vows and slipping the ring on Meghan’s finger with the most sexually suggestive intimacy, then winks at her. This is a couple completely and thoroughly besotted, in love and passionately consumed with each other.
Now there is a happy warrior; Henry deplanes when on first tour of the Commonwealth with his serenely pregnant wife, whilst sporting a chubby.
William, who is inordinately so a control freak, is threatened by his brother’s wife who is not a controlled, plus one and subservient wife. Meghan has style and is not a blank foil to allow the blood royal spouse and only the blood royal spouse to shine at all times. I don’t, though, agree with Meghan’s inability to strictly follow royal protocol and walk behind her blood royal spouse.
Henry made sure to have a wife who would be for him what his father never was for his mother; a lover, companion and equal team member. Meghan is forthright, articulate. Like every artisan soul, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex inputs on five channels (the most of all the seven soul types) which means she can evoke mood and inject that certain “je ne sais quoi” into what she wears. Artisans are said to be atmospheric; just slipping into an item of clothing and it is as though we shift personae and become as well as project the right mood into the environment. Artisans are atmospheric; we set the mood by just being.
Most of all, this appearance by Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex at the 2018 British Fashion Awards is why William fears her. Hatred is nothing but fear and to be obstinate and conspire with the Kents for Frederick Windsor’s mother to wear the blackamoor brooch only points to how much William fears his brother’s wife; to fear someone is to readily reveal how miserably you have no power over that someone. Onto that stage, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex walked and had the room in the palm of her hand. William knows that Catherine his wife could never have that command of an audience; what’s more, Catherine is a whimpering mousy little thing as compared to eloquent, confident trained thespian, Meghan.
In the 21st century, Brand Windsor needs an ambassador who is media savvy and can walk out onto a stage and deliver like only Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex does. That awards ceremony at Royal Albert Hall would have been a room with more than 60 per cent artisan souls whereas artisans make up 22 percent of the population of souls cosmically. In Meghan, the fashion worlds of couture, design and jewellery have one of their own – she is akin to a patron saint. This was the same effect that Diana, Princess of Wales also had for being an artisan soul.
In Meghan, William is having to endure some self-karmic issues; you own no one and cannot push around anyone as you please. Thus far, he has irreparably damaged his relations with two strong warriors – his father and brother. Long before Meghan arrived he had sabotaged his relationship with Charles for not approving of Camilla, blaming his father for his mother’s death and denying his father access to his first grandchild. With regards Henry, he has done Meghan a big favour for with his open animus and hideous bigotry vis-à-vis the blackamoor incident, William has lost Henry’s trust and it will only forge the love and loyalty between him and Meghan.
Thus far, William and his family have twice been to Canada on royal tours; they have also been to the U.S., Singapore, Australia, New Zealand and the Pacific Commonwealth nations and India; however, William and his family have yet to set foot in a predominantly black Commonwealth nation. There are no coincidences. Persons in stubbornness are the most difficult people to deal with as they are pigheaded in the extreme and relish being difficult. As he clearly has no interest in being on tour in a predominantly black Commonwealth nation, this is why TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex were appointed as Commonwealth Youth Ambassadors. Far be it for William to become Sovereign where more than half the countries in the Commonwealth are peopled by blacks. As ever, tabloid media will blame Meghan the unsuitable black woman for the rift; truly, one need look no further than William, who is not in the positive pole of acceptance; rather he is in the negative pole of its opposite, rejection, which makes for the scarf incident, the blackamoor incident and all the other deplorable things he’s gotten up to: Sarah not at his wedding, Charles having little to no access to newborn George, froideur towards Camilla and now Meghan. Too bad for his scheming, though, because within a year of marriage, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex will be mother to a royal child which further solidifies her staying power.
As ever, don’t let fear and chief feature get the better of you as so clearly it has HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge. Just straighten up and fly right… especially when lucidly awakened in the dreamtime. For your ongoing support, I am inordinately grateful. Happy New Year and here’s to the very best in 2019.
Last night, on the eve of HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales’s 73rd birthday, I dreamt the most spectacularly lucid dream in long decades. In the evening of Saturday, November 13th, 2021 when I don’t even know the lunar phase and have not audio-cassette recorded my dreams since 1997 when then living in Montréal, I simply had to share this dream. I awoke from the dream being saddened that I had to come to so soon.
HM Queen Elizabeth II
Since then, of course, as of today, September 8, 2022, it is obvious HM The Queen, Queen Elizabeth II is on the cusp of passing, so I reissue this here. Similarly, after having published this in November, 2021, I did recall that there were on a high hilltop a mighty army of bagpipes creating a most glorious sound.
At once I was come to in the most lucid dream set on the astral plane. Astral plane dreams are possessed of lighting that is uniquely found there and nowhere else. Vibrationally, it always feels in such dreams as it does between 0400 and 0600 with the intensity of this magical time being closer to 0500. In any event, I was in the midst of a flying dream above what can only be called the boulevard. It was a street wider than any in the waking state. The focal point of the dream, in this astral metropolis of at least 3 billion souls, was the gates to an ancient church, which was set back from the boulevard at the end of a long narrow straight pathway. It was exactly as the Anglican Church in the parish of St. Anne in Sandy Point St. Kitts. It was a church which was millennia old and all along the path to the foreboding wrought iron gates were clergy – all male – of the Anglican faith. As at the Anglican church in Sandy Point on either side of the pathway between the church and the gates were graves with the most ancient tombstones imaginable. There was a lone grave which was open, the earth on either side black and rich. There were clergymen at the grave concluding their business. As I alighted and took my place along the boulevard, HM The Queen walked alone in a green crew neck woollen dress; it was the same colour as a young artichoke, green fig or green guava. She carried no handbag. There were no corgis; about her neck was a single strand pearl necklace which was so ancient that its nacre had become diffused, time-yellowed and on the very cusp of looking like browning rotting teeth. She was reserved and poised and as the rear of the giant Rolls Royce faced the gates of the church and cemetery, she walked around to the right rear door and entered; her hair here was beginning to grey but predominantly brunette. There was no foot person to open the door. She got in and was seemingly in her late forties to early fifties, which is more in keeping with her soul age, that of being an early mature slave soul.
Myself for not being an astral plane habitué, had the ability to fly on the astral plane and, of course, though the habitués themselves could, they of custom chose not to. I was for being an observer referred to by the habitués as a visitor. On exiting the grounds – just as in the Sandy Point, St. Kitts arrangement, there was a crescent in which the massive Rolls Royce sat with its rear facing the open gates to the cemetery and church. The car carrying the arrivée Sovereign was expected and eventually did turn right onto the ridiculously large boulevard where the astral plane throngs along the boulevard’s route were as claustrophobically packed in as it must have been at St. Paul’s Cathedral for the Duke of Wellington’s funeral. Here the atmosphere was electric.
What had initially drawn me to this marvellous place, was the distant sound of several bugles, playing the rouse. I knew instantly what it meant. On my arrival, there were hills all around this sector of the astral plane metropolis; this seemed to a very layered astral plane London where different epochs in the city’s history simultaneously co-existed. On one particular wooded hill were the largest stags imaginable – they looked almost sentient whilst regally standing in small mobs. They had majestically arrived to the top from the other side, stood there for a long while then en masse sat down to onlook. Along the route, there were the most massive black steeds and when they walked and stood along the route, they were buried in the astral landscape such that the underside of their bellies were submerged.
The arrivée astral plane habitué Sovereign was then taken on a celebratory parade. The wood was an exquisitely polished oak that framed the exterior of this astral plane version of the Rolls Royce that seemed to have been from the late 1920s to early 1930s. On pulling out onto the boulevard the slow-moving single vehicle motorcade turned right and went down to the shorter arm of the boulevard. Along the right, as it were, of the boulevard and on either side were the most opulent, massive astral plane replicas of each and every stately home in England. The closest house on the right on leaving the cemetery was Blenheim Palace This astral plane version was easily 30 storeys tall and at least 15 millennia older than its waking state counterpart; I suppose that they were this massive as they served as suites for past Dukes of Marlborough as with Blenheim Palace. Even the stately houses which were demolished at the end of the empire, which saw families that didn’t marry robber baron Americans to stay afloat, were here represented. Longleat House, Althorp House, Highclere Castle, Knole House, Hampton Court Palace, Kensington Palace, Mapperton House, Waddesdon Manor, Wilton House, Castle Howard, Chatsworth House; you name it, they were all here behind wrought iron fencing and they stood side-by-side without massive ground anchoring each. This astral plane Blenheim Palace counterpart had sapphire-blue cupolas at the towers and center; every astral plane counterpart was here replete with sapphire-blue copulas. The walls of each house on the astral plane was made of marble that was time-yellowed, betraying the multiple millennia it had existed on the astral plane. Just as the skyscrapers on New York City’s Avenue of the Americas from 42nd to 57th Streets are tall and easily in excess of 30 storeys, so too was each of these astral plane counterparts for familiar English stately houses.
All along the route, which was teeming with astral plane habitués, there were different sections that towered up for several storeys. Directly opposite the gates to the church and cemetery from which the astral habitué Sovereign Elizabeth II emerged alone, was regally sat Sir Winston Churchill; he was surrounded by all the astral plane habitué Prime Ministers who had served HM The Queen. Here, there was a section reserved for astral plane-focussed English aristocrats; one recognisable such habitué was Gerald Grovesnor, 6th Duke of Westminster. At no point, however, did I ever see the following habitué relatives, HRH Prince Philip Duke of Edinburgh, HM Queen Elizabeth Queen Mother, HRH Princess Margaret, Countess of Snowdon or Diana, Princess of Wales. Constantly, persons were arriving to take their place, even when the parade was begun. This dream was so vivid, so electric, so lucid that the stimuli was so overwhelming that I times, I had to alight to ground myself. Indeed, at times, it proved laborious to try and fly where the amount of stimuli and the outréness of this astral plane milieu proved overwhelming on my ability to stay aloft to project myself whilst astrally projected into this utterly rhapsodic dream. As this dream was set on the astral plane, there were astral plane habitués here who wore the dress of the age in which they lived when incarnate. I readily assumed that these were past-life personae with connections to HM The Queen from past lives.
As I soared in flight into the astral plane air some three storeys above to get my bearings, I saw a phalanx of swashbuckling courtiers, progressing down the boulevard to take their place. They had all the swagger and style of dress as King Charles I in the masterful van Dyck tableau, Charles at the Hunt, which hangs at Musée du Louvre. They walked down the boulevard which housed the stately houses on either side, and well ahead of the habitué Sovereign’s Rolls Royce, which glided along the boulevard as if in bucolic slow-motion.
Still, there was a section of the immensely long boulevard which seemed as if longer than New York City’s Fifth Avenue, which on either side housed waking state visitors who were in attendance. Naomi Campbell, who was recently made Commonwealth ambassador to replace the Duke and Duchess of Sussex on their departure from royal duties, was here present. She was there in an enclosed section where all the waking state guests were kept. Also notable was fellow supermodel Kate Moss. I found it utterly fascinating to hear Ms. Campbell speaking in flawless Jamaican patois as she was gobsmacked by the beauty of this astral plane ritual. Taking a break from the laboriousness of dream flight in this particular dream, I had sought refuge in the glass enclosed stands where incarnate persons were focussed. These stands existed opposite each other across the ridiculously wide boulevard.
Once returned to flight I soon realised the immensity of the life that HM The Queen had lived. Here along the astral plane boulevard, on which I suppose that the Circus Maximus was modelled, were habitués who had lived during HM The Queen’s long life and reign and who had immensely admired her. These spanned the range of human civilisation with not just every racial stratum of Commonwealth member states but all other humans who had so immensely admired this extraordinary human being. Here were astral plane habitués from the 1930s, 1940s, 1950s, 1960s, 1970s, 1980s, 1990s, 2000s, 2010, 2020s. From her earliest years of being the much admired Princess of York to becoming the young Sovereign and onwards, there were adoring astral plane habitué admirers. Absolutely everyone was here represented. It was simply overwhelming to see so many tens of millions of persons focussed in one place and all experiencing rapture at the arrival of someone in whom they had focussed much of their admiration, respect and love. This was a truly remarkable dream.
Pushing of again and exploring more of the unique dreamscape, I flew slowly in the opposite direction of the habitué Sovereign’s parade down the boulevard lorded over by palatial astral plane counterparts to known English stately houses. In one section there were humanoid creatures whose look suggested that these were animals which were long extinct long before animals were documented in earnest. One particular creature was pure white with liver spots markings. This large-headed male was singing whilst perched on a floating dais. Cloaked in a white ermine robe, the three to four thousand pound male creature sang with a range that went from whale song to counter tenor bravura. His voice was simply healing. Light seemed to emanate from beneath his skin and in varying intensities based on his emotions. His performance was so powerful that I had to alight again just to gather my energy reserves as flying does take considerable focussed energy.
Further along the boulevard, as every corner of the Commonwealth was here richly represented and this was a celebration of the life of the arrivée Sovereign, there were African women in colour garb, singing and dancing with jubilation written all over their cul-de-sac of the astral plane. From time to time, feeling the spirit one or more African woman would step into the boulevard and let their spirit jubilantly soar whilst in trance from singing and dancing their souls out.
The further along the boulevard one explored in flight to the left of the cemetery gates and to which the arrivée Sovereign had yet paraded, I explored whilst flying. Eventually, the lone Rolls Royce would come past a section of the boulevard where the astral plane habitués though humanoid, had heads that were akin to those of many gods from the Egyptian pantheon. Still, there were those who closely resembled Kiwi bird-headed humanoids. As astral plane-focussed dreams go, this contingent of totemic beings was not that unusual a sight. When the arrivée Sovereign’s motorcade of one turned to return and tour past the cemetery, I took to the air again and this time soared higher than usual. This enabled me to fly more swiftly than when lower to the electrically charged activity along the boulevard’s route. I returned to the far end of the boulevard to a stately house which sat at the end. Inside this royal residence, there truly was a battle royal underway. At the centre of this feud was Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Here, her voice was a booming commanding business. She was powerful and was settling scores. When she spoke, the walls of the stately house cracked, glass and art flew off the walls. Eventually one of the stately house’s cupolas cracked and eventually collapsed. It was a noisy, violent business.
The last time that I had dreamt of an astral plane-focussed dream wherein the past was being prosecuted, involved the recently passed Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis and Maria Callas. That, too, was a battle royal where scores were being settled. That dream is as follows:
*As per the urgency of this dream, I rather suspect that HM The Queen may already have passed by the time of the 2021 Remembrance Service at the Cenotaph; however, London’s hotels would have to be cleared of the Veterans and tourists before the death announcement would be made.
As ever, Life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!
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. 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 plough 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 plough 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 allmine.
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.
As ever, Life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!
How fucking goddamn dare you, Piers Morgan use Kobe Bryant’s passing to try and whitewash the ugliness that is the fiendish lynching of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex that you, Piers, and the rest of British media engaged in whilst whipping your isle of hooligan louts to frenzied hysteria of hatred and racism? Then when Meghan wipes arse with you and takes her leave, which never in a million years you had anticipated, you bring proud black women like Afua Hirsch on your show and subject her to the usual white male asshole brow-beating as you talk over top of her for 70 per cent of the time because ‘you are a black bitch and we owned the likes of you for 400 years and we will tell you what to think even when we both know damn well that we are nothing but racially predatory swine.’
Never once during his twenty-year career did opposing fans, when Kobe and Lakers played away games, scream and make monkey noises as is regularly the case on your isle of drunken boors where you swear up and down there is no racism. How dare you! Leave Kobe the blasted motherfuck to rest in peace. He is far better deserving than to have self-serving tributes as revisionist boors like you are quick to engage in. What you damn well ought to be doing is schooling that porcine fuck, Thomas Markle Sr., in the fact that the daughter whom he claims to love, whom you equally speciously claim never suffered racism in Britain, was subjected to racism by HRH Princess Michael of Kent when she wore the blackamoor brooch to The Queen’s 2017 Christmas Lunch at Buckingham Palace. That’s right, I may be a lucid dreamer but I am pretty fucking sure that this did not occur in some dream to which only my lucidly engaged mind was privy.
Please leave Kobe the hell out of your revisionist BS because unlike your racist isle of louts, only in America could Kobe have achieved his phenomenal greatness and this in spite of America’s own brand of racism. Hell, at least in America, blacks are respected and not culturally ghettoised as in your fair barbaric isle.
Please, Piers go and explain to Thomas Markle Sr. that Danny Baker’s incendiary tweet was not in the least remotely racist but mere jest. Please Piers go and convince your knuckle-dragging readership that were HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex were to have wedded a Jew that you would have engaged in an openly vile antisemitic campaign of hatred towards his wife then deny that it was remotely antisemitic. More to the point, had this been the case, you would be damn well unemployed ages ago. The mere fact that at this juncture Thomas Markle Sr. has come forward to state that his daughter experienced no racism whilst being lynched in Britain, shows how desperately Britons are prepared to throw money at the issue of their alarmingly savage racism to make it go away.
Perhaps, the Cambridges want the predominantly black Commonwealth states to take leave as they tear arse time and again in their faces. Just look at them today at the 75th anniversary ceremony on Holocaust Memory Day, all poised and obsequious in stark contrast to their behaviour at the reception for the African heads-of-states last week at the UK/Africa summit.
Perhaps, Piers, you can explain to Thomas Markle Sr. that though Lewis Hamilton has won 6 F1 Championships, he has only been made an MBE, whereas Ben Stokes was made an OBE. And please do try explaining to him that it has positively nothing to do with race that five F1 Championships later, Lewis Hamilton remains an MBE whereas Andy Murray, no Mamba he, was made a CBE for merely winning twice the championship at Wimbledon. Naturally, never in a million years would Jenson Button have been relegated to mere MBE status if he had won 6 F1 Championships. How fucking dare you, Piers! How are you celebrating Lewis Hamilton as your own Mamba, 6 fucking F1 Championships on?
Like Kobe, this woman Meghan is a true Mamba. She came, she saw and like Kobe, would never settle for petty, lazy mediocrity and that is why she took her leave of the Cambridges and their petty grudging machinations, the racism at Kensington Palace as was outed by HRH Princess Michael of Kent – why do you think that the Sussexes moved to Frogmore Cottage… all the more reason why they should not be paying for your entrenched racism by paying for Frogmore Cottage.
Piers, how pray tell can the likes of you aspire to being Mamba when all you and your isle of bigots are, are mere lazy, colonialist, racist boors, who can never cease being slavishly addicted to your truly deluded idea of superiority and entitlement? Did it never occur to you as you racially preyed on, hunted, lynched and celebrated Meghan’s departure that all of this was affecting The Queen whom you claim to cherish, honour and respect? In lynching Meghan, you were also dismantling The Queen’s proudest legacy, the Commonwealth? Well, she is gone and like Thomas Markle Sr., you never knew Meghan and she will never suffer you nor your BS. Stop trying to absolve yourselves of your ugliness… your racism; it is at the very core of your collective isle-dwelling souls.
Go on, if you had treated Kobe as you treated Meghan, would he have achieved his greatness? Fuck no! Meghan knows her worth, as did Kobe, which is why she took leave of lazy, petty assholes like you – and elsewhere royals, royal households – who could never aspire to being Mamba. How dare you, you small-minded, bigoted fool deny your racist birthright? How dare you presume that you could possibly ever be perceived as Mamba? Indeed, you may yet begin to transcend your mediocrity by doing something so bold and Mamba-like as writing about the Cambridges’ crumbling façade as alluded to by BBC’s Mary Berry’s A Berry Merry Christmas TV special at Christmas 2019. Indeed, I dare you, you failed Mamba twat, write about the vile paedophilia within the House of Windsor, which to deny is just as risible as your winded rants about Mamba Meghan never having been subjected to racism by the British media, royal households, royals or society at large.
How dare you Piers when the very racism you deny is at the heart of why Meghan could not achieve her own greatness in Britain. Unlike the raw spontaneity of sport where Lewis Hamilton, Kobe Bryant, Michael Jordan, Usain Bolt and countless others cannot be hindered and interfered with in real time by the likes of insufferable and ubiquitous racist boors like you, ready to lynch, vilify and criminalise such persons, they unlike Meghan are able to achieve greatness without being hindered, driven out of town and having the mob incited to hatred and lynching them because of your racism and grudge. You cannot warp and interfere in real time events such that you who must always win, must always be superior, come out on top – hell why do you think Simon Cowell is so damn rich? Simon Cowell allows you a guaranteed winner to your liking, of your fragile-sensibilitied likeness every time. No asshole, Meghan didn’t run; Meghan’s greatness belongs in real time, which is guaranteed beyond your isle of bigoted boors – the royals, royal households, Britons at large and most definitely Mamba-challenged assholes like you!