Also, Coming in June…

MOAppendix I

A SIX VOLUME MICHAEL OVERLEAVES APPENDIX.

This is Volume I of VI of Michael Overleaves which were channelled by Authentic Michael Channellers™ (accept no substitutes).  Each volume is a companion to I of VI volumes of the memoirs of task companions, Merlin and mine.  MERLIN and ARVIN: A SHAMANIC DREAM ODYSSEY (Human Civilisation’s First Dream Memoirs).  

Here are some fragments whose overleaves appear in Volume I: Marcel Proust/Alvin Ailey/Pharaoh Akhenaten/Alfred Brendel/Victor Brauner/Mariah Carey/Leonard Cohen/Salvador Dali/Honoré de Balzac M.C. Escher/Gustave Flaubert/Marvin Gaye/Dizzy Gillespie/Martha Graham/Hermann Hesse/Peter Jennings/Grace Jones/John Lennon/Nelson Mandela Miriam Makeba/Bob Marley/Johnny Mercer/George Gershwin/Mishima Yukio/Itzhak Perlman/Molière Leontyne Price/Gabriela Mistral/Charlie Rose/Billy Strayhorn/Lionel Richie/Diana Ross/Pierre Elliott Trudeau/Rembrandt van Rijn/Sarah Vaughan\Andy Warhol/Robin Williams.

Available everywhere, in all media in June 2017!  Get yours and thanks so much for your support these past few years!  

____________________________________________________

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

Long May You Continue To Reign!

queen-elizabeth-ii-7

Here’s to the most remarkably accomplished Mature-souled Slave in the modern era.  Brava!  Well done indeed…  I remember long ago during childhood, all of St. Kitts was scrubbed and excited.  There was bunting everywhere and it seemed almost like Christmas time which would, after Boxing Day, bleed into Carnival – a time of laughter, dancing, fun and excitement.

Elizabeth by Freud

There in the shadow of Brimstone Hill Fortress, on another beautiful, sunny West Indian day, HM Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh drove past headed north through the lone street of Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  I was on the east side of the road, across from the playing field down which only two days earlier, I had the honour of slipping and falling into the large open sewer drain from Pogson Hospital where caterpillars were a welcome sight on its old growth of magnolia trees.  My mother, Harella, a teacher in the school that I attended, promptly had me take off my favourite pair of shorts and had them hung out to dry.

Elizabeth sergei pavlenko

Never mind that I had been wearing no such thing as underwear; thus, I had to endure an eternity of two days with every little girl in the school chasing after me because there was I with my bits hanging out whilst wearing a shirt that could hardly make it down to my sexy belly button.  I got a good glimpse of HM Queen Elizabeth II as she drove past, waving and looking out and to my side of the road no less.

Rupert Alexander's portrait of HM The Queen (sml).jpg
Rupert Alexander’s portrait of HM The Queen (sml).jpg

The moment was brief, as little union jacks excitedly waved and everyone boisterously cheered.  Just like that… she was gone.  I was so grateful for the queen having visited to mark the independence of St. Kitts, Nevis and Anguilla as they entered statehood.  Her visit had stealthily eclipsed my shame at  having been chased about the Sandy Point recreation grounds being teased by every girl… to say nothing of boy.

ER

After her majesty drove past, as the excitement of the moment wore on, the gaggle of similar-aged boys (6-8 years old) with whom I stood waving and cheering made our move.  This was a good enough excuse to dash up the lane and into the sugar cane fields where more long, hot and passionate moments of intercrural play was accompanied by whispered quickened breaths and proclamations of love – after all among us seven boys there was one who, though dumb as all fuck, proved my initiation into that most obsessive of fraternities – size queendom.  Older souls are not born innocent…

Elizabeth Regina

Here’s to Elizabeth Regina… Indeed, it has been good to be incarnate in this the second Elizabethan Age and a glorious one it has been.  Like Nelson Mandela, this remarkable human being inspires ready admiration, respect and her centred nobility of spirit in truly inspiring…

_____________________________

Credit: HM, Queen Elizabeth II,

HM Queen Elizabeth II, Lucian Freud

HM Queen Elizabeth II, Sergei Pavlenko

HM Queen Elizabeth II, Rupert Alexander

HM Queen Elizabeth II, Andy Warhol

HM Queen Elizabeth II, Ralph Heimans

____________________________________________________________________________

____________________________________________________________________________

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

I Remember.

Michael by Warhol

Michael Jackson by Andy Warhol.  On this the anniversary of Michael Jackson’s birth, I thought to pay tribute to one of the most inspiring creative geniuses to have ever graced this world.  This is a work by Andy Warhol which is part of the Revolver Gallery’s Andy Warhol: Revisited – A Pop Art Exhibition in Yorkville at 77 Bloor Street West, Toronto.  One of the truly fantastic shows to have graced Toronto in long ages.

I finally got to attend a couple of weeks ago with my brother and my only nephew –  in town for the summer from the Bahamas.  We had a good visit and the show was the most spectacular show I have seen in long ages.  Beautifully curated and just intimate enough that it doesn’t end up being overwhelming or, more importantly, underwhelming.

https://warholrevisited.com/

Michael_Jackson_as_Captain_EO

Michael Jackson: August 29, 1958 [-O-] June 25, 2009.

Here’s a dream, previously shared in this unique and utterly unrivalled blog of mine, of Michael Jackson being his marvellously shamanic wonderful self.  I love you more, Michael – sweet and blissful dreams.

https://dreampoetica.com/2014/09/17/oh-what-joy/

https://www.youtube.com/embed/LeiFF0gvqcc“>http://

Remember The Time, Michael Jackson, © 1992 MJJ Productions Inc.

____________________________________________________________________________

____________________________________________________________________________

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

Look Who’s Coming To Dinner!

A Cheesecake 2015

Recently, I caught up with old friends; a bunch of Leos all, we decided to get together and share our birthdays which all six fall within an eight-day period.  I still have yet to actually meet someone born on August second, my actual birthday. 

In any event, there just had to be that dinner guest that made a point of being a dumb-as-fuck catty fag who spent most of the dinner trying to throw shade my way.  Bitch please, I long ago turned in my Gay card – why be a card-carrying member in a society which is marked with intense racial animus towards Blacks?  

I simply do not play.  Go be Gay and all that that stands for.  I don’t lisp and I especially do not suffer anyone who does. 

Naturally, there was overlong discussion of that silly White male dickless wonder-looking attention whore whose appearance on the cover of Vanity Fair was the final straw for me.  Dominick Dunne is gone as is Christopher Hitchens – what soft hands he had and such sad lonely eyes. 

In any event, the cumfarting twit was fast taken to task when deliberately regurgitating the usual media hate-fest now at fever pitch about Bill Cosby.  Well, of course, he is guilty – he is a man and a successful man. 

Which successful man doesn’t have access to readily available sex?  What the fool guest did not get was what was really at play in all this, namely why is that fugly – tell me, her retroussé-ugly face does not resemble a bat’s in extreme close-up – lawyer’s obsession with Black men? 

First it was Michael Jackson, then on to Tiger Woods and now Bill Cosby.  Better watch out Will Smith, hell Sidney Poitier is still alive… no successful Black male in America beloved and respected by the media is safe. 

Look at what a laughing stock Tiger Woods has become.  All three men, as most people and that idiotic dinner guest – about whom I coolly hissed whilst looking unflinchingly at the roast on my plate, “What is this doing out of the oven?” – fail to realise, had a legacy which was beyond the norm. 

Clearly, it isn’t about merely being Black; it is always about having ventured into uncharted territory.  Who can deny Michael Jackson’s stellar genius?  Who could have imagined anyone achieving, let alone conquering Tiger Woods’ spectacular accomplishments?  Then there was Bill Cosby, after Norman Lear had given the noctambulant masses the image of what Blacks ought to damn well be, presenting perfectly normal middle class Blacks without rage, baggage and drug issues. 

In short order this klanswoman replete with invisible hood has devoted her professional life to latter day lynching of Black men with legacies which are too unpalatable for the likes of her ilk to suffer.  As it is, I was in no mood to suffer some lunatic Jewish queen and his need to raise his rear right leg and piss all over Blacks with smug conceit known only to the equally smug few. 

Clearly, there were no Black men in Heidi Fleiss’ little black book or by now our honorary Klanswoman would have trotted them all out by noose to that most effective of poplar trees, the television medium and then onwards to court to effectively circumcise their legacy. 

The day prior as I rode from job three en route home to take a nap using my snazzy new CPAP machine and attend one of three parties over two days, I had quite the little adventure.  Riding alongside me as I rode in the street – I never ride my bike on sidewalks, a white BMW edged next to me. 

Inside, there were Whites in back and front seats.  With windows rolled down, they cruised along to keep pace with me as I leisurely rode and enjoyed the feel of blazing sunlight on my skin.  As is customary, I wore my shades. 

“Oh look it’s Ray Charles.  No wait, I think it’s Stevie Wonder,” said the dumb-as-fuck-looking blonde in the backseat smugly looking out and grinning her more-gums-than-teeth, saurian-lipped-hideous and blissfully ignorant face at the sight of me. 

Their laughter was that hideous semi-feral clipped affair known only to the White tribe when it is enjoying being racially predatory and making sport of Black lives.  The big White male next to her who likely preferred fucking her in the arse than not, called out, “Hey bud, guess what?  No more Jell-O pudding for you!” to which there was even more wicked gales of laughter known only to Blacks when being racially preyed on by Whites who will ever swear up and down that there is no such thing as racism.  Hell, the term racial predator does not exist. 

So nice to know that by millennium’s end, this murderous Saurian predator masquerading as human will be yet hunted by an even more menacing terror – those who think nothing of cutting empty brain-dead skulls from bodies and placing them in the small of the back.  Yes dumbasses, you too like Rome will fall and you too will yet be the hunted. 

Next, the male driver who howled with wicked delight then did something that never before had I experienced, for the next block and a half – he rode alongside, matching my speed, never allowing me to drop behind or overtake his car – he turned on the windshield wiper which naturally saw wiper fluid jet beyond the car’s roof and left me good and drenched. 

I got home  a sticky, stinging ashy-white mess as anti-freeze fluids and sweat took their toll in the glaring heat for several kilometres.  Long had it been since I had been reduced to tears at having been racially attacked. 

So as this arse-eating venal swine sat across from me going on ad nauseam about Bill Cosby, I quietly excused myself and took to the host’s bathroom where I feverishly texted my delightful Panamanian-born Montréal friend, Raoul de Castro and told him where to come find me and spirit me away from this gold-and-diamond-thieving arse-eating fool. 

Returned to dinner, whilst I patiently awaited Raoul’s arrival, I began speaking of the audacity of New Jersey paying out one million dollars to Holocaust survivors in the state who numbered more than 40k.  How many were there in Florida, Illinois, Arizona, New Mexico to say nothing of California and New York?  Were they being paid for Holocaust PTSD too? 

Why pray tell were American taxpayers making any such payments when the Third Reich had not occupied America nor for that matter had the Holocaust occurred on American soil?  Funny how quickly some can go from being smug to being downright accusatory. 

Once challenged with fact, the fool began accusing me of being anti-Semitic.  Some things truly are as predictable as flies on shit as Frederick ‘Mr. Hat’ Jones would ever impart. 

Our idiotic otiose dinner guest soon demanded of our host why he was allowing our dinner party to be ruined by all this slanderous anti-Semitic talk.  Grabbing my Samsung Note, I gladly shared the news article on the Jerusalem Post’s website which heaped praise on the New Jersey governor for being a good little porcine Goy and paying out needless, to say nothing of dubious, guilt money. 

All talk of Bill Cosby ceased as the subject was changed to the Andy Warhol show here in town – which I have yet to see but soon shall.  Soon enough, and well before dessert, Raoul crashed the dinner party and rescued me. 

As we left, in a manner that was crass and as can be expected of a sage soul born in the year of the Monkey, Raoul called across the room to the South African-born boorish Semite and waved at him in a gesture that was decidedly born of the Reich, “Farewell to all that!” 

Naturally, Raoul was in town because at the weekend it would be the annual Caribana or whatever it is now called.  I never attend, too much Sun and crowds – two things which cause my vampiric soul to cringe – you’d be amazed what working night shift for more than two decades will do to your reaction to sunlight. 

Raoul was in town because like me, also leonine, it was the annual fest of big Black American cock.  Can’t never have too much of a good thing indeed! 

Alas, drink of my spirit and savour this truly beautiful dream where I dined on the astral plane with my task companion and then astral plane habitué, Merlin.  Now there was a true Semite; above all else, he was a remarkable human being. 

As Raoul and I rode by cab from the horrid dinner party in the Beaches, I remarked how rare a light Merlin was to him.  During those seven years that I knew him, Merlin never once referred to himself as a Jew. 

He was not ghettoised, he had nothing to prove.  What was even more remarkable in those seven years, Merlin always referred to everyone whom I had yet met as ‘my friend…’  So it was that on Halloween 1982, we went to ‘my friend Joe’s’ pumpkin kill party and pleasantly surprised was I when we got to the 12th or was it 14th storey apartment in the upper west 90s and his friend Joe turned out to be Black – of course, that friend Joe is the actor, Joe Morton. 

This was the most remarkable thing about Merlin, meeting all his friends over the years, was like being at a reincarnational ball, you were ever surprised when the door opened and you finally met ‘my friend’ so-and-so only to discover that they were Japanese, Chinese, Jewish, Black, Armenian… whatever.  No wonder I have never had patience for ghettoised fools like the boor at the abandonned dinner party in the Beaches. 

The dream was lived in telepathic lucidity befitting not merely entity mates but task companions no less.  At the time, Luna did as is her wont, she grooved through Leo and thus my third house like Sarah Vaughan some lazy, syrupy scat. 

That Wednesday, I was coming near the end of my stay in Vancouver as it was April 16, 1997.  Too, the dream was audiocassette-recorded on tape two hundred and twenty-nine and is yet to be found in volume XXIII of the twenty-five volume dream opus. 

Say what you want but intellect is the most beautiful flower on this world or, for that matter, any other across this vast universe.  Befitting a late mature artisan of pronounced scepticism, aren’t you glad that that I can readily see through any shabbily concocted fraud?  

Yes, indeed, Vanity Fair has no time to report on Ferguson or the #BlackLivesMatter issue, any more than it cowardly avoids reporting on taxpayers’ money being brazenly scammed in New Jersey – about which you can damn well bet Vanity Fair and its editorial staffers are cognisant.

On one thing I am uncompromising: If you don’t like Black people…  Fuck you!   

Life is but a dream and sweet it is when you fear nothing and no one.  Sweet dreams, you are more magical and beautiful than you know.  For being focussed herein, I am both grateful and honoured by your patronage. 

________________________

a stag light arrangement

A rustic restaurant at nighttime, which was wide-open with lots of exposed wooden beams, proved the setting for this dream.  Seated with my left side to the aisle, where the waiter came and went, I was at a table for four.

There were persons, across the aisle from us, to whom I really did not pay much attention.  Who should though be on my right but Merlin!

Whilst interminably waiting to be served, we silently sat there.  Before being taken, our order took almost forever.

Leaning forwards from behind us, a waiter finally did appear.  Smiling, he asked us to come with him as he now had a table for us.

So, we got up and began walking back with the waiter.  We were as though going to the back of the restaurant.

We moved through a beautiful interior which was nicely, dimly lit.  The flames here were live flames in glass beaker-like vases.

Too, there were the most spectacular antlers and horns displayed high up on the walls.  Some of the horns were on the ceilings about the light fixtures.

All in all, it was a beautiful ambiance here.  Too, there were rustic paintings on the walls that I paid little attention to.

The seats in this section allowed you to face out into the aisle with your back against the wall.  I had been concerned about our not having been served for so long.

Though we were not saying anything to one another, I was not concerned about that.  There were no doubts that Merlin wanted to be there with me.

We passed much of our time together, lost in a silence which was born of our being communicatively engaged, on alternate levels of reality which precluded speech.  We were being exclusively telepathic.

We sat side by side, facing out to the dining room, which gave us a commanding view of the persons on display.  The atmosphere here was very nice.

I quite enjoyed being with Merlin.  There was nothing more sublime than our silently sitting there, whilst together taking a meal, by candlelight and some mellow Jazz instrumentals perfuming and further intoxicating our very souls.

*Christopher Hitchens’ Michael Overleaves now to be found in Michael Overleaves Appendix.

__________________________

Photo: White truffle chocolate strawberry cheesecake from Daniel et Daniel

Antler/horn lighting fixture.

____________________________________________________________________________________

____________________________________________________________________________________

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

Apples and Lemons.

apples and lemons jmb & aw 1985

Jean-Michel Basquiat and Andy Warhol, Apples and Lemons, 1985
Acrylic, coloured oilsticks and synthetic polymer paint silkscreened on canvas.
206 x 268.5 cm
Collection of Thaddaeus Ropac
©The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar,New York
©The Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts, inc. / SODRAC (2014)

http://www.basquiatnow.com/focus/apples.html

http://www.ago.net/

___________________

Today, I managed to have awaken from a long slumber of non-stop work shifts and multiple jobs and managed en route to another to slip into the Jean-Michel Basquiat show at the AGO.

I had missed the opening weekend and just did not want Black History month to end without having seen it at least once.

I was floored.  I had never before paid attention to his works because to see art reproduced in print and definitely online are quite another matter.  To have moved through this exhibition was the most lucid of flying dreams.

The Self-Portraits, Chinese New Year/Year of the Boar, Every Untitled work, the above collaborative work with Andy Warhol and most especially, Oreo, all provoked such wonder, and they each affected a deep soulful resonance.

What can one say, the man was an unparalleled genius and, most of all, he loved Jazz; he loved Charlie Parker!

I got on my Samsung Note 4 and texted everyone I know demanding that they haul arse toute de suite to be wowed.  My adorable sister will come to town on the weekend, to gaze and praise.  We’ll have a blast.

The sense of colour, attack and the unmistakable afrocentrism are what really moved me and above it all is this W. E. B. Du Bois quote which I had long forgotten; it sits beneath the description for the painting Black Soap 1981:

“It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity.”

And how the lunatic racial predators love laughing their vapid skulls in seething grudge; indeed, Jazz has its roots in klezmer!

So very nice to see that the hunter has fast emerged in this millennium’s infancy as the prey.  Is it any wonder as their real and unwavering enemy rages terror on their civilisation that they turn around and grow even more resentful, spiteful, murderous towards us, thereby betraying their cowardice?

What can they do?  When for so long the racial predator has reigned supreme and unchallenged, along comes a genuine foe with an even greater sanguineous appetite for the hunt.

Keep whistling, you can’t possibly be preyed on.  Why should karma apply to the racial predator indeed?

This show has been a marvellous feast; it is one to which I will return and ravenously devour… time and again.

________________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________________

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

Warm Memories.

Cody Hooper Private Collection commission 2014

Acrylic on Panel

48 x 48 inches

© 2014 Cody Hooper

Provenance: Private Cellection commission – Here’s a quote that the artist Cody shared about the collector.

“A new 44×44 commission created for a collector who was actually connected with Georgia O’Keeffe through Barney Ebsworth. So cool to hear her story of being surrounded by the likes of “Chop Suey” (Edward Hopper), George Ault, Warhol and Georgia. I was honored to create this for her current collection and happy to hear about how much she enjoys my work!”

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Cody-Hooper-American-Abstract-Artist/155759097853149?ref=br_rs

http://www.codyhooperart.com/

____________________________________________________________________________

____________________________________________________________________________

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