Triple 8s! Now There’s A Recipe for Schadenfreude!

A few years back, a theatre friend came over for dinner – remember those pre-pandemic rituals when that was a thing – and big time insisted that we stop to watch the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Of course, for being a lucid dreamer, I almost never look at TV and only went out and got one, to watch Diana, Princess of Wales’ funeral in September 1997. Et juste comme ça, I was hooked. So glad the Briton was sent packing so full of it and like all Britons in Hollywood, overdoing the hauteur and accent on the ‘Yanks.’ But enough about that.

This season, after last season and Denise Richards promised and supplied nothing, I have actually been watching every episode multiple times. Then this past Wednesday, something clicked, Sutton was being bullied by the cornered, knock-kneed boor and I thought out loud, ‘Holy fuck, why have I never done her numbers all this fucking time? And as the saying goes, Google is your friend and off I went.

Erika Jayne… Numbers never lie and where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Hell the forest is ablaze!

10/7/1971 (Pig) Erika Jayne 1.8.8 = 8.

Clarity before we dive in. This is Vedic numerology, which does not gussy anything up. It deals with the negative manifestation of all numbers 1 through 9 as these are the energies which we are here to transmute during the course of the incarnation. Secondly, the numbers are arranged in quantitative order; in short, a day is less than a month, which in turn, is less than a year. Conversely, the first number – the day of one’s birth represents the energy body. The mind is the day and month and the second number – the way one thinks. The number total of the day and month plus the year is the life path – the third number – and lastly, the fourth is all three numbers totalled, which represents the destiny/soul number… in short what you are here to learn.

1 – energy body – the bully! Realising that it is game over, ones (1) – the bully – will cannibalise those who see through them. In the recent episode of RHOBH, Erika suddenly turning nasty and cannibalising Sutton, triggered this eureka moment for me. Like monstrous Saddam Hussein, realising that the end was at hand, his last act was to viciously cannibalise his executioners. This is precisely what Erika was doing to Sutton. The insults and vicious attacks simply betray that Sutton knows the truth. More importantly, Sutton did not come by her wealth by dubious means. When and if you cheat, you do not win and this is what stings for Erika… she is on the cusp of losing it all and Sutton has everything that she has never had, regardless the façade, and never will. 1 energy body persons are intensely feared. One fears being banished by them as they so cunningly gaslight and pull the wool over one’s eyes.

8 – the mind – that on which one is chiefly focused. 8 is the money number. All persons with 8 for the mindset number will get paid top dollar for whatever they do. The are motivated by being very well-compensated for their time and they will always marry into money rather than not. Like Diana, Princess of Wales, Erika is also 1/8… they have nothing else in common. Second number of 8 people are motivated by a need never to be dependent and never experience want as they witnessed in someone, likely a parent, during childhood. These persons are also motivated by the need for power and winning… at all costs.

8 – Life path – what you will experience. 8 being the money number as 8 is also cyclical and doubles back on itself and represents duality, there is the very real risk of experiencing an Icarian reversal in fortunes during the course of life. Depending on the other numbers in one’s numerological makeup, you will either bounce back or fare not so well. A person, for instance, with three in their makeup when having a lifepath of 8 will see the financial setback as a challenge to battle back from and will have a great laugh when getting back on top. However, if you have more than one 8, you are less likely to succeed in coming back, especially when your reversal of fortune will likely be owing to one having been a damn thief.

8 – Soul/Destiny number… Lord Jesus is all one can say when this is the fourth number and it is even more damning when there are two other 8s! The wonderful thing about 8 is that in hindsight, it always lays bare all the clues. With three 8s, Erika Jayne has been revealing her hand – it is almost as though it were deliberate but that is the beauty of karma. With a destiny number of 8, whatever bad karma you create during the course of the lifetime, will be settled here and now and not down the road in a future life.

Yes, indeed, It’s Expensive to Be Me is the anthem of the bully who drove her man to criminal ends to make an over-the-hill pretender a pop queen to an archly fickle, ghettoised demographic. Pat the Puss is just a future reference to a life behind bars in due course. Hell, she may as well remake the McGuire Sisters hit song Sugartime with lyrics like: Pussy in the morning. Pussy in the Evening. Pussy at Suppertime, all done in an orange jumpsuit of course… now there is an idea for a Halloween outfit this year for Lisa Rinna. Damn right, Bitches, she has made a Pretty Mess of life… right down to the Tammy Faye Bakker tears. Go on Sutton, do the right thing, there is no honour in being associated with a damn thief…

Orphans… Lion Air… Hormones. Fuck it, the fork says she’s done… No seriously, Fuck You! Bitch Bye!

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

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©2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Bullocks! That Is Not A Fucking Clit!

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

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

Contestant: A! 

Game show host: Right, you are!  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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©2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

Schadenfreude: Acts I & II… And A Dreamquest to Probable Future Life.

Recently, I caught up with an old friend from last century – that sounds so deliciously cool… in any event, whilst hanging out, I got a call from one of those deranged clowns from the world of the theatre to whom one’s only response was to simply hang up and readily call-block the damn nuisance. Who has time for yet another egomanical twat who drones on ad nauseam about life decades long past?

In any event, soon there was talk about Winnipeg and had I not heard the news? If I am honest, Winnipeg is the only place on the planet that I would never revisit… ever. For two years whilst there, if I spoke more than a thousand words, I spoke a lot. Diana, Princess of Wales’ astute remark in her televised interview with Martin Bashir, deftly betrays the hellishly bruising isolation that I knew for living in Winnipeg: “There’s no better way to dismantle a personality than to isolate it.”

For two excruciating years, I, the school’s only black, was the most invisible, ignored, objectified, ridiculed and dismissed. More than that, each of those two winters, on especially cold days when the windchill approached -40°C and below, a male colleague would piss into my locker and into my sole pair of shoes and socks. Those walks home in piss-soaked socks and shoes which by the time I made it home to my 380 Assiniboine Avenue apartment, my feet would be frozen and swollen.

Sitting across the desk from the hairy back-and-arsed, glass-beaded-eyed male in the near-dark clutter of his office, I knew that this man was the most venal, to say nothing of transparent liar. So after he sat there with that smug grin on his face, I approached him a month later, asking if he would let me become the school’s janitor to help my sorry financial situation.

Naturally, I was confident that this dim, shallow, transparent bigot hadn’t a clue that I was as shrewd to say nothing as intelligent as I am. Months earlier, after having been relentlessly pursued by a pudgy, local tea room devotee, I gave in and ended up being blown and rimmed like it was nobody’s business. Pretty soon, my paunched lover got to the business in hand. Surprisingly, he was an ex-lover of the man across from whom I sat being boldfacedly lied to. Adamantly, he insisted that I not get my hopes up because his ex had an almost violent repulsion to blacks and there was positively no way that I would ever make it into the company…. over his ex’s dead body he had declared.

That notwithstanding, I daily did extra minutes of daimoku in hopes of magically spiriting my way into the company. As long as I live, I will never forget the pain of icily frozen feet, glazed in loud syphilitic piss and the smirk and goofball idiotic grin of the circus freak fare whose cock more so resembled an extra girthsome angel trumpet flower and pushing either side of six inches when flaccid. Once my feet were so swollen that I went into my sparsely stocked kitchen and broke every glass by hurling them across the tiny space.

That episode was the only time that I have ever felt suicidal and the only thing that saved me was the thought that the fucking idiot would be the one to laugh loudest on hearing of my demise; truly, nothing more than a bipedal, STD-riddled petri dish. Neither technique nor his idiotic personality can ever explain this person’s decades-long sojourn in Winnipeg save that the glass-beaded-eyed one was dismissed by his ex-lover to be the city’s most notorious size queen.

So alas, a career which ought never to have been then morphed into many things as no size queen ever wants a prize catch out of sight. So there was I, for the few weeks that I did the job of custodian at the then Portage Avenue studios, rushing feverishly through the tasks of brilliantly cleaning the place so as not to give cause for concern, then into the offices I would take. Whilst there, because I was ever confident that for being only perceived as “black” far be it from them to passingly have associated a shrewd intellect with me. Meticulously, I pored through this man’s files of every male student dancer and then made handwritten copies of what he wrote.

Years later, whilst living in Vancouver, I reminisced with an alumnus of the school and classmate. As he spoke of why he took leave of the school and his troubles with the glass-beaded-eyed one, it suddenly came back to me; within those notes, there was the portrait of the sexually predatory taskmaster. I vaguely recalled that his description of the fellow alumnus validated what my classmate shared; he had no desire of being bedded by and being touched inappropriately in class and feeling like he was being groomed into submission – this resulted in a tense confrontation between both men once during the barre section of class.

Not only is an obvious bully a sexual predator, in my experience, said bully also proved a racial predator – despite the fact that neither academia nor medicine will acknowledge what clearly is fact. No one made me feel more dread, repulsion and loathing than the source of current infamy associated with both the company and school, the latter with which I was familiar and the subject of current media scrutiny having been for those two years a classmate.

He did not exist in a vacuum and his enabler is just as culpable, having groomed, promoted and harboured overlong said predator when of negligible talent; trifling talents, I might add, which were allowed to manifest by any means to allow and support what masqueraded as creative artistry. More bruising than having to walk home in piss-soaked socks and shoes, was having to sit there in the dark during the dress rehearsal of the company’s 1981’s production of Romeo and Juliet where the predator’s mentor sat a few rows back of me in the house and laughed his head off at my not being in the production. Indeed, so exquisitely isolated was I that I was the only one never to come down with mononucleosis when it ravaged the school. Truth be told, never once during the two years of being in Winnipeg did I have sex with anyone from either the school or the company.

Well, it certainly was well worth the wait to have the truth karmically surface and expose that vile dog as it finally has to eat its vomit. Go on bitch, start licking; ain’t a damn thing like schadenfreude to embalm old wounds.

Finally, I caught an air pocket after the spiritual turbulence that was Winnipeg and ended up in New York City without knowing a soul there. Within a year, I was dancing independently and got reviewed in the New York Times. More than that, I found there, away from the hellish, racially predatory madness that was Winnipeg, the most gloriously soulful pair of eyes yet met in this lifetime. Into my life, one cool Friday evening strode the very magical Merlin from a dream dreamt four years prior.

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A masked ball

These rather lucid astral-projected dreams occurred whilst Merlin was still then incarnate in summer of 1989.

I have come to realise that many of the dreams that have to do with being astral-projected to past or future lives often occur when the Moon transits cancer. For whatever reasons, this seems to be a strong likelihood in my experience.

I really don’t think that it matters much over which house my Cancer rules. Rather, it seems more telling that ruler of Cancer, the Moon, is in my case found in the seventh house.

Too, it should be noted that though much of my second house is dominated by Cancerian energies, Gemini sits on the second house cusp with the cusp of my third house being 20º of Cancer.

Truth be told, they were rather insightful dreams to have experienced. As such, these dreams occurred on Sunday, June 4, 1989 whilst Merlin was then incarnate.

Too, at the time, the Moon magically transited both Gemini and my first house wherein my Mars sits nicely conjunct the ascendant. This placement of Mars – along with its grand mutable square associations to Luna, Pluto and Chiron, tends to have me attract persons of less evolved spirituality who are ever ready to project their base emotions my way.

Of course, it goes without saying that I am always unwavering in deflecting that dense energy with lightning shamanic speed. Keep your dreck away from my aura!

More than that, the dreams were audiocassette-recorded on audio tapes nine through ten and are to be found in the as-yet published Volume II of the dream opus. Sweet dreams as ever and as has been recently observed – nothing says wretched existence like bipedal canines who fixate on their quadripedal kin.

One can only hope that most of these otiose overbred castoff humans do not eventually breed. What do they know of either art or dreams the lot?

*I am reposting these dreams as subsequent to having shared them in July 2015, I have since had the Michael Overleaves charted for two of the persons featured in these dreams. To that end, at each dream’s conclusion the Michael Overleaves for the applicable person will be shared. As ever, I am most grateful for your ongoing and burgeoning support. Sweet dreams and don’t forget to indulge your shamanic skills: shapeshifting, manifesting one’s aura, rendering oneself invisible, walking through walls and, of course, pushing off and starting to fly!

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A Brimstone Hill Sandy Point Panorama

In this the first dream, I saw Nicole McHugh. She was cooking with a White man in a kitchen.

He was standing around and was quite friendly so offered to help out, that sort of thing, out of the goodness of his heart. She had these large trays of food.

She was cooking a great deal of food for a great many people. The flame was an open blue-white one and, somehow, he put his hand over the flame to pull out a tray – yet it did not burn him at all.

He did not react to it. I thought that he must have been cooking for quite some time, and been accustomed to these flames, to have had the flames not burn him at all.

He did go off and he had a glass of water – some of which he drank. I went over and I thought of saying to her and did, “Would you like a spritzer or something?”

She did, in fact, say, “Yeah, that would be nice.” She had sweat on her brow because she had been working very hard.

I then went outside to look in my locker because I did, in fact, have a locker there. In an earlier scene, I had put some stuff in said locker.

There were some washing machines – tiny, tiny washing machines. This place resembled a dormitory in the basement area of a co-op or building where people lived.

I was somewhat upset because my locker had, somehow, been displaced and replaced by washing machines. They were tiny, little brownish washing machines.

I had opened the lockers just to see if maybe my lunch was inside them where, in fact, it should have been – inside the fridge. There was, however, nothing inside the lockers.

There were one or two other lockers at the end but mine was more or less in the left of centre. There, in place of my locker, was where the washing machines now were.

Nothing was removed except the one locker. I did open it and it wasn’t mine.

Inside were the contents of somebody who reminded me of that Black guy who worked part time at Nature’s Own. Tall, handsome; his mother had nicely positioned him into the company.

I then went off to get the stuff when I saw a man who seemed to be Bert Jacques but it wasn’t him. He was walking a little girl who was one of Madella Jacques, rather, Maryse Jacques’s daughter.

She was a sweet little girl who was wearing a blue dress. She was quite light-skinned and sunny.

He was walking her outside and coming across the bridge past our yard in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. I was in the yard and where the orange tree was under the genip tree, in the waking state, I was putting monies into a slot.

I remember taking money out of my pocket to put in – 50¢, I had had two quarters. I noticed that there was a token as I took the money from my right pocket.

When I saw the token mixed with the money I thought, ‘Oh I must be aware not to do this.’ I then got the dime and I was trying to put it into the slot but it was having problems going in.

As a result, I moved away the metal part of the slot. Interestingly enough, you could then see the tree.

I then put in the coin but you still did not hear it fall inside with the rest of the money. I then peeped up because the slot was higher than my field of view – higher than eye level.

As a result, I had had to poke the money in; it was a dime. However, it was sort of flat on its side; it was standing up so that the face of the coin was looking out at you.

I was poking it in to help it to fall in. At this point, whilst I was on the veranda of the house, I was aware that Nicole McHugh was coming down the lane.

I had been looking into the garden where the curtain trees were on the south side of the property. Here in the dreamtime, however, the curtain trees were gone.

In their place were three or four little baby curtain trees coming up. The rest of the land was dug up and it hadn’t been watered.

The soil was drying out and so I said to myself that I would have to water it. I thought I would have to go inside and get some seeds or plant some wonderful little flowers that were going to bloom.

Until the curtain trees grew up, I figured that they would add beauty to the place. So on remembering, I said to Nicole, “Oh yes, let me get you the spritzer.”

So I went and I got her the spritzer. She came and was then going in the house.

A lady then came out of their house and there was some sort of consternation. As it turned out, a White woman had a little terrier-like dog.

The dog had a black collar and the same fur as a Calico cat. This had been Nicole’s cat which the dog had obviously bitten up or eaten it up or whatever.

So there was quite a great deal of consternation. Nicole was standing up outside a wooden half-dilapidated house.

On the far right side, there was a cement staircase much like the arrangement at The Boys’ School in The Alley, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. That part of the house, the cement part, was also crumbling.

Vida McHugh was there with Nicole and someone else – a little girl. The girl who had had the terrier was being rude.

She was cursing and saying, “Watch yourself wid me.” She had wanted to get in the door, from out on the landing, but the McHughs were in the way.

So she cursed and carried on. Eventually, she ended up rushing her way into the house.

Then I immediately was on the inside of the house where I watched this drama unfold. The events were as if an Opera and I said to myself, ‘My goodness this is Opera.’

Truly, this was much as if Opera. Then persons were coming in and there was movement – people coming down and pointing their feet.

They had on wooden toe shoes. As the movement progressed, there was advancement then retreat.

There were different forces of people. Like a ballet really, it was all being done in silence.

They had on long period costumes. The dramatisation was interesting.

Next, there was a sense of seeing the same woman, and everybody else, being extremely studious. The one woman was in a large area that had stained bronzed, clay-coloured, sand-coloured glass.

She was in the pews with the man who had been helping Nicole earlier. This was set in a large area and she was studiously reading the Bible.

She did take the Bible to be the literal word of god. Everybody else was more or less of that bent – I thought that it was so sad.

At this point, I was struck by the fact that this was where the Christ was going to be reborn. London, England, in fact, was where this was going on.

At this particular point, Diego Lunamas was about because there had been lines of people who were in the balletic part of the opera. Diego had been one of them.

At the time, he was sitting down on a set and it was lit by blue light. He was being grilled by this asinine White guy who was talking about, “Well if you believe in oversoul 7, then you also believe in overbigtoe 7, and what about oversole 8, and overhead 7?”

He was making fun of the philosophical concepts by way of the anatomy because oversoul could have been spelt, as though ‘sole,’ as in the sole of your foot. He was really stupid.

Diego was saying, “I’m not familiar with what you’re talking about.” On Diego’s behalf I interjected saying, “Through my experience, I’ve read the Seth Material which I find far more well put together an idea construct.”

At this point Seth did, in fact, come through and began channelling. His voice was booming and it shook the entire place to the beams.

This was happening outside in the street between the McHughs’ and our houses in Crab Hill, Sandy Point. A stage had been set up in the street – a bluish-white lit stage.

I thought about Diego and the guy who, was in front of him, wore a blue-white costume. The booming voice was coming from behind the McHughs’ house.

Everybody was absolutely scared because here were these god-fearing, fear-obsessed people. Totally dismissing them, this was a booming voice which claimed to be Seth; the channelled voice then began calling them fools.

They were very fearful. I thought that it was absolutely great.

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Nijinsky performing the Danse Siamoise from 'Les Orientales' by Foquine (1880-1942) performed in Paris, 1910 (sepia photo)

In the second dream, I was in a wooden dance studio. The floor was wet because, in place of resin, they used water.

I had a sense that it was in the past, however, I seemed to be my present self. Even so, there were aspects of me that were different.

I remember the way that I postured and used my face; I knew that I had very Caucasian features. I could see the tip of my nose and yet I felt like I do now.

*I was not so much Caucasian-featured, if there’s actually such a thing – frankly there isn’t. I was, though my present self, actually Caucasian.

I was present in the exact same body and I was my usual-personaed self. However, the body was no longer Black but White.

The packaging had changed but nothing else had. END.

Ahead of me was a guy in black trousers – nylon stretch trousers. He was, in fact, the reincarnation of Vaslav Nijinsky and again male.

Again, he had very mercurial energies and he was a mover. He had exceptionally large thighs.

He could phenomenally jump and leap about. He was just incredible.

When at the barre, I was directly behind him and then just behind me was Pandora. Although, truth be told, it wasn’t Pandora herself but an aspect of Pandora’s.

I never really had made eye contact with Pandora. I remember after we had finished the barre, Nijinsky went and laid down on his stomach – in the frog position to work on his turnout.

The girls then went and they were feeling his muscle tone because it was quite unusual-looking. His feet were so pliant and flexible as well as his calf muscles.

He had eventually turned over because Dannie Cyrta, who was one of the instructors at the head of the class, was saying, “Guys, just leave him alone.”

When we were then doing the grands battements, I remember being really elongated and holding my port de bras. You had to do it turned out, doing grand battements, turned out to the front.

You had to do it out, towards the centre of the room. Also, then in second position, you were facing directly ahead of you. When doing grand battement en arrière, you did it out again.

The arm positions were up and in second position. When you did grand battements en arrière, you would put your arms up again as though you were peeping under your arm – when you were in arabesque doing the grands battements.

I remember before I was doing the exercise, whilst I was doing the current exercise, I was thinking of how I would do the position and how I had to use my port de bras. So I remember standing there in développé and you had to do these grands battements in plié and, somehow, I was in plié and I was holding my back up in port de bras.

My back was absolutely perfect; my port de bras and torso were perfectly open and I wasn’t sticking out my chest. I was thinking, ‘This is so improved.’

I remember my neck being quite elongated, with head held high, as a result. I was wearing a navy blue woollen set of tights and white dance slippers.

My feet were beautifully pointed. There was a sense of looking up.

Interestingly, my whole sense of self – attitude and posture was all about looking down my nose. This was when I realised that there was something about me that was Caucasian – physiologically.

*There was a half-mirror across the room and I was never at the front – the girls, of course, of custom were. That was when I looked and found myself, I was indeed Caucasian more Tartar than not – dark-haired.

I had a strong sense, for looking at myself in close-up without moving, that my eyes were smoky-green-coloured. My nose though aquiline was flared in the Tartar style and my teeth were gap-toothed.

This is not uncommon a feature when someone is currently Caucasian but was Black in their immediate past life – in fact, I was told by Sarah J. Chambers that it is always the case without exception as she was instructed by the Michaels.

Case in point, Madonna Ciccone, the Pop icon, who in her immediate past life was Black American entertainer, Bessie Smith – she has the same gruff raunchy persona. Prior to that, though not immediately before that life, her soul was then incarnate as Italian composer, Claudio Monteverdi.

Vis-à-vis Madonna, her life is a completion of the agendum she set out to accomplish, in her immediate past life. She thought that it sucked being Black and a woman in showbiz.

However, her immediate past life did give her an understanding of the way the world works. So she decided to take the world by the balls, a ‘give-me-what’s-mine’ approach, as it were, this time around.

Madonna, as per her immediate past life has the same talent, same drive, “Now give me what’s rightfully mine!” Power to her! END.

Dannie Cyrta was, unusually so, very nice to me. She was saying, “Yes, yes Arvin. This is perfect and is much improved.

“Everybody look at Arvin because this is the way it should be. This is as close to perfect, as you can get, in the way your torso ought to be.”

*Imagine that – the Mormon princess, Dannie Cyrta, being remotely civil towards me. She even feigned to pretend that I was not a strongly projecting phantom as she treated me back at the Royal Winnipeg Ballet’s School. END.

I remember the Nijinsky-like character, coming off the barre to look at me. The other people who were behind me were peeping around to look at me.

I felt very open and joyous. Mine was a really good, good feeling.

When we were doing the exercise and I was holding my torso, Dannie Cyrta and the rest of the people were discussing and saying, “This time he’s really ready to go out and perform and he’ll be okay.”

I felt that way too and I knew that I was going to be okay when I went out and performed. My body was quite together.

I was prepared within myself to face an audience. I felt really good for being in the studio.

*Dannie Cyrta’s energies were extremely unusual and contrary to what they were during Winnipeg days. I felt there was a good feeling in this class.

What was really sad, though, was that Dannie’s behaviour had much to do with the fact that I was not Black but Caucasian. In that sense, she truly was ‘the blind’ because she still did not realise that it was me.

To her, it was someone named Arvin but more importantly it was someone who was White. More than that, Vaslav Nijinsky is a mature sage entity mate of Merlin’s and mine. END.

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A green-eyed tartar

In this the fifth dream, I saw a beautiful hairless White boy who seemed Tartan. He was dark and handsome.

He also seemed to be a mélange of White, East Indian, Oriental and Black. He could well have been one or any of all those ethnicities because he actually had a bronze or even Hispanic look.

He had a bronzed hue to him. He was not however, for being so hued, extra-human.

Such that he seemed somewhat High-Yellow, he had taut smooth skin. He was extremely good-looking.

He seemed like a male prostitute or a gigolo. He was half-naked and teasingly aroused.

I was quite attracted to him. I made a play for him.

He seemed to be in the lane up by ‘Aunt’ Edith Dean, outside by Beryl Babbin’s wall, in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. I made a play for him but he dismissively brushed me off.

He then moved off and went along his way. I felt quite rejected and naked really.

Afterwards, I was thinking that perhaps I should not have made a play for this person. Nonetheless, I had and I was not fulfilled in my desires.

My aspirations were not met but that was okay.

*What’s really interesting, too, is that he was basically a younger version of the Tartar, green-eyed, ‘Arvin’. So, in essence, though in the body during the dance class, I would see myself at a younger age.

At that time, however, I was outside of my younger-future-self’s body. I was resoundingly rejected by him – that is precisely what I would have done at that age.

Later on, of course, I was taking class with the reincarnated, Vaslav Nijinsky. A class it was which was being taught by Dannie Cyrta.

I shudder to think that in my next life, I will be a male prostitute, gigolo. Then again, it would not have been the first life passed in the much-maligned profession of providing succor to the sexually-repressed and the sexually-obsessed.

Long after this dream, I have since learnt that my essence twin is now reincarnated. He is male and was born during the second decade of the new millennium.

He is born to German, Japanese parents and lives in Germany. Our overleaves are quite similar though he is a realist.

They are, in fact, rather writerly overleaves. Too, one or both of his parents are artists; I believe that the mother has been a dancer and the father a portrait painter.

Perhaps, I was picking up on him in this dream. If not, it may well be me in a near-future incarnation.

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Photo: Costumed performers in period piece

Sandy Point, St. Kitts seen from Brimstone Hill Fortress.

Vaslav Nijinsky in costume for Siamese dance from Les Orientales.

Green-eyed Tartar young man.

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©2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.