Netflix’s Masterful Crown Jewel (Season 5)

November 28, 2022November 28, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Cast of season 5 of the Crown.

Knowing when to leave is key to perfect timing. Elizabeth was a mean, grasping, manipulative – it is the hallmark of slave souls – vindictive operator. It is good that she has finally taken leave. Elizabeth acted as though the crown was hers to wear for at least a millennium.

Just look at HRH Prince Richard, Duke of Gloucester incredulously peer across at HM King Charles III with his beefy equerry sat directly behind him in the royal box; of course, there was no room for the Earl and Countess of Wessex as a result. There was sat the Duke of Gloucester who with a look telegraphed, “Well, will you look at that! He’s got his lover right here in the royal box for the world to see. What must cousin Lilibet, looking down from above, be thinking? Major Jonathan Thompson is not even in uniform but crossdressing in civilian suit. Just look at him, a mere senior footman standing in the royal box and clapping away as though he were a royal spouse… Also, pay keen attention to the Duchess of Gloucester as she keenly eyes Catherine, HRH Princess of Wales. That look betrays the tectonic state of the Waleses’ marriage. One would think that the Duchess of Gloucester is eyeing up Catherine as she cannot believe the woman would have the nerve to sit there after openly flirting with Sir Ben Ainslie and telegraphing to all the world that they are fucking their brains out.

Indeed! Though the Fleet Street abattoirs are ill-inclined to betray the ugly truths of House of Windsor, rest assured that the American media, especially American tabloid media, could not care less. Of course, they have a vested interested in the Windsor dynasty as a second American woman has recently wedded and been met with undiluted hatred and rejection. Although, that rejection is decidedly racist, nonetheless, all Americans are Americans and will defend another over any foreigner, especially so when America fought and won a war to depose that very dynasty.

Darlings I’ve simply got to start ordering teas by the hamper… The Second Carolean era just keeps on giving…

Lesley Manville as Princess Margaret in tour de force confrontation with Imelda Staunton’s Queen Elizabeth

This actor did a phenomenal job of bringing forth the true fire that was HRH Princess Margaret, Countess Snowdon’s. God, it was delicious theatre, watching her rip into her mean-spirited sister and giving it to her good when she called her on the fact that Elizabeth deliberately interfered in her life and caused her pain and ruin whilst never having done any such thing to her slutty daughter, Anne. As the Crown depicted and passingly implied, Princess Anne could have fucked Tim Lawrence in the open on a farm and no one would have noticed or reported it in the media. Her performance brings to mind that every actor who ever portrays HRH Princess Margaret must study Elizabeth Taylor in the Mike Nichols classic, “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” This is why in the earlier season of the Crown, the actor Helena Bonham Carter’s casting was wrong. She was stiff and hadn’t the passion or fire to convincingly project Margaret’s rage

The actor who played Queen Mary was perfectly placed. The scene was brief and a flashback that was of major import. Look at her, there she is dripping in pearls and finery as the Romanovs did. She gave the order for their murder and all because she waned the Romanov jewellery, coming to her. A truly vile character. Her inclusion beautifully sets up next season, which deals with Diana’s murder and this scene of Mary giving the order to have the Romanov’s murder, so she could get their jewels, establishes that no one should think otherwise when it comes to next season, Season 6, and Diana’s murder.

Romanovs Executed

The producers and creative geniuses of The Crown Season 5 did their homework and boy did they execute masterfully, beautifully. This entire episode sets up what’s to come in Season 6, Diana, Princess of Wales’s death. By laying the groundwork and showing that because HM Queen Mary’s callous avariciousness, the Romanovs would be slaughtered just so that Queen Mary, who considered the Tsarina a rival, could get her hands on the Russian royals’ jewels. Queen Mary was a vile, ruthless Victorian misogynist who, of course, was Queen Elizabeth’s chief mentor. There can be no doubt that the late Queen Elizabeth viewed Diana, Princess of Wales as much a rival as Queen Mary viewed the Tsarina. For that, like Alexandra, the Tsarina, Diana had to be murdered for proving herself a damn threat. She ruined the fairy story by not playing along; most of all, she threatened the institution by preparing to start a rival dynasty with Mohamed Al-Fayed’s son, Dodi, a non-White Muslim.

Tampax Moments Last Forever

Goodness me, whatever shall the little people think? Who damn well cares what they think? The royals do as they have always done!

Here, again, the casting of Netflix’s The Crown, season 5, is flawless. Nuanced and perfectly measured, both actors bring forth the appropriate amount of repugnant arrogance and conceited lack of awareness. Perfectly timed, as though murdered Diana’s revenge, Season 5 lays bare the adulterers’ vulgarity just as they accede the throne. King Charles III, the Tampax King with his two teddies – one inanimate from childhood, the other a virile, kilted, furry teddy that throbs and makes nights at Highgrove especially pleasurable whilst the failed future King Mother and Courtesan Queen languishes away at Ray Mill; one thing is plainly obvious, the Courtesan Queen does not crochet doilies at Ray Mill.

Having nicely set up the case for Diana, Princess of Wales having been murdered in the upcoming season 6 of the Crown, one other thing ought to be taken into account. In 1918, when Queen Elizabeth’s mentor, Queen Mary gave the order to have the Romanovs murdered, that would be signified by the planet Uranus – one dynasty overthrows or eliminates another. Uranus rules violent upheaval, revolutionary action and usually from one institution against another. As Diana, Princess of Wales was a most disruptive rebel, the only course of action left Queen Mary’s devout mentor, Queen Elizabeth II, was to eliminate the threat of Diana. Diana was about to marry a non-White Muslim and start a rival dynasty, which would have utterly eclipsed the Windsors not just at the Fleet Street abattoirs but world media.

Diana and Dodi died at Diana’s natal Pluto’s transit forming a square; that coupled with her fourth numerological signature of 7, meant very public and totally unexpected assassination. A Uranus return takes roughly 84 years, Queen Elizabeth reacted 79 years later as Queen Mary had to the threat of a rival dynasty, the Romanovs relocating to the United Kingdom – there is a five year window on either side for that Uranus return’s effect to be initialised. Closer to the exacting 84 years and Diana and Dodi would have had a wedding and begun a family that would simply have eclipsed Charles and Diana’s wedding as clearly Diana would finally have found true love. There is positively no way that the well-groomed Victorian misogynist, Queen Elizabeth II, would have tolerated any such affront to her dynasty, especially when Diana would have avenged herself by bearing step-siblings of the future supreme governor of the Church of England to a Muslim. The Windsor dynasty was violently preventing the eventualisation of a rival dynasty begun by Diana, Princess of Wales and one of an opposing faith.

Imelda Staunton as Queen Elizabeth II was sublime casting. She is pitch perfect and gets every nuanced idiosyncrasy right. As Elizabeth II is a mature slave soul, a sage soul in passion mode with emotional centring would be disastrous. Imelda may well be a slave soul herself.

Though a departure from season 5, I do feel that there needs be some commentary on the actors who played the major roles across the five seasons. Claire Foy was a major reason for the Crown’s initial success and gave The Crown the legs to become the seminal British royal family drama that it has become. She is diffident, economical and sublime. The complete opposite can be said for Olivia Colman, who is Olivia in every role she plays. She is crass, common and as conspicuously frightful and self-conscious as a damn ostrich.

As Princess Margaret’s casting is concerned, Vanessa Kirby was ravishing to look at; she had depth, emotional rawness when required and was utterly captivating to watch. Hers was a brilliant performance. Helena Bonham Carter was simply a toft playing a toft and Princess Margaret was never a toft; she was royal to the core. Clearly, Lesley Manville captures the essence of Margaret’s inner rage. Helena was supposed to have captured Margaret’s passion, debauchery and her creative brilliance and that never materialised.

As there is only one Diana, there is only one actor who has singularly, successfully captured the essence of Diana, Princess of Wales and not until Elizabeth Debicki in Season 5 of The Crown has this been achieved. Spot on, this actor’s portrayal is note perfect and as close to channelling Diana, as it were, as you can possibly hope for. Singularly focussed, she gives an award-worthy performance of rare brilliance.

Just look at this artist step aside and allow the very essence of discarnate Diana, Princess of Wales to move in and prosecute her case. This is a most brilliant performance, in a season teeming with stellar performances. There has never been a more successfully cast group of actors for any one season of this fantastic series.

I’ve a little Diana, Princess of Wales anecdote. The night of the preceding photograph in October, 1991, I was across King Street West at Simcoe Street at Roy Thomson Hall for an Emmanuel Ax recital. As I had seasons tickets to the Toronto Symphony Orchestra, I managed with plans for a hook up after the concert to attend. God only knows, I could never abide Emmanuel Ax’s too-short arms and legs as he bobs around the stool, trying to make keys and pedals. I have only ever had two favourite pianists whom I have seen live, Vladimir Horowitz and the scholarly high priest himself, Alfred Brendel (his Michael Overleaves will conclude this blog). Of course, for having met and loved Merlin, Glenn Gould has become a favourite, forming the perfect troika of inspiring classical pianists.

When the recital concluded, I made my way north along Simcoe Street to King Street West where I planned to go in search of some stimulating companionship. The placed was packed and I hadn’t a clue what was up. Finally, someone said that Princess Diana was at the Royal Alexandra Theatre, which was going to be letting out soon. Making my way west along the south side of King Street West, I stood opposite the theatre’s entrance and realised that it was no place to be. Gingerly, I made my way west along the street, made it across the intersection and began doubling back due east along the north side of King Street West. Charmingly, I bobbed and dodged my way until I was second row deep behind a diminutive Filipina, who stood behind he barricade in front of which was a conga line of persons in wheelchairs. Obviously, as this was the early 90s, cell phones were as yet ubiquitous and why I would have a camera for going to the symphony would be a gauche notion at the time. The sturdy-looking limousine pulled up and to my left, though I could not see, the doors to the theatre opened and impresario Ed Mirvish emerged with the world’s most photographed woman.

Never had I witnessed such a massive explosion of klieg fabulousness as that moment as Diana, Princess of Wales stepped away from her hosts and stepped into the marquee lights. She was tall, commanding and arrestingly beautiful. Eventually, when she made her way down the roster of wheelchair fans, she reached from time to time to the sheer pandemonium of squeals, cries, shrieks and outstretched trembling arms baring frantic trembling fingers. As nothing she said could be heard, I managed to clasp her hand, said “we love you more” as she worked the crowd like a pro. What struck me about her in that moment as the flashbulbs went off, like a million stars simultaneously going nova, was how steely, masculine, tall and warrior-like she was. In that moment, her striking blue eyes so focussed and direct, she with her statuesque singleness of devotion, was like a Maasai warrior aloft whilst dancing. Then my darlings, Diana, Princess of Wales, did the most phenomenal thing that left me teary eyed, she got to the limousine and as the passenger side rear door was opened, she got inside elongating her neck, whilst bracing her body on the car’s frame when swinging her knees together, feet together, pushing off from the metatarsals and swinging are rangy legs into the car in one of the most sublime port de bras witnessed. Well, you better believe that I was hooked to the core. Of course, to that point, she was merely the ultimate self-absorbed famous person whose motto seemed to be, “I’m a rich White girl, take my picture.”

Of course, four years later, Diana, Princess of Wales, now separated from the future, HM King Charles III, made it perfectly clear that she was in control and not the crazy wingnut that she and every artisan at some point or another will be dismissed as by the masses. Diana, Princess of Wales’s interview with Martin Bashir aired on the BBC on Guy Fawkes Night, November 5, 1995. That move will see her transcend history as someone who was infinitely more shrewd and astute than the mere mortals of her age were aware. Unlike Oliver Cromwell, Diana, Princess of Wales successfully prosecuted her case to the kingdom, the world and most importantly, history. Naturally, like Cromwell, her interview and the subsequent relationship with the Muslim Al-Fayed family would be deemed treasonous by the Victorian misogynist, Queen Elizabeth II, who just as ruthlessly and casually had her assassinated as her mentor Queen Mary had Tsarina Alexandra and her family a Uranus return earlier.

Mou Mou, the most gloriously well-written and acted episode of The Crown. At every turn, the actor who portrayed Mohamed Al-Fayed left me teary-eyed or smiling by his brilliant performance. He effortlessly captured every idiosyncrasy of the Mohamed we have come to know in the media. The actor deftly captured the essence of this endearing mensch with bravura and sublime impishness. It was the only episode that I immediately had to re-watch to both fall in love and get all the nuances that the teary fog of me had missed. Of course, there were many beautiful scenes but one which was rather telling is of The Queen sending her emissaries to have items of the Duke of Windsor’s removed from his French chateau. This shows the Victorian misogynist mentoring of Queen Elizabeth by Queen Mary – ever grasping and coveting all manner of material things. No care in the world for the Duke & Duchess of Windsor whilst he was living but the moment he passes, they are keen on the Duchess’s invitation to swoop in and claw at whatever they fancied… crass.

Indeed, in time, how could anyone possibly have expected HM The Queen, to have related to the Duke & Duchess of Sussex otherwise. She was groomed by the monstrous Victorian misogynist, HM Queen Mary to be shrewdly calculating, murderous if necessary, defender of the saturnal aspects of what being Sovereign entails. She and the rest of he senior royals could have behaved no differently to the Sussexes. Most of all, The Queen did not care to countenance any talk of racism being in any way associated with the House of Windsor. Just suck it up and get on with it, despite, the hideous open racial harassment from HRH Princess Michael of Kent, sporting the blackamoor brooch. Trust me, if she were to emboldened to go public with the racially predatory lynching of Meghan, you can bet that there was unrelenting, unfathomable racism within the royal family and the institution towards the Sussexes.

Could there have been a better cast member for this season, 5, of The Crown. This actor performed his role immaculately to the letter. The fluidity and communion of spirits between him and Mohamed Al-Fayed was successfully captured by both actors’ nuanced and elegant performances, even when Mohamed was being inelegant.

This actor, though similar in look, did not capture the essence of whom Penelope Knatchbull, Countess Mountbatten of Burma is. Above all else, with a energy body of 7, the late Prince Philip’s lover at her very core is a courtesan and would not only damn well do as she pleases but not give a damn who noticed. With a first number of 7, Penelope is almost mannish in her domineering energy body and would prove vastly intimidating for the late Queen Elizabeth II, who already had a secondary chief feature of self-deprecation which means that she would have serious self-esteem issues. Energy body of 7 and born in the year of the snake, the late Queen Elizabeth II was no match for this woman.

The role would have been better served if the actor, Gillian Anderson, who capably showed her mettle were to have been cast as Penelope. Ms. Anderson ensouled the very essence of the persona of Baroness Thatcher. A snake female, Penelope, with an energy body of 7, is the kind of customer who would take a riding crop and beat to death a mere mortal and get away with it; she would also not ever once think about the incident thereafter. All snake women possessed of an energy body of 7 are true courtesans; they are supremely amoral. Gillian would have the right steely comportment to deftly portrait the real Penelope, which may have positively nothing to do with the persona the public sees; and isn’t this almost always the case for famous persons?

Well, hold on tightly duckies, there is lots more to come. Season 6 of the Crown promises Diana’s murder. More than that, it should have flashbacks to the marriage of the Duke & Duchess of York as in penultimate seasons 7 & 8, the fallout of paedophilia allegations for associating with Jeffrey Epstein will see his cancer-stricken mother come undone. Of course, HM The Queen died aged 96; more importantly, she died 25 years after Diana, Princess of Wales’s murder. It takes 24 years for a grand Solar cycle to unfold and all self-karma, created when a karmic debt is initiated as in Diana’s murder, leads to the debtor’s self-immolation. Philip and Elizabeth slowly immolated as the avenging of Diana’s murder took its toll, Philip at exactly 24 years and Elizabeth II a year later. There are no coincidences and Time reveals all truth.

There can be no mistaking the fact that the structural racism, the case for which was made by HRH Princess Michael of Kent’s blackamoor brooch incident and Prince Harry’s memoir SPARE, nicely serve as ample source material for seasons 7 & 8. By then, all the tea with regards Catherine and Ben Ainslie, William’s Tampax moment, which has left him #PrinceofPegging to say nothing of Charles and his teddies one 70 plus years old and other other a virile furry equerry. Let’s also not forget Rose and her come-back pussy, which resulted in the then Cambridges being banished to Adelaide Cottage from Anmer Hall. Also, Camilla’s obvious racism should be highlighted by her need for a parapluie when touring the amongst the ‘darkies’ so that she doesn’t have to shake their hands, which explains why she did not go to the night time declaration of statehood in Barbados and her recent touching a Black girl’s sleeve rather than hold her hand. Then, too, there is the banishment and exodus of the Sussexes to America to successfully escape the hideous spitefulness of the next generation Waleses.

Brendel, Alfred 5/1/1931 Czech Republic

Michael: This fragment is a first level old scholar – second life thereat. Alfred is in the perseverance mode with a goal of dominance. A pragmatist, he is in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Body type is Lunar/Mars /Mercury.

Alfred’s primary chief feature is self-deprecation and the secondary stubbornness.

The fragment Alfred is fourth-cast in first cadence, he is a member of greater cadence two. Alfred’s entity is two, cadre five, greater cadre 6, pod 208.

Alfred’s essence twin is a scholar and his warrior task companion is known to him.

Alfred’s three primary needs are: exchange, communion and security.

There are 6 past-life associations with Arvin and 4 with Merlin.

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Haiti, Josephine Baker – Cécile McLorin Salvant & Wynton Marsalis and the Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra

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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The Pro(fessional)s & The Con(artist)s.

April 27, 2022October 19, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

The Con(artist)s Exposed

Thank goodness for the wonderfully charming Archie Manners, he waved a wand of truth and exposed the industry of charlatans, who parasitically income stream from the lives of the royals.

**Archie Manners 19.5.1993 Rooster 1.6.1 = 8**

Aristocratic magician Archie and his business partner are responsible for outing the archly pretentious con artists, masquerading as experts. With a couple of 1s in his numerological makeup and that empathetic 6, Archie being a true aristocrat doesn’t give a living crap what these persons think; they are frauds.

Con(artist)s

**Ingrid Seward, Editor-in-Chief Majesty Magazine**

Ingrid having been caught in a boldfaced lie would later turn to being mindful not to cause offense. I do know several blacks who after subscribing to Majesty magazine, promptly cancelled, owing to Ms. Seward’s appearance. For many Black Americans, the royals were a new phenomenon and many of the upper middle class African-Americans were wowed by the royal wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex in 2018. I can assure you, though, after the Oprah interview, the royals have fallen out of favour with many. The blackamoor brooch also came to light during the time of the Oprah interview and that was a definite deal breaker.

After having sucked up to Prince Harry for the biography that she wrote, this vile woman has just been keen at every opportunity, to raise her rear right leg and piss all over all things associated with the Sussexes. She is what my darling Merlin would seethed and dismiss as ‘that Semite’. Himself, a Jew of Polish heritage was ever embarrassed by Ashkenazi persons whom he always found alarmingly racist towards Blacks; this they, somehow, felt was perfectly justifiable because for merely being Jewish, they were above reproach. For this reason, such persons were ever dismissed as ‘Semite’ as they were not fit to be identified as Jewish. Merlin would actually toss something at the television or leave the room when such glaring bigotry occurred on television. This woman is alarmingly mealy-mouthed and ever ready to vilify both Sussexes.

**Victoria Arbiter 5.4.1974 Tiger 5.9.3 = 8**

Poseuse extraordinaire, with a second/mindset number of 9, she goes where the prevailing winds do and the American negro does not belong in the royal family. Of course, her diaper-wearing father outed himself as an absolute turncoat fraud in Archie Manners’ brilliant exposé.

**Richard Fitzwilliams 14.10.1949 Ox 5.6.2 = 4**

The pompous, South African born jackass is outed. Who cares what these persons think or say; they simply project onto the monarchy whatever their miniscule bigoted agendum happens to be.

Just look at him, über nez brun figurative and otherwise. He is a nasty little White male bigot, who not surprisingly hails from another shitty little isle, this one at further reaches of a time and place when empire mattered. Naturally, his fiendish racial animus towards the Sussexes is so intense that he will haul out that porcine turncoat in Mexico, who masquerades as a caring grandfather, whenever he and the other fifs of Fleet Street decide to fabricate and gloat at another salvo at the Sussexes; I can just imagine the perished kiwi fruit, drawing hard on a bottle of poppers whilst getting off.

**Thomas Markle, Duke of Mexico @ Trooping the Colour balcony 2022**

Just imagine the gales of laughter as Dan Wootton and his sizeable troop of cum-farting, lisping bigots on the isle of racist boors get their clueless-as-fuck mascot, somehow, past Buckingham Palace security to stand on the balcony. There, the gargantuan Duke of Mexico can be favoured over the Sussexes and stood between HM The Queen and HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales. At some point, in true Jerry Springer style, Thomas can then confront the Duke and Duchess of Sussex whilst on the balcony and demand to hold his favourite grandchild, Archie. Like true colonial bigots, the likes of Dan Wootton et al would think it priceless to have that uppity negro upstaged and put in her rightful place.

“…”They owe me,” Markle said in the documentary. “The royals owe me, Harry owes me, Meghan owes me. What I’ve been through, I should be rewarded for. My daughter told me when I reach my senior years, she’ll take care of me. I’m in my senior years now. I’m 75 years old, so it’s time to look after daddy.”…”. Thomas Markle.

Just imagine the infinite broadsheet coverage with this priceless click bait fodder, earning each article in excess of 15k comments. I can just imagine them plotting to have the Duke of Mexico join the procession back up the mall to Buckingham Palace in a convertible golf cart. Can you just imagine that clueless despicable man, a veritable albino Idi Amin and no less hateful, looking smug as fuck as his Poundland medals noisily dangle off his left moob. Old age security is more than enough to keep that vile turncoat, living baronially in Mexico.

And to think that this man was actually in the employ of HM The Queen. It is a complete disservice to HM The Queen to have persons with such obvious racial animus and bigotry in the royal households. When HM The Queen took those oaths, wherein she devoted her life and reign to being one of service, she meant it. She is also head of the Church of England, which would not exist were it not for the Tudor matriarch, Margaret Beaufort, who is now incarnate and none other than, Meghan Markle, Duchess of Sussex herself – there are no coincidences. Were it not for her, the Tudor matriarch, the Queen would be governed by the Pope. Indeed, were HM The Queen like the racist boors who vilify Meghan, formerly Margaret Beaufort (Tudor matriarch), all the Governors-General would be royals. In such a paradigm, one would have, for example, India Hicks, Governor-General of the Bahamas and say, James Ogilvy, the Governor-General of St. Kitts & Nevis rather than two members of my extended family having thusly served HM The Queen. In my entire 7 decades, one was not brought up to think of, nor seen HM The Queen as ‘White.’ She has always just been, The Queen and she has never for a fleeting moment reeked of either bigotry or racial animus. Trust me, being able to spot White bigotry, is an almost built-in matter of extra-sensory perception for Blacks the world over.

**Lady Colin Campbell 17.8.1949 Ox 8.7.3 = 9**

Not surprisingly, this woman/gender ambiguous’ numerological make-up contains a 9. This placement of 9 is that of the over-the-top, archly bigoted, pretentious, snob. It is all about who is good enough and being the ultimate defender of the flame and an aggressive gatekeeper. For the record, what tacky cereal gives away junk like that crap on her head? I will say this, hers/theirs are eyes usually resident at sanitoria. Vraiment étrange…

Episode 3 of Keeping Up with the Aristocrats. From the 11:30 to 19:19 is Princess *cough, cough* Olga’s birthday party at her country dump. Present were all the usual royal sycophants and pretentious parvenus about whom the truly aristocratic do not give two fucks, which most definitely includes nez bruns real and figurative and the vile racist attacker of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, the Poundland aristo, lui-même. She/they hangs on to that bargain basement nothing title of lady as though it were Princess Royal. Sweetheart, nobody gives a living fuck and by pompously clawing on to the shitty nowhere title, risibly illustrates how desperately parvenu, which is to say readily dismissible, this one is in Britain’s rigid classist society. During minutes 40:10 to 45.53 of the same episode, Olga attends an evening gathering hosted by the Chatelaine of Renishaw Hall where also present were Ivar Mountbatten and his handsome husband. Naturally, the ‘lady’ *cough, cough* did not make it beyond the stately home’s entry gates. No matter how much she/they affect(s) the grand airs, those who matter would never suffer this crass, put-on in their midst as was made readily evident during the gathering at Renishaw Hall. Olga, an ancien/passé princess will be welcome among aristocrats and orbital royals like Ivar Mountbatten but not in your life would Ivar Mountbatten and his husband be around snobbish boors like Lady Kissy Kissy Boosh Boosh and the sycophantic opera fags, who readily gravitate to such extra-orbital netherworld spheres like famished flies on shit.

April 14, 2022

On the Poundland aristo’s YouTube channel on April 14, 2022, the very day that the Duke & Duchess of Sussex visited HM The Queen at Windsor Castle. Not once did this woman/gender ambiguous make passing reference to the fact that, through her/their impeccable royal source(s), there would be imminent activity by the Sussexes that would have everyone talking but to protect her/their royal source(s), she/they could not say further; however, by the end of the week, she/they and her/their royal source(s) will have been proven correct. Thursday, April 14, 2022 was the very day that the Sussexes made worldwide news and what do you know, thereafter was the Poundland aristo, fuming and flaring her/their ferret-like nostrils with indignation at the vile Sussexes, visiting HM The Queen, a visit which she/they never once could claim that she/they had alluded to in her/their vlog on April 14, 2022 or the vlog prior. From 21:00 to 23:20, it is perfectly clear that the uncouth Poundland aristo has no inside royal source(s) and that as she/they was/were sat engaging in decidedly libellous palaver, the Duke & Duchess of Sussex were in Windsor, visiting with HM The Queen. Nonetheless, there is the Lady of dubious gender, declaring at 21:40 ‘My understanding, is that The Queen would not be that thrilled to receive them.’ She/they, then dripping with racist innuendo, like her/their zero-nacred Poundland jewellery, until 23:20 blithers on, dismissing Meghan, and by inference Blacks, as inelegant country folk set loose in a costumier’s.

April 16, 2022

In this video, after the Duke & Duchess of Sussex had been to visit HM The Queen in Windsor, the uncouth gossip is left to scratch and claw and throw more defamatory grenades in a bid to cover the fact that the vlog of two days prior, April 14, 2022, there was no mention of the Sussexes’ visit to see The Queen, because she/they hasn’t/haven’t got a fucking clue and is an absolute racist and fraud – neither she/they nor her/their alleged royal source(s) know sweet fuck-all of what is truly going on. As for her/their royal source(s), there are more royals in England than any country on the planet; when this racist woman/gender ambiguous says royal, she/they never does/do say British royal family. Truth be told, as there are royals from every royal family on the planet in England, this means that the ratio of royals to chavs in England is 1:1. As she/they continue(s) her/their defamatory campaign of courting Meghan’s litigious wrath, she/they at 16:00 to 16:40 implies that Meghan, Duchess of Sussex has a cocaine habit; this she did whilst impersonating Meghan, Duchess of Sussex and excessively sniffing and snorting back and forth from one nostril to the next. All the while, this woman/gender ambiguous racist creates a petition to invite Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex to ask HM The Queen to place his Dukedom in abeyance; so intense is this woman/gender ambiguous’ racist obsession with Duke of Sussex’s wife, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Sooner or later, the Sussexes are going to take legal action against this fraud and they have all the video evidence and more that they need. Keep digging with the use of the little people having been whipped into hateful frenzy – the same little people about whom she/they does/do not give sweet fuck-all on any given rainy Friday afternoon. Always, it is readily convenient and credible to pin Blacks with the label of being drug addicts in one’s racially predatory obsession.

Back in summer 1986, I took over a friend of Merlin’s gig as dresser on Cats at Toronto’s Elgin Theatre. At the time, the person was experiencing burnout as many friends and theatre associates of theirs were dying of AIDS. What was supposed to have been 3 to 6 weeks maximum, turned into almost a year. Friends made during that time, still work in the showbiz world here in town and matured into TV/film careers. Not one of these persons ever said a damn thing negative about Meghan Markle when she worked here in Toronto, filming Suits. She smokes as does Prince Harry was the extent of what different sources related. If there was a drinking or drug problem, it would most definitely not have been overlooked. Also, if you have a drug problem, it is either rehab or simply being written out of the show, neither of which occurred. Also, if Meghan, Duchess of Sussex were the bully as alleged by royal household staffers and the tabloid medium, it would have been an issue on Suits for which she would have been dismissed. An actor working on the set of a long-running TV series, is not dissimilar to being a royal in a royal household; Meghan was not suddenly going to be difficult when she was accustomed to being deferred to on the set of a hit TV show. Meanwhile, the Poundland aristo seriously engages in defamation of character for being inordinately racially predatory of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Like her/them sitting there on the day that the Sussexes were visiting with HM The Queen in Windsor, April 14, 2022, about which she/they knew sweet fuck-all, she/they also does/do not know anything about Meghan, Duchess of Sussex’s life, when she resided here in Toronto. Stop fucking goddamn inciting gullible bigots to racially hate Meghan, Duchess of Sussex and Prince Harry; this is precisely why the doyenne of Renishaw Hall would never think of having that vile, gossiping charlatan in her home.

**Lady Frederick Windsor & Prince Harry Duke of Sussex**

Let me make it abundantly clear, this woman/gender ambiguous and all Meghan’s detractors would know to keep their rabid tail between their syphilitic legs if Prince Harry had married either a Jew or a Moslem. One simply does not giver offense to either demographic. For one, fear of retaliation, economic or otherwise of being accused of either anti-Semitism or Islamophobia would have this Trench town racist, keeping her/their foul and defamatory thoughts to herself/themself. As one does not give offense to either demographic and in the case of the latter, as fatwahs and their consequences are very real, she/they would think twice of putting either Castle Booring at risk or ending up like Nick Berg did.

**HRH Princess Michael of Kent in blackamoor brooch, Christmas 2017**

Meghan, Duchess of Sussex never played the race card, that was quite nicely played for her by HRH Princess Michael of Kent and then she had the fuck-all temerity to show her flat-arsed, no-calved pretentious face at a Black woman’s wedding, having sported the blackamoor brooch six months earlier, which is no less offensive to Blacks, especially so African-Americans, than a swastika would have been had Prince Harry like Lord Frederick Windsor, princess flat-arse’s son, married a Jew. So thank you for sitting there, looking all smug as fuck, sporting your blackamoor brooch because never could it be convincingly argued that Meghan was making specious allegations of racism, pulling the race card when even before walking down the aisle with Harry, there was the dumbass, advertising what gleeful fun one was having being racially predatory boors towards that Compton hustler. Blasted flat-arsed, pretentious sow.

At the heart of Britons’ arch racist animus towards Blacks is the sticky business of karma. They owe massive karma to Blacks for the empire building wealth that they amassed for the enslavement of Blacks and in its aftermath, the absurd injustice of slavery profiting Britons being compensated for their supposed lost income stream whilst the discarded enslaved got nothing. And so they hate and deny and will never ever admit to having been racist or being racist. Yet, somehow, they and indeed all non-Blacks seem to think that despite their unbridled racist animus towards us, we sent out an SOS, asking them to come relieve/rape us of Black culture, which is inherently musical, and thus they grudgingly squat the fuck all over Jazz as though, somehow, invited. Let’s, however, digress no more…

The soul which, formerly when incarnate, was Margaret Beaufort, Tudor matriarch, mother of King Henry VII, grandmother of King Henry VIII and great-grandmother of HM Queen Elizabeth I, has been reborn, Black and on re-entering that dynastic family for being Black has affected the karmic chickens of slavery, Black exploitation and rape of Africa and its people, coming home to roost. By her very presence, she has lanced a bilious flood of racial dread, which White Britons bear Blacks for the karma they damn well know that they owe Blacks. No matter how you protest, just remember that within your midst are persons who will never assimilate and who are singularly focussed on subjecting you and your society as you subjected Blacks. Keep hating Blacks and being singularly focussed on Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, serving as a vessel for your uneclipsed racism, of which your sleeper enemy is keenly observant and quietly figuring out how to deal with and successfully subject the threat of your existence; all the while, you prove yourselves blissfully unaware of the bigger picture karmically.

**Eamonn Holmes 3.12.1959 Pig 3.6.3 = 3**

Remind me again that England is merely an island and its residents frightfully small-minded, alarmingly racist and violent in the extreme.

“Why wouldn’t they just throw him over the balcony and her with him.” — @EamonnHolmes

So blinded by hate is this porcine, homo-repressed boor that he thinks nothing of threatening a senior heir and successor of the Sovereign’s, Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex with death along with his wife, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. A threat issued of physical attack on Harry, is an attack on the Crown, HM The Queen. This man is beyond absurd. This whole tempest in a teapot has been completely taken out of context on that side of the pond.

Firstly, in his interview with NBC Today’s Hoda Kotb, Harry when making the remark, did so in reference to the fact that his beloved ‘granny’ had been recently side-lined by Covid. Obviously, if greater care had been exercised to protect The Queen from being potentially exposed to Covid, she would not have fallen ill with Covid and Harry would not have had to make the statement. Secondly, by his remark, Prince Harry was making a none-too-veiled reference to disgraced Prince Andrew, escorting HM The Queen to the thanksgiving service for The Prince Philip at Westminster Abbey. Thirdly, Prince Harry was specifically referring to HM The Queen’s private secretary, Edward Young and her dresser, Angela Kelly. But far be it from the blind little bigots, always looking to ferret diabolical meaning where none was intended.

**Prince Andrew Escorts HM The Queen at Westminster Abbey**

Why pray tell was the little embedded-dicked, closet case, not preying on Prince Andrew. Obviously, it must have been a case of predators’ honour that the pussy-whipped fucker issued no threats against Prince Andrew when he had the gall to escort HM The Queen at The Prince Philip’s thanksgiving service at Westminster Abbey in March, 2022. Lord only knows, Prince Harry has not had to cough up millions to make the embarrassment of minor prey go away. But here comes little racial predator 70 million and two from the isle of sycophants, storming the palace gates and looking to lynch the racial traitor and his runaway slave… mais oui. Vas chier… fif de madame grosse fesse.

First number of 1 is that of the bully; they are conceited in the extreme and, of course, no Black woman should be marrying into the royal family for the likes of this man. End of discussion.

Meghan, Duchess of Sussex whilst attending the Invictus Games in the Hague, April 2022, took time to join in an arts and crafts session. Straight away, the little negative twits were only too happy to gloat and ridicule because look at her, she has painted the flag upside down. Truth be told, when a nation is invaded/under attack, it is customary rather than raising a white flag of surrender, to instead raise the nation’s flag upside down as this is a call for military intervention from neighbouring nations/allies. Meghan painting PEACE on an upside down Ukrainian flag, was in fact correct.

**Tina Brown 21.11.1953 Snake 3.5.5 = 4**

Back in April 2011 at the beautiful royal wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge, Tina Brown as guest commentator for ABC’s coverage of the wedding, as a Briton, she was featured. However, when the Beckhams were spotted in the line to enter Westminster Abbey, Tina Brown in a bit of classist shade dismissed Victoria Beckham with the ludicrous observation that the elegantly soignée Ms. Beckham regularly went jogging in Hollywood thusly attired. This sort of loose-lipped put-down does little for her credibility especially after the fiasco that was Talk magazine, which for being bankrolled by that sleazy creep, Harvey Weinstein, naturally never featured a Black American on its cover. Not surprisingly, there were Britons on the cover of the pretentious, to say nothing of otiose, rag. There was Tina Brown, trying to make Liz Hurley happen… and decades later, it still hasn’t happened. Who else but a racially smug Briton would be editor-in-chief of an American magazine and never feature a Black American on the cover of an American magazine, Talk.

Nothing is more dangerous than sophisticated racists because they are so indignant when called on their racism; it is almost as though you would be mad for having to question something that is patently untrue to such persons. There is no racism; there is no damn need to change anything. Alas, there was Tina Brown, having been dispensed with by ABC, decamped to CBS where at the royal wedding of the Duke & Duchess of Sussex where Oprah was a guest, the very same displaced Briton was having to offer her tired-arsed, third-tier opinions to Oprah’s best friend Gayle King – as if her opinions matter to the people who were never good enough to have featured on her shitty little, loser magazine’s cover. Some people.

There is positively sweet fuck-all that Tina Brown can say that is credible… she and her opinions are of negligible worth. I might also add that 3 and double 5s just spells over-the-top fabulist. But damned if that is going to stop her from cashing in on the racial lynching of Prince Harry for having married a goddamn American… a Black American. It was not acceptable when King Edward VIII brought Wallis Simpson to the court of St. James and it definitely is not acceptable for Prince Harry to have brought a goddamn Black woman into the very heart of the British royal family. Indeed, the Sussexes are the bitcoin of new income streams for bigoted hacks in the age of social media.

Her book will be biased and inclined to attack the Black Duchess and bow and scrape to the Cambridges. She will not touch the racism in either the royal households or royal family. What Meghan is experiencing, is what all Black women experience. Where Black men are gunned down with alarming frequency by police relative to White males, and their respective percentages of the American population, is horrific. Black women are deliberately denied, feared, hated, overlooked and bypassed because one can – only one Black woman has won a best actress Oscar in its 94 years – Halle Berry. Judge Ketanji Brown Jackson’s senate confirmation hearings were appallingly vicious; there is positively no way that a Jewish woman would have been so abused during the same process – think back on Judge Kagan’s confirmation hearings. Justice Elena Kagan’s intelligence was never questioned nor was she subjected to the ridiculously petty lines of questioning Justice Brown Jackson was. Will Tina Brown highlight HM The Queen’s dresser’s, Angela Kelly being outright rude and dismissive behaviour towards Meghan or that of HM The Queen’s private secretary, Edward Young also was towards Meghan?

Again, let me make it abundantly clear, if Meghan Markle were White, Moslem, Jewish, Chinese or East Indian, absolutely none of this Salem revisited would be upon us. They, the media, have created a car crash and simply wanted Meghan and Harry to buckle up and take a ride like Diana, Princess of Wales did. One simply does not give offense to the aforementioned demographics; however, it is always perfectly justifiable to be irrationally exuberant in one’s racially predatory animus towards Blacks. The way to get around being labelled racists or to take ownership thereof, one simply attacks the accuser with new-fangled derogatory terms like ‘cancel culture’ and ‘woke.’ Indeed, the racist justifies their right to be racially predatory by protesting against Blacks (Black Lives Matter) calling them on their racism.

**Piers Morgan 30.3.1965 Sheep 3.6.9 = 9**

The 60s to 90s were a time of raid and neo-colonisation on the part of Britons on American media and culture, including this odious, little White male bigot, seizing power at CNN and acting as though by virtue of his Britishness, he was somehow welcome or entitled to squat all over American TV/culture. Honestly, when can any of these ungrateful people look at their sojourn in American and claim that Americans were rude, xenophobic boors towards them. Nonetheless, these charlatans have had it way too good, crossing the pond and becoming latter-day buccaneers as they have raped American culture and grew more fantastically rich than they ever could for staying relatively obscure on their shitty little isle of vile xenophobes. Of course, bigots like this pretentious snob – he has two 9s in his numerological make-up – think that Americans aren’t civilised enough to enter the ranks of their archly classist society, though smelling loud of that cheap eau de toilette called the American buck. Incidentally, for having two 9s, he was so infuriated at being called on his bigotry by meteorologist, Alex Beresford that he got up and stormed off the TV set and lost his job. This was his meltdown response to Meghan & Harry’s appearance on the Oprah interview. That vile unethical boor ought never to have been afforded a green card, let lone been on American TV, after his complicit, reprehensible actions when at the now defunct, News of the World tabloid rag.

What these bigots have never been able to accept, is that Meghan is as intelligent, eloquent and articulate as she is, especially as this completely shatters their perception of Blacks/Black Americans. Meghan, of course, by comparison showed up Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge for the sodden cardboard that she is for lacking in charisma, gravitas and eloquence but she gurns and dresses superbly. Speaking of dressing, it was mighty queer that Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge wore an off-white dress to Meghan, Duchess of Sussex’s wedding. If that is not a display of her first number of 9 and the fact that she felt so threatened by Meghan’s force-of-nature magnetism that she would be the only woman exclusively wearing off-white (white) to the royal wedding of the woman whom it turns out she made cry, rather than how it was speciously reported by Camilla Tominey in the launch of the campaign to banish the negro from the kingdom isle of racist boors.

I will say this, it is my observation that most – though by no means all – Whites with 9 in their numerological make-up are usually prejudiced towards Blacks and most such-focussed persons, are intensely racially predatory towards Blacks rather than not.

**Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Royal Ascot, 2018**

The one constant in all the media frenzy and predatory obsession with the Duke & Duchess of Sussex is that no one ever discusses the latent, blatant racism to which the Sussexes have been subjected. They will write volumes and cash in; however, had Prince Harry married a White American actress named Cressida Bonas with the same pedigree as the real British-born Cressida Bonas, positively none of this nightmare would have unfolded. Indeed, the print medium would long have turned on Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge in favour of the blonde, favoured wife of everyone’s favourite, Prince Harry. As Diana, Princess of Wales so eloquently stated during her BBC Panorama Martin Bashir interview, “the best way to dismantle a personality, is to isolate it.” Naturally, each of these opinionated White income streaming royal experts will never cast light on the racism to which the Sussexes have been subjected; instead, it has been rendered non-existent and Meghan, Duchess of Sussex is never referred to as Black. To focus on race would be empowering, humanising Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, which serves no purpose when on a campaign to totally annihilate a Black woman.

Pro(fessional)s

**Hilary Mantel 6.731952 Dragon 6.4.4 = 5**

Now for the Pro(fessional)s. Hilary Mantel, whose exquisite Tudor trilogy I have enjoyed, has been a staunch supporter of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. She has wasted no time in calling the British print medium on its unbridled racism towards the Duke & Duchess of Sussex for their interracial marriage. She speaks truth and calls out the ugly racism for precisely what it is.

https://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-51703856

https://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/entry/meghan-markle-was-too-good-to-be-true-says-dame-hilary-mantel_uk_5e5e3f2dc5b63aaf8f5d0bf7

https://www.thesun.co.uk/fabulous/11094609/meghan-markle-prince-harry-royal-family-uk/

https://www.pajiba.com/celebrities_are_better_than_you/hilary-mantel-sees-racial-element-in-criticism-of-meghan-markle.php

Times of London royal editor, Roya Nikkhah is as classy as it gets. Consummate professional, she does not engage in either sophistry or gossip. Sophisticated. Professional. Elegant. Precisely as any respectable journalist should comport themselves on or off the page.

Royal biographer, writer and editor at Vanity Fair, Katie is professional and strictly factual. Never gossips and keeps her mostly American audience educated on all things royal.

Hello Magazine UK’s royal editor has always been pitch perfect and warmly professional in her coverage of the royal family. She speaks with the same care and tact of each royal family member, regardless their public persona and the whims of public opinion, which can be biased in the extreme.

Scholarly, professional, passionate, inordinately knowledgeable, she is a font of insights historical and current. Articulate, she has an engagingly warm voice. She has an actual career and unlike some, she doesn’t need to prey on the Sussexes in a bid for a new income stream.

Here we have BBC’s royal correspondent, Nicholas Witchell in a marvellously edited video, which was a none-too-veiled threat to HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge who expressed his displeasure with the BBC and even went so far as to not have the BBC host, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge’s Christmas Carol Service in December, 2021. The BBC really do not care what William thinks and were not shy in telegraphing their refusal anytime soon to sycophantically bow and scrape in his direction. There is much that they can do within their medium, which would not much benefit TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge. Certainly, the BBC releasing the Cambridge’s rowing at the 2019 A Berry Royal Christmas special was a none-too-subtle salvo from the BBC to the arrogant future Sovereign.

**Gyles Brandreth 8.3.1948 Rat 8.2.6 = 7**

The éminence grise of royal biographers, he was also an actual friend of The Prince Philip. Look what’s not to love, we are both rats, have two numbers in common (8 & 2) and both of Jewish heritage. That 2 is responsible for his collection of smart, witty jumpers. That 2 and its placement would have left him singing louder than anyone else in the theatre, ‘Always look on the bright side of life’ at the end of Spamalot. 2, no matter where it is placed, means that one is always rooted in one’s joyous child-ego state and why damn not! More than anyone, he would be aware that regardless of the tabloid medium’s racially predatory animus towards the Duke & Duchess of Sussex, the Windsors are a family above all else.

Mr. Bradby knows the real score and empathises with the Duke & Duchess of Sussex and the politics of the royal households and royal principals behind the racially predatory campaign against the Sussexes. That PR war against the Sussexes was/is chiefly waged in the tabloid medium. The Cambridges are passive-aggressive boors; they do have their own secrets, which sooner or later will be outed by William’s fourth number of 5, catching up with him.

Tom allowed, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex – that soul formerly incarnate as Margaret Beaufort – to start flexing her chops and going to town on the cowards, who dared fucking with her. The Tudor matriarch did not return to play pushover.

ITV royal correspondent, Chris Ship like Emily Nash has a keen awareness how Britain LLP looks before the rest of the world. He is adroit, professional and purely objective.

Duke & Duchess of Sussex at the Invictus Games in the Hague, 2022

Though she launched the opening salvo in the campaign to banish the interloper negro from the isle of racist boors and royals, that Meghan made Catherine cry when it proved to have been the reverse, Camilla has clearly had a road to Damascus change of tune. Recently, she has uttered words like Black Lives Matter as it has begun to dawn on Britain LLP that theirs is not the most rosy of images beyond their isle of rabid bigots. Her opinions on the Sussexes have become more nuanced and professional and, I dare say, she is even beginning to approach the professionalism of Nash, Ship et al.

**Robert Jobson 23.3.1964 Dragon 5.8.1 = 5**

Always adroit, I was impressed by his indignation during a round table discussion immediately after the airing of the Oprah interview, featuring the Duke & Duchess of Sussex. Stridently, he argued that whoever had raised the racially insensitive matter of Archie’s skin tone, ought to be stripped of their royal privileges. This, though impressive, struck me as odd because what was even more offensive was HRH Princess of Michael of Kent wearing that blackamoor brooch to HM The Queen’s 2017 Christmas lunch at Buckingham Palace. Surely, by that maxim, she should at the very least have been evicted from her grace & favour apartment at Kensington Palace.

First became aware of him on the same roundtable discussion after the Oprah interview, in which Robert Jobson participated. He is nuanced and keenly aware that optics are more important than being on the isle of bigoted boors’ bandwagon.

**Beautiful Lovers: Duke & Duchess of Sussex**

As HM The Queen made it perfectly clear at The Prince Philip’s thanksgiving service at Westminster Abbey in March, 2022, Prince Andrew is her son and she is along with being a grieving widow, Sovereign. The call is hers to make. She has remarkably honoured her promise to be of service, all well on the cusp of an eighth decade. You don’t like that she wants her favourite grandson, his articulate wife and their kids on the balcony at Buckingham Palace at Trooping the Colour during the Platinum Jubilee celebrations? Tough! The call is hers to make and if you truly do not like it, you can damn well crawl the fuck in your casket. It is no damn business of yours. Sooner or later, the government is going to have to put an end to the press, holding to ransom the British royal family. The royals of Sweden, Spain, Norway, Denmark and everywhere else in the world are not terrorised by the press, chiefly so the tabloid press. The British press have made a business of ruthlessly directing the royals in a generational pantomime that has caused, death (Diana, Princess of Wales), anguish and drug abuse (alcohol) re: (Princess Margaret), predatory racial harassment (Duke & Duchess of Sussex). All the while, they have turned a blind eye to Prince Andrew’s unsavoury proclivity for lamb, veal and other minor fare, to say nothing of the hissing toxicity that is TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge’s marriage.

Bitches Brew Miles Davis

Provided to YouTube by Columbia/Legacy Bitches Brew · Miles Davis · Wayne Shorter · Bennie Maupin · John McLaughlin · Chick Corea · Joe Zawinul · Dave Holland · Harvey Brooks The Complete Bitches Brew Sessions ℗ Originally released 1970. All rights reserved by Columbia Records, a division of Sony Music Entertainment Released on: 1970-03-31 Associated Performer: Miles Davis feat. Wayne Shorter, Bennie Maupin, John McLaughlin, Chick Corea, Joe Zawinul, Dave Holland, Harvey Brooks Associated Performer: Miles Davis feat. John McLaughlin, Wayne Shorter, Chick Corea & Joe Zawinul Drums: Lenny White Drums: Jack DeJohnette Congas: Don Alias Shaker: Jumma Santos Producer: Teo Macero Recording Engineer: Stan Tonkel.

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

_______________________________________________________________________________

The Bigot & the Gold-digger…

March 16, 2022October 20, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Thomas & Samantha Markle

Thomas Markle 18/7/1944 Monkey 9.7.7 = 5

Energy body 9. Self-toxic, combative, shit-disturbing and a bigot.

Mindset 7, reserved, inspirational, can see things – obviously, there are exceptions to everything.

Life path 7, he sees himself doing the honourable thing for the tribe at large and in this case, as his mind is compromised by bigotry; he is team white tribe all the way.

Soul/destiny 5, scandal is the hallmark of this placement of five, which is all about excess. He is the ham who will do and stoop to any level to stay onstage. 5 in the fourth position also always means sexual scandal of one kind or another. I suspect that his interracial marriage to Doria Ragland was seen by his family as a racial betrayal and his bringing shame to the family. Now in his waning years, he is agreeing with his family’s bigotry by attacking his daughter and all that she stands for. As a rule, it is inordinately rare that 7s of any kind, will ever speak ill of anyone or put a foot wrong with regards their public image. Case in point, HM The Queen – 21/4/1926 Tiger 3.7.7 = 8. Like The Queen, Thomas has two 7s and in the same position; however, all such persons are perceived as HM The Queen is. Thomas is the exception with such placement of 7s in his numerology.

Samantha Markle 24/11/1964 Dragon 6.8.1 = 6

Energy body 6, loyal, steadfast and puts family and health at the top of their priorities.

Mindset 8, the money number. All second number of 8 persons are motivated by money and making as much of it as possible. They will literally sell anyone, especially family, for monetary gain. During her second divorce, Samantha did do just that, she forfeited custody of her two biological children to their paternal grandparents for 10k$; Samantha sold each of her two children from that second marriage for five thousand dollars apiece.

Life path 1, Samantha is selfishly consumed with number 1 – self and her own selfish interest and that includes disposing of her two children for $10, 000.00 rather than being focussed on the most important task in life, being a mum – a loving nurturing parent to her two children that she carried and gave birth to.

Soul/destiny 6, not only is she a homewrecker, who abandoned her own kids and their older sibling from a previous relationship, Samantha will stop at nothing to interfere and wreck the lives of the Duke & Duchess of Sussex. I would not be surprised if during her lawsuit against Meghan her step-sister with whom she was never close, she does not seek to have custody of Archie & Lilibet. I wish she would be so blinded by her skewed numbers of 6, 8 and 1 because going after the children of a legitimate blood prince, whose father is the future Sovereign, would not turn out too well for her.

Nothing that Meghan, Duchess of Sussex said in her interview with Oprah Winfrey either mentioned Samantha Markle or misrepresented her upbringing as Samantha’s lawsuit alleges. Here you have two persons, Thomas and Samantha, who are blinded with jealousy and hatred of Meghan, for which they will stop at noting. So obsessed is Samantha with generating income for being orbitally connected to Meghan, she went all the way in her wheelchair to London, in hopes of preventing the royal wedding. The wonderful thing about her trip as she went to deliver papers to show just cause why Harry, Duke of Sussex, whom she has never met nor knows, should not marry Meghan, Samantha went to the entrance of Kensington Palace Gardens to deliver her documents. Of course, Kensington Palace Gardens is in no way connected to Kensington Palace.

Fame-hungry Thomas (5 & 9) and money-grubbing Samantha (8 & 1) have a symbiotic relationship; both know that for feeding on Meghan, they will readily garner support from the countless hundred millions of Whites and others who are violently opposed to Harry & Meghan having married. These same people will never, given the evidence of HRH Princess Michael of Kent’s blackamoor brooch, be convinced that Meghan and Harry were ever subjected to racism whilst senior royals living in London. For such persons, racism does not exist; Blacks are redundantly crying foul and playing victim and one is so done with that.

Of course, since 2017 when Thomas & Samantha have been keen on hijacking the limelight and thereby rendering the Sussexes as their opportune gravy train, not once has either gotten off their fat arse and gotten together. Samantha went all the way to England to intervene, in an attempt to stop the Sussexes’ marriage but cannot find the time or money to go see her fellow stalker and accomplice, Thomas Markle.

Just as it is obvious that Meghan’s parenting agreement is with Doria Ragland, so too is Samantha’s parenting agreement with Thomas Markle. They are both as despicable as the other and for positively no reason on Earth should be suffered in any litigation against Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Harry certainly should turn around and sue both for stalking, harassment and defamation; he certainly could give ample testimony in a suit brought by Meghan against both Thomas and Samantha, the latter whom clearly she does not know and has no reason to know either person.

Samantha has all these rabid, bigoted Whites and others who so loathe Meghan, Duchess of Sussex that they support her in everything that she does and says; however, why pray tell did these same people not see to it that Samantha’s tell-all book, slandering Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, make it to the top of the New York Times bestseller list and stay there several weeks? Well, since that little venture failed, now Samantha has headed to the justice system with a frivolous litigation in hopes of making money off of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex whom she never hounded when she was an actress on Suits. The number of successful/famous actors, who have nothing to do with family when they make it, is more the norm than not.

Recently, that porcine fucker, Thomas, had the frig-all gall to refer to Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex as ‘her ginger husband.’ There is nothing remotely cool about that statement and it is just as racially charged as whichever senior royal wondered how Archie’s skin tone would turn out and being concerned how that would look within the royal family. Of course, along with that remark, there was HRH Princess Michael of Kent deliberately sporting the blackamoor brooch to HM The Queen’s Christmas lunch in 2017, at which Meghan, Duchess of Sussex was officially introduced to the wider circle of the royal family.

Thomas Markle’s ‘her ginger husband’ remark deftly illustrates how in synch with the Cambridges this man is. It is in the Cambridges’ best interest that this man denigrates his own daughter; it’s great entertainment for them and the isle of small-minded bigots. Thomas referring to Prince Harry as ‘her ginger husband’ is no different to royal householders and likely some senior royals referring to Meghan, Duchess of Sussex as ‘his nigger wife.’ It is the same reprehensible bigotry of which anyone possessed of 9 in their numerology is quite capable.

I have said it before and I will reiterate, the truest portrait of what the Cambridges are like, is to study the film, ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’ Like Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge, Elizabeth Taylor had an energy body of 9. Born February 27, 1932; Elizabeth was a Monkey. 27/2/1932. 9.2.8 = 1. That’s not acting; it is Elizabeth channelling 9 energy with exquisite élan. That mindset of 2 is all about channelling; it is about losing yourself in the creative process and embodying that on which one is focussed whether actor, writer, dancer, painter. It would have been electrifying for anyone on set during filming of the Mike Nichols masterpiece. The reason for the comparison to Elizabeth is that like Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor, Catherine and William and closely bonded souls. Whereas Richard and Elizabeth are essence twins -think Romeo and Juliet, William and Catherine are that other combustible pairing, task companions.

Essence twins are always the same soul type whereas task companions are never the same soul type. HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge is a scholar soul and Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge a warrior soul; he is an older soul than her – 6th mature scholar to her 5th mature warrior. One of Catherine’s primary needs is expression, which is in the tertiary position hence her creativity is not prominent; nonetheless, it is there and is explored in her photography. Task companions are always in the same entity and are like family members; however, essence twins are never in the same entity though in the same cadre. Task companions will encounter each other more than they will any other soul during the course of their soul’s reincarnational journey; as the nature of the essence twin bond is so all-consuming, they meet up more rarely than not.

As Catherine is a warrior soul, she is the more dominant partner in their bond; regardless their sex/gender when incarnate, Catherine will always be the more dominant of the two. Catherine is better equipped to be in the role that they have chosen than even William. Furthermore, the task companion bond is always push-pull. There will ever be lots of rowing, hissing but the sex is always next-level phenomenal. As William’s fourth number is 5, like his father, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales and uncle, Prince Andrew, Duke of York and all persons with fourth number of 5, he not only has a roving eye but very conceitedly, thinks it is his damn right as future Sovereign to sex whomever he wants. This will understandably prove a great deal of stress for Catherine and it will most definitely cause her to resort to drink, not to excess but she could never be deemed a teetotaller.

***Fresh Avocado Spread on Toasted Dark Rye.***

More than that, numerology is the key to understand what makes incarnate souls mere mortals. Regardless, neither Samantha nor Thomas fool anyone; they are the most vulgar disfigurement of what their numerological portrait alludes to. Seriously, go ahead and sue Meghan, Duchess of Sussex whom litigant Samantha has referred to time and again as Duchass. Similarly, Samantha has been banned from Twitter for harassing Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Go ahead, please think yourselves entitled to either know Meghan, Duchess of Sussex or meet her children. Hell, as you clearly know all about American chutzpah, go on and sue for custody of Arche and Lilibet, even though litigant Samantha gladly relinquished custody of your two biological children for 5$k apiece. To paraphrase, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, that is a mighty loaded piece of toast to serve a judge.

All Blues Miles Davis Kind of Blue 1959.

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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And Then You Have The Frig-All Temerity…

March 10, 2022October 19, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Berry, Halle 14/8/1966

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 BAFTA award. It is not an Oscar.

Barbara Stanwyck circa 1940s Photo by A.L. Whitey Schafer

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.

Mandatory Credit: Photo by Paul Buck/EPA/Shutterstock (7717380be) British Actor Colin Firth Holds Up His Oscar For Actor in a Leading Role For ‘The King’s Speech’ During the 83rd Annual Academy Awards at the Kodak Theatre in Hollywood California Usa 27 February 2011 the Oscars Are Presented For Outstanding Individual Or Collective Efforts in Up to 25 Categories in Filmmaking United States Hollywood Usa Academy Awards 2011 – Feb 2011

Diana Krall at the 53rd Annual Grammy Awards, Staples Center, Los Angeles, CA. 02-13-11

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.

Alma Thomas

1976

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!

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Oh quelle fuck-all joie ça!

April 29, 2021October 18, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Well isn’t that just marvellous! Look at little Billie Bourbon Flatfoot! Pussywhipped by the dominatrix fakester from Bucklebury. Go on, yada yada all the blasted frig you want but ever bliss eludes this sorry pantomime one decade and counting.

Horowitz, Vladimir 1/10/03 Kiev<O>5/11/89, NYC

Michael: This fragment was, in his immediate past life, a mid-cycle mature scholar in passion mode, with a goal of growth, a pragmatist in the moving part of emotional centre.

Vladimir had a Mercury/Lunar body type.

Vladimir’s was a strong primary chief feature of arrogance and a weaker secondary of stubbornness.

This fragment was second-cast in his cadence and his cadence is fifth in the greater cadence. He is a member of entity five, cadre two, greater cadre 14, pod/node 449.

He and the fragment who was Wanda Toscanini are task companions, both now discarnate. The fragment who was Wanda was a fifth level mature warrior.

Vladimir’s essence twin is a scholar and is incarnate on the physical plane, is female, age seven years. There are plans for them to complete the mother/son monad in Vladimir’s next incarnation, which will probably occur during the third decade of the next millennium.

So here was an artisan-cast scholar with a great deal of sage energy, most of which was expended in his personal life. This fragment’s relationship with his task companion was passionate, explosive and mutually satisfying.

This scholar’s demeanour in public contrasted greatly with his behaviour in his private life.

It is interesting to note that this fragment has had only one other life as a practicing musician and that was as an organist at the Chartre Cathedral in the early part of the nineteenth century.

However, this fragment has a long stage history, beginning in Greece during its Golden Age.

This fragment also built harpsichords during the latter part of the eighteenth century and actually built one for Leopold Mozart.

As a highland warrior in the latter part of the seventeenth century, this fragment distinguished himself both on the battlefield and in fashioning bagpipes.

He was an exemplary soldier in many lives and many guises.

However, the place where this fragment was most at home was on the stage or behind the scenes.

_______________________________________________

What I love about the Horowitzes is how much so they are like Felipe VI’s step-brother and his dominatrix frau. Both Wanda Toscanini Horowitz and Catherine are fifth mature warrior souls who were/are married to their scholar task compaanion – Vladimir Horowitz and William the Bourbon pretender.

Just like the Horowitzes for being task companions the Bourbon-Bucklebury duo are a combustible, combative couple, who’ve openly rowed and cussed sotto voce in public their entire marriage but alas who is going to be so daft as to break from fairy story to either perceive or acknowledge the truth of this sorry pantomime?

Wanna know what Catherine & William are really like, take a long hard look at two more intensely soul-bonded lovers, Elizabeth Taylor & Richard Burton – they are essence twins, in Mike Nichols’ “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.” Like Martha, Catherine also is a heavy cigarette smoker.

“Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” Elizabeth Taylor, Richard Burton 1966 © 1978 Bob Willoughby
WHO’S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF?, Richard Burton, Elizabeth Taylor, 1966

They, el duque y la duquesa Bourbon y Bucklebury, are a rivetingly complex but utterly volatile couple – all task companions and essence twins are; however, for the British tabloid media to pretend that they are all that is risible in the very least. They both have 9 in their numerology and all such persons are archly self-toxic, which therefore dictates how they relate to everyone. Want to imagine what the Cambridges worldview is like, just listen to Lady Colin Campbell and Piers Morgan speak. They, the Cambridges and the aforementioned two media personalities, are argumentative, scathing, fault-finding, abusive, manipulative and bigoted… all 9 persons are.

Their contempt for their subjects notwithstanding, the Bucklebury muggles are also stressed to the gills from the perpetual rowing they witness when around their oh-so-tightly-wound-to-saccharine-perfection-fake parents.

It should be noted that during several dream encounters with HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge that I’ve had – as someone who dreams lucidly and recalls dreams each time that I sleep, it is not uncommon to dream of persons known or unknown to me – when he sits, he favours doing so with his legs gathered and folded. I remember the first time that I made the connection when visiting a friend’s family in the Eastern Townships on the drive from Montréal whilst en route to a long weekend in Québec City. Not only did the co-worker’s cousin exclusively sit with his legs gathered beneath him all times when sat; however, he was made ever acutely and openly hostile by my presence. Like another co-worker at another job whose stepson was on the spectrum, that man was also acutely uncomfortable in my presence and sat with legs gathered beneath him whenever sat. Like William, all these persons have a vacant look about them; though, William has been intensely groomed to be normal, he is normal simply because there is so much vested interest in how we perceive him.

He is a prince. He is Diana’s boy. He is the future king. We collectively are at once somnambulantly caught up in the fairy story and in his tightly choreographed outings, he is deftly able to pull the wool over our collective eyes. However, when he is challenged, like all 9s and spectrum-focussed persons, he will go off-piste and betray the intransigent stubbornness at the core of his being as a scholar in stubbornness and a spectrum-focussed human being. William betrayed his spectrum-focussed prejudice and oafishness by lacking sophistication when stating, “We are very much not a racist family.” Merely, by his statement’s ambiguity, its basic double negative, William thereby betrayed the racism rife within aspects of the BRF. Full stop! Alas, whatever is a trapped spectrum-focussed oaf to do? Stayed tuned, there is yet to be a sequel, this one in future will be deemed, the Madness of King Wills.

Ten years of rowing on the way up the Mall from their wedding ceremony, to all the private hissing, to the dominatrix brush off of the tedious spectrum-focussed oaf whom Catherine at best is damn sick and tired of having to babysit, especially when it cannot damn well stop pursuing his bits of roughs on the side and one should never rule out his male relative – no, not King Felipe VI rather his violent wife’s brother; there is a reason why James is never photographed anywhere near William. Just look at these two photos released to mark their 10th wedding anniversary, Catherine does not once look at William. He is an oaf and what she prominently displays is Diana’s engagement ring. That’s right, I am the one possessed of the womb, which brought forth the future sovereign, I don’t give a damn and if I made the little negro cry…. so damn fucking what. I am a bitch… deal with it.

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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Rudolf Nureyev & Lee Radziwill

February 17, 2019November 13, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

These next dreams occurred on my birthday; yes, I am leonine to the core. It was my first birthday whilst living in Vancouver, British Columbia. At the time, I was returned to the city after having been off with Frederick Hinneault^†, my two-spirit lover du jour who introduced me to the wonderful, spiritually evolved world of powwows and more.

I met Frederick as a result of the dream on summer solstice, 1994, some weeks earlier. That dream, of course, is shared herein on March 3, 2013. It was an uplifting dream and one which fittingly introduced me to Frederick.

More than that, of the six dreams the one of interest is of an astral plane encounter with dancer, Rudolf Nureyev at his Louvre apartments. This, of course, was dreamt after his passing.

The dreams were dreamt with focussed abandon on Tuesday – same day of the week as at my birth – August 2, 1994. At the time, the Moon was transiting Gemini and correspondingly my first house.

Joop happens to be my oldest friend and the only friend/lover with whom I have never had a fight or falling out which is no small feat when it comes to my thoroughly engaged passion mode which can be intensely overwhelming – what with this being my third life at seventh level mature and the fact that I am a combustible mix of warrior and priest indefatigable zeal… sixth position in third cadence, third greater cadence of entity six and cadre one of greater cadre 7, pod 414… of course, being a sceptic means that I will very callously – thanks in part to my Venus-Uranus conjunction – tell you to go fuck yourself in two nanoseconds – used to be with a cool and cutting look in my 20s; now, I just do so with inordinate impatience or charmed vituperativeness depending on my moody artisan prerogative.

Obviously, I am reposting these dreams now as a tribute to Lee Radziwill-Ross who recently passed. Hers was, at least from afar, a truly aristocratic, iconic American life.

*At midnight, I took to the pyramid where I meditated for quite some time or at least had intended to. The phone rang at quarter past as Joop van der Pelster^† called to wish me happy birthday.

We shared a really lovely moment of great intimacy. I would then decline returning to the pyramid. Instead, I took to the bed and continued meditating.

Lying on my back, with lids closed, I felt after some time rather opened up and expansive. Then my inner vision became focussed and things began unfolding; so, here then is what I experienced.

Again, for the record, I had not done any drugs prior to this experience as I do not do drugs. Period.

I saw a large container coming, through the air, towards me. Turning around, it shifted and then opened up to reveal a large tunnel that was yellow-red hot-looking.

Contained in the rust-coloured container, it was a flame of light. The only way that I can describe the container’s unfoldment is by drawing an analogy to the protective lens panels on the Hubble space telescope opening up to focus on a point in space.

There was something inside the container which had a round aperture. Growing cautious, I had thought that it was possibly a snake.

However, I then felt myself being quieted into being less hasty to project. My voice to self, during this interval, was almost like Merlin’s at those times – when he would say or do exactly the same thing and encourage me to be open to potentials.

Thoughts of the container being there to suck away my life-force were, of course, premature. There was no way to get around the fact that this large container had a magnetic quality to it; it was almost, if you will, a giant vacuum.

I did not have a sense that it was sending me light energies. Instead of protesting anything, I decided to bleed all the bile within into the container. The container really did look like a gaping hole.

The mouth kept on shifting; yet, on the inside of the container’s mouth, the light was brilliantly red. Then I saw some stray wafer thin waves of energy leaving my body.

As though made of solidified carbon dioxide, they slowly radiated outwards. They left my aura and headed into the same opened up container. I was pleased to see it and, as it were, decided to go with the flow.

I then focussed on letting all spent energies, which were not of the highest nature, be allowed to become disengaged with my corporeal being and waste away – truly spent.

I thought of all the bile that has collected in my body, from so many clung-to painful life experiences. Mostly, this had to do with neutralising the shrapnel that had been psychically projected onto me for being here, in this archly hostile place – this racist black hole work environment here in phenomenally beautiful Vancouver.

I wanted all my fears of ill health and lack of certainty to be dissolved; I wanted it discarded into this large container. This was great meditative and healing work.

The presence – the force of the container was massive. It was as if a black hole had warped space and bled its way through to being close to Sol. Thus, it allowed for this energetic work to take place.

This experience endured, for quite some time, without me once falling asleep… unusually enough. When it was done, I managed to crack my back and got as many vertebrae realigned as when being adjusted by my chiropractor.

This was effortless and really productive. So relaxed was I that I had even been able to crack my neck. I felt truly yogic, relaxed and all expansive. After having manipulated my vertebrae, I returned to meditation and did some deep-breathing exercises.

When my inner vision resumed, everything was completely different. Now I was instantaneously flooded with a deluge of intense white light. A container had approach and, on opening up, produced the flood of white light.

This light was so intense, its beauty so uplifting, as to make it almost too sacred as to have been experienced whilst incarnate. Nonetheless, there you have it, we are here to spiritually get the most out of our journey.

The light was such a glorious experience, its touch a longed for aqueous, silken movement. Being able to experience this light was so very healing and uplifting as well. I was really rather impressed by it all such that I simply further let go and fell into sleep. END.

In this the first dream, I was on the veranda of a very tropical house. It also seemed to have been connected to a back alley. There was a van coming down the road which was to my left.

As it sneaked along, I suddenly didn’t have a very good feeling about this van and its occupants. The main entrance to the house was to my right. The road, on which the van progressed, was a back road.

With the backs of the houses visible as they faced out to the main road beyond, there were larger roads close by. Though I had no idea who was in the van, I had stealthily ducked out of view at the last moment.

A little while later, in the opposite direction from left to right, a car came by bearing Vanessa Banks-Abella^†. There and then she was thrilled to see me and excitedly called out,

“Boy what are you doing up there? What are you still doing up at this time of night?”

I told her that I was reading over my notes as I tried properly recording my dreams. Surprised, she claimed disbelief at my still being focussed on recording the dreamtime’s experiences.

“Well wha ah goin stop fa?”

She then asked me to make sure that those kids – hers and others, stayed in the house. I could see her plainly because the car was a convertible. She then had to be off for an engagement.

I suppose that the house would have been hers. I then went around making sure that all the locks on the doors operated properly. In one instance, one had to push a latch to further secure it from the inside.

When the latch was in place, there was no way to open that particular door. I had been concerned that the latch was in place once the children were all indoors.

The door had been opened and I didn’t want any of them to get outside then not be able to get back in. So, for starters, I rounded them all up and made sure that they were inside and left things at that.

Here, too, there were lots of video games both on the veranda, and scattered about the living room. A very cluttered and noisy affair – Vanessa Banks-Abella and William Abella do have three boys, plus their peers, who were over to hang out.

I enjoyed listening to them noisily.

I had an encounter with Isha da Braga, in this the second dream, in which I asked what she had been discussing with Marc-André Viaux. I wanted to know if he had told her what my HIV status was.

Obviously uncomfortable, by being very evasive, she brushed off the line of questioning. She said that it would be more appropriate for me to directly speak to him than go through her.

She simply did not care to get involved. It was obvious though that she didn’t want to have to get involved. Too, it was obvious from her neurotic unsteady eye movements that she knew more than she was letting on to.

For my sake, I simply did not want to become HIV infected. I was in my darkened apartment, here in Vancouver, whilst speaking to Isha da Braga on the phone.

I could see her clearly in her Toronto condo as though we were face-to-face. She could see me too and, for that reason, was avoiding eye contact. A very lucid psychic connection this was.

This, the third dream, was set outdoors at night time. I noticed that there was a barre in the middle of the street. As they drove past, persons slowed down to observe.

I was near the back of the barre and felt really strong. Not only was my technique good but my breathing was really relaxed and expansive. I was quite so well grounded.

We had to do the tendus in plié. Maria de Cortez, the Mestiza, was taking the class as well. The female instructor told us what to do. Then she let the left side of her face rub against my right jeaned thigh.

The right foot was pointed in tendu to fifth position in front. At the time, I was in plié. She did this out of admiration of me. I was flattered though concerned that my jeans which were soiled could possibly be a tad malodorous.

She could not have cared less as she wanted to pay me homage. We then did the battements tendus which incorporated a flick that was reminiscent of a coupé. Four times this was done, en croix, then repeated to the other side.

Naturally, when we had turned around to do the exercises at the barre, I had end up being at the front of the line. There were port de bras that accompanied this very rapidly executed tendu exercise.

Maria de Cortez had the port de bras down pat; I really admired her grace and focus. She and I were the only ones who were confident in our movements.

On the sous-sous to turn around, I then did a passé which I held indefinitely before closing, in plié, in fifth position at the end. My turn out was rather elastic and supple.

Here, I was wearing a pair of red legwarmers. When doing the tendus en avant, my arms were up in fifth whilst I looked under the arm. In second position the head was inclined up and outwards.

En arrière, if the arm was kept in second position, one looked below the arm with head inclined forward and down. Furthermore, there was the option of holding the arm in second position arabesque.

During the exercise, the instructor walked past and touched my arm when in fifth position. My port de bras was perfect. My alignment and posture were perfect.

I felt completely on my supporting leg and properly aligned. I felt rather elongated and princely. However, the nature of the discipline was such that she felt it incumbent on her to come by and break me down to size.

It was a way of pushing you to always strive for greater mastery of the technique. Too, it was a way of her saying that I should not have been so advanced yet.

There was a sense, on a personal level, that she almost resented my refinement. I could not have cared less; I was too connected to spirit and the light within to have become thrown by her intervention.

She took her leave of me as her tactics were to moot effect.

An encounter, in this the fourth dream, I would have with a woman who was rather like, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. She was an aristocrat and was quite concerned in nature about being loyal.

She had been the only one to have stayed with Rudolf Nureyev, until the very end, as he suffered from AIDS. This woman, whoever she was, had been the one to have gotten him to stop being in denial of his illness.

She managed to have gotten him to stop drinking, to excess, as he suffered a breakdown of his character. He turned into a literal vagabond about his very opulent, finely decorated Paris apartment.

Perseveringly, she had succeeded in getting him to rein things in. Too, in preparation of his death, she was instrumental in getting him to focus in on his spirituality.

At the time, she was trying to get him sequestered into a place where I was following up on her efforts. I saw Rudolf Nureyev and he did so look as though he were suffering from AIDS dementia.

Though he was standing up at the time, he really didn’t seem strong enough to be doing anything so taxing. There was no way to get around that this man was gravely ill.

His face was ashen, gaunt and his sagging skin left his eyes really large possessed-looking orbs. He wore a narrow-rimmed little hat, from that era in this century, when men customarily wore hats; his hat was not a broad-rimmed affair.

The doyenne went up these stairs, in a very lavish opulent building, that was so very empire and distinctively Parisienne. The stairs inside the foyer led up to a large museum where there was an art exhibit.

The paintings here were rather large. I helped her carry him up the stairs. In a bid to not attract attention, she had turned her back as if looking at a piece of art; it was a tiny drawing.

She did not want the public to notice her; she just wanted to be inspired as a way of recharging her batteries. Rudolf Nureyev was there but by himself.

We had struggled up the stairs, both of us on either side of him, supporting him just ahead of his elbows as his arms were bent at the elbows. I was across the way from them and being silently observant of them both.

There was a path that one could take diagonally to another wing. We had silently managed to slip the birdlike yet regal Rudolf Nureyev into the next wing; there, the space was smaller than the previous salon.

The floors here were of a rough marble that made for a noisy gallery as shoes marched across them. It was though a wonderful light-entrapping interior where the colours were pale and soothing.

Thus the walls enlivened whatever natural light made its way so far indoors. There was no direct natural light here, however, the soft tones of the walls left the place light rather than subdued.

The museum’s salon was rather beautifully laid out. As we walked down to another man, I noticed an African man who was clearly an exchange student.

He had some equipment; he was an arts student of some sort. The gear that he carried was a measuring instrument of some type. It seemed to be a surveyor’s gear or a mini telescope of some sort.

The aristocratic woman was deeply concerned about this. She thought that for using the instrument that he would be able to recognise Rudolf Nureyev who was fairly well-disguised.

She seemed too to be concerned that he might just recognise her which she did not want. She did though seem to be, the more time that I spent near her, to be Lee Radziwill-Ross and not her sister, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

There were times when she seemed to be Elizabeth Taylor. However, this woman was a born aristocrat and was dark-eyed. She also spoke fluent French which I don’t think that Elizabeth Taylor does.

Besides, I don’t think that Elizabeth Taylor was that close to Rudolf Nureyev. This person was an aristocratic arts enthusiast, who was also a patron of the ballet, which sounds more like the Auchincloss sisters, Jacqueline and Caroline (Lee) rather than Elizabeth Taylor.

Besides, these two were so close towards the end because it turned out that they had a soul connection. Not only did they have several past lives together but it would seem that they shared a close connection that bespoke being cadre mates.

She was in his life to spiritually help him. She wanted him to become focussed such that he would pass with some degree of dignity and be able to move on. This was something that one did for being of the same spiritual tribe or, in this case, cadre.

Finally, the African student, a tall East African Nubian, with richly dark skin did not recognise either of them. He was a deeply introspective Scholar soul who just didn’t focus beyond the object of study which presently happened to have had nothing to do with them.

Both Rudolf Nureyev and his aristocratic confidante were rather pleased that the African had not recognised them and tried to interact with them. I was rather observant of everything whilst with them.

Though I helped out, I was never intrusive and remained at times as though not a part of their party. She had needed me to come in, from time to time, and be of assistance but then I had become nonexistent as this was how she was accustomed to relating to help.

For both of them, being in this place was like a way of staying grounded and inspired. What’s more, this museum was connected to where Rudolf Nureyev lived.

This happened to be the case, in the waking state, as Rudolf Nureyev did have apartments which were a part of the Palais du Louvre – the majority of which houses the Musée du Louvre.

This was supposed to be his last visit to the museum. He had been actually cutting through it whilst en route to his apartments. This was a section of the Louvre where there were lots of prints and architectural drawings.

These salons, however, were not normally opened to the general public it would seem. Members of the diplomatic corps, the very wealthy the world over, could be invited to view these exceptionally rare prints.

It would seem that some of them were Leonardo da Vinci prints. The collection was considerably vaster than the prints that are on display in that wing that is close to the River Seine.

This wing of the museum did feel like it was closer to the Rue de Rivoli. Including Rudolf Nureyev’s, this would also be the wing of the Palais du Louvre where the exclusive apartments are.

I was hoping, in this the fifth dream, to get directions to some place that I had never been to before. There was a woman on the phone telling me where to meet her.

She said that she would be at a kiosk by way of the A1, at the Bay department store. This was here in Vancouver. I was then over on West Georgia Street, on the south side, east of Seymour Street.

Yet, I never saw her anywhere so soon became concerned. I could not quite figure out, why she would want to meet at the Bay. It did though contain the Granville Street Skytrain stop – the city centre’s major hub.

Then I thought that it was by the entrance to the Skytrain; she had said that the kiosk was close to the ‘A’ doors. She had said that she actually worked at the Bay department store so could meet me there.

I thought that, perhaps, it was at the doors by the Granville Street Skytrain entrance. There was, it turned out, no kiosk there nor had I seen her at the Seymour Street entrance. So I returned and went across Georgia to ask further directions.

Later, when she did point it out to me, I saw that it was at the northwest corner of Seymour and West Georgia Streets. Here, things were set up differently to the waking state. There was an overhang.

The side of the building, where the display stood, was cutaway and here in the dreamtime painted blue. Large television screens and other television studio paraphernalia were present.

They were interactive and gave directions to the public. The woman, who had been on the phone whom I was supposed to have met, I then saw across the street on the north side of West Georgia Street.

There was an island in the middle of West Georgia Street reminiscent of Toronto’s University Avenue. I walked along the island going westerly and towards Granville Street.

I saw three Black women with long braided extensions who looked rather well turned out. On seeing them, surprised to see Blacks here in Vancouver, I grew self-conscious.

As compared to being in Toronto, it was such a rare occurrence seeing Blacks locally. Seeing me, they totally scuffed at the eccentric, outré look of me. I could not have cared less about their fake-arsed weave-headed self-loathing idiocy.

One of them had blonde streaks in her hair. Though not High-Yellow they were light-complected and clearly of mixed parentage, perhaps, a generation removed.

All three were of mixed familial heritage in the past, with Whites, and were possibly related. They were very cliquish that way that young women can be.

I did notice in the blue schemata, over by the overgrowth next to the Scotia Tower, there was an opening where there was more blue. This opening up which created a break in the Scotia Tower complex does not exist in the waking state.

A guy was there who was genuinely, archly even, eccentric. This man immediately reminded me of Daryll Newcombe^†. On his head he wore a tiny blue and white umbrella.

A striped affair with slats in it, it looked much like a propeller which he could use to take off à la Mary Poppins. Terribly eccentric, he was and just the sort of thing that one could expect of Daryll Newcombe.

I kept on moving along the island, going westwards, on the wider-than-in-the-waking-state West Georgia Street.

Eventually, in this the sixth dream, I came to the end of the land. I looked out to sea past two jetties that were quite built up. I was high up from the water and with me was a Black man; he was young.

I rather liked his energies. One of the jetties doubled as a wharf in this deep-water harbour. Though it seemed fairly tropical here, I was certain that it was not St. Kitts.

Standing to the rear of my Black companion, there was a wall to my left. Though not grey out, it was also not bright and sunny either. The land went out to the left more and formed a peninsula.

I had a pair of binoculars which I used to try and find the second jetty. I was trying to find the large ship; it was a navy vessel rather than a tourist cruise liner. The ship was rather large.

However, I couldn’t find the bloody thing to be able to have surveilled the deck of the ship. All that I could find was the steely grey of the cold-looking sea. Never did I get to find the vessel with the binoculars.

Soon enough, I was otherwise engaged as a jetliner came into view. It flew from right to left whilst headed for an airport. There were times when this place did feel as if some part of Basseterre, St. Kitts.

This was definitely a Tri-Star L1011 aircraft. Wide-bodied with some red in the schemata worked into the tail and the third engine – which sits atop the back of the fuselage and beneath the tail.

Coming in to land, the plane cut quite a majestic line. The plane travelled unusually slowly which caused me some concern. My companion, though, assured me that he was just making its final approach for the airport. This didn’t seem to be the case to me; for this reason, I asked him when then was it going to deploy its landing gear.

The craft at that point was dangerously close to the ground. It did eventually initiate the deployment of the landing gear. Moving away the binoculars, it did seem to my eyes that the flaps had not opened sufficiently to enable the wheels to drop.

Replacing the binoculars confirmed my suspicions. Still following its progress through the binoculars, the plane then began turning to the left. It was seemingly a standard manoeuvre at that point in all approaching flights to the nearby airport to our rear.

To compensate for having dipped too much, the right wing sharply tipped – in a bid to prevent it from curving too close to the sea. With that, the plane went into a sudden nose dive and landed on the shore of a black volcanic beach.

Skidding in the sand, the plane travelled some distance breaking against the wet sand. The waves were gently crashing ashore; it was not at all a rough sea. I drew my companion’s attention to the fact that the tide began suddenly changing.

This I pointed out was good as it allowed the plane not to move into the water. The craft was veering off towards the right, rather than left, wing. My companion, however, was not the least bit concerned about the plane’s supposed crash landing.

Meanwhile, no one seemed to be the least bit scared. Too, no one was screaming at the unscheduled landing. At one point, the plane’s nose fell downwards and kicked up lots of sand as it dug in whilst barrelling its way along the beach.

It was a muddy consistency as the sand was still fairly wet; it eventually covered the entire plane in a wet sheen of black sand. Ultimately, after having made a sharp left turn facing towards the land, the crashed craft came to a stop.

The rear end of the fuselage was being partially covered by the sea. Still, the tides receded some more and at which point a group of us began rushing down from the cliff to the shore below. We were keen to investigate the crash.

Not knowing what next would happen, I hung back as I feared the worst case scenario of the plane possibly exploding in a massive fireball. A little bit to the rear, and right of the plane the ocean floor dropped off, suddenly.

Beyond that, the ocean had receded to beyond 100 yards. Stranger still, from beyond the receded cover of the ocean up to the plateau came a procession of persons.

There was no mistaking the fact that they came from the ocean. The look of these people was decidedly Oriental. Clearly, they were rushing to the aircraft to try and help pry the bodies or passengers from the crash.

They were there to help out in this emergency situation but there was no getting around the fact that they lived in the ocean. Though wet, they seemed not the least bit affected by the wetness or the cool temperatures of the water.

From my vantage point, high up on the beach, I saw that the aircraft had opened up an emergency exit shoot. Instantaneously, all these bodies came popping out of the craft. This was a horrific sight. Truly it was.

Everyone in the airplane was doused and appeared as if made from rubber. Also, one feature that they all had was that their eyes had popped.

Their mouths were wide-open in the same horrific arrested scream as in the Edvard Munch canvas, The Scream. Clearly, their deaths had been horrific and their final expressions were frozen in death.

Too, from their mouths poured what appeared to be the small intestines, brain matter or lung tissue. They had vomited a great deal. Obviously, from this, one could deduce that the airplane’s cabin had suddenly depressurised.

I got the sense at that point, at which I saw it coming down to land, the entire group – passengers and crew – had already died whilst at greater altitudes. The plane was simply flying itself in on autopilot.

The landing gear failing to deploy was another indicator that the entire crew had died before they had gotten so close to landing the craft. The bodies were all squashed, and atop one another, as though they had been banged around at high altitudes, during the flight.

It was all very sad. Then I noticed a stout woman trying to shove her way free of the craft but the listless bodies proved a formidable obstacle. Eventually, I noticed that there were others who wanted to make their way free of the crashed airline.

These survivors were in a state of shock, not surprisingly, and screaming their heads off. As a matter of fact, they seemed on the verge of savagery in a bid to shake free of the bloated exploded, rubbery-looking bodies that were piled everywhere and obstructed their escape.

One stout woman appeared to be in the process of being birthed by the clamor of dead rubbery bodies piled thick, pouring through the mouth of the escape hatch.

The look of the piled up bodies was tantamount to toothpaste being forcefully squeezed from a tube. Once halfway out of this macabre birthing canal, the woman then turned around.

What seemed like a bid on her part to free her body, from the tangle of listless bloated limbs, proved a bid on her part to pull others free who were struggling to make it out after her.

This was quite the grotesque spectacle. By this time, some of the people began making it onto the beach rooftop from which I had safely been on looking. For fear that the airplane may yet explode in a sudden fireball, I was still cautious about getting any closer.

The rooftop was not especially large. A Black woman came out sometime after the stout woman. She looked completely dazed, and just out of it, as though she were still on the astral plane whilst her body clambered and struggled of sheer instinct.

Truly exhausted, she – like all the others – was covered in a white substance that looked much like rice or stringy pasta. This was a very lucid experience. As much as I wanted to turn away, I simply couldn’t. It was way too garish.

As much as I wanted to turn away from this horrific sight, I was magnetised to its surreal unfoldment. Truly horrific was the experience vicariously. Eventually, the Black woman made it from the aircraft and then came up onto the rooftop with the rest of the crash survivors.

Laying there on her side, as though she were looking for the solace of the womb’s protection, her legs were drawn up foetally. Clearly, she was in retreat. Too, she was experiencing a great deal of abdominal pains.

I had a glass of ginger ale or some such soda. Kneeling down before the Black woman, she rolled over onto her back and rocked herself back and forth whilst writhing with pain.

Pandora da Braga was also here, incidentally, as an observer. She seemed fairly numbed by all the devastation here. In any event, the Black woman wore a brown floral printed dress that was soaked.

The smell of gastro-intestinal acids was rife and stifled the briny sting of the ocean. A sour smell it was. Holding the Black female survivor by the right hand, I bled my very life-force into her and soothed her spirit with the quiet whisper of cooing reassurances.

I told her that it was all up to her that if she wanted to she could definitely survive the ordeal. Too, I let her know that she was merely in a state of shock. As we were all right there for her, there was no need for her to panic anymore.

Important too, I thought, to seek out someone who was Black to comfort her. After all, over the course of her life, the stresses of all-pervasive racism are so Real that her tolerance threshold was already considerably diminished.

She needed not to have been abandoned. I knew how important it was for her to feel not to be passed over, as is socially customary, in this hour of need. There weren’t, anyway, White survivors up on the rooftop.

I felt that it was important to stay there and give my support, rather than run off, lending my energies to the others who were exclusively White.

However, there was one woman in all of this who was beginning to go hysterical; her child was being administered mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

Ridiculously, this idiotic Black woman began screaming at the man to stop kissing her child. How dare he put his mouth on her child’s? This was all a part of her denial – the state of shock into which she had been catapulted with the high altitude incident that had led to the crash.

She had had to be restrained. I gave the glass of ginger ale to the other Black woman and then went over, with Pandora da Braga, to pacify the mother. The mother wore a brownish-red floral-printed dress.

As the others worked frantically, in a bid to resuscitate her, the child was very limp. Then she went stark raving mad, all bug-eyed, saying to whomever off in the indeterminate distance,

“I know it, you know. Ah goin’ sue dey ass! As soon as Donna Summer announced that we were going to crash, that’s de firss ting ah say. ‘Ah goin’ sue dey ass!’”

Similarly dark-skinned, this woman so much reminded me of Dian Mason. She was, in both senses of the word, truly hysterical. Then she added, licking her lips frantically, and looking so distinctively West Indian,

“Boy, yu wait! If ah live, ah goin’ sue dey f-ing mudderscunt…”

This woman proved the point of one of the most hysterical dream experiences in ages. Offering up some reassurance, I told her that she had to calm down and not get herself too agitated.

I told her that she simply had to focus on calming her nerves. If the child were to survive then she needed to focus instead on the child and not her issues, to which she answered,

“Boy, hush yu damn ass!”

She went wild with rage at my suggestions. Then she turned on Pandora da Braga and made threats of her whilst insisting that it was Pandora’s fault why all of this had happened.

According to her, it had been Pandora da Braga’s idea that she take the bloody flight. Threatening to beat her up, she pounced towards an unflinching Pandora da Braga. And she was a tall woman too, much like Jan Hartley.

With that I leapt in between her and Pandora da Braga, squaring off with her, meeting her eyeball for eyeball as I hissed at her,

“Watch your fucking mudderscunt!”

I was deadly ferocious; my intensity was more than she could withstand. This diffused and centered her energies; she was the first to flinch then stand back.

There was positively no way that anyone was going to attack Pandora da Braga once I was around or alive. The tension diffused, I watched her back as she walked away to go look after her daughter.

There was then a woman, down off the rooftop, to the left of where we stood. Looking down at her intently, she was a somehow familiar Black woman.

It was as though I was supposed to have known who she was. Perhaps, I had encountered her years earlier in a dream. Perhaps, she was from another time… another life.

At the time, everyone was laying blame at Donna Summer’s door. Apparently, the chartered flight had been organised by Donna Summer. The entertainer was headlining at a resort which was a partly owned business venture of hers.

The discussion was about who exactly was karmically responsible for the crash and the number of persons who had lost their lives as a result. The woman down below was there to keep score of everything: who had been lucky enough to survive, who had not.

Also, she sought to learn the severities of the injuries sustained by the survivors. Her record keeping was also on the order of keeping akashic score of who owed who karma in this multidimensional group dilemma of sorts.

She was rather officious and adroit.

__________________________________

Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Tag: #ElizabethTaylor

Netflix’s Masterful Crown Jewel (Season 5)

The Pro(fessional)s & The Con(artist)s.

The Bigot & the Gold-digger…

And Then You Have The Frig-All Temerity…

Oh quelle fuck-all joie ça!

Rudolf Nureyev & Lee Radziwill