Tea Time!

HM The Queen. 21.4.1926 Tiger 3.7.7 = 8

All sevens can see beyond the veil and they are always without exception very refined, reserved and do not do uncouth nor drama. Why is that you ask? At the core of their being, such persons are callously amoral – they do not care… they do not empathise. So then let’s peer beyond the gullible small-islanders’ inability to look beyond the rigorously maintained façade of the major players of the BRF and, in particular, relative to the Duke & Duchess of Sussex.

Diana, Princess of Wales 1961 <O> 1997

Why would HM The Queen take so long to present after Diana’s death? She did not give a damn, the woman was an inconvenience and she was not going to honour her by appearing before the little people, who clearly loved Diana above all others in the kingdom. She detested Diana. She also had to come to terms with the fact that Diana was eliminated and clearly a lot of atoning had to be done to eventually face the public. Her appearance with the windows of Buckingham Palace open was a cold, ugly affair. Don’t ever forget, PM Tony Blair had to beg HM The Queen to come forward and address the very pained public.

HM The Queen’s Tribute to Diana, Princess of Wales

Apart from this utterly saccharine speech, there were moments captured of HM The Queen outside Buckingham Palace on the family’s return from Balmoral. Whilst Charles, William and Harry attended The Queen and HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, the Queen’s reaction to the grieving subjects was a cold nasty affair. There was one point where someone reached out to her in their moment of grief and despair at Diana’s death and she simply shuddered and moved on with a smile that was the fakest most mechanical movement of facial muscles imaginable. Regardless what she said in that speech, this is the same woman who did absolutely nothing as Diana emotionally and mentally fell apart whilst the rest of the BRF and staffers abused Diana. Of course, it goes without saying, Diana was struggling with the fact that she was not loved and they all knew that Charles and Camilla were true lovers – especially if that child sequestered in Australia is the adulterers’. Nonetheless, they could, none of them: HM Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother, Charles, Philip, Anne and the entire ghoulish cast, have given two fucks how mightily Diana suffered. Tough!

Diana, Princess of Wales & Dodi Al-Fayed

Regardless what one may think of Mohamed Al-Fayed; there is very little to suggest that the man was just a grieving father. He had the means to have had the truth of the matter rigorously investigated. The classist, racist British establishment and the BRF did not want the disgrace, as they perceived it, of the mother of a future king of the realm being wedded to an Arabic, moneyed Moslem whom they thought of as being too brash and having bought his way in, when in fact he was not especially wanted. There was a price to pay.

Dodi Al-Fayed 17.4.1955 Goat 8.3.5 = 7

Dodi and Diana had two numbers in common, 8 & 7. For both of them, theirs was a 7 in the fourth position; this placement of 7 is more often than not the sign of public assassination – and not just merely assassination. Numbers do not lie; Mohamed knows the truth. Besides, as a father, he would have had countless dreams after Dodi’s passing in which he would have been enlightened as to what really took place and who the source of the assassination order would have been. The Duke of Lancaster would not have been unaware.

Duke & Duchess of Sussex, St. Paul’s Cathedral June 03, 2022.

Just remember, what is past, is present, is future. Everything that the Sussexes are being put through, is precisely what Mohamed Al-Fayed experienced from the British Establishment, aristocracy and BRF. Of course Mohamed Al-Fayed certainly had no qualms about telling them all to go to hell and did, as well he should have. They crucified his son for having the temerity to seek to join the BRF by proxy.

Mohamed Al Fayed 27.1.1929 Dragon 9.1.4 = 5

They would have been spied on by Mi5 and CIA and obviously, the very day that Dodi went out and purchased a 700$k engagement ring for a known expectant, Diana, Princess of Wales, they incredulously perished in a car crash. Of course, Diana survived; however, she was not meant to have survived so she was then put down. It takes a copious dosage of morphine or whatever else they did, to have Diana finally stop being a goddamn pain in the arse. Never forget that she had provoked their ire by producing a firstborn with decidedly Bourbon markers. In all of this, of course, was Mohamed Al-Fayed whose numerology coupled with his wealth, assured that he did not give a damn and called it as he saw it, which is to say that he was and remains spot on about what went down.

Diana, Princess of Wales

Diana’s appalling treatment by the senior royals, of which HM The Queen was keenly aware, was savage in the extreme. One should not be in the least surprised that Meghan, a Black American self-made woman with more charisma, intellect and eloquence than the slovenly broodmare who gave birth to the blasted freak, Prince Damien, was racially preyed on and driven out of the kingdom. Good fucking god, how in high hell do you explain that hideous woman, Princess Michael of Kent being at Meghan’s wedding after she had worn the blackamoor brooch to The Queen’s Christmas lunch, 2017. She then was sat closer to the Prince & Princess of Wales (Camilla rightfully should be called the Princess of Wales because she literally cannibalised Diana, Princess of Wales; calling her Duchess of Cornwall is too good – she should be labelled as what she is) and the Duke & Duchess of Cambridge at The Queen’s platinum jubilee service of thanksgiving at St. Paul’s Cathedral on June 03, 2022 than even the Wessexes, whilst the Sussexes were sat across the aisle and behind the Wessexes and next to the disgraced Duke of York’s two daughters and their admirable spouses. All this would have been with the tacit approval of HM The Queen, yet I certainly hope that the Sussexes do not see the monarch as being in any way an ally of theirs; she is not.

Lord Snowdon, Princess Michael of Kent & Mark-Francis Vandelli

Per the ubiquity of a fly on shit, there has been Princess Michael of Kent aka Princess Blackamoor, partout. She was forever holding holier-than-thou court in the royal box at Wimbledon 2022 as if the point needed to be stressed further, beyond the seating at St. Paul’s Cathedral on June 03, 2022. But lapping it up in spades, she most certainly was. Less than a month prior, there was Lord Snowdon, who sat like the Kents, close to the Cambridges and next to that aesthetically challenged buffoon with the mannish spouse, and on leaving St. Paul’s Cathedral, made a point of completely ignoring the Sussexes as they waited at the top of the stairs for their ride. Snowdon, at the time, snickered and went to chat up the clown, who had been seen embraced and his loyalty assured by William recently photographed for effect, hugging him, as they smugly telegraphed to the world their collective snub of the Sussexes. Of course, there sat Snowdon in the royal box at Wimbledon, who had been found being intimately same-sexed, which male royal never does, sat next to that blasted classist boor, minor TV thespian and snob, legs crossed and his mangina’s anal verge likely just-so softly plush for being filler-saturated. Of course, it goes without saying, his plush bussy was also likely waxed and bleached. Charmant. Sooner or later, Princess Blackamoor will crawl the frig into her casket and when she does, she most definitely will rot the fuck in hell with Idi Amin sat on her god-fugly face – the vile racist swine. Rule number 1, you don’t like Black people… fuck you! As Merlin once remarked, “What good is Black rage if it’s kept in a Ming vase on the mantel?”

Martina Hingis & Duchess of Cambridge at Wimbledon

As if it were not enough to drive home the fact that the Cambridges are really hyper-obsessed with putting that BBD – no, not big Black dick, Black Bitch/Diva, Meghan, in her place, Catherine just had to invite Martina Hingis to the royal box. Not as if she had won multiple grand slams at Wimbledon or something, like the Williams sisters.

Prince William day after the Sussexes’ interview with Oprah Winfrey aired.

Of course, Hingis was notorious back in the day to have alleged that there was no racism in tennis and she had no clue what the Williams sisters and their father were going on about. Always, the racists give themselves away by readily opining about the non-existence of racism.

Lady Gabriella Windsor-Kingston

Princess Blackamoor’s daughter who always looks like the sporty buffoon’s very mannish wife’s twin brother who’s recently fully transitioned. Surprise, surprise, though Princess Blackamoor feigned approval, in the end her ambiguous-gendered spawn came to her senses and married a perfectly sensible WASP, rather than the Dravidian, who though not Black, is not White.

Olivia Bentley

Of course, the only one who was both elegant and the epitome of class, was the very stylish, acerbic Olivia Bentley of Made in Chelsea, who obviously does not hang around with grifters whose baby daddy has of late been dropping soap and being somebody’s bitch. This was at the recent service of thanksgiving for a loved royal confidante.

Michael Fagan

So strange this tale and, of course, whatever you want to believe of what was said to have actually occurred, you are free to so choose. Asking for cigarettes is certainly telling.

Philip, Anne & Elizabeth.

Here’s a little insight into HM The Queen’s amoral 7thness; she returned to London from Malta, gave birth to HRH Princess Anne, Princess Royal then returned to Malta sans new-born mere days later. Naturally, it was the nannies’ duty to care for the new-born. Why should any Queen have to be a mere mother, indeed. Back to Malta she returned to her favoured stallion.

Of course, 8 years later after some obvious froideur, along comes what would in her tenth decade prove her own nightmare and Jeffrey Epstein’s prized blackmail, sex-crazed royal addict, whose second offspring bears an uncanny resemblance to the much favoured steed, Porchy.

As with Mohamed Al-Fayed, the Windsors and their organisation have got all the power to act like a unchallenged crime syndicate. Just as Mohamed was dismissed by the media as being a cuckoo, grieving old man for asking pertinent questions at the death of his son, Dodi Al-Fayed and his new love, Diana Princess of Wales, so too they have managed to have Meghan, Duchess of Sussex eviscerated in the media. Too bad for them though that they do not control American media and Meghan is an American and has power players in her corner who will always matter. Just look at the power of the Windsors. Lady Colin Campbell has never been able to write a biography about the Duke & Duchess of Cambridge. Obviously, this is because Prince William, a tempestuous stubborn customer, has made it perfectly clear to all the royal rota hacks and more importantly all the heads of the book publishing houses that there is to be no permission or approval of biographies of either him or his dull-as-dishwater wife with an equally violent temper.

Eleven years into their marriage and the only biography to have been written about either the Duke or Duchess of Cambridge has beenWilliam at 40″ by Robert Jobson. Lady Colin Campbell writing her scathing tomes on the Sussexes is all about income stream for her. In the long term, she is hoping that this puts her in favour with the Cambridges, who see her for the gutter-sniping fraud that she is. Just think about it, the Poundland Countess, with her very own castle, has never written a book about Camilla, Charles or William and Catherine. How free is the press in the kingdom, if one cannot write about some members of the BRF? As such, it is a land of flagrant propaganda and little else as the pantomime rolls from one generation to the next as it has from one millennium to the next.

Moreover, when it pleases the Windsors and the firm to be oversaturated in the media, there is always a sacrificial lamb proffered. Diana was never liked by her husband, even less so by his mother, who knew all along that she was a convenient cover for Charles’s dalliances and Australian-disposed baggage, all of which would be conveniently covered up with Diana being skewered in the media. There are two things that the modern BRF do with predicable élan: royal weddings, which sell the fairy story and then the scandals follow thereafter. Charles and Diana, the wedding of the century, followed soon thereafter by Sarah, Duchess of York being fed to the Fleet Street abattoirs. Of course, as we have now come to see, “Fergie” was the initially proffered lamb, as it turns out, it was so much smoke and mirrors to cover the Wales’ toxic sham of a marriage, which was coming fast undone.

Lady Colin Campbell

There is a part of me that secretly likes this woman because at the end of the day, she is Jamaican and there is only one word which does not exist in Jamaican patois… shy! Guaranteed, you will laugh loudest when with Jamaicans!

Lady Colin Campbell Books:

Publication Order of Standalone Novels

Empress Bianca(2008)It’s been pulped and I’ve a copy

Publication Order of Non-Fiction Books

Lady Colin Campbell’s Guide to Being a Modern Lady(1986)
Diana in Private(1992)
The Royal Marriages(1993)
A Life Worth Living(1997)
The Real Diana(2005)
Daughter of Narcissus(2009)
The Untold Life of Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother(2012)
The Queen’s Marriage(2018)
People of Colour and the Royals(2019)
Meghan and Harry(2020)

Voilà! Not a single biography of adulterers Charles & Camilla. So too none of Prince Philip, HM The Queen, HRH Princess Anne, Princess Royal and, of course, none of either William and Catherine, together or alone. How in high hell can the most deliciously scathing biographer of the realm not once have put pen to paper and written from Porchy to Rose Hanbury and all the juicy tea.

Penelope Knatchbull, Countess Mountbatten of Burma

Furthermore, where is that biography of Prince Philip and Penelope, star-crossed lovers? Indeed, Penelope Knatchbull, Countess Mountbatten of Burma was not only well-sat at the Westminster Abbey service of thanksgiving for HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh but also, she was the only non-Windsor family member in attendance at HRH Prince Philip’s funeral in April 2021, ‘trusted confidante’ of the late prince as she was… take a sip dears. God only knows, it is not as if, Lady Colin Campbell has another 50 years of living and writing to go; certainly, the recent passing of the elegant Lily Safra should have given her pause. Stop inciting hatred for dollars on YouTube and get to writing! Just look at the wealth of material: Porchy, Penelope, Camilla, Tampon-Prince, their Australian-sequestered love child… and obvious others.

Meghan, Duchess of Sussex & Henry, Duke of Sussex

Speaking of biographies… I will not include herein a picture of his fucking ugly face; however, suffice it to say, no other group are possessed of need to incite anti-Black racism as are some Jews, in particular Ashkenazi. Of course, such persons are always, as is the cultural norm, readily believed and their word seen as divine law. As I am Afro-Sephardic, I could not give a goddamn whom so fuck-all takes offence. This man has written a scathing biography, which is lauded in all quarters because god only knows, not only does he clearly walk on water but he obviously farts Skittles.

15/9/1984 Rat Henry, Duke of Sussex 6.6.1 = 4

4/8/1981  Rooster Meghan, Duchess of Sussex 4.3.4  = 11

6/5/2019 Pig Archie Harrison 6.2.5 = 4

4/6/2021 Ox Lilibet Diana 4.1.6 = 11

In numerology there are no lies… as in dreams. There is perfect synergy between Harry’s and Archie’s numbers, just as the same is true between Meghan’s and Lilibet Diana’s numbers. According to one of many lies being peddled by this charlatan biographer, who is just loving inciting more hatred for Meghan for having stepped out of her pre-ordained line – some people – Meghan could not have been born in 1981 and clearly is possibly as old as 46. Well, I have run the numbers and each child will numerologically have at least 2 numbers as the parent with whom they have a parenting bond. Obviously, as with Archie & Harry, Lilibet Diana would have to have been born with master number 11 like Meghan for there to be that harmony. Also, Lilibet Diana would be born with master numbers when it is so closely bonded a family; it is literally them against the Windsor’s world, which is considerable.

Meghan, Lilibet Diana & Mrs. Misan Harriman and Kids

4/8/1981 Rooster Meghan Markle 4.3.4 = 11

4/8/1975 Rabbit Meghan Markle 4.3.7 = 5

4/8/1976 Dragon Meghan Markle 4.3.8 = 6

4/8/1977 Snake Meghan Markle 4.3.9 = 7

4/8/1978 Horse Meghan Markle 4.3.1 = 8

4/8/1979 Goat Meghan Markle 4.3.2 = 9

4/8/1980 Monkey Meghan Markle 4.3.3 = 1

Archie, Harry, Meghan & Lilibet Diana

The only numbers which makes sense vis-à-vis Lilibet Diana’s and Harry’s, for that matter, are those of August 4, 1981, year of the Rooster. That leaves Meghan with master numbers of 11, which always denotes a life of destiny and such people are incredibly astute, come fully prepared for the journey ahead. If Archie and Harry are so simpatico, then clearly Lilibet Diana would have to be equally simpatico with her mum, Meghan and that she is to a mum born, August 4, 1981. End of discussion. Of course, like Orly Taitz herr Schmuckface just knows that for having his head so far up god’s ass, he speaks/writes the truth. Well, of course, the children do not exist; they are invisible, Meghan was never pregnant, it was a pillow. And on and on and fuck-all, on and on.

Boris Johnson Bigoted Warts And All…

Of course, he it was who had some rather bigoted choice observations, unsolicited, of President Barack Obama. But enough about vile buffoons, biting off infinitely more than they can chew – the Skittles-farting clown. This is the thing about some Jews, they are always being given a pass when they are racially predatory towards Blacks. And this is where BRF-sanctioned, character assassination biographer du jour, who has already been called out for having appropriated persons quotes and used as sources and warped their quotes in his vendetta against the schwarze shiksa, proves himself just another anti-Black racist. As though, only Jews are supposed to have ever experienced persecution, just as with Tina Brown (not Jewish), Mr. Schmuckface writes a 300-page plus book and never once mentions Princess Michael of Kent’s blackamoor brooch, which has been the biggest exposé of the racism to which Meghan, Duchess of Sussex was subjected. Since then as if to drive home the point, that blasted flat-arsed, hideous Rhino-legged racist swine, Princess Blackamoor, has been upfront and prominently placed at every opportunity.

Just Who Made Who Cry, Definitively Answered

Honest to frigging god, do you think that herr Schmuckface would have written a biography about a Jewish fiancée of Harry’s, who had been subjected to anti-Semitism when a minor royal showed up at HM The Queen’s Christmas lunch, wearing a swastika brooch and claiming not to have known that it was offensive and in this hyperbole, claiming that it was a Hindu cross brooch. Though it is true and even an Ethiopian and Navajo cross, we all, the world over, know that a damn swastika is a symbol of hideous anti-Semitism. Herr Schmuckface is a vicious coward; he knows that all he has to do, is go out there and say that Meghan made Catherine cry and that settles it. He is after all a Jew – it must be so. He is a damn bigot and a liar. The proof that Catherine made Meghan cry is validated by her behaviour at the March 2020 Commonwealth Service of Thanksgiving at Westminster Abbey. Catherine had been rude to Meghan in the lead up to the royal wedding about the bridesmaids’ tights. Catherine is an insecure woman, who was threatened by Meghan’s greater charisma, intellect and eloquence. The proof that Catherine made Meghan cry, is validated when she came up to take her seat at Westminster Abbey and though Meghan waved her right wrist that was placed on a her lap as she pointedly smiled at Catherine, Catherine refused to look at or acknowledge Meghan. At that point, the world was convinced that Meghan had made Catherine cry, which is all the more reason, Catherine deliberately ignored Meghan to perpetuate the lie, thanks to Camilla Tominey’s exclusive warped version, in the Daily Telegraph in November 2018, of what occurred after the Sussexes’ successful first tour in the South Pacific.

Catherine Meeting Jews at Buckingham Palace Garden Party

Most of all, Catherine is a White female who happens to be prejudiced towards Blacks – energy body of 9 – and she does not give a damn that it came to this. She will be Queen Consort and has given birth to the future sovereign… she does not have to give a damn what anyone thinks. To hell with the yank imposter and a Black one at that. Catherine, William for that matter, favour Jews and she has time and again demonstrated unease around Blacks, though, at this point, she has been made aware that optics are more important than personal bias. End of discussion.

Prince Damien holds court with his racially predatory kin

Just like that yenta, Angela Whiny-whatshername, and Tina Brown, there must never be any discussion of anti-Black racism with regards the BRF’s senior and minor titled royals. They have gleefully torn their flat arses in the negro from Compton’s face since that day in December 2017 and as recently as the thanksgiving service at St. Paul’s Cathedral on June 03, 2022, yet there is no connection to racism neither are the BRF racist. Just like Tina and the two Jews in question, the time is long past to stop cutting HM The Queen slack. She has been aware of this hideous racism all along and done nothing; indeed, it has gone on like a bad joke month after month, after month. The best way to condone repugnant behaviour is to ignore it and do nothing about it. Herr Schmuckface has lied about who made whom cry and he has a serious credibility issue when he runs his ugly head off in excess of 300 pages and never once mentions the blackamoor brooch; talk about a clear-cut case of bias. To hell with the lot of these BRF-bought or purely sycophantic biographers.

Listen to Catherine in the background; in the original version – long scrapped from YouTube – she accuses the amateur photographer of having stalked them and seen recently doing so. All this triggers William who is her task companion as well as the ordinal partner in their pairing. The poor man doesn’t stand a chance, she said that he was there and that is that. Of course, it behoves William to at all times have security tracking with them… anywhere… at all times. There are no excuses. William sounds so vulnerable and pained; it is also an image of the Cambridges that must not be seen. When you are going to go to such great lengths to demonise your own brother and his Black wife; you cannot have it both ways. At the risk of stating the obvious, it takes two hands to clap.

TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge, 2011

Now we come to the modern age, and time to throw another fairy story wedding. William was finally presented to the realm and as stupid can only be expected to do stupid, there was he got into the carriage and sat with his back to the horses and then remained sat whilst his new bride entered the carriage. Neither his brother nor father sat their arse down until their new wife was sat in the carriage – no uncouth, unaware dolts, Charles & Harry. Of course, from day one, the Cambridges openly rowed in full view of everyone on the ride back to Buckingham Palace and again on the balcony, they hissed at each other. Far be it from the blind to have taken notice of anything so obvious as truth. Of course, this wedding occurred long after the inconvenience of Diana was dealt with once and for all and she was put down… truly off to the abattoir she was sent and conveniently so in a tunnel where none of the many street level surveillance cameras could have caught anything.

TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex, 2018

Now the fairy story needed to be updated and the Windsors prove themselves progressive and inclusive; the Commonwealth after all is not exclusively Caucasian. It is one thing to talk the talk but you have got to be able to walk the walk. As HRH Prince Charles and Doria Ragland returned to the quire after having signed the registry, there was HRH Prince William openly ridiculing Meghan and her culture before her mother, Doria. This he also did before his embarrassed father, the Hollywood players across the quire aisle, HM The Queen and the entire world. When the Sussexes proved too popular and eclipsed the Cambridges, the bigoted Cambridges had to sabotage the Sussexes. As in the past, after a fairy story wedding, time for scandal. Without a sacrificial lamb delivered to the Fleet Street abattoirs, the pantomime and the Windsors lose their lustre… their very appeal. What better way to annul the very existence of the Duchess of Sussex and her marriage into the BRF, start a campaign to vilify and demonise her. Of course, though not dissimilar to North Korea in its jaundiced coverage of the Windsors, the Fleet Street abattoirs keep offering too much grizzle and shank. All this, as was the case with Sarah, Duchess of York and her fall from grace, is to cover the scandals within the thorny marriage of the Cambridges.

Interesting isn’t; then again, there are no coincidences. The official portrait of the Cambridges has Catherine wearing a green dress. The night that actor, Will Smith slapped comedian Chris Rock, his wife, Jada Pinkett Smith was wearing a green dress with yards of train. Green is the negative colour of 9/toxic energy; Jada has four 9s in her numerology. Catherine was not comfortable, sat next to Meghan in the royal box at Wimbledon and thus wore green and had her sister-in-law sat between her and her sister, Pippa Middleton-Matthews. Persons with 9 are more toxic, bitchy and vile for wearing green. Catherine studied art history and she knows the vibration that clothes and jewellery effect; she is subtle, vicious but does not go unnoticed by those with eyes to see. Green, of course, represents nature, life, moss, arboreal splendour and its negative aspect is reflected in all things that are venomous, acidic, toxic.

Duke & Duchess of Sussex & Oprah Winfrey
Margot Robbie Accepts for Brad Pitt 2020 BAFTA Awards

What these sorry saps did not factor into the equation, was Meghan collecting her rock, Harry, and saying, “life is not a dress rehearsal and I don’t do Prissy. Let’s get the hell outta here!” Like Sarah, Duchess of York, Meghan was supposed to have stuck around and been walked all over by the BRF and Fleet Street. And this is why the Sussexes have won, from HM The Queen on down to that blasted buffoon, to say nothing of the many dalliances exposed and whispered about.

Just as William did not attend Wimbledon on the same day that Lord Snowdon was sat his Athenian arse next to the minor thespian put-through, so too he is very careful to never have James Middleton show up at Wimbledon and definitely not sat in the royal box whilst he is there. Naturally, one would not want to have persons start entertaining the thought that James has been ridden like a prized polo pony for many moons now. There is a reason why, James is kept safely out of reach, if only to pop up time and again, doing his best Saint Francis of Assisi… a right sissy that one… to be sure. So as much as they would like to have wanted the Sussexes about being shat on by Fleet Street and the rest of the realm, to serve as foil for the Cambridges’ fractured, messy marriage – exhibit Prince Damien for one – they have got no end of thinly veiled scandals percolating just below the surface.

Duke & Duchess of Sussex Enter St. Paul’s Cathedral, June 03, 2022

What the whole debacle in St. Paul’s Cathedral on June 03, 2022 revealed at HM The Queen’s platinum jubilee service of thanksgiving, is how weak the Windsors are next to the Sussexes. The Queen deliberately did not attend because she wanted to have the Sussexes embarrassed before the world without her being present and looking as though complicit. What… no shit, pigs don’t fly! She has spent the better part of ten, eight in an official capacity, decades pulling the wool over the eyes of the somnambulant clowns of her island realm but few else are duped by her and her clan’s antics. Why even go so low as to have the Sussexes sat where they were but then to top it off, just as her being at the Sussexes’ wedding, Princess Blackamoor was sat within fart-sniffing distance of the Prince & Princess of Wales as well as the Duke & Duchess of Cambridge. They have no power; when the Sussexes exited the island sanatorium, the Windsors lost their power to thoroughly fuck with and manipulate them. They have upped their attacks by having a spate of biographies printed; however, everyone of them fail to mention the blackamoor brooch incident because, clearly, all these biographers are sanctioned and directed on how to focus the narrative of the runaway slave, Meghan. To not mention the blackamoor brooch incident and Princess Blackamoor’s subsequent prominence, does one thing and one thing only; it exposes the fact that the Windsors are die-hard racists. All the nonsense of Commonwealth unity is a damn farce.

Reptilian Spawn, Prince Damien Born to Toxic 9 Energy Body Mother

Don’t you worry your sweet little head, you’ve got scandal aplenty with Prince Damien chomping at the bit to get on with life and cause you no end of dread and embarrassment. As for Prince Damien, two other royals had a fourth number of 7 and they were both assassinated: Diana, Princess of Wales (1/7/1961 Ox 1.8.7 = 7) and Lord Louis Mountbatten, Earl of Burma 25/6/1900 Rat 7.4.5 = 7). It is very possible that either of his parents will choose to have Prince Damien put down for being a royal pain in the arse; it is what they do and have always done.

HM The Queen at 96

HM The Queen’s reign has been possessed of her amoral nature; it has had a cycle of abuses that show utter disregard for human decency, compassion, as well as, both emotional and mental wellbeing. During her reign there has been one consistency, no care for senior royals wellbeing if they are not in line to be future sovereign. From HRH Princess Margaret, her sister – whose emotional and mental health she ruined by her ruthless inconsiderateness. Not just her having abandoned the new-born HRH Princess Anne to return to HRH Prince Philip in Malta, in later years, she would turn a blind eye and allow the utter abuse of Diana, Princess of Wales who had been simply used for approved heirs, to say nothing how Sarah, Duchess of York has been abused and kept around like a despised corgi just so that one can kick it at every opportunity.

Do Drink Up… Backstory Time.

Lady Diana Spencer & Camilla Parker Bowles, 1980

Diana was not a stranger to them. As the preceding photograph attests, seven years into her marriage to Andrew Parker-Bowles, (who incidentally was also a lover of HRH Princess Anne, Princess Royal), there was Camilla, clearly having an affair with HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, whilst grooming Lady Diana Spencer to be Charles’ approved concubine; how not unlike Ghislaine Maxwell was the very married Mrs. Camilla Parker-Bowles. All of this, HM The Queen would have been intimately aware of and clearly approved of. So a barely legal, Lady Diana Spencer was being squired, groomed and proffered by Camilla who by that point had sequestered her lovechild with HRH Prince Charles to the colonies in Australia. Obviously, HM The Queen had a direct hand in the lovechild being removed from the scene; there are simply some scandals that cannot be tolerated. The scandals that spring from the Fleet Street abattoirs do so with the royal seal of approval by none other than HM The Queen.

Diana, Princess of Wales & King Juan-Carlos de Bourbon

Diana, for being a mature soul artisan, was no pushover. She was a quick study, when she saw that she was merely a convenient, acceptable womb and that Camilla, her handler, would never stop meddling in her marriage to Camilla’s true lover, like any artisan-soul worth their adventurous, dramatic salt, Diana went off and engaged in revenge lust with the continent’s biggest royal lothario. That dalliance is precisely why HM King Juan-Carlos of Spain, father of Diana’s lovechild, was disinvited at the last minute to the royal wedding of HRH Prince Charles of Wales and Lady Diana Spencer. What was HM The Queen to do at that point, Charles & Diana were already set to be wedded and she, after all, had long abandoned Philip and been besotted and sired by Lord Porchester – and you can bet that she did not give a goddamn what anyone thought. As Charles ignored and carried on with Camila immediately after his wedding, Diana simply resumed relations with King Juan-Carlos and a pregnancy was expected so who would be any the wiser. Meanwhile, she knew damn well that as Queen, she could rip off Porchy’s clothes and mount him on the Buckingham Palace balcony at trooping the colour and not a single damn fool on the island realm would have seen any such thing. Period.

Royal Wedding, Duke & Duchess of York, 1986

Well, of course, Porchy’s boy, HM The Queen’s favoured lovechild was going to have a full 5-star wedding at Westminster Abbey. Another royal wedding, means more tourists after all and more merch income. Pretty soon, though, the fairy story started turning into an abundant flock of lambs for the Fleet Street abattoirs. Toe-sucking and pretty soon, Fergie was cast into the wilderness; not in direct line for the throne anyway, which afforded her to be diversionary scandal. Then faster than a sneeze, there was Diana making perfectly frigging goddamn clear that she was done playing along or playing nice. Never mind that before Penelope Knatchbull, there was HRH Princess Alexandra of Kent, yet HRH Prince Philip made it perfectly clear that he did not ever want to see Sarah, Duchess of York in the same room as him after her divorce. To that end, she was not invited to William and Catherine’s wedding and Meghan and Harry insisted that she be at their wedding; however, she was sat across the quire aisle from the rest of the royals. Incidentally, the Sussexes should not have been surprised at their placement at St. Paul’s Cathedral on June 03, 2022 as this was what HM The Queen decreed. Nonetheless, HM The Queen also made sure that Princess Blackamoor was placed close to the Waleses and Cambridges at St. Paul’s Cathedral on June 03, 2022.

James Hewitt & Diana, Princess of Wales

Diana started taking lovers. Naturally, to toss off Diana and begin her character assassination at the Fleet Street abattoirs, HM The Queen in a move to protect and avenge her honour, has the notion of HRH Prince Harry being Diana’s lovechild with James Hewitt floated. What a very convenient arsenal to draw on, as she was so intimate with this development two decades early with the lovechild with Porchy; simultaneously, it goes a long way to make the notion of Charles & Camilla more feasible in future, which like a turtle she has managed to live to see that PR rebranding of the adulterous Camilla the Ghislaine Maxwell-like groomer and Charles the Tampon prince. Naturally, James Hewitt was just another lamb proffered by HM The Queen and her syndicate, to protect Prince William’s true parentage and thereby get back at Diana for having fucked with not just Charles & Camilla but herself, HM The Queen, by fucking HM King Juan-Carlos of Spain. Of course, in due course as Charles was off loving Camilla and many male lovers, Diana, Princess of Wales wasted little time, taking lovers married or not as has always been the royal way.

After HM The Queen went out and had her lovechild with Lord Porchester, who turned into a real karmic tsunami, Philip for near five decades openly lived a life of passion and companionship with the very married Countess of Burma, Penelope Knatchbull. Just like Porchy’s lovechild, they do as they please and do not give a damn what the little islanders think. Of course, Philip lived to see the day that he was avenged for having been humiliated by a lovechild being in line to the throne ahead of his daughter, HRH Princess Anne, Princess Royal.

Of course, well before there was the very married Penelope Knatchbull, Countess of Burma, there was HRH Princess Alexandra of Kent, HM King George V’s granddaughter and daughter of HRH Prince George, Duke of Kent. Princess Alexandra’s numerology: 25/12/1936 Rat! 7.1.2 = 1. Philip’s affair with Princess Alexandra is what caused the rift in the sovereign’s marriage which resulted in HM The Queen’s affair with the Porchmeister and eventually their passion produced the rather barrel-hipped porchfest, Prince Andrew who exposed the lust and passion that produced him in the debauched affair that saw Jeffrey Epstein, Ghislaine Maxwell and Virginia Roberts-Giuffre being more than tangential bit players and infamous persons known the world over, one to whom they had to pay hush money. This is where it now gets interesting, after Andrew’s birth there was no going back and soon it was Penelope Knatchbull, the very married Countess of Burma with whom Prince Philip was passionately consumed. Penelope’s numerology is most interesting: 16.4.1953 Snake. 7.2.2 = 11. Both women are 7 energy bodied, you can’t get more amoral than that – they can also see dead people, auras et al. The more excitingly fascinating of the two royal mistresses of Prince Philip’s would hands down be Penelope; she has master number 11. These persons are inordinately charming and incredibly powerful and exceptionally gifted in the sexual arts. Moreover, Penelope is born in the year of the Snake; they can be monstrous, which is why Chinese traditionally avoided having babies in the year of the snake for fear that they would give birth to a female. For Princess Alexandra, a Rat, she was just in it for the adventure and with amoral 7 energy body, it was damn great sex and she was not going to not get her fix. Again, it is what the royals have always done.

Harry & Meghan Engagement Interview BBC

One of the most important things that HRH Prince Harry said in his engagement interview, occurred when he corrected BBC host, Mishal Husain by stating, “Or they think they know!” If HM The Queen wants the realm to know, it will be filtered via the abattoirs on Fleet Street. Everything else will be smoke and mirrors and the standard, “Never explain. Never complain” rules the day. Indeed, when you’ve much to hide, so say you.

Royals and their lovers indeed. HRH Princess Margaret, Countess Snowdon 21/8/1930 Horse 3.2.6 = 11

Margaret was possessed of master number 11; she did not give a living shit and said and did as she pleased. She was also innately talented and exceedingly charismatic. She had three lovers of note and only one of them did she share 2 numbers in common. This would have been her one true love, Peter Townsend (22/11/1914 Tiger 4.6.3 = 4). Peter, however, was divorced and his wife was still alive, which means that as the Governor of the Church of England, HM The Queen could not have sanctioned Margaret’s marriage to her true love and divorced spouse. With two numbers in common, it is very likely that there was a high degree of past-life connection between Margaret and Peter Townsend. He was shipped off to Belgium so that she could not have her star-crossed lover on the side. As karma would have it within ten years of Margaret being bitterly separated from Peter Townsend by his relocation to Belgium, Prince Philip was ploughing Princess Alexandra and before the decade was out, HM The Queen had her lovechild with Lord Prochester, HRH Prince Andrew, Duke of York and we know damn well how all that karma turned out, Epstein, Maxwell, Roberts-Giuffre. All the more reason why it was callous in the extreme to have dispatched Peter Townsend to Belgium. Margaret could have wedded whomever and kept Peter as lover, open or otherwise; this after all, is what both HM The Queen and Prince Philip did… it is what the royals have always done.

Margaret having been told to suck it up and get on with living, then settled for Antony Armstrong-Jones, 1st Earl Snowdon. It is hard to see what had these two walking down the aisle, unless Antony Armstrong-Jones (7/3/1930 Horse 7.1.5 = 4) was hung like a prized steed. Margaret and Antony did not a single number in common share; she had to have kids and if he loved being pegged by strap-on or cock, he would not have been the first royal male with same-sex proclivities. Finally, having had enough of playing at happily married, Margaret dispensed with her pegged hubby and cut to the chase. She took Roddy Llewellyn (9/10/1947 Pig 9.1.4 = 5) as her lover. She needed to be well-ploughed and often and when that is the order, no one fills the role better than a Pig. Pigs are loud, lusty, sexually obsessive souls who will happily fulfil themselves and partners as often as possible. Soused on drink and nicotine all Princess Margaret wanted was damn good sex and that is just what Roddy would have provided. Like the Earl Snowdon, Margaret and Roddy had no numbers in common. At 17 years Margaret’s junior, Roddy was merely a throbbing sex toy and knew his role.

Please, Switch to Elderflower; It Is Most Soothing…

Catherine Bullies William at James Bond Premier

Catherine has mastered the art of cussing behind clenched teeth whilst smiling that ever-present smile of hers. Her 9 energy body here is toxic in the extreme and that is why for most of the time, William’s face is warped into a pursed-lipped silence. William is a submissive; he is a bottom who loves being bullied by his wife and it is part of their psychosexual dynamic. Catherine is a dominatrix. Who again made whom cry?

Look at the Froideur Between Cambridges at No Time to Die Premier

Catherine peppered William with abuse common to dominatrixes whilst smiling and looking his way; just look at her exasperation at the 40 second mark. On arriving at the top of the stairs, Catherine looked across to William who had still not made it up. She cuts the eye at him and does not give a damn who the world over noticed.

Bottoms Up! Now we learn where best fake-toothed, bald, submissive Billy likes to wear his crown jewels! If that is not rich…. of course, it has always been there. You can even see it in the way Catherine triggers William in the clip of them out bike-riding and encountering an amateur photographer. Of course, William’s mum, Diana, Princess of Wales was 1 energy-bodied and that is the sign of the dominatrix/bully. I have also known four women along life’s journey and everyone of them had men whom they utterly controlled, emasculated and pussy-whipped their every breath. Heck, two of those women, with energy body of 9, loved using a strap-on on their lovers/partners.

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Perhaps, indeed, he loves being pegged by James Middleton, Earl of Insolvency. Again, William’s fourth number is 5, it signifies male sexual fluidity, submissive behaviour, sexual excess, sexual scandal; furthermore, William is moving centred and all such persons are highly sex-focussed individuals. 5 represents excess – excessive submission. All this has happened throughout the history of the royal family; now, we live in an age where very little goes unnoticed.

Just look at William in both photographs on separate occasions; his lips are pursed and he is self-contained, emasculated and submissive. William is also jealous as hell but there isn’t a damn thing that he can do about it. A woman loves whom she loves and that’s that! Meanwhile, Catherine (9/1/1982 Rooster 9.1.3 = 4) does not waste time in telegraphing her heightened sexuality when focussed on Ben; she is all over and into Sir Ben Ainslie (5/2/1977 Dragon 5.7.4 = 7). This has been going on at least since 2014 and always, no one ever makes mention. In light of what we know about Prince Philip and HM The Queen, in this generation, we also do have a parallel dynamic. Catherine has made it perfectly clear, time and again, that William is a goddamn irritant. Not to be overlooked, is the fact that Dragons and Dogs do NOT get along; there is no way that William would ever feel comfortable around Ben and will be consumed with jealousy rather than not with regards Ben; Catherine intuitively knows this and plays it up even more. Make no mistake about it, there is more than flirting at play here. What’s poor Willy to do but go self-peg or cocksuck a couple of fags (British version or is that a pun?).

Catherine openly flirts with Ben and what does it say about their relationship when he adjusts her helmet; it is the most bold display of their intimacy. Of course, on the day of this Commonwealth invitational sailing event between Britain and New Zealand – Britain won – Catherine could not have bothered nor would she have dropped the sailing event, to attend Wembley Stadium with her husband, William, whilst the ladies England team squared off against Germany in the Ladies Euros 2022 finals, which they won. There was William alone and unattended by his wife, Catherine, who was in Plymouth openly flirting with her very intimate friend, Ben Ainslie.

Sir Ben Ainslie and Wife, Royal Box Wimbledon 2022

More important for Catherine was spending sportive quality time with Sir Ben. Well, of course, Sir Ben is married but so too is Penelope Knatchbull and Princess Alexandra wedded when they were the open lovers of Prince Philip’s, HM The Queen or no queen, to say nothing of the rest of humanity. But did anyone ever notice or write biographies and harp on as though the sky were imminently about to collapse?

Honestly, though they only have one match numerologically, there may be a strong past-life history between both Ben & Catherine or they may well be entity/cadre mates; either way, she is a warrior and all warrior souls whether male or female are very highly sexed persons, for whom there is never any shame in their game when they want to be sexually satisfied. Catherine is no different and she has the perfect partner. More sex workers and street walkers are warrior souls than any other role… so you know.

You definitely do not see Catherine ever looking this downright maudlin when in the company of Sir Ben Ainslie. “Lady sings the blues. She’s got it bad…” Sing it Billie Holiday. You wait, Billy, she’s gonna peg you good. Take a sip and breathe dears… exhale; isn’t Elderflower superb?

William is an insipid, foul-tempered man-child, who does find ready support in the court buffoon, whose wife is as equally dominant as is Catherine. He, too, likely does love being pegged. This could have been such smooth sailing; however, you just had to go tempting karma by being nasty little upfront racists towards Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Now that she is gone, you’ve blown your cover… from Prince Damien to personal preference on how to wear the crown jewels, are truly unmasking.

It’s Okay, Take A Minute…
The Camera Never Lies!
Marquess & Marchioness of Cholmondeley, Earl & Countess of Rocksavage, Houghton Hall

If you going to reincarnate and work as a team on a life devoted to stewardship, this remarkably august pair would be as fine a blueprint as you could hope for. I don’t know if they are task companions or essence twins but what I do know, is that they are without doubt august mature souls with a strong past-life history. They do a remarkable job of not just maintaining an estate, Houghton Hall, they have handsomely adapted it to survive and thrive in modern times.

David 27/6/60 Rat 9.6.4 = 1 Marquess & Rose 15/3/84 Rat 6.9.4 = 1 Marchioness of Cholmondeley

All four of their numbers match; this is a bucolic reward incarnation for both and it has to do with a lifetime, which was chosen at the level of soul because they had richly earned/deserved it. As the 7th Marquess of Cholmondeley his 9 energy body is vastly different to Catherine’s. For one, he was born into the aristocracy and for another a woman with 9 energy body is vastly more acerbic, predatory than a male with 9 energy body; Catherine was also not of aristocratic birth, which only steeled her 9 energy body’s exoskeleton. Rose’s 6 energy body means that as also of aristocratic birth, she is all about being grounded, family-focussed and eschewing drama. This couple so get each other that it would not be surprising if they regularly finished each other’s sentences, experienced a strong degree of telepathy, most definitely communicate rather actively in dreams and when they are together can effect magical stillness when in a room. They are quite remarkable. Life is a business; they get it and run a business they do. As any good rat knows, life is about balance and duality. They indulge and when they play, they lose themselves.

Cambridges & Rocksavages

Much has been whispered at tea about this pairing of couples. Honey, I don’t read tea leaves. I am inclined to believe that Catherine wanted Rose frozen out, simply because Catherine is a warrior soul and all warrior souls are quick to do battle, anywhere, anytime, with whomsoever with enemies real or imagined, many of whom prove the latter. Catherine, as with Meghan, is easily threatened. In this case, Rose’s aristocratic birth would be reason enough to look to freeze her out.

The Rocksavages are mature souls and as Rats, they could give two frigs about trifling drama; they are far too sophisticated to get caught up in that. They are aristocratic; one does as one has always done. It is the spouse’s duty to accept and live with it or suffer the consequences. William’s fourth number of 5 means that as there has been smoke, and copious amounts, I might add, I say there most definitely is a raging fire… hey, blame it on climate change.

Fortnum & Mason Elderflower Tea

Wasn’t that sublime? It’s remarkably elegant and sensual. I find it also induces the most languorously lucid dreams. Always good to take the time for tea. Cheers. Speaking of dreams, I think the link to this dream almost 30 years ago, is a fitting metaphor for how the BRF, Fleet Street and the island realm dwellers relate to the Sussexes. Don’t, like the dog in this dream, be like the aforementioned: BRF, Fleet Street and island dwellers of the realm.

Go on, let them yap… soar higher still.
Buster at My Birthday Dinner

Saturday past, as it is a holiday weekend here, my spouse and I crated Buster and took him to my sister Pandora’s. There we had too much Moet, can you possibly ever have too much champagne, and had an early birthday dinner with luscious raspberry-covered cake ahead of my 62nd on Tuesday. 2/8/1960 Rat 2.1.8 = 11. Buster sat on the desk, looking out the window because since Pandora and hubby moved back to town from Ottawa, her two cats – mother and daughter – can’t seem to make heads or tail of him. Buster scurries about and now it’s gotten to the point of a hiss there, a hiss here. Either way, he calms himself by taking to the window and gazing up at the Aura condominium, which towers higher still than those across Bay Street.

Miles Davis Quintet, 1964 Live in Milan

Miles Davis – Trumpet

Wayne Shorter – Saxophone

Herbie Hancock – Piano

Ron Carter – Bass

Tony Williams – Drums

Ron Carter 4/5/1937 Ox 4.9.2 = 5

As this is the 65th anniversary of Ron Carter’s career as Jazz bassist extraordinaire, I thought this concert a fitting tribute. Jazz is the magical language of Black love and spirituality. From Emmett Till to George Floyd, honestly, how can you possibly expect us to suffer the repugnant affront of you, seeking to cancel Jazz, cancel Black culture by your grudging ubiquity? You will never do.

One of these days, Buster’s gonna catch a pigeon.

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

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

By Any Means, We Win!

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What William wants, William gets; he is the spoilt, over-indulged man-child, who also happens to be inordinately stupid and lacks awareness in direct contrast to his paternal grandmother, HM The Queen – one only has to recall his behaviour during Sheku Kanneh-Mason’s performance at the 2018 Royal Wedding of the Sussexes which validates this fact.  

What possible strategic import is Bhutan such that TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge had to pay the inordinately handsome King a visit?  None!  William bothered and besotted, clearly had to make that journey and realise his public school boy fantasy.  

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Obsessively controlling, this is the only known photograph of HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge with a gun whilst hunting.  A carefully stage-managed persona, which airbrushes out anything that could possibly cast him in a negative light.  Just like when recently stridently denying that there was any bullying on his (William’s) part of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex or that TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge could in any way have been party to the campaign of isolation, racially predatory bullying and collusion with the print medium to slander, vilify and drive the American negro from being within the ranks of the senior royals.  

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Following TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge, everyone fell into line and ignored, isolated, excluded and condescendingly gloated, hissed at Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.  The Cambridges, like HRH Prince Andrew, Duke of York and his relations with murdered paedophile Jeffrey Epstein, simply do not relate to or engage with blacks.  Period.  There is no fudging the issue.  As such, they would have seen it as a betrayal on the part of HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex to have gone and wedded a black woman, thereby bringing into their midst, the most undesirable of possible wives. 

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The Cambridges’ bigotry is precisely why that flat-arsed, no-calved freak, HRH Princess Michael of Kent, felt perfectly justified in wearing the blackamoor brooch to HM The Queen’s annual Christmas Lunch in 2017.  This display would have been a way of currying favour with the toxic 9s (the Cambridges) who head the court at Kensington Palace.  

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This is precisely why it was contingent on TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge visiting his shitty little enterprise, there was pea-brained Amir Khan, claiming to all the world that there is no racism in England; however, you can damn well bet that the blithering jackass certainly thinks that there is Islamophobia in England.  Matters not how the Cambridges run off to Pakistan and find them more desirable than the predominantly black Commonwealth countries’ citizens, radical Muslims are never going to cease fantasising of putting your skull in the small of your back.  So sad to watch the descendants of the world’s greatest empire kiss-arse in a bid not to be hunted by those who will never cease seeing them as the enemy, even in your own land.  Alas, such is the cruel justice that is karma.   

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Here we have another Asian Briton, running off at the mouth and making absurd inflammatory claims as there is no racism in England.  That is as absurd as any man anywhere, denying that women experience sexism.  If there is no anti-Semitism, no Islamophobia then yes, there is no racism towards blacks.  Obviously, no way Muslim Khans, Amir & Saira, would agree that there is no Islamophobia.  These Asians as they curry favour with whites, just come off looking as latter day house niggers for stridently denying that blacks experience racism.  Just because a Mongolian does not experience anti-Semitism does not meant that anti-Semitism does not exist.  Really sick and tired of all these holier-than-though, non-white, non-blacks, stoking racial divisions by denying racism towards blacks exist, simply because it earns then favoured nation status with people they would, in the case of the Khans et al, readily favour the heads of the same whites, they feign defending, in the small of their backs.  

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Henry & Meghan attending HM The Queen’s 2017 Christmas Lunch at Buckingham Palace.  

Where pray tell were the Cambridges coming forward at Christmas 2017 and stridently defending Harry and his wife and stating that there was no place in their court for behaviour like that of HRH Princess Michael of Kent.  Yet, there was William having the clueless Amir Khan, pronouncing that there is no racism in England.  Alas, there is no sophistication in the actions of stupid persons.  He said nothing about the brooch incident; however, when your brother and his wife are being run out of England, you get a convenient kiss-arse to come forward and deny racism in England.  

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As fate would have it, it truly would be poetic justice to have HRH Prince George of Cambridge end up marrying one of the many well-heeled and aggressive Indo-Pakistani families that now see opportunity, what with the American negro crashing the gates of the palace.  Sadly, of course, George will likely end up converting to his wife’s religion in such a scenario and there would go all those centuries of tradition and history.  Just imagine, all the art in Buckingham Palace carted to the courtyard and destroyed like the Buddhist statues in Afghanistan were; thereafter, Buck House become a palatial mosque at the end of the mall  Indeed, fitting karma for a history of warring and slavery; more than that, fitting karma for having bullied, racially preyed on and driven out Meghan that undesirable American negro. 

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You keep on avoiding those predominantly black Commonwealth countries, though future sovereign thereof; you may yet rue the day your bigotry got the better of you.  Look at the preceding photograph, both Cambridges are hard-faced and sullen, betraying their desire not to be in the company of people like these, who happen to be predominantly black as they are the leaders of Africa at a UK/Africa summit.  All royals with hands clasped as though wanting not to be contaminated by undesirables.  

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Just as at Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor’s christening photograph, William had the same look of disgust and loathing for having to be in the presence of such undesirables… blacks.  

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Both the Cambridges walking into the salon at Buckingham Palace to meet the predominantly black delegation of African leaders at the reception for the UK/Africa Summit with the faces looking hard, vexed and like thunder; apart from the fact that their marriage is a fractious, hostile waste of time, they are also not holding back on their displeasure at having to engage people about whom they do not give two fucks.  

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All this trip demonstrated, is who William’s advisers are and who he looks up to.  There was no import in a future head of the Church of England, kowtowing to any other religion anywhere.  HM The Queen has never done it; then again, Israel is not a predominantly black Commonwealth nation.  The sad reality is, William could not fathom that to many with a discerning intellect, he looked as ridiculously silly as he found Rev. Curry as he openly ridiculed him to his father during the Royal wedding in 2018 of his brother at St. George’s Chapel in Windsor Castle before his brother’s mother-in-law.  William is an alarmingly clueless chump.   

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Indeed, there were the Sussexes on the eve of the 2019 Remembrance Sunday service in Whitehall with Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall not turning up; she bowed out at the last minute over claims of being under the weather.  Yet, there she was the day following in the balcony in Whitehall next to HM The Queen, looking as prune-faced as ever.  

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Well before you knew what next, there was Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex emigrated to Canada.  Now that’s more like the Tudor matriarch we know and love; damn right said Meghan, ‘Bitch I’m not your dirty tampon!’  Regardless how that sissy-arsed closet case, Piers Morgan loudly farts from the wrong orifice, Meghan is not a quitter.  Funny how he failed to have stated that though not the star, Meghan did not quit Suits for all of seven years.  Wanna know why pussy-face, because she was not being racially preyed on, disrespected and of all people by persons whom she readily discerned are fucking idiots… to put it delicately.  

Just look at the rabid, racially predatory idiot having to soul-search and claim after Meghan has said, ‘Fuck you, I’m out,’ having to run around and defend that they were never being racist.  If Meghan had not left, you would not be having this debate, rather, you would be continuing on with the same racialised reportage that got you massive advertising revenue.  Well, don’t you worry about it, Americans do not like being treated like shit and they are second to no one.   The days of British actors migrating to America and walking off with awards, awards season after awards season are numbered.  How many American actors from Julliard end up in BBC dramas or anywhere for that matter on British TV or film?  None; it simply never happens!  

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Only a self-assured soul who had been highly placed in the BRF in previous lives and one who played just as pivotal a role as the current sovereign, HM The Queen, could be so strong, indomitable and possessed of a true sense of self.  Yes, indeed, why suffer through decades of being racially preyed on by royal households, royals both minor and senior?  Good of the Sussexes to have gotten out now, in the next decade or two at most, William will likely be sovereign and he and his warring wife are the most ill-equipped persons you can possibly imagine, to carry on the heritage of the current sovereign, HM The Queen.  

Ragland, Doria 2/9/56 Cleveland, Ohio.

Michael: This fragment is a fifth-level mature slave – second life thereat.  Doria is in the perseveration mode with a goal of dominance.  A realist, Doria is in the intellectual part of moving centre. 

Doria’s primary chief feature is impatience and the secondary, stubbornness. 

Doria’s body type is Venus/Saturn. 

The fragment Doria is fifth-cast in the second cadence.  Doria is a member of greater cadence seven.  Doria’s entity is three, cadre six, greater cadre 7 pod 418. 

Doria’s essence twin is a slave and the task companion a priest who is known to her. 

Doria’s three primary needs are: exchange, adventure and power. 

There are 5 past-life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin.  ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

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As is obvious, Doria is a cadre mate of HM The Queen, her daughter, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex, Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor and HRH Prince George of Cambridge.  Archie and George are entity mates; however, whereas Archie is the 7th level mature priest, George is a fourth mature king!  The senior Cambridges are in no way connected to any of the aforementioned persons at the level of soul; the former persons, though, share a bond, which would never be marred by anything that the Cambridges would do.   

How’s that for karmic dessert for the bloody savagery you meted out to Africa and her descendants even to this day and which, like the smug cowards you are, will rant up and down, protesting that it has anything to do with race as you lynched HRH Prince Henry and his wife for being a goddamn American negro straight out of Compton.  These people actually get a high out of fucking with blacks and denying to our faces that racism exists.  There is no way in high hell that Piers Morgan would bring a Muslim, Muslim cleric or Jihadist onto his show and take pleasure in fucking with such an individual and claim that there is no such thing as Islamophobia – certainly, his open animus towards Afua Hirsch is standard behaviour towards blacks. 

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In all this high jinks, William and Catherine had not foreseen the ramifications of their grudging, racially predatory behaviour towards Meghan and her husband.  Now that Meghan has taken Harry and her family to Canada, there is HM The Queen’s greatest legacy, the Commonwealth, left in ruins as it is a known fact that neither William nor Catherine have any desire to mix with the predominantly black Commonwealth heads-of-states and definitely they are not the least bit inclined to go visit those nations.  

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Archie was the catalyst for the Sussexes to make their break for North America.  There was Meghan, refusing to play by the rules and when finally she revealed a photo of Archie with his great-grandmother, there were they all looking on adoringly as though he were the messiah.  Further, there was of all things a dread-locked black woman in the photograph and the royal baby’s grandmother no less.  If that were not bad enough, without access to Archie as the Sussexes denied the royal rota for attacking Meghan, they presented him at court to Archbishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu, the very reminder of white privilege not being a given anymore.  There was Archie, a royal baby, being fawned over by that vile attacker of Apartheid as heroic Baroness Thatcher saw him, to say nothing of Nelson Mandela. 

Indeed, Meghan is infinitely smarter than the royal rota realised; this is after all, the same soul who proved the matriarch of the Tudor dynasty.  No messing with Meghan.  Britons with their inferiority complex towards richer, larger, brasher Americans just had to bully, bray and racially prey on the black witch.  Too bad, you never thought that black American woman was going to fight back and pull the rug out from under the bullying royal rota’s feet.  

This couple, possessed of matching numbers, and toxic at that, 9 and 3 are as culpable in Meghan deciding that the best move to save their marriage and sanity was to hell with the Cambridges’ games and get out.  The royal rota is dead and for being in Canada, who could care less what they think? 

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Now the ball is in the powerful royal rota’s court and the The Sun’s racist editor can go stuff a cock in every orifice as he does the bidding of his vile overlord, whose oft-passed-around, Texan escort wife pretty much sums up the lack of integrity associated with that racist behemoth.  Who cares now what Piers Morgan thinks in his daily shrill, race-baiting sniper fire at Meghan and Harry?  All this because it has everything to do with race. 

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The Windsors represent the lionisation of white privilege; more than that, they represent the purity of white genetics.  The irony of all this is that almost all European royals invariably descend from HM Queen Victoria, who was directly descended from the very equally black wife as Meghan, Duchess of Sussex of HM, King George III’s, Queen Charlotte.  

Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor is the manifestation of Piers Morgan and all racist Britain’s worse fears.  There is a royal child, who is directly born to the womb of a black woman.  Of course, that black woman would be reviled and become the most lynched black in human history.  Indeed, why should she suffer it; it is madness, has nothing to do with her or reality and as the Sussexes clearly love each other, why subject yourself to such toxicity?  Why be vilified, lied about, openly hated and ridiculed all because you did not give birth to a child who is of pure white heritage.  

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This ultimately has nothing to do with Meghan.  Meghan, though, was the crucible of their worse fears realised; the moment you breed with non-whites, you lose your very less than dominant genetic blonde and blue-eyed stock, which of course is widely claimed as superior.  The obvious love this man, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex has for his wife, Meghan, a black woman and their non-white child is at the heart of the open racially predatory animus these ugly people bear Meghan and her family; yet, these cowardly liars swear up and down that it has nothing to do with race!  

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Well here’s another obvious lie of yours, on which your civilisation is based: sorry not buying it – Mary did not lay down and give birth to Christ without once having fucked.  From that one lie, has sprung a culture of lies where everything is based in lies…  right down to trying to deny Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex her humanity.  To hell with the royal households, the Cambridges and any other royals who would deny this great eloquent, intellectually and emotionally intelligent woman her rightful human respect. 

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Since the institution and its rabid racists could never be expected to change, on realising this, fast enough, one day Meghan looked herself in the mirror, smiled and said, ‘I am much too tall to be made to feel this small.’  Meghan decided to be the change that the House of Windsor needed, ‘Come on H, we are moving to Canada, you are finally going to be emancipated.’  Free at last were they of the toxic brother (William) and his equally toxic wife (Catherine) whom, I might add,  Harry never rejected. 

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Let them finally get off their arses and do something remotely looking like work and more importantly, looking like a couple in love…  hyperemesis gravidarum my arse!  Meghan driven out because singly or combined, the Cambridges were outshone by Meghan, indeed, Meghan and Harry. 

Like Charles with Diana, Princess of Wales before them, a petulant, jealous William colluded with his wife and conspired to demonise that black witch.  They had never in a million years envisioned Meghan, upping and abandoning them and their BS.  Look at William in the above clip; he is winded, embarrassed and unfocussed and hardly ever looks up.  Whatever are they going to do?  Meghan pulled a move that they had never seen coming in a million years.  His culpability in the matter is betrayed by his not once cracking a joke, which is his usual approach on taking to the lectern

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Well, there you are centre stage, as boring as day-old porridge and just as sodden as cardboard left outdoors during monsoon season.  Go on mousy, go on cock-suck that mic and show us how you have found the voice you never had to lose in the first place.  Now Meghan can speak before an audience without having the royal household, directed by the Cambridges, scrub the internet of her speeches, as they did with her eloquent speech to the 2018 British Fashion Awards.  

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Really you two, what exactly have you won?  Now centre stage, the spotlight will be most unforgiving as it ferrets out who you truly are.  Your collusion with royal rota is up, the beast needs new blood to feast on… and you are it.    

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2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

It’s The Brooch, Stupid!

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As the seven-headed Royal Rota beast starts attacking itself at the news that TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex have laid down the law, which definitely does not include them, they have elected to declare all out war!  Naturally, the American negro whom they spent every inch of broadsheet demonising, vilifying and mercilessly racially preying on, now had to be blamed and attacked.  Never having approved of the black, who ought to have been nothing more than a bit on the side, having married a blood royal prince, the first response comes from that pussy-faced bigot extraordinaire screaming like the closeted cocksucker that he is, ‘Take away their HRH titles!.’  Revoking the Sussexes titles is as good as divorce and finally the royal rota and the majority of racists can have a marriage annulled that they never thought should have occurred.  Too, all of a sudden, they are concerned about the frailty of the indomitable monarch, HM Queen Elizabeth II. 

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By the time that HRH Princess Michael of Kent wore her blackamoor brooch to the 2017 Queen’s Lunch at Buckingham Palace, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex would have regularly been subjected to open racial animus from all quarters within the BRF and the royal households.  Naturally, the ubiquitous garden variety bigots were all emboldened by the race-baiting narrative being driven by the bemused royal rota.  What is their defense for the brooch – Meghan had gifted it to the no-calved freak and insisted that she wear it?  Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex makes her Buckingham Palace balcony debut at 2018 Trooping the Colour and she is cunningly eclipsed when it is decided that the four royal colonels who had ridden by horse to and from the palace: HRH Princess Anne, Princess Royal, HRH Prince Andrew, Duke of York, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales and HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge are to stand alongside HM The Queen.  

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In the following year, again, the four royal colonels were staged, rather than the protocol of precedence, such that TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex were again in the back and eclipsed.  More importantly, in 2019, TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge were as far away from the Sussexes as possible; this, of course, would only validate the tensions between both of Diana, Princess of Wales’s descendant families.  

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As whites are always readily indignant when denying the existence of racism, the current feverish quarterbacking, addressing every possible reason for the Sussexes’ decision to forge their own future, covers everything except the obvious – the stinking racism within the BRF and the royal households… to say nothing within the royal rota and British society at large.  The obvious assumption is that we owned you people for 400 years.  Of course, we damn well have a right to openly hate you, racially prey on you because we damn well can and are damn well right in our perceptions… most of all, our heritage is above reproach. 

Copping hauteur and curling one’s hideous, thin lizard upper lip aside, selectively and romanticising the past is all well and fine but the reason for damn well hating Meghan and what she represents, is precisely because were it not for those 400 years of making you fabulously wealthy, Britons would be no better off than Albanians.  You can never possibly begin to fathom the degree to which blacks have long ago figured out your own special brand of crazy.  Though superiorly armed; crazy the fuck is crazy.  

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The Sussexes are in the power position, HM The Queen cannot afford the fallout of having the bride of the Commonwealth Youth Ambassador of the predominantly black Commonwealth banished, stripped of royal titles and also removed from her Commonwealth position.  Not only does one run the real risk of many of those predominantly black Commonwealth countries leaving, more serious is the threat of the Sussexes doing a sit-down interview with that other Queen, Oprah Winfrey.  As it is, Britons come off as the ugly racist boors that sadly they are.  Also, if stripped of titles, Meghan HRH Duchess of Sussex would be seen as an admirable American who refused to toe the line and scrape and bow to persons who are bigoted boors, in particular TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge.  Meghan does not have to respect Catherine, she did nothing but traipse after/stalk the oaf with limited communication/body language/emotional intelligence until she got the ring and promptly laid down the law whilst rowing and dismissing him during her first appearance on the balcony at Buckingham Palace on the day of their wedding.  

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The fact remains that if HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex had taken a Japanese, Muslim, Chinese, Korean, East Indian or Burmese wife, the royal rota and the British public would not have been so feral with open animus towards any such non-white wife.  To those owed karma, one is always most resently, hateful and obsessed.  Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has been a crucible for that hatred/fear but at the end of the day, the Tudor matriarch did not come back to suffer immolation by rabid racial predators.  Where’s the thriving in that?  And, as she articulately laid bare in her engagement interview, this woman is stratospherically more emotionally intelligent than certainly the Cambridges and all the other members of the BRF, to say nothing of the royal households, combined. 

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It isn’t just enough to be a goddamn token; this is not the frigging 1960s.  Being brayed at and water-hosed by the royal rota, who are now hand-wringing and assuming zero fuck-all culpability, is no way to live.  As Jessica Mulroney so deftly shared on her IG account, “a strong woman looks a challenge in the eye and gives it a wink.”  I will go one further; She winks, smiles then speed dials Oprah.  No one played Margaret Beaufort and no one plays TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex.  Going forward, no matter what the senior royals do, this is the end result of their racially hostile response to Meghan in their midst…. they know who they are and their actions have betrayed their culpability.  Positively nothing was done as this woman was being lynched; instead, the royal rota and them decided to play central casting and turn Catherine into a star.  Not a damn soul at the Gersh Agency would represent that mousy drab bore.  Once the royal rota get over having been emasculated and eviscerated by TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex, they can finally go feed on the ruined façade that’s left of the Cambridges’ marriage. 

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TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex simply did what no one within the BRF had the balls to do: deal with the royal rota’s out-of-control vigilantism.  The royal rota and their legal team have looked at the Sussexes’ declaration and see lawsuits that they can never win and a loss of power, which frankly they should never have acquired.  On the day of their glorious wedding, commentators asked how was Meghan going to change the BRF… not being the royal rota’s bitch is damn well how one modernises the BRF.  You cannot use the royal rota, as the Cambridges have, to wage a grudge match with the more stylish and popular though less senior royals, the Sussexes.  Again, if you are going to play your cunning games via the royal rota, do so at your peril when dealing with an American.  

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The Royal Rota behaved as they did because they knew damn well that there was little acceptance of the black American within the senior royals’ midst.  On the eve of the 2019 Remembrance Service in Whitehall, there were TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex alone minus Camilla, HRH #Duchess of Cornwall who was a no-show, claiming being under the weather.  The next day, however, there she was on the balcony in Whitehall on HM The Queen’s immediate right, showing no signs of illness.  Just as when she did not want to, Camilla hosted an event in Scotland, rather than attend HRH Princess Eugenie of York’s wedding in October 2018.  

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No other faction would have exerted more pressure on HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales to alienate the black American than HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge.  He has never his life long, unlike his brother, betrayed being at ease around blacks.  He, along with his inarticulate, insecure wife, went out of their way to make HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex’s wife feel unwanted.  Both possessed of 9s in their numerological makeup, proved themselves petty, grudging and prejudicial in the negative manifestations of the immensely difficult to master number 9.  

So threatened were they by articulate, accomplished, self-made and emotionally centred Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex that never once was she allowed to attend a state dinner where she would be expected to wear a crown.  Once and only once did she go on an outing with HM The Queen.  On the official BRF YouTube channel, Meghan’s rather articulate speech whilst attending the 2018 British Fashion Awards was edited to her making the introduction and being thanked by Claire Waight Keller; the entire Internet has been scrubbed clean of her entire speech.  By virtue of the Cambridges’ pettiness, all of a sudden in the past year, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge has been shoved forward, making speeches and deigning to appear remotely human and speaking to the media.  All indicators are there in plain view, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has been horribly treated by senior and minor royals alike along with the royal households and none of it was clearly ever challenged by HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales who obviously is Prince Regent in all but name.  Bullying Charles, his father, to pose with granny and his darling little twinkle toes, the clearly pussy-whipped, oafish William assumed that Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex was prepared to endure a lifetime of BS from the likes of someone whom she obviously dismisses as an idiot.   

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A proud black woman, under no circumstances is Meghan prepared to have her son, Archie Harrison, treated as she has been treated by any royal or hideously racist members of the royal households in an echo of her upbringing around shitty excuses for human beings like Samantha and Thomas Jr. did during her childhood and the moment she became engaged to HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.  HM The Queen, knew the importance in Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex being wedded to a senior royal; it cemented the love and respect the blacks across the Commonwealth bear her.  Be that as it may, as HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge could not care less what ‘granny’ wants, he would just as readily dispense with the undesirable ‘negro’ in his family as he would all those blacks in the Commonwealth.  I am sure that he would consider it a good thing if with the Duchess of Sussex’s treatment and ouster, some predominantly black Commonwealth member states were to pull out.  He has never visited any such country and likely never will.  

Everything is a damn choice.  Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex clearly sees little difference between TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge and Samantha Grant & Thomas Markle Jr., they are bigots not worth associating with.  Of one thing you can be certain, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex will never allow Archie to have contact with his cousins.   HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex never treated Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge differently either before or after she joined the BRF.  I ceased following Amelia Windsor on Instagram when that little half-wit of dubious beauty on attending the 2018 British Fashion Awards failed to acknowledge Meghan’s presence there in her insta-stories, though there were many other highlights of Amelia’s night at the awards. 

With Meghan and Harry’s departure and with the royal rota no longer having direct access to them, it is time for them to start covering the real story in the House of Windsor, TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge’s disintegrating marriage.  

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

4.3.4 = 11

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Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has the most masterful numbers. She does, indeed, have master numbers: 11. Look at those eyes, the eyes of Queen Mother, to HM King Henry VI, grandmother to HM King Henry VIII and great-grandmother to HM Queen Elizabeth I. She has staying power, thanks to those double 4s and with an attitude of 3, she is renowned for being most articulate and a skilled communicator of the message.

4 – focussed, solid, self-made, resolute, inner-directed, reincarnated with an agendum.

3 – attitude of 3 – gracious living, the great communicator, when one speaks others listen. There is only win-win, failure is never an option for these persons. Incidentally, Ben Mulroney is an attitude of 3, which is why he is a gracious interviewer – non-confrontational. Also, I have noticed that a lot of persons who planned a life in the public sphere tend to have 9 and 3 in their make up, as in both HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and his lovely wife, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge. Incidentally, these three persons, Ben and the Cambridges would have been very relaxed in each others company and true to her 9 energy body, Catherine would likely have made a dig at her husband along the lines, ‘He certainly has a great head of hair…’ As it is perfectly naturally for straight men to be attracted to each other, they would not be human if they did not, both men would have been pleasantly warmed by the other’s make-up with their similar 9 and 3. Catherine and Ben both are 9 energy body; they would have found each other more than passingly fascinating. Catherine is a warrior which means that she will always be steely; as for Ben, don’t know his overleaves but I am guessing that he is more so on the expression axis rather than not – an artisan or sage soul. In my experience, whereas 9 women can be extremely rude and dismissive, 9 men are reserved and not given to readily passing judgment.

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There is also the matter of Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge being in perseverance mode, which is as unrelenting a foe as you can ever imagine, on top of which she is a warrior. This woman was born to be Queen Consort and that’s the end of that, there will be no Camilla rewriting the script. Interestingly enough, both Diana, Princess of Wales’ sons are wedded to very strong women – as well they should be. In both cases, both couples are entity mates, which is as good a partnering as one can hope for. Meghan, however, with double 4s and master number of 11 is here to rule as when previously she had as Queen Mother and Tudor dynasty matriarch.

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Not only is 11 a master number but it also leaves all such persons lone wolves, regardless how popular they are. This explains why Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex will faster-than-a-sneeze dispense with persons when need be. And yes, she has every damn right to be done with the blasted dreck that do not know the meaning of family: honour, fealty, discretion. I am, where the master number 11 is concerned, just such a person… 2.1.8 = 11. Of course, like Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge that attitude of 1 means that I am more inclined to be shy and reserved than ‘on’. At least that was the rule when Merlin was incarnate and we were together. Now, more of the 11 comes to the fore and I simply give two-fucks and sound off loudly and most articulately.

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Recently, owing to a host of prickly transits, to say nothing of the mercury retrograde, I have found myself beset with some entanglements that have provoked the less polished side of my Venus/Uranus conjunction. This all began around the time that I wrote the blog about that blasted tarbaby frog finally showing his true colours. I had no less than 8 French Canadians getting up in my business, demanding that I delete aforementioned blog and that these were the indiscretions of youth. Bitch please! After having lived in Montréal for seven years with the best task companion/comrade-in-arms an equally seventh level mature soul, though, she a warrior, we gave as good as we got. Of course, said warrior became my wife at Palais du Justice on Bob Marley’s birthday in 1999. Today, we remain the best of friends and she now he, has a fully beard than I have ever sported…. alas, I digress. A couple of weeks ago, I was being regaled by my sister who lives in Nevis about my mother’s cousin whose funeral it was that day. She died at age 107 and was attended by quite the turn out with le tout Nevis’ elites in tow. Though I have never met, her great-granddaughter was part of the descendants who eulogised the grand dame; that great-granddaughter was Mel B (Scary Spice) of Spice Girls fame. I have though several times met my fathers cousin, the inimitable and truly regal, Cicely Tyson, wife of Jazz genius, Miles Davis a man who did not gladly suffer people who hate him or his race…. as well he damn ought to have.

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As I entered the little school in my neighbourhood, a spry spirit who always is good for a laugh, beamed on seeing me as he sat on his scooter with equally situated mates and inquired, “And who will you be voting for?” to which I shot back, “You can damn well bet it won’t be for no blasted motherfucking, cocksucking tarbaby-arsed frog!” raucous laughter peppered the air as I went in and voted conservative for the first time in my life. Enough of that sissy-arsed twat, who is nothing more than Modi’s pappishow with his displaced femme au foyer, fag-hag frau, Madame Plotte-Visage herself, who looks more and more each day like Tammy Faye Bakker. You don’t like black people… go fuck yourself… god only knows, you did not invent Jazz!

Days earlier en route home with my little suitcase in tow, I got up off the bench to take the Wellesley 94 bus eastbound to my art-filled lair. The bus pulled in and queerly parked such that the back door was a good three feet away – I have never seen the appeal of metric… nothing beats knowing whether you are dealing with 9.5 or 10.5 inches! Though my suitcase was too heavy, I was prepared to step off the platform to make for the rear doors, yet, the doors did not open. Finally, I joined the Dravidian male who had been waiting to board the rear doors as well. When I got to the front door, noisily pulling my suitcase, I looked up stunned as the doors slammed shut just as I was getting ready to board. The doors then opened after the driver looked at me with a smug smirk creasing her lizard-lipped face. I got in and as ever, I said thank you. As I progressed towards the double seats by the rear door, the bus suddenly broke, causing me to lurch forward. Taking it all in stride, I opted not to assume anything by this trio of events which most blacks would see after the third incident as being racially provocative. Up the couple of steps I got with my heavy suitcase; this only made me realise my advancing years as suddenly the urge to pee came on. I had switched from Bleu par Chanel a couple of years back when senior leak suddenly meant that after five minutes Bleu fades and gives way to god forbid that most malodourous of bouquets: loud-smelling, dribbled piss. Now it is Christian Dior’s Sauvage as the scent lingers and dissipates any provoked thoughts of raunchy water sports.

Having made my way to the back seat, there were all told less than a dozen souls on the bus. On arriving at the first stop from the station, the driver got up at Church Street. I thought that there must be someone wheelchair bound, trying to board, hence she got from her seat to assist. As I was otherwise engaged in thoughts libidinal and what I’d like to do with that burly mesomorph at work, whose woman just upped and left him, I remained focussed on artisan channels 3 to 5 instead. Just then, I noticed the bus driver step up the two steps and make it towards me, seated at the centre of the bus’ long back seat. Leaning her, her nasty-looking perm straight out of the 90s, she gruffly barked at me in a manner that suggested that couth had ever been foreign to her. “Look, everybody has bad days okay. There’s no need to swear at me.” I said nothing, looking instead past her as the thought occurred to me that the bus was being driven by duppy incarnate. Since my name ain’t Shaneequa, I remained calm and looked up at a face warped uglier by rage, which I also found uncomfortably too close. I was hemmed in. “Get off my bus or I call the police!” As I chose to say nothing or move a single muscle, she got even more incandescent with irrationally unprovoked rage, “That’s it get off my bus now, I’m calling the police!” As she turned to walk away, it gave a good look at her flat-arsed, no-calved god fugly hideousness and I got up and began making it for the bus’ front doors. As I slowly strode for the front doors, I expertly memorised her bus ID and every detail of slender hipped, extra-vertebrae-looking alien body and realised that she was likely trans; either way, just then a definite non sequitur. For once, I said nothing on exiting and as I really needed to pee, thought of hailing a cab when noticing another bus directly in back of the scene of my misadventure. I got aboard, said hello to the driver, a guapo Filipino and grabbed a seat on the even less populated bus. Also, I memorised the ID information associated with his bus. On exiting the bus, as per usual, I said thanks and exchanged pleasantries. As soon as I got situated at home, with Buster on my lap purring away, I took to the TTC’s site and chose the tab that allows for filing complaints. In exquisite detail, as well you are I shared what occurred and confidently knew that at no point would any of the bus’ cameras capture me saying anything to the female driver. She is, as per her contract, never to leave her seat nor confront a passenger. I have never seen her since.

Well in the grip of Mercury retrograde, I strolled into one of many little joints which I love frequenting as I like chatting with the proprietors and in the process, giving them my business. On close to a decade of frequenting this particular store, where I picked up a lottery ticket or two, my bike was leaning against the row of sugary treats, I turned just in time to see an old weathered hag out on Yonge Street beadily gawking in and cutting her hateful eyes at me. Possessed of some right afforded her by god only knows fuck-all whom – the blasted motherfuck, she bounded into the store, well into her ninth decade and looking and smelling of ill-health and poverty, “Get that goddamn bike outta here.” I was wearing my helmet with lights attached front and back in broad daylight as one does. Without so much as missing a beat, I launched into her with a ferocity, she likely had never before encountered, which is why she felt perfectly entitled to take such liberties. “Get your fucking ugly arse out of here, go the fuck to Wal-Mart make your way to the back of the store and tell them I sent you to put a down paying on your fucking casket as you are obviously too fucking poor to afford to die all this time…” Never having had her racially predatory behaviour challenged before, she stood there suddenly catatonic. “Go on, here you go, start that fucking down paying today…” with that, I tossed the few coins in my pocket at her feet and barged on in full throttle loud, vituperativeness. “Pick it the fuck up, high time your fucking ugly, broke arse and casket were lowered into the ground. Come in here opening your motherfucking lizard-lipped mouth, barking at me. Pick it the blasted motherfuck up and crawl the fuck in your casket.” She tried to weakly say something to which I kept up my defense against being racially preyed on, “Shut up and die, go on… scoot. There’s no need for your fuck-all ugly, broke arse, smelly cunt hanging around… get the fuck off the planet.” Never ever during a mercury retrograde will this venus-uranus leo hold his tongue when being racially preyed on. Faster than the loudest sneeze, I rammed my fist up her rotting arse, yanked and ripped at her calcified soul, pulled it out, wiped arse with it, then slapped her silly in the face before making her gag on a soul being held hostage by her useless maudlin existence. I have become so less inclined to tolerate this perpetual abuse which we as blacks endure on a daily basis yet pretend as though it does not exist. There are, though, times when you need to protest. Back in 1988 after meeting Wayne Robson’s firstborn, as I moved south down the west side of Bond Street to go visit Merlin at St. Michael’s Hospital who was suffering his first bout of AIDS-related pneumocystis, I screamed at the top of my lungs at an old Caucasian female who on noticing me began hurriedly crossing to the east side of Bond, “I don’t want your fucking handbag…” Never ceases to amaze the arsenal of behaviour that non-blacks project onto us as they get their racially predatory fix: sniffing, outright ridicule, dragging feet, yawning, bumping into you, blowing cigarette smoke in your direction… those are the passive racially predatory acts. More often, it is like that act in the convenience store, so racially obsessed that one feels oneself perfectly entitled to project that ignorance in a malicious, accusatory, bullying manner towards blacks. Indeed, ever notice the inordinate number of overweight blacks; they like all persons who were sexually preyed on in their early years more often than not develop eating disorders.

With Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s lynching daily in print media, social media and just about everywhere else, I have become increasing intolerant of any and all such BS. Do not because I am black start, apropos of fuck-all nothing, braying about how much you hate and can’t stand that Meghan bitch as if the blasted fuck these arsewipes know the woman. Out of the blue someone whom I thought had long made the only logical move viable to her sorry arse and crawled into her casket, called up trying for the nth time to get me to start today and join that pyramid scheme of hers for which she is ever travelling to some rah-rah seminar and on the cusp of getting rich yet still ain’t and needs you to join this very day; this, I can assure you, is about as appealing as trying to get me to bed some moneyed old fuck with a micro penis and bad breath. Nah… I’m all about the dharma.

Last summer everyone called up, demanding to know if I were not going to the Raptors championship parade. Hell no! Crowds you say… not happening. The day of the parade, I kept being called up by excited friends, asking me if I was watching and wasn’t it phenomenal. Very matter of factly, I declared to one, “When these fucking Goys do Yom Kippur, they certainly do know how to go all out.” Of course, after having explained myself days later at a dinner party, the point was well taken. This is a country with soft ethnic cleansing of blacks: negative immigration and population growth, a entrenched history of employment discrimination, which sees blacks being ghettoised in casual positions in the work place, especially at crown corporations (government-owned) – I have worked at two: Canada Post and the Toronto Convention Centre; in the case of the former, I arrived in Montréal from Vancouver to find myself the first full-time black in the work place; as fighting is nothing but foreplay in my books, I organised a lone Haitienne and got her to file a Human Rights complaint which she won. This resulted in back pay and all the mostly Haitian blacks awarded full-time and back pay where they had served as casual for 5, 10, 15 years. Naturally, the messenger/lightning rod always comes into someone cross-hairs. At one point, where they tried firing me the local union president told me to go to hell and go back to Canada; thus, I ventured into my firing interview with a lawyer in tow – had never happened before and was not then fired after multiple frantic calls to Ottawa to find out how to deal with him. Before being fired, that blasted porcine pequiste fucker decided to avail himself of my tax dollars by running in the federal election, thankfully he did not win but when he tried two years later, I wrote to Jack Layton who had frequented our Cabbagetown home in the 80s when we lived next door to a rather parvenu and highly snobbish Alfred Sung and informed Mr. Layton that if he did not withdraw that vile racist, my lawyer and I would go to the media and expose him – the letter of course was cced to all the other federal party leaders. In the end, the Bloc Quebecois thanked me for the letter and ran a black Haitienne in the riding from which the union head was summarily dropped and that Haitienne, Ms. Bardot won her seat, only to be replaced in Papineau riding by that blasted, racist tarbaby-arsed frog… but I digress. Two million persons cheering on black excellence when this is a country that actively eradicates any participation of blacks in its cultural fabric – hello JazzFM where you would be dismissed as stupid for thinking that Jazz is black culture. Sure, there are window-dressing blacks in the TV medium but they are not the norm. Not a single prominent Canadian protested and demanded that the vile racist politician resign when his blackface past emerged. Naturally, his people stridently argued in his defense. Would that these ungrateful fucks who hold the country to ransom would finally fuck off and leave. No one outside of Québec, who does not work in the government, is remotely bilingual. Seven years of living in Montréal made one thing perfectly clear: theirs, by its sheer ubiquity is nothing more than a northern confederate flag… and they certainly are possessed of unapologetic xenophobia. The only people deserving of having a party in the Canadian parliament, which not all Canadians can vote for, are the First Nations and Inuit peoples.

Back in late 1982 whilst Merlin and I held up in the Trockadero loft in Manhattan’s Chelsea on Sixth Avenue below 23rd Street, I got in one evening after looking at rehearsal of the Nanette Bearden Dance Company, to find Merlin having dinner and strategising with Jim Henson. As they shared the same agent, Joyce Ketay, they were prepping and throwing around ideas for how to thematically film the series, Fraggle Rock which would be shot in the coming new year in Toronto at CBC’s studios. Merlin had made his favourite dish a chicken paprikash which John Hirsch had taught him. Joining them, I dug in to what was my favourite of Merlin’s prepared meals. I will always remember Jim saying, “first you start with a compliment and then you hang back and listen, listen to what’s said but most of all, what is not said…” Sage advise that I have always followed. What I love about us artisan souls is that we always reveal our nature and the fact that we input on five channels whenever we speak. Listen to Naomi Campbell in her acceptance speech for the CFDA Icon Award. Straight out of left field in the tenth minute, she remarks, “God my lips are dry… sorry.” No other soul but an artisan soul would shift subjects so abruptly so seamlessly and carry on without so much as missing a beat. This quirk of ours, mine, Naomi, Meghan and every last artisan soul who has ever breathed, makes for a master tactician and someone not easily understood or shaken. With a destiny number that proves master numbers like Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, she is a 11 – she is a diamond through and through and why HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales refers to her as Tungsten.

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

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

Bullocks! That Is Not A Fucking Clit!

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

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

Contestant: A! 

Game show host: Right, you are!  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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A masked ball

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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A Brimstone Hill Sandy Point Panorama

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The packaging had changed but nothing else had. END.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_______________________________

A green-eyed tartar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My aspirations were not met but that was okay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_________________________

Photo: Costumed performers in period piece

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

Vaslav Nijinsky in costume for Siamese dance from Les Orientales.

Green-eyed Tartar young man.

___________________________

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

Rudolf Nureyev & Lee Radziwill

Rudolf Nureyev

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.  

Lee2

*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.

verandah2

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.

NEO SHINTOISM

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.

barre2

This, the third dream, was set outdoors at nighttime.  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.

Rudolf Nureyev in Louvre apartment

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.

Lee Radziwill by Andy Warhol

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.

Lee and Rudi

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.

Rudolf_Nureyev_Paris Louvre apartment

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.

skytrain2

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.

jetty2

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.

plane crash2

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,

donna summer2

“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.

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