Royal Wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex!

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After having waited months on end, the day of the royal wedding arrived and there was I sporting a killer headache – one of which I have not had in long ages.  What with the inordinate negativity of trolls online and the utterly disgraceful meltdown on the Markle relations on the father’s side of the family, I just wanted the bloody wedding to get going.  Moreover, I was hosting, in my art-filled home, a right English royal wedding breakfast: six different teas, smoked salmon, scones, Johnny cakes (a West Indian variation on scones) champagne, jams including, of course, guava jams.  As busy host, I missed a lot of the goings on as it unfolded live.

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Rising at 0300, I was up and ready, making the first teas as guests soon thereafter began arriving for the 0400 starts of the live broadcasts.  Naturally, we looked at the BBC coverage whilst multiple broadcasters were simultaneously taped: PBS, CBS, CNN, ABC & CBC.  Pandora my lovely sister was in town with her urbane hubby and overnighted at my place so that they would not have to travel far at 0300.  Also present was Dr. Lucian Mann-Chomedy, who left his sprawling mansion atop the hill in Hamilton, to be with me; he is a world-renowned expert on Voltaire.  Eventually, along came siblings Rio, Penina and Isha with legal professional, like Pandora, Hyacinth Fitzroy-McIlroy.

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Though I wanted to take an Advil, I knew that copious amounts of champagne to follow would preclude doing so.  Alas, I drank fresh-squeeze orange juice and lots of water.  Finally, the fare catered by Daniel et Daniel arrived at 0459 sharp – I am better at working magic in the bedroom rather than the kitchen, so why sweat it!

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In between fussing with the catered fare, I caught a glimpse of George and Amal Clooney looking like the power couple that they are.  What a gorgeous colour and her hat was fabulous.  I especially loved the Valentino worn by Sofia Wellesley with her diminutive hubby James Blunt, a man whose devastating wit makes following his twitter account a must.  There was Oprah Winfrey looking regal; she is of course a member of entity seven of cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414, which would make her a cadre mate, along with other notables who are also cadre mates of mine and Merlin’s, like: Sir Anthony van Dyke, Sir Peter Paul Rubens, Jim Henson, Vaslav Nijinsky, Rudolf Nureyev, Natalie Cole, Grace Jones, Annette Bening, Warren Beatty, President Barack H. Obama, Joshua Redman, Katherine Hepburn, King Richard I, George Benson, opera singer Maureen Forrester, Painter Francis Bacon, Lucian Freud, Giovanni Canaletto, Camille Paglia, Cassandra Wilson, Art Blakey, sculptor Henry Moore, River Phoenix, Halle Berry, Victor Brauner, choreographer Merce Cunningham, Charles Mingus, Esperanza Spalding, Alvin Ailey, Zora Neale Hurston, Lena Horne, Jazz drummer Tony Williams, Otis Redding, Vasco da Gama, Roy Hargrove, Toller Cranston, Oscar Peterson, Jennifer Holliday, Roger Hodgson, National Ballet of Canada founder Celia Franca, Constantin Patsalas, Charles Baudelaire, Liona Boyd, Tina Turner, Marvin Gaye, Youssou N’Dour, writers Gabriela Mistral & James Baldwin and comic genius, Robin Williams.  Of course, many of these overleaves are to be found across the six-volume opus of Michael Overleaves appendices which accompany my dream-filled, and sex-besotted memoirs a first in all of human civilisation… because someone had to do it first and naturally yours truly has got to represent for the old 1/7/414!  Enough of digressing and coming off like that blasted ham, who in true American fashion, the right rev’ron thinks that his grandstanding noisemaking at the wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex was a hit – sorry it was not; it really did a number on my headache.

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I especially loved it when the royals began entering from the Galilee Porch into the chapel and took their seats.  HRH Princess Anne, Princess Royal’s reaction to the guests assembled across the aisle was priceless.  Indeed, Ms. Markle had really sprung the big guns, namely Ms. Winfrey on them.  There sat Oprah at the very back where she got a good view and strategically enough, she uncomfortably sat across the aisle from that flat-arsed, no-calved pretentious bigoted boor, HRH Princess Michael of Kent.  She is such a pitiable lost soul, she with the million and one tiaras (google image her); she and her tiaras, looking like a third-tier drag queen who’s not done too badly for herself on the pageant circuit.  God when will people like her realise that on this planet melanin trumps blood.  Oprah’s presence was a none-too-subtle missive, keep up with the racist charades and there will be an Oprah interview.  Seriously, that Blackamoor brooch last Christmas worn to the Buckingham Palace as Ms. Markle made her debut was as coincidental as if HRH Princess Anne Princess Royal were to have worn a swastika for the inaugural Christmas at Buckingham Palace when Princess No-Calves’ coke-headed son brought along his Jewish wife for the first time.  Poor thing, what was she to do, to look right across the aisle at St. George’s Chapel, there sat Serena, reminding her of one of two of her black sheep named Serena & Venus; to then look left, there sat Oprah, looking as though famished and ready to feast.  Matters not, from here on out the Princess Rhino will have to curtsy to Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

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Wonderful it was to see Jack Brooksbank greet his mother-in-law, Sarah Duchess of York, who thanks to HRH Prince Henry of Wales’ insistence was invited to attend the wedding of the year.  Whilst many came and went past the tomb of HM King Charles I whose art collection retrospective at the Royal Academy ranks among my favourite exhibitions, there stood George and Amal Clooney holding court; at one point, they were joined by the dashing Dan Snow with his statuesque wife and sister to the very eligible Duke of Westminster who is godfather to HRH Prince George of Cambridge, who looked smart in his Blues and Royals uniform as page boy which smartly matched those worn by both his father HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and his uncle the groom, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.

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Loved watching the always elegant Victoria Beckham being greeted with a bear hug whilst in the company of her husband David Beckham and a decidedly matronly looking Sir Elton John and his partner, David Furnish.  Serenely composed was the twenty-three-year-old Indian charity worker, who looked exquisite in her saree.  Though I had envisioned her in saree, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s friend, the actor, Priyanka Chopra looked no less lovely in her lilac suit with matching hat.  By far, one of my favourite royals was the very expectant Zara Tindall whose husband now looks even more handsome after corrective rhinoplasty.  Whilst the Chicagoan made an arse of himself in the pulpit, there sat Zara who with a look made us all roar with her wary side eye.  Seven years earlier, I was equally charmed by her beauteousness as she smiled whilst slipping a breath mint as the soloist sang and the bridal party, TRH Duke and Duchess of Cambridge et al, were off in St. Edward the Confessor chapel at Westminster Abbey signing the registry.

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Indeed, Central Casting could not have scripted a more gloriously perfect day.  There is a special magic to the isle of England; it goes without saying that it is vibrationally harmonised with much of the West Indies.  I truly do feel at home when in England; of course, much of that is because I passed a ‘high-point’ life there in late 18th century London and Windsor and as well Merlin was then present with me.  One thing that I have come to realise that many past-life dreams afford one the perspective of the former incarnation.  As a result, as is always the case when happening on a place where I have been before and had past-life dreams thereof, I am always mildly surprised to find that the waking state reality is a 180° reversal of the past-life perspective from the most lucid dreams of questing to previous lives.  For instance, Windsor Castle in past life dreams where there is much wood fire smoke, horse activity and the fashion are specific to that time frame, the castle always sits on the north bank of the River Thames with the majestic Eton College Chapel lording over the southern bank’s landscape, looking pretty much like Valhalla rising from the mist.

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My first visit to London was so thoroughly confusing, everything proved back-to-front as it had always appeared and been experienced in the most lucid dreams.  In such dreams, horse drawn carriages are everywhere with the loud smell of smoke, horse dung.  Strangely enough, in many of these dreams, my breath tends to be foul with drink, though, here in this lifetime, I hardly ever drink.  This past spring, as I moved through Windsor Castle’s St. George Hall, I was surprised to find the ceiling so far removed.  Later, during conversation with a gentle-souled female manager at the castle, I was reassured when she shared that after the great fire of 1992, the hall’s ceiling was raised considerably.  I had a really visceral response to seeing the bullet that felled Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson; he, of course, has a storied connection to Nevis.  I also knew him in that 18th century past-life at court when then a countertenor and Merlin, then female, was my accompanist on harpsichord.

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There were moments this past March when in certain rooms both at Hampton Court Palace but especially so at Windsor Castle that everything was back to front and I felt what I refer to as being “In-Between” – one does not exactly feel faint but you experience a moment of feeling as though you were vibrationally tuning in between here and elsewhere in time.  Finally, with a second round of tea being served, I was able to take a breather and start looking at the arrivals; currently the minor royals were arriving.  Good it always is to see the gracious HRH Duchess of Kent in a lovely black and white ensemble; I was purse-lipped as she was being helped to her seat.  Finally, a Benz minivan pulled up at the bottom of the middle ward and out sprang two dashingly handsome men, wearing Blues and Royals uniforms.  Straight away, I was teary-eyed; of course, it goes without saying that on occasions such as this, one cannot help but think of their lovely mother, the late Diana, Princess of Wales.

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Champagne nicely chilled was on standby, awaiting the taking of vows to be popped.  I love the fact that Chelsey Davy was at the wedding of her ex, HRH Prince Henry Duke of Sussex, along with Cressida Bonas.  I love this aspect of English aristocratic society; their weddings almost always feature exes… and why not?  Theirs are very tight, limited circles and exes are likely to be, in some cases, godparents.  When finally, I was able to watch the wedding uninterrupted, for having played host the day of, I was truly spellbound and stunned by what an absolutely beautiful wedding it was.

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Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex was nothing short of Arthurian as she entered St. George’s Chapel alone.  At once she was magical, empowered; a queen staking her claim both on history and her throne.  Nothing was more beautiful than watching the Mulroney twins in their matching Blues and Royals uniforms, carrying her sixteen-foot veil’s train, which was decorated in the flowers of all 53 nations of the Commonwealth and California’s state flower.  After moving through the gorgeous boughs of white roses and peonies, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex was then met by and escorted by HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, a man with whom one always enjoys the most august dream encounters.

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Seeing the uneclipsed look of love in HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex’s eyes and written all over his face as he drank the intoxicating drink of his bride approaching with his father, no less, made me come undone.  Uncontrollably, I cried out for joy and began crying.  I cried out anew when with a stride no less confident than Queen Maxima of the Netherlands’, the day she walked down the aisle of Westminster Abbey on April 29, 2011 as TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge were wedded, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex did an energetic shake of her head as she beamed at her lover, her champion at her warrior-prince.

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At this point, my whole body was awash in glorious ripples of adrenaline as these two souls, who happen to be both entity mates along with HM The Queen, celebrated their twenty-first incarnate relations.  The way that this man looked at this woman with open love for her, was the most soul-warming adage imaginable.  His cheeks aglow, he blushed, smiled and declared his love for his lover for all the world to see.  Long had I forgotten how beautiful it used to make me feel when Merlin would look at me exactly with the same magical glow and twinkle in his eyes.  I was so immensely happy.  The way they chatted, the way he looked at her whilst falling in love all over again, was the most beautiful sight.  Even the way that Jessica Mulroney reached across and rekindled her vows in a touch with Benedict Mulroney was wonderful to have witnessed.

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Uncovering her face of the veil and revealing the Queen Mary bandeau tiara in its uneclipsed glory, just as the first time after they had made love and reaffirmed their soul connection, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex said a warm, hi; they were two familiar souls, looking into each other and keeping aglow the fire of their unbreakable bond.  Entity mates in love is a most beautiful thing, there is no greater bond.  They way that they looked at each other, spoke to that enduring love that had endured across twenty prior lifetimes.  Now here they are, of choice, he an older soul (fifth-level mature warrior — fourth life thereat) she (mid-cycle mature artisan — third life thereat); there is nothing that this formidable team cannot accomplish.  As it is her third life at the level, expect her to be accomplished, ambitious, daring and a force to be reckoned with.  Like his second-level mature artisan mother, Diana, Princess of Wales, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has an innate sense of theatre, which was dramatically on display as she walked the aisle to stake her claim on history and validated that she had twice previously been a high-ranking member of the British royal family.  Truly regal was she as she walked the aisle to take her vow and return to life, for the third time, as a member of a much-loved institution, the House of Windsor.

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Seated there in that beautiful blue dress, I was reminded of Lynn Woodman, actor Wayne Robson’s wife in the way that Jessica Mulroney’s smile and eyes warmed me each time.  Of course, horrified was I last summer just before departing for London, England to learn from Xerxes Hamelin, my ex-wife and now transgendered to a bald and bearded marvel of modern medicine that their only son Louis had died at Christmas 2016.  Straight away, all those dreams of Lynn looking forlorn on grey-skied, rainy days and always on a bridge before a swollen river made so much sense.

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As the service progressed awash in the magic that is evoked by two souls with strong reincarnational bonds, I took a look at the gathered souls.  Loved the look of Sam Chatto, he of the pronounced spiritual focus in this life as he sat two to the left and west of HRH Princess Michael of Kent.  Also, on that upper row was the young Duke of Westminster, Hugh Grosvenor, whose father, Gerald Grosvenor, sixth Duke of Westminster, like HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, was the same soul age and role in essence — seventh-level mature warrior soul.  His older sister, Edwina had earlier been chatting with George and Amal Clooney with her husband Dan Snow as the guests arrived.  Good it was to see the always regal HRH Princess Alexandra whose father, the very dashing HRH Prince George, Duke of Kent after his untimely death may well have recently been Diana, Princess of Wales — this is just a suspicion of mine and not channelled information.  I could not though help but think, whilst watching Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex being wedded then later in the evening when emerging with her husband in that glorious white halter neck Stella McCartney dress, that Diana’s soul may well choose to reincarnate to her former son, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex and his very elegantly stylish wife, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

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First Duchess of Sussex, where previously the first Duke of Sussex fervently supported the abolition of slavery, a cessation of the persecution of Jews, now here were these entity mates — HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex and first Duchess of Sussex, Meghan, taking up the noble mantle of HM Queen Victoria’s uncle and HM King George IV’s younger brother, HRH Prince Augustus Frederick to work and help develop the potential of the developing nations of the Commonwealth.  Sadly, for most persons, these two souls chose to be part of the BRF by unique circumstances; when you consider the impact that black Africans have had on the wealth of the BRF and much of West Europe, it would seem fitting to these two souls and those in agreement within the BRF for them to have chosen to be an interracial couple.  Of course, it must not be forgotten that without exception, all Caucasian persons who are gap-toothed were in their immediate past life, black.

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When you keenly pay close attention to HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex’s life, you will see this being validated.  This man has always had an ease and affinity for blacks whether in the diaspora or in Africa.  There was nothing more glorious than watching his soul bleed through its reincarnational awareness, when on a trip to Jamaica, once invited by a young girl to join her dancing to Bob Marley’s soulful singing, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex danced with an ease that immediately made everyone black warm to the core; in his movement, we instinctively recognised his ‘blackness’ – we were responding to the fact that this was someone whose soul had been black in his immediate past life.  The way that this man slipped into the groove and wind his waist was as groovy as if hearing Marvin Gaye soulfully crooning.

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There is a purity of spirit that HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex possesses, which speaks to the very nature of his soul.  More than that, it does speak to his having inherited his mother, Diana, Princess of Wales’ empathy gene.  For me a man is most beautiful when he openly displays his love for another human being; there is no denying that as they took their vows, here was a man at his most beautiful.  Throughout, there sat Doria Ragland, mother of the bride, a study in dignity, pride and reserve.  Of course, any mother who calls her child ‘Flower’ is a mother who will ever be proud of how her daughter has blossomed into her own woman.  This love saw Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex become a woman of substance and a truly dignified human being.

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One interesting to note is how truly simpatico both Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall and Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex are.  Of course, the reason for that being, is that they are both exactly the same soul age and both are living their third life at that level.  What that, of course, means is that warrior soul HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales will always be warmed by and favour Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.  Though both are mid-cycle mature souls on their third lives, Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall is, however, a scholar soul.  Keeping her grounded and focussed with uncharacteristic drive is Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s warrior task companion.  That warrior, however, is not her husband, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex; it does, however, prove grounding for her, to be wedded to a warrior, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.

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All warriors live by a very grounded motto: feed me, fuck me but do not annoy me!  To say the least, Lady Kamasutra aka Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is ably qualified to ever keep her husband engaged both physically, emotionally and intellectually.  Warriors make the best of partners because when the love is strong, they are the most loyal and devoted of souls.  Regardless what those on the outside may think – and god has there been a spate of dissenting opinions about their union; fact of the matter is that they are more suited to be man and wife and life partners than most persons in the public eye.

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Without doubt, no one wore a more stylish hat than did Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall.  I also loved the wonderful hats worn by Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge and Lady Kitty Spencer, daughter of Earl Spencer, niece of Diana, Princess of Wales and good friend of Viscountess Weymouth who would have looked smashing had she attended the wedding.  Not wanting to be the butt of every joke, this time around, the Princesses of York wore hats that were demure and understated.  Reminiscent of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, HRH Princess Eugenie, soon to be wedded to Jack Brooksbank this autumn, wore a lovely white pillbox hat.  Ever exuberant, it was good to see Sarah, Duchess of York greeting her son-in-law at St. George’s Chapel, though, she did not sit with the royals but across the aisle with the invited guests.  Kudos to HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex for having invited and included her in the Sussexes wedding gathering.

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After that solipsistic buffoon made a point of overstating the obvious – if I were not hosting, I would have readily tossed a box of Kleenex at the screen, it was good to have been wowed by the Kingdom Gospel Choir.  I thought that at least one of the female singers in the front row was a priest soul, along with the choir leader; if not a priest, she definitely would have strong priestly makeup in her casting.  Their presence and performance were one of the many details, which went a long way towards making this wedding one of the most memorable.  Finally, after old windbag’s grandstanding, it was time for the lovely couple to take their vows.  Yet again, I was moved to tears.  Doria seemed at times to be experiencing rapture during points in the ceremony. Britain Royal Wedding

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Like Mr. Curry’s grandstanding, there was also a moment that left me disquieted.  The moment that she entered St. George’s Chapel off the Galilee porch entrance with the other royals, I was disappointed at the sight of Lady Louise Windsor, daughter of TRH, the Earl and Countess of Wessex.  Back in Spring 2016 on a tour of the Bahamas and Cayman Islands, there was Sophie HRH, Countess of Wessex wearing the same dress that her self-conscious daughter wore to a wedding that would be globally televised.  Nothing like human society to straitjacket children into rigid social roles.  It would have done a lot of this young woman’s self-esteem if she had been bought a new dress for the wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex.  There is nothing empowering for any young woman, having to wear their mother’s hand-me-downs.

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That aside, there was nothing more glorious than the prodigy, Sheku Kanneh-Mason masterfully weaving his magic on cello.  Later, as the married Sussexes emerged from the beautifully boughed St. George’s Chapel into the crystalline blue-skied day then kissed, the most glorious thing then happened.  As the unmistakably in love couple stood on the lower steps, the gospel choir again began singing.  As if it were not moving to watch, Diana, Princess of Wales’ older sister, Lady Jane Fellowes who gave a reading during the service, there was she bobbing and dancing whilst enjoying the gospel music.  And what glorious music it was too.

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That song, This Little Light of Mine, was a favourite of mine since childhood.  Back on Sunday, August 2, 1964, I had gotten a good spanking, on my birthday no less, from Harella my mother, whom I had always been convinced was not my mother as she was all of forty years old when I was born.  I wanted that day to wear my favourite pair of shorts to church – it was after all my birthday.  However, the shorts were dirty and crumbled and expected to be washed during the week.  Nonetheless, I threw a tantrum and got to wear my shorts after having my naked bottom spanked – therein lay the seed of my crop and riding boot fetishistic sex.  Sitting there in church, which Harella owned, I began singing at the top of my lungs, the song of protest.  Whilst my mother looked at me, utterly sure in her conviction that I was demon-possessed, I looked away and out the door to the east and the mountain ridge in St. Kitts.  Just then, the sparkling sun struck something within the growth of the foothills and it caused a blazing reflection that danced and shone even more blazingly than the sun; indeed, it matched my singing.  I knew that day that my mother would never succeed in having me sublimate my will to her and her mad and make-believe god.

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As the gospel choir sang, I began tearing up again, as the camera pulled a lovely crane shot back from the top of the St. George’s Chapel’s west door, steps and the couple below preparing to get into the landau, beyond lay the lowlands of the magical kingdom.  In that moment, I was suddenly struck by the very real sense of Diana, Princess of Wales.  Yes, indeed, her lovely boys were now wedded and to beautiful strong wives at that.  Her work here was done; now she could fly off as that crane shot implied to the west, the horizon, the astral plane, the future and to lives up ahead.  Diana, Princess of Wales had made a handsome success of life and with both TRH Princes William and Henry fully grown and wedded, her work was done.  Even, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales was every bit a loving, older soul – seventh-level mature warrior and entity mate of king soul and Canadian artist, Robert Bateman.

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Without doubt, this was one of the most glorious weddings in long ages.  To be sure, it is always good to see two souls with an abiding soul connection, renewing and validating the ties that bind and truly matter.  Here’s to TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex!

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

Michael Overleaves Appendix (Redux)

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In the process of updating the copyright dates, I managed to have tidied up and properly alphabetised the Overleaves index.  Beautifully organised, I think that it will prove more appealing now.  Do enjoy!  

https://dreampoetica.com/michael-overleaves-appendix/

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Photo: Ficus Benjamina tree on grounds of Montpelier Estate, Nevis, West Indies.

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

Crawl the Fuck in your Casket!

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Goodness, it has been a long time since I have posted a dream herein.  I have been busy putting the finishing touches on the memoir for which many of the dreams shared herein will be featured.  The subtitle for the memoir will be: Human Civilisation’s First Dream Memoir

More recently, I was having a leisurely ride home in the morning up Yonge Street.  I had just ascended the last incline on Yonge before it cruises down to a level grade, then it is hang a right and cruise along Wellesley Street East and home.  Just as I crossed Carlton Street and begun the real steeply graded portion of the ride, a cab pulled up and immediately out popped a female in suit at the start of her business day; she was headed for the 24hrs Shoppers Drug Mart. 

Immediately, I opted to change course and rode around to the driver’s side of the cab and cruised along the little bit of leeway afforded as yet another condominium construction – Yonge & Grenville meant that the two lanes in each direction were reduced to only one.  As I cruised past ringing my bell, the cab driver suddenly began opening his door; I could not believe his audacity.  I shouted him down and insisted that he let me pass, to which the dirty-looking mid-aged Dravidian shot back, “Oh shut up as if you matter!” 

My heart was already pumping beyond the norm after the fright of seeing his door beginning to open as I rode alongside.  Indeed, who are we to think that Black lives matter?  As I was too exhausted to fight just then, I continued peddling hard then started back to the right and towards the curb where I always ride.  No sooner than had I made it round the front of the cab that the hairy back and arsed southern Mediterranean construction worker on the east side of Yonge Street holding up a stop sign, on having witnessed the near miss, shouted, “Kill him!  Kill him!” 

My heart only pumped even more deafeningly as his face became contorted with racially predatory hatred his ilk own so well but are forever careful to claim not to have any awareness of.  Exhausted and feeling like I was going to keel over, I soldiered on too proud to have to stop and deal with the ubiquitous ugliness that is racism.  Yes indeed, Canada is a racist hellhole and they are so stratospherically sophisticated at being venal racists that unlike their tormented neighbours to the south, they do not need the ubiquity of guns when they have quite effectively rendered Blacks as negligible as a weevil-infested bag of flour in the corner. 

Edging less gingerly up Yonge Street than normally I would, I was met two blocks north by more lane closure; yet another block long condo complex was breaking ground – east side of Yonge Street from Maitland Street south.  Riding past, I made eye contact with a mid-aged member of the local constabulary who on making eye contact smiled and nodded in kind; I have always found Toronto’s officers to be worlds removed from their counterparts in Montréal.  Getting to Wellesley Street, I realised that the store to which I would normally drop in to get my cache of lottery tickets and ice cream did not have my choice flavours. 

Thus, I hung right and began homeward east along Wellesley Street East.  Riding past, opposite the subway entrance to Wellesley Subway Station, I noticed three large 5 tonne trucks lined up along the south side of Wellesley’s eastbound lane; they actually were obstructing the bike lane.  Again, I grew understandably cautious and began ringing my bell on approaching the first of three trucks waiting to service the condo complex under construction on the north side of Wellesley where the three hundred pound-plus Dr. Edward Kamski with a drifting eye serviced one of Toronto’s largest group of AIDS patients back in the 1990s in an office low-rise tower that no longer exists.  

As I rung my bell and cruised along, I heard a male voice to my rear impatiently yelling for me to get the hell out of the way.  Finally, when I cleared the third 5 tonne truck, the White male pulled alongside on his bike to start shouting at me.  I was called a fucking stupid arsehole and a moron and called crazy for wearing a helmet with lights on at just past 0700 when the Sun had not yet fully risen.  Of course, White male bigot number 1 million and two wore no helmet and fixed me with hostile looks that were full of rage that had nothing to do with my having been in his way.  Naturally, his whiteness is his helmet and were he to have fallen, he could never possibly suffer brain injury of any kind. 

I am always so happy when the weather turns icy and snowy because all these casual cyclists who never wear a helmet and are forever speeding and illegally dashing through red lights are not a nuisance for a good six months.  Naturally, he let a green light turn red at Church Street so that he could wait for me to catch up to him after he had initially sped off owing to cowardice.  Now he had to return to get his fix of being hateful and seeking someone Black to blame all that was wrong and blameworthy in the world. 

Again, he started with the racially predatory yelling as though this was some moment in Apartheid South Africa and I was his bitch.  Because life is too short to suffer the White tribe and its fucked up psyche, I simply began singing aloud whilst drowning out his dreck – with a little change of lyrics, “Ooooh wooo wooo wooooooo, what a little sunshine wouldn’t do-ooooooo!”  Thereafter, I followed with loud merry scatting as though having to drive off another bothersome neighbourhood yapping stray dog.  You will never fucking-goddamn-arse snuff out the spirit of the people who invented Jazz!  Know that! 

Finally, I got to the store along Wellesley Street East where I have visited since it opened a few years back.  In the last couple of years, I have stridently avoided frequenting said store in daytime as there is a White female clerk there who from the first time that I entered the store, she was rude and has remained rude on the odd occasion that I would pop in. 

Last June close to the end of the school year, I dropped in the store to get a couple of lottery tickets in the afternoon whilst en route to work.  Naturally, there was a gaggle of giggly, bubbly youths from Jarvis Collegiate Institute, the city’s oldest high school.  As I patiently waited, I admiringly observed three Black males who were negotiating with their Filipino and Somali female friends.  They were giving them cash and a list of what they wanted. 

Said one youth, when asked by one of the scarfed Somali why don’t they just get their stuff themselves, “She’s a bitch!  I’m not going in there to be yelled at.”  Another of three out rightly dismissed her as a racist bigot who was always targeting them for being Black.  Straight away, I knew to whom they were referring.  Finally, I made it into the store where as I got my tickets again, the cigarette-smoking, mouth-breather whose idea of post-secondary education will amount to how to successfully cock-suck and breed more ignorant offal just had to be rude, snicker and fight-pick. 

I ignored her because again, life is way too short to have to suffer shit that just does not count.  Previously, I had walked out the store to avoid having to operatically scream at her sleepwalking hateful arse.  Of course, on that occasion, I got home only to realise that my lottery tickets had not made it from the store with me.  I then returned hours later when she was already concluded her shift to pick up my tickets. 

So there I was, after having been met by three rounds of racial animus all within five minutes of each other and mere hours of these persons having awakened; at least I was near the end of my day.  All I wanted was my blasted ice cream, my lottery tickets and go home, turn up my ever turned-on BOSE to JazzFM and have Garvia Bailey lay some culture on me.  For the brief time that I was in the store, as ever, the racist White boor kept up the usual sotto voce remakrs and insisted that I get the hell out of the store and take my bike with me.  The bike she has always used as her crutch for dicking with me and since I have always had the manager’s permission to bring my bike into the store, long before she ever dropped out of high school, I had no intentions of being bullied by her. 

So I ignored her bullshit and had quite had enough when she said, “Are you deaf too; like don’t you hear me, just take you and your bike and get out of the store.”  Taking two steps back, I began channelling Leontyne Price after she has just stridden victorious offstage to rapturous applause in Tosca, to Nina Simone singing with stinging rebuke Mississippi Goddamn, to Diana Ross in her live 1992 show in New York City singing with callous brutality, Strange Fruit, to Betty Carter wrapping it all up breezily singing, Thou Swell – and you can always count on Heather Bambrick to drop some Betty Carter when she is on-air hosting on JazzFM. 

“Why don’t you go lay your fucking grey arse in the sun…” I lethally shot back, to which she rebutted aloud, “Excuse me!  Why would I want to lay in the sun?  Like, why would I want to look like… you?” 

“No sweetheart never mind that, the sooner you lay your hideous grey arse in the sun, the sooner you’ll get cancer and crawl the fuck in your casket.”  Of course, never before having had her daily fix of racially charged aggression challenged, her feeble comeback was another, “Excuse me?” said with the sort of lisp that likely meant that her brother and or father were devout cocksuckers as is one’s wont. 

Always having to have the last word, she then added, “Go on, get out the store, you are blocking the aisle.” 

“Shut the fuck up and get some sun, you fucking hideous lizard-lipped fraud.  Not only are a poor excuse for a human but you long ago used up your quota of oxygen.  Go on, crawl the motherfuck in your casket!” 

“Yeah whatever, get out of here!” 

Life is all about choice: you can either play Rodney King or you own your power and be a proud motherfucker like Lena Horne or Frederick ‘Mr. Hat’ Jones for that matter.  As I began leaving the store, right on cue, the morning radio show chimed in with the opening sounds of Robert Nestor Marley crying out, “Oh Yeah!” at the start of his famous anthem. 

Oh ye fucking gods, never before had Bob Marley sounded so sweet… been so empowering.  Getting to the automatic doors, I drowned out her bullshit as the White loutish effete Athenian – whose thick moustache likely stunk of phlegm and faeces – who was in the store observing what went down, got to the counter and began saying some shit about ‘them’; singing for joy, I joined Bob Marley and shouted, “Rasta-far-I” as I slipped through the door and into sunlight which suddenly seemed more crisp, indeed, more vibrant. 

In having taken the time to take this racial predatory boor to task, the universe had synergistically harmonised and lifted me higher as Bob Marley’s infectious idealism took control.  Never before had Marley sounded so beautiful, been so right.  Had I done as too many times previously I had, I would have suffered the indignity of being driven out of the store by the racist lout and missed out, most importantly, on that Bob Marley tune. 

I then got home, had Garvia Bailey’s magical energies groove me back to centre.  But enough of me kicking racially predatory arse; let’s then focus on the business in hand.  I found this wonderful dream of the most glorious eccentric who much informed my upbringing in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  She was the original, the real McCoy… a true eccentric.  Unlike that other Florence (Foster Jenkins) there was nothing lunatic about the eccentric Kittisian Florence (Pole). 

These marvellously uplifting dreams, which had also included a right proper astral plane fuck, were gloriously lived on Thursday, April 1, 1993 whilst the Moon then bugalooed through Cancer and my second house.  These swell uncompromisingly beautiful dreams are to found in volume XV and were audiocassette-recorded on tape one hundred and forty-seven. 

The second dream of eccentric Florence Pole was dreamt on Saturday, March 10, 1990.  At the time, it was a full Moon in Virgo and thus Luna transited my fourth house whilst being conjunct my natal Pluto and simultaneously opposing retrograde Chiron and square both natal Luna and its opposition to Mars at the ascendant.  This dream of Florence was the most lucidly awakened dream poetry imaginable. 

Go on drink from the chalice that is this rare beautiful flower; but don’t get too close and definitely do not get out of line ‘cause I’m a rapaciously carnivorous motherfucker who will hand you back your arse roughly ploughed and bloodied – beautiful flowers always have to protect themselves from being preyed on.  More than that, please know that your support these past three years have been immensely encouraging. 

I quite look forward to sharing the bounty of dreams and the story of Merlin and me in the memoir which will be dropping in coming months.  Be well and always straighten up and fly right, you cool shamanic kindred-spirited cats!  Sweet dreams whether focussed in the waking state or dreamtime; anything less is just not living. 

____________________________________

Arriving at Florence Pole’s, next door to our Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house, I ventured indoors.  Naturally, in this the second dream, the entire house was boarded up.

When crossing the veranda, I had cautiously treaded; I knew that the floorboards there had a history of being broken or rotted away.  On entering the doors from the veranda, in place of a living room one immediately entered a bedroom.

This was the easterly room off the veranda which, in the waking state, had always been the living room.  A large single, metallic bed sat in the center of the room.

Seeing it brought back childhood memories that were pleasant to the touch.  Though it was fairly dark inside, I knew that Florence Pole was in the house.

At one point, she called me from across the house; with that, I went in search of her.  From the room, I made it into a large, impressive hall which seemed too large to be contained in the confines of her quaint Kittisian bungalow.

I was quite surprised that it existed and its high-ceilinged beauty was inspiring.  Though the entire house from the exterior appeared to be completely boarded up and thus shutting out any possible light of day, there was a great deal of light flooding into the hall.

Several beautiful area rugs were strategically placed on the floor of the hall; the rugs, however, never overlapped.  They were in the center and were placed in square formations.

The parquetry, down the centre of the hall, was so well polished that it shined.  To see all this splendour really blew my mind.

Seeing that she is such an eccentric, I thought that perhaps she would been some celebrated aristocrat in a past life.  She certainly is an intellectual aristocrat; Florence is so fine-tuned that she is beyond the ordinary.

This makes it impossible for her to relate on the level of the mundane.  How good it was to see her ensconced in such splendour.

She is certainly an eccentric, mature-souled, evolved creature.  A breed apart and onto herself, for that matter, I thought as I moved through the palatial hall.

On further reflection, I realised that her inner life would really look this opulent.  There would be nothing but splendour here; after all, all she gets in the waking state is social ostracism and derision.

The rugs were genuine Persian rugs and were in tiptop shape at that.  They were well preserved and of the finest quality; seemingly, they were hundreds of years old.

There were two long ones, on either side, which ran the length of the hall.  Between them and the dark, rich panelling of the walls were some two feet of empty space.

The grid, which formed the rectangle of exposed parquetry, was some five by twelve feet long.  Wanting to hear the sound of my feet when striding through such a majestic place, I kept to the parquetry as much as possible.

The sunlight flooding the hall left the space infused with the very warmth of Florence Pole’s spirit.  Eventually, I entered the room off the central hall from which she had called me.

When I entered, she greeted me grandly and was truly eccentric.  She recognised me, right away, and was warm and genuinely excited to see me.

Her energies were thoroughly theatrical.  All that I could think was how wonderful it was to see her again.

Here, in this room, there was an identical bed to the one in the guest room; this one, though, was in a far corner of the room.  This room was sparsely furnished.

Over in the far southwest corner of the room, the head of the bed was facing due south.  The door faced eastward and into the hall.

There was no disputing the fact that the interior of this house was considerably larger than her waking state house.  As a matter of fact, it was palatial in dimensions and the home of a very wealthy person.

This, of course, was a metaphor for this woman’s considerable wealth of spirit, intellect and creativity.  Florence Pole has substance and it was being borne out in this dream.

That no one in the waking state actually perceived her, for her true self, is not the issue.  They frustrated her because of their intolerance but ultimately, she was not lunatic, crazy or demented.

This dream encounter validated my suspicions, held since my childhood, of her.  Style and character were innately hers.

Florence Pole had this one particular painting which was in the far, northeast corner of the room.  The painting was on the northern wall but towards the eastern edge of it.

This painting was the most incredibly beautiful work of art.  The art was held in an ornate wooden frame that was gold filigree; the frame was about two and one half inches thick.

Bevelled, the frame graded in towards the painting.  The painting was oil on canvas and was quite rich.

There was a wonderful sense of the ‘blue’; indeed, it was an aqueous sky.  On the ocean was the most magnificent large ship.

The ship was from the age of the buccaneers.  Right then and there, it dawned on me that the painting hearkened back to a past life of Florence Pole’s.

Thus, I presumed, she perhaps had been a pirate; a European pirate who had come over on one of the galleons during the 16th or 17th centuries.  Perhaps, I further speculated, she had come to St. Kitts and had so loved the place that her soul had decided to pass a future lifetime there; of course, that future lifetime is the life that she is now living.

She would definitely have been European, perhaps, British, French or possibly Spanish.  That experience, as it were, had ended up planting a seed in her soul.

There was no mistaking that this lifetime of hers presently hearkens back to a disputatious lifetime of hers; a past life in which she was White of European descent and deeply involved in the pillage, rape and plunder of the spoils of colonialism.  She had clearly had a swashbuckling lifetime somewhere back there.

The ship was brown and black with three masts.  Two of its sails were unfurled.

The ship was the most majestic vessel imaginable.  Never before had I seen a painting that was so alive with sheer realism and creative genius.

She stood there whilst admiringly looking at me as I rather admired the painting.  I knew that Florence Pole knew that I was getting the gist of the ship’s importance.

The oils used were as if still wet and slowly, hypnotically in motion.  This painting was as captivating as when I stood before Rembrandt van Rijn’s Night Watch back in 1992.

Quite simply, I was blown away by the languorousness of the painting.  This was not static; it was as if having a window onto a past in which simultaneously said ship was on the high seas centuries across time.

To say the least, Florence Pole in that past life would have been on board that ship then and there.  Perhaps, she was even the captain of the vessel.

The colours here were so masterfully rendered.  A truly realistic reproduction of things this proved.

In that sense, it truly was magical as it simply seemed to be the seed point from which the actual vessel was created.  The blues of the sea, as contrasted to the blues of the sky, were so subtle that it was mind-blowing.

This was a very rich blue with different tonalities to it.  In its subtleties, this work of art was so sublimely magical that it was mind-expanding.

Also, in the room were two antique chests of drawers.  There was as well an antique rocking chair.

This woman was so very regal and dramatic.  I rather got off on being in her presence.

We completely connected; there was no way to get around the fact that we were not strangers to each other.  She did very much so appeal to my Sagittarian energies.

Our sense of self and style were completely harmonious; in that sense, we were kindred spirits in the true sense of the word.  So very good it was to see her that I said, “Oh, it’s so very good to see you…”

With that, I grabbed her by the hand and energetically squeezed it.  She warmly smiled and together our hands remained at our sides.

The touch of her hands relayed to me that energetic spark of her soul itself.  The feel of her vibration was readily familiar.

She was showing me around the room; together, we spent much time looking over the oil painting of the galleon.  Florence Pole then told me that it was her very favourite painting and held a special place in her heart.

This, of course, made perfect sense to me as it was clearly a pivotal lifetime of hers.  Clearly, it was a lifetime in which she commandeered on the high seas and was quite the adventurer.

There was no sense that there was something lacking in her life, in this lifetime, because she was isolated.  There was a lot of processing going on in her life at present.

I had the sense that she was in the process of transiting soul ages; as a result, she was having to take stock before making the next big leap forwards.  There was nothing wrong in her present lifetime.

She was an older soul; of that much I was, for having experienced her, certain.  I then left the room and walked about the hall more leisurely whilst exploring the various rooms off the central hall.

Meanwhile, Florence Pole could be heard very beautifully singing as though I was not even there.  This was the kind of inner musings in which she constantly engaged without as much as a thought to others’ opinions.

This was one of the most pleasurably rapturous experiences.

*To have been in this great eccentric’s presence as she was simply being herself whilst caught in a groove, I thoroughly understood.  This truly was an utterly amazing dream odyssey.

Here, it was quite nice and uplifting.  More than ever, this astral plane encounter impressed on me how very rich a life this woman is leading.

She was letting me into her innermost lair whilst following her inner voice.  This was the most beautiful and intimate of dances of souls.

I thoroughly connected with the every complex idiosyncrasy of her being.  Florence Pole, contrary to waking state misperceptions, was quite grounded and completely aware of her selfhood.

This woman has achieved a great deal in this lifetime and I am very honoured to have been witness to it; a totally admirable soul.  During childhood, this woman was the object of intense study for me.

Every time that she would fly out onto her veranda, taking to the stage, I would become as if possessed by her.  There was no way to get around the fact that this was great theatre; every time she appeared, I was captivated by her every stunning, quicksilver innuendo.

What I learnt most of all, about her self-absorption, was that it does not matter what it is you do.  You simply have to go ahead and do it because ultimately no one can either stop you but you.

When it is all said and done, Florence Pole was simply exploring her beingness.  For flying out onto her veranda, in full operatic rant, she was fulfilling herself.  END.

When I ventured into another bedroom, I found there a man.  He was mesomorphic, tall and blond.  Although his body reminded me of Storm Isbister’s, I could not make out who he was.

He called me over to join him in bed – even better than I would have scripted it myself, “Oh, my goodness!  Yes… let’s make love…”

The sheets were a quilted satin, the most luxurious touch, as I seductively slithered into bed.  Passionately, we groped each other’s hard-ons whilst groaning and hungrily looking into the other’s eyes.

We truly delighted in each other’s bodies.  All the windows to the house were of course closed; thus we were provided with ample privacy.

Climbing atop him, I rubbed my cock hard against his.  As he lay back there, into the propped up pillows, his body reminded me in its largeness of Karl Weller’s.

Nimbly, I straddled him whilst making his body familiar territory and all mine at that.  We grabbed a hold of both cocks whilst frottaging atop the other.

His cock was longer and considerably thicker than mine.  He was also uncut.

What really freaked me out about the whole experience was how wonderfully real it was.  I could smell his maleness: his balls, cock, precum, armpits, sweat and breath.

Our passionate play was profoundly grounding.  After pinching hard his nipples, with my left hand, I flipped around.

Now I straddled him with my back turned to him whilst still frottaging.  With that, he righted himself by propping his upper body with the elbows.

Grabbing a hold of my contracted scrotum, I began rubbing the ridge between it and the anus against his hard, throbbing cock.  Sweaty and on the verge of going wild, I cried out to him, “Yes, oh god, let’s fuck.”

With that, I went to get a vial of lubricant that sat across the room on a bureau.  Straight away, he drew my attention to the fact that this was the dreamtime and there was no need for lubricant.

More to the point, his referral was to the condoms which I brought back to the bed.  Irritated, he shot at me, “Come on, let’s not use them.

“Look, at you.  Look at where we are, will you?”

Yet I felt the need to use them, of habit, as in the waking state.  He did not protest any further; I then began squeezing some of the lubricant into my palm.

The feel of it was so cool and luxuriant that it made me shiver throughout.  I so wanted him that I lunged at him and began passionately kissing him.

We both hungrily struggled in the other’s arms whilst consumed with one another.  The experience was so incredibly intense.

I did take note that his eyes were very waking state in focus.  That is to say, there was nothing soulful or old-souled about them.

He was very grounded, young-souled and sexually dynamic.  I am not quite certain that this was indeed an encounter with Karl Weller.

His face was not distinctive; besides, I was too overcome with lustful desire to have paid his looks that much attention.  All the way through, I kept on groaning whilst completely enjoying myself.

Nothing else in the world existed whilst being alone with him.  I was not the least bit self-conscious about Florence Pole being close by in another room of her palatial digs.

In all honesty, it was hard for me to transcend my lust and get into him.  All I wanted was to have my size queen’s every yearning fulfilled.

Nothing about him mattered to me but his cock.  I wanted his cock inside me; I wanted the feel of his powerful body all over me.

On my knees in the bed, I faced out whilst he got well lubed and slippery.  The slippery bulbous head of him was just comfortably past the plush, relaxed rim of my butthole when we heard Florence Pole noisily rushing down the hall towards us.

From outside the door, she called out concerned and wanted to know what noise was this.  Stealthily, we both leapt from the bed whilst still engaged and onto the floor.

We threw ourselves onto the ground, on the far side of the bed – north side, away from the door.  Somehow, in our energetic manoeuvre, I had managed my way on top of him whilst he was now completely buried deep up inside me.

The feel of him was mind-altering and exquisite.  Florence Pole then entered and projected her usual feisty, argumentative waking state persona.

Right away, she demanded to know what we were doing; this, of course, was her way of feigning ignorance.  She then grandly announced that she did not want us messing around or carrying on like this in her house.

Speciously, I called out to her and let her know that we were not doing anything untoward.  My left elbow was on the bed, bracing me up, whilst he was lying behind me on the floor; at the time, he was totally hidden from view.

I sat squarely on his cock, with my back fully elongated, whilst yogically breathing.  Whilst she stood there and stayed her ground, I tried to stave off her intervention but the feel of his cock thrusting unabated and rhythmically deep into me was fast rocking me to a cerebral orgasm.

To not lose it and shriek at her to get lost, it took every fibre of my being.  Consciously, I began elevating my vibration whilst simultaneously projecting this process onto her.

The object here was to quiet her fears and elevate her life condition to a place completely removed from all fears.  Try as I might, she would have none of it and simply stayed her ground.

Florence wanted to have whatever we were up to, on the other side of ‘that’ bed in ‘her’ house, to be readily concluded.  Fussily, she told me to get up and be decent.

I was not, after all, even wearing any clothes.  At this point, we had long since ripped off all our clothing.

Florence then insisted that I get dressed and immediately get going.  Pulling up off his cock, I groaned aloud as there was a vacuum tug created in the wake of his bulbous-headed departure.

I could not have cared less that she had heard it all; there was no way to have controlled such intensity of emotions.  This was the kind of cock which on seeing it in the waking state, one had to readily sublimate one’s usual posture as top and pay homage by way of experiencing a momentary lapse and play bottom.

She came over to the bed whilst insisting that we both get up and take our leave of her house.  I then suggested to my uber-lover that we slip out the house, by way of the side doors, which would have faced Jestina Hendricks’ house to the south.

He did not like the idea of being seen together when leaving the house.  Agreeing, I offered to meet him down the street after heading out the front door.

He was mindful that no one suspect him, or us, of having been physically intimate.  I then offered him to come home with me as I had to be heading back anyway.

With that, we parted and left the house at opposite ends.  Eventually, we came together around the corner of the house; there, we pretended to have just met.

We then went walking along the street.  What was really interesting was in my haste to get dressed before Florence Pole went truly wild, I had pulled on my blue jeans and forgotten to put on the underwear first.

Funnily enough, I had only remembered the underwear when I saw it fall out the left leg of my jeans.  The underwear had slipped out ahead of my pointed foot as I hurriedly got dressed.

Quickly, I grabbed it up off the floor and tucked it into my waist.  I secured it there so that it would be held in place beneath my shirt by the belt.

All that I could think of, when we were alone outside, was the fact that we had not used condoms.  All this even though I knew pretty much so that this was a dream.

In my mind, I went through a battery of fears about him being riddled with STDs of one kind or the other.  I became quite concerned and fearful.

I then got in and on entering the house, I could feel Isha da Braga’s vibration about the interior.  Pandora da Braga was there with a brown-folded brochure for a concert or some such.

We were looking at it when she began naively asking, what I had been doing; there was so much implied about the super stud with whom she had seen me out in the street.  Deflecting her intrusion, I told her that I had merely been next door to visit with Florence Pole.

Next, I pointed out that the guy was there with her.  We met and he decided to go for a tour of the place with me.

Earlier, as we walked home, I had been urging him with the suggestion that we go get a room at a bathhouse; there, at least, we could fuck our brains out.  All I wanted to do was to be with him and fuck ‘til daylight.

I told him that there was no way that we would have any privacy at my family’s.  Looking disappointed in me, he let me know that he never went to places like that and did not like my idea of finding nothing wrong in frequenting such a place.

“That’s not my scene.  I wouldn’t want to go to a place like that, at all.

“I just wouldn’t be comfortable,” he protested.

Nonetheless, I was persistent, “Come on.  It’ll be just you and me.

“We’d be together in a room, away from being spied on by anyone.”  I could see that he wasn’t going to get into it.

Contrary to the waking state arrangement, the walk from Florence Pole’s to our house was unusually long – especially for being a next-door neighbour.  Both houses are separated, in the waking state, by the narrow earthen lane.

Outdoors, it was quite sunny and bright.  This, too, had been the case inside the sky lighted grand hall at Florence Pole’s palatial digs.

Sol’s intensity here was also a metaphor for what I was feeling, deep within, as I had literally been walking on air – after having played St. George to this veritable dragon of a schlong.  Well quelle scandalle!

He would have none of my deceptive banter.  Just like that, he put in and let Pandora da Braga know, “No, no, no.  We were over there, in bed.

“And we had a good time.  We really connected and we fucked.

“I mean, we didn’t get to fuck as much as we’d like to.  But it was really a good, good fuck nonetheless.

“It’s like we didn’t do anything.  Yet, we did everything…”

Talk about being completely mortified.  Yet, there he stood all man and no bullshit.

There was no way to get around his candour.  Obviously, he was feeling the depth of sublime connectivity as much as I was.

The passion to be sure was there as well.  Though we had not been able to go all 15 rounds, it was all around a pretty damn good fuck.

Interestingly, Florence Pole’s interruption and nonstop banter moved us onto an alternate, totally unexpected plane.  We were arrived at a groove where we were able to experience the most meaningful of orgasms: an intellectual high, communion of spirits.

What passed between us was quite incredible.  Overwhelming it was and thrilling too.

He was pleased at what we had experienced and, for that matter, he could not bear to have the beauty of it marred by my being in denial of what had had transpired between us.  Finally, I felt embarrassed before both.

Pandora meanwhile, to say the least, did not much care to hear about any such thing.  Adroitly, before being possibly late for some appointment or other, she declared that she had to get going.

With that, I took my leave of them both.

*Back to Florence Pole, she was channelled by Sarah J. Chambers as being a mid-cycle mature sage.  Previously, Florence had been the daughter of the Maharajah of Jaipur in the 15th century.

Too, she has had many celebrated lifetimes on the stage; furthermore, she had had an illustrious past life in Rome.  There, she had been a celebrated sculptor some of whose works still exist.

More than that, as is obvious, she was no stranger to either Merlin or I.  Of course, Florence never did meet Merlin.  END.

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I was on the veranda of 20 Amelia Street and this old White couple who live here in Cabbagetown were present.  They live on Metcalfe Street right at the corner of Amelia Street across the street from Mark Stuartson’s.

*This same august-souled couple also worked at Canada Post Corporation.  They worked there until long years after their official retirements.

They were going home from Parliament Street across Amelia Street.  They stopped because this man was coming towards them; he stopped and they took the time to talk with him.

He was telling them, “Oh yes man.  Yup, Florence Pole died.”

I immediately ran down towards them.  I was truly stunned and called out, “Ou true!”

I ran all the way down and around onto Parliament Street.  On entering Cabbagetown’s Parliament Street, it immediately became the main road in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.

You could see all the people in Crab Hill.  They were hanging out around Florence Pole’s house.

They had her corpse lain out on the veranda.  I went up filled with love and paid my respects.

I was really pleased to see her because she did look good.  Florence was the picture of ethereal serenity.

Laying there, truly in state, she was truly at peace with her ruggedly eccentric, accomplished life.  Though she obviously was not breathing, there was no getting around the fact that she was aglow.

Everybody was laughing and basking in storytelling tributes to the dear old soul.  Then somebody had us all howling when they said, “Is all dem cussing why you see ‘e live so long ‘o know.”

Truly, it was a testament to her marvellous spirit that it seemed as though all of Crab Hill, if not Sandy Point, had turned out to pay their respects.  Rightly so, Florence was being deferred to.

She lay in a vivid purple casket which sat on three sturdy-looking typical dining room chairs as those popular in West Indian homes.  Her head was facing due south towards Brimstone Hill Fortress and her feet towards the north, the main exit from the veranda and our home.

Florence wore a rich multitoned blue dress which was muted by a thin film of white diaphanous linen.  All about her body were a rich array of local flowers and that green vine whose leaves looked like miniature Christmas trees.

Though it had never been used when she was widowed, the official stairs from the main road up to the veranda was opened.  Persons would arrive to pay their respects by mounting the official, though never used, stairs from the main road.

They would then move about the casket with some speaking lovingly of her.  On the side of the casket closest to the house stood a group of women – they were actually fairly androgynous-looking persons.

Their sole purpose, it seemed, was to fulfill their role as astral guides.  Perhaps, they were astral plane habitués with an obvious soul connection to Florence.

Truly impressed, I had taken my time and stood beside her coffin.  With head cocked to the side, I lovingly looked on at a truly remarkable life in full which had been lived with the greatest panache.

Whilst admiring the collapsed lips of her supremely serene face, my already enthralled lids slid shut.  They did so more for being hypnotised by Florence’s regal beauty than for being intentionally slid shut.

Just like that, my lids reopened.  The moving dream vista before me, however, was totally gone.

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Art:  The Mary Rose and Fleet

Artist: Jean Walker

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©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved

Do It to Me!

Lena!

Horne, Lena 30/6/1917 <O> 9/5/2010 NYC

This fragment was a fifth level mature warrior – 4th life thereat.  Lena was in the power mode with a goal of unmitigated growth.  She was a sceptic who was in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Lena’s primary chief feature was exalted arrogance with a secondary chief feature of stubbornness.

Lena’s casting is in the second position of the second cadence in the seventh greater cadence.  She is a member of entity six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – another entity mate.

Lena’s was a Saturn/Venus body type.

Essence twin for Lena is a warrior and her king task companion did exert some influence.

The three primary needs for Lena were: expression, power and exchange.

There are 10 past-life associations between Lena and Arvin whilst there are 7 past-life associations with Merlin.

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Back in Spring, 1994, I was standing in my West End, Vancouver bedroom getting dressed – after having made dinner for Bower Carlyle-St. Clare and me.  At the time, he was recently full-blown with AIDS but doing well.  As he sat out in the living room in the rocking chair which had been Merlin’s favourite piece of furniture, I was busily getting ready to head off to work on the midnight shift.

Just then Ross Porter, who was gigging on the CBC’s late-night Jazz show, began introducing a recently released album.  I screamed and rushed out to the living room, turned up the sound to full blast and directly stood in the centre of the perfectly placed speakers.

Said Ross Porter, it was a new album by Lena Horne – a cut of which he was nicely setting up.  Since as long as I could remember, this woman’s every performance always made me feel good throughout.  The opening of the song, Do Nothing ‘Till You Hear from Me, began with the bass working its magic.

For the next several minutes, I stood there flying-without-moving.  Admiringly, Bower sat there silently drinking in the visual of me as I stood in black stretch jeans tucked into riding boots and nothing else with hair long and out.

with lids closed, I drank every note of the performance; I was truly besotted.  Then the song got really groovy and at one point, just past the four-minute mark, simultaneous with Lena Horne, I let out the exact same whoop as she did.  Stunned, I placed my hands at my mouth and threw open my eyes.

Bower was convinced that I had heard the recording before.  Soon enough, Lena Horne’s album, We’ll Be Together Again, was blasting my West End apartment on a daily basis.  One day, Bower called up and declared that we were going to New York – he had never been.

To hell with work, he had declared as I tried begging off.  Not having it, Bower shot back that he was taking me to New York City because I knew it and always spoke so fondly of my time there.

Early October rolled around and we held up at the Hotel Chelsea – he had booked the suite as he knew that it was Merlin’s favourite place to stay in New York City.  We went to the show and although, he had been hoping to see Diana Ross – chiefly why he wanted to go to New York City, we ended up having a blast at the performance way up in the balcony.  The next day, I stood around in Times Square and scored us tickets to, Kiss of the Spider Woman, at the Broadhurst Theatre.

A couple of days later and we were returned to Vancouver as giddy as two kids who had just had the wildest adventure.  Sadly, for being full-blown, Bower developed a nagging cough which dragged on for long weeks; nonetheless, it was a magical adventure and I was especially grateful that he had made possible, the trip to see Lena Horne in concert at Carnegie Hall.

As Diana Ross was his favourite performer, every film of hers he had taped.  He understood my love of Lena Horne when finally, he took the time to appreciate her performance in, The Wiz – directed by her partner Sidney Lumet.

Back in 1978, when seeing, The Wiz, on its opening weekend with Owen Hawksmoor – a man of truly equine proportions – This brief appearance and performance by Lena Horne made the film for me; everyone else paled by comparison.

Back in 1969, whilst vacationing in St. Croix, U. S. Virgin Islands, one briny Friday evening the 1943 film, Stormy Weather, was on television.  This was my first introduction to Lena Horne.  I was thoroughly captivated by her.

My response to her has always been visceral; she is energising, captivating – her eyes both raptor-like and thoroughly empowering to lock on to.  If there was no essence bond, it is highly improbable that I would have such an intensely visceral response to her.

I then found it hard to sleep that night after the film.  Not surprisingly, in light of our essence bond as entity mates, I did that night dream of her.  Furthermore, I have noticed that the passing of entity and cadre mates leaves me especially splayed – I don’t feel impending doom, I just feel as though a portal has opened up and I could drift off and find myself on the other side… an astral plane habitué.

I think that because of my casting’s cardinality, I tend to act as a beacon – somehow, I tend to sense when cadre mates are on the cusp of departing.  This used to be fairly frightening when younger; now, I have learnt to simply give of self and realise that someone in the fold is moving on.

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

On The Sunny Side of The Street, It’s Black History Month!

Happy Black History Month!  Who cares about the Oscars?  The most important point of power in all situations is being able to see through to the structure of anything.  Those who cannot manipulate real time events to show themselves, chosen, entitled, special, ‘genius’ and all that nonsense will ever cheat, lie and steal.  Please do tell in in what other universe would there be a tie between Katherine Hepburn and Barbra Streisand for Best Actress but in this one where the most venal racists run the show and everyone looks like another variation on Jackie ‘blasted god-fugly’ Stallone.

Go on, give each other awards; what does it finally matter when you know nothing of being cool and sophisticated as in those whom you so revile, vilify, loathe, incite others to hate – all the while crying of being victimised.  You know… those marvellous people whose spirit you will  never crush, despite the attempts of Orly Taitz and the returned de Torquemada – now no less fugly got up in reincarnational drag – Jackson, Woods and Cosby and you just know that the swine has only just begun.  They, those marvellous people, who like dreams – wherein only truth and beauty exist – are the ones to have invented Jazz and whose spirit will never be eclipsed by your god-fugly ugliness.  Yes, them… they who don’t need awards to show how special, chosen and what marvellous geniuses one so over-compensatorily is not!

Alas, for the truly marvellous people every day of the year is awards season; despite your alarming ugliness, you have positively no power over any of us when we set feet into our homes.  There, despite your lunacy, we affirm our creaturehood, our beauty or phenomenalness and we turn on some Jazz which can speak to no one else as it speaks to every last one of us – not you!  So while you infest the culture, like some fetid mould – which thankfully are never lasting – just know that the ugliness of your lies can in no way invalidate the beauty of Miles Davis, Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, Betty Carter, Lena Horne, Anita Baker, Sarah Vaughan, Diana Ross, Natalie Cole… and countless others.

So go on and speciously raise your rear right leg and take to the airwaves claiming, “Jazz has its roots in Klezmer!”  Just remember this: forgiveness is the price a damn fool would gladly pay to forget anything.  Clearly, you do not know Black people and come November, we won’t collectively have taken leave of senses and do as you would wish… not after Orly…  Who cares about the Oscar vote?  Our vote is the one that truly matters…  Remember eight years ago… “I’m Voting For Her!”  We do not forget… where is that displaced haus frau anyway?  You know, the one who was partout on TV demanding that the unchosen sheeple, “Vote For Hillary!” followed by that demented laugh of hers… perhaps, she is too distracted these days trying to recall with which hand she ate last night.

Truly empowered are they who always say what the fuck they mean and never leave any doubt as to their resolve.

Incidentally, all the Jazz artists mentioned in this blog, I have to date done their Michael Overleaves.  Some are listed in the Michael Overleaves Appendix page those which aren’t were only recently channelled; they are… Natalie Cole, Anita Baker and Lena Horne.  Not in the least surprised was I to have found that Natalie Cole is an entity mate.  Every time I hear her voice, I am instantaneously catapulted to a groove that I can only call a soul high…  So then here are her Michael Overleaves with one of my favourite video performances of hers.  Every idiosyncrasy of hers resonates to the very core of my being… God she could represent!

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*Richard is New York City academician whom Merlin met during the final couple of years of his life.  This man had the most uncanny resemblance energetically to Merlin and I only met him a week after Merlin’s passing as he ventured to Toronto; he had previously planned to, to bid Merlin farewell.  Alas, unlike Joe Morton who flew in from Los Angeles for 24 hours to be with Merlin, Richard  had been too late but came nonetheless; the gesture was truly noble of spirit and was greatly appreciated.

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

Do nothing ’till you hear from me!

© 1994 Lena Horne music by Duke Ellington & Sidney Russell

The first time I heard this music, I was arrested by the opening chords as I stood still in the middle of my living room on the third/top storey of 878 Gilford Street in Vancouver’s West End.  At the end of Lena Horne’s passionate singing, I screamed and laughed uncontrollably with tears running down my face.

I had been standing half naked before getting ready for work and decided that the experience was too great to do something so ridiculously banal as go in to work that day.  Naturally, I had been standing with tape recorder in hand – after having just recorded the dreams dreamt.  Quickly, I grabbed a new cassette and recorded the newly released song from the CBC FM radio station as Ross Porter had waxed on long enough about the new Lena Horne Jazz recording for me to have pounced into action.

I spent the rest of my stay in Vancouver listening to this recording at least four times weekly.

This is the music that let’s you leap off into truly sublime dream experiences.

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