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.

Also, Coming in June…

MOAppendix I

A SIX VOLUME MICHAEL OVERLEAVES APPENDIX.

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

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

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

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

#OscarsSoWhite!

By far, one of the funniest Academy Awards Opening monologues.  Leading up to last night’s awards, I was a bit apprehensive about how the whole race row would pan out.  I think that Chris Rock did a fantastic job and steered the entire controversy in the appropriate direction.

The beauty of the monologue in 1999 is how pure and wonderful it was.  So much has transpired since then and we are all a very different human race post 9/11, post Barack H. Obama’s presidency – racism has become since then so in-your-face and toxic… most of all, the problem of climate change is undeniably upon us.  So very good of Leonardo DiCaprio to have spoken so eloquently as he did.

Finally, regardless the diversity controversy in Hollywood and the facts being what they are, it matters little when this beautiful world is slowly becoming less viable for human civilisation…  Merrily we besottedly chug along like dopey lobsters denying that it is getting tepid under the collar.

Finally, Whoopi and her opening monologue got it right, it was the best #OscarsSoWhite! ever.

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

Robin Williams 1951 – 2014.

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Sweet and blissful dreams, you ravishingly beauteous of magical shamans…

The love we bare you will spirit you through the night and into that beauteous light…

I love you more…

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Photo: poster for Robin Williams film,

© 1998 ‘What Dreams May Come.’

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

An encounter with Theresa.

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Whilst the Moon transited both Capricorn and my eighth house, I would astral project across time and dream these most potent dreams, on September 17, 1991.  I do believe that it was an encounter with a probable, future lifetime of Merlin’s; it was a most interesting of visits. 

As always, as with such dreams, my every sense was intensely acute.  I was lucidly awakened and the fluidity with which the dream progressed was bucolic in places.  The second being the one in question, there were two dreams that day. 

More than that, what was truly interesting was the way in which I felt on awakening from these dreams.  In particular, the second dream was the one that had the most impact on me. 

I was splayed, enervated and sported a tension headache.  I also spent long stretches of time, with long pauses as I tried whilst half-awake, groping my way through the recording process. 

Also, it is key to bear in mind that the train travel alluded to, in the first dream, is of paramount import.  Oftentimes when moving across time, whilst traversing the astral plane to visit with astral plane habitués or visit past or future lifetimes, one does so in the protected confines of waking state transports such as the train. 

This metaphor reflects the dream in question being rooted at the very core of the soul; hence, one has to be transported to fathoms of the greenhouse – subconscious – not readily voyaged to or attained in the dreamtime. 

<O>

I was on a platform in a train station.  There had been transportation going to this particular place.  Getting upstairs, it much reminded me of Broadview subway station where one waits for the bus outside.

A woman in a car that looked like an old 1970s Monte Carlo, which was cream and brown, pulled into the station.  Soon enough, she realised that she had made a wrong turn.  She cut across a bus then came out right away, onto Broadview Avenue, making a right turn.

I had come out and began following but on foot.  Coming out, I realised that she had made a left turn and gone up a back lane to go up onto that street west of Broadview Avenue where Maxwell Roberts IV and Heather Ronald lived.

In any event, there was a police woman on a bike who started following; I thought that she was going to go after the driver of the car.  She, however, did not.

In the meantime, all these cars had come and parked on the dirt road that we were on.  They parked in the middle of the road such that you had to walk around them because traffic couldn’t proceed anymore.  People were walking about.

The woman, who was White, had very strongly developed legs; she wore a blue denim skirt.  She walked very briskly, at daytime, ahead of me.  There was a lot of gravel on the earthen road and the updraught of wind sent dust blowing everywhere.

Facing the oncoming flow of persons, from the abandoned vehicles stalled in traffic, a blond guy stood straddling his bike.  He had looked at me; he was younger – in his teens really.  I realised that the woman was not, after all, going to be pursued by the female police officer.

I went walking along and left this place behind me.

<O>

Next, in the second dream, I was in Manhattan where I went into this store; it was thrift shop really.  I thought to myself that it was high time that I bought a piece of fabric to take home.  I had had in mind to make myself a big pair of flare-legged, eveningwear pants – something that I could have to show-off my sense of style with.

I did buy a piece of very thick, green thread with which I was going to sew.  There was this wonderful black fabric that had, in a grid formation, these thick welts in the fabric like corduroy does but very thick welts.

It was a dark-green-merging-into-black.  In the end, I wasn’t too keen on it.  I kept on looking around the store which was quite spacious; it was, truth be told, more like a Salvation Army Store.

There were, up on the second level high up, these rows and rows of dark suits which I did not care for.  Too drab were they; besides which, I was looking for fabric to purchase.  Above that, you had to reach up to get the clothing down off their hooks.

I then found this iridescent, two-toned, purple and brown jacket – a parker-like fabric, which had a hood to it; it was very beautiful and all the same size.  Did find it sort of nice but, again, I did not go there to buy prêt-à-porter.

I wanted fabric, so that I could make what I wanted and keep that sense of distinctiveness to my style.  Going up to the counter, I was asking the guy where one could get more of the choice fabrics.  The Black salesclerk was saying that they did not have anything beyond what was on display.

I then began chatting him up, trying to get on good terms with him, asking where in the neighbourhood an out-of-towner could stay.  Referring to a bathhouse, I mentioned that I had heard of a place in Maiden Lane.

However, he said that one only had to go down one block, to 44th Street by the subway entrance, at Eighth Avenue; apparently, it was to the right of that on 44th Street.  This meant that I was up at 45th Street.

Nonetheless, I thought of going down one block beyond that because I could see a big, empty lot, thinking that the block below that would be 45th Street, instead of course, it would be 43rd Street.

I then said goodbye to him – he was, in fact, rather pleasant.  I left the store and headed across the wide avenue where the cars were flowing southward.  This meant that it was perhaps Seventh Avenue or Ninth Avenue but I was more inclined to believe that it was the latter.

Whilst they waited at the north side of the cross street, on a red light, I had diagonally cut across the avenue doing a brisk walk.  There was no traffic flowing on that particular side street.

I then got to this big, empty lot.  At the front of it, which in this case would look out onto Eighth Avenue, there was this row of houses that were gutted out from the back.

They were already doing renovations.  As Manhattan seemed in the midst of a building bust, due to the worldwide recession, I realised that these were recently bought by large development firms.

This firm, however, decided that they were going to erect a massive structure.  They had demolished two of the buildings that were in the centre of the row of block-long brownstones; it would serve as the entrance to the skyscraper.

On either side of the entrance would be these five-storey, classic, New York brownstones.  They would, of course, be renovated becoming very exclusive townhouses and condos.

The skyscraper would be a ten-to-twenty-storeyed, luxury, apartment/condominium, block-square building right in the heart of midtown.  This was most unusual for midtown Manhattan and on the west side at that.

As a result, it would have a great deal of security features to it.  The reason for it being located where it was, quite simply, it had to do with space.  The Upper East Side was now too densely populated, even overpopulated, to have accommodated more luxury high-rises.

There was, in fact, a city ordinance banning further construction of high-rise dwellings on the Upper East Side.  As a result, there was a mini-building boom occurring in midtown Manhattan.

The building’s façade, for the first three storeys, was already in place; it was a sand-coloured marble.  I had begun crossing the street on realising that this was definitely not where I wanted to go.

I found a magazine which I began pouring through and, on turning the pages, happened on an advertisement for the company that had the fabrics that I was looking for; it said in bold letters: AD&G.

It also had a map of the environs showing how to best locate their address; this was very helpful.  There was an ad for cheese, then other ads, which I looked at admiring the style and photographic compositions.

The moment at which I saw the ad for AD&G, on looking at the store’s beautiful façade, I was immediately posited inside it.  It was beautiful, gloriously wood-panelled and owned by orthodox Jews and, in fact, was more so an apothecary.

There were these wonderful white bags that were glacé-looking and folded up.  Inside were wonderful spices such as turmeric and powdered herbs.  The variety of herbs was staggeringly impressive.

For a mere $28.00, you could walk off with three or four ounces of the cheapest herbs; they were terribly expensive.  In one instance, a mere ounce of some herb or other was a cool $45.00; it wasn’t even saffron.

The merchant was a very pleasant soul; for working in such a healthy place, how could he not have been?  The store did zing with an abundance of health-sustaining life.  Its elevated, harmonised chi was tangible.

“Yes, I know.  It’s very expensive.” said the store’s younger merchant.  This man’s passing resemblance to Merlin only that much more warmed me towards him.

Apparently, the store was around since the seventeen hundreds.  They had been purveyors to presidents and royalty worldwide.  There was rich, dark, oak wood-panelling everywhere.

There were two Jewish gentlemen who, at present, ran the business; both were very handsome.  They were mid-aged and about five years apart in age.  They were both very pleasant with a serene expression and looked like they had each passed a near-recent past life, in a monastery, in the Orient.

I went and sat down on this large seat from which one could look at displays and samples on a wall.  This man was so evolved and truly refined of spirit.  A principal merchant, who was white-smocked, came over bearing a portfolio for me to look over.

The portfolio contained a canister that reminded me of something that Merlin would have owned.  It also seemed like something that had to do with drugs.  From within the black, velvet-interiored case, he placed the silver canister that comfortably fitted in the palm of the hand.

As it opened up, it got larger right before my eyes.  It had a little glass bottle that was connected to a collapsible spoon that folded out like a wing.  The glass bottle actually seemed not unlike an I.V. tube.

It contained a very syrupy serum that reminded me a great deal of morphine; at the time, I recalled Merlin having been prescribed some.  This serum moved around very slowly in the organically enlarged bottle.

It also did remind me a bit of Castor oil and it was something one could take, in small rations, when travelling.  Of course, I had no desire to be taking drugs of any kind.

At that point, I remembered that my intention was to be buying clothing and not drugs.  There was also a vial of bee pollen that this courteous gentleman merchant wanted me to purchase.

One has to use such glowing terms, for these two merchants, because their purpose was not solely to partake of the capitalist bump and grind.  More importantly, they were firmly committed to serving the good health of their clientèle.

This man was genuinely concerned for my wellbeing – a rare occurrence that would be, indeed, in the waking state.  It was bee pollen which, of course, meant that it was even more expensive.

It was said to be the elixir that was appropriate for me.  He did not foist it onto me though his manner suggested that he was, along with the other man for that matter, a spirit guide serving in regards issues of health.  It was much evolved an approach.

Both men then ushered me into an inner room where I was graciously seated at a polished table; it was a light wood and not unlike pine.  This was a dream of high moment because of the deference with which human beings were extending themselves to me.  This, of course, is behaviour so rare in the waking state.

On the right, sat an older man and a woman; hers were the most unusual eyes imaginable.  She was the wife of one of the two merchants who worked in the front of the shop.

By no means was she a beautiful woman; more so handsome was she for the strength and distinctiveness of her total look.  Very tall, dark-haired, angular; her eyes were so unusually large that she seemed to have the most severe case of thyroids though she did not.

The lids were thick and heavy.  In fact, the lids really did give the look of an iguana’s from the way the lids draped the large eyes and almost completely draped them shut.  However, she was very much so alive.

She was talking with the rest of them as they discussed the different products and lines that they carried.  Their daughter was in an inner room talking to someone.

She entered and graciously introduced herself.  She was the exact, youthful version of her very strong-willed mother.

*These were people, at least on her side of the bloodlines, whose family could trace its ancestry right back to the court of King David and beyond.  They were Jewish nobility that spanned more than a couple of millennia and it showed; there was nothing nouveau about them.

They were a family who had lived socially elevated lives, for more than forty-plus generations.  Too, wherever they had lived, be it Alexandria, Persia, Rome, Jerusalem, London or New York, they had known wealth; it went right back to their noble heritage in dynastic Israel.

The daughter was, in fact, very pleasant to look at though a bit too nervous.  I was wondering if this, in fact, was getting a glimpse into a future life set in Manhattan.  She had just returned from England where she had been studying; she had a British accent.

She joined us, sitting down on her mother’s left, across the table to my right.  The mother sat directly opposite me.  She had that way of looking, right into you, that the socially prominent affect with a confidence that is unparallelled.

One of the brothers, who ran the business, was on the mother’s immediate right and her lover.  The daughter had come out with of all people, the actor, Robin Williams.

He was unusually hirsute, even more so than in the waking state and seemed not unlike those extra-humans encountered in the dreams of February 16, 1989.  They sat there talking and visiting on welcoming me into their presence.

Robin was not the hyper-energied, talkative and over-compensatorily – to the point of being grossly dysfunctional, funny ham.  He was contained and near-Buddha-like.  Perhaps, this must be a future life bleed-through for him.

We visited for a whilst then got up and went back, into the inner room, with Robin and the daughter joining the rest of us.  At one point, as I sat there in their company, I thought of how very energetically aligned these people were to the mandalas that Merlin had done during his lifetime.

The eyes of this woman did, in fact, remind me of the eyes of the elephant featured in the mandala that Merlin had made for Maxime Gascoigne-de Montigny.  Interestingly enough, in that mandala which Merlin did, in 1977, at the time of his Saturn Return – the majority of the mandalas he created were done at that time – the eyes were Merlin’s eyes; he had told me as much once.

I then began speaking to them of mandalas; they were genuinely interested in my views on the subject.  I then pushed on, to tell them that I was presently writing a book about my experiences with Merlin and when I said that they had an immediate reaction.

They simply shut down and the mother’s response was the most visceral.  She simply turned away, upset.  Her reaction was exactly like Merlin’s reaction was, when I spoke to him about my life during the Spanish Inquisition.

It was in that dream in which I dreamt of Elizabeth and Ludnez, Elizabeth being Pannonica Kertész.

*It was very interesting because Pannonica had had the same reaction, to my telling her of the book when we met.  It was as though she thought that I was only there, to give her a mandala, in the hopes that she would become my agent to have the book marketed – far from it, my dear.  END.

At that point, I decided that I would take my leave of them.  It was at nighttime; it was in a darkened room as she sat on a sofa across from me.  She simply collapsed onto the sofa – just as Merlin in that dream had during the past life dream set during the Spanish Inquisition.

Quite simply, she became drained and simultaneously it was very visceral for me.  My reaction, to her being in distress, was tantamount to how I would become enervated on watching Merlin collapse fainting during his illness.

Robin Williams was there lying, on his back, on a sofa with his head closer to me.  The husband was on the floor.  When I went to say goodbye, I reached to the mother’s face and kissed her on both cheeks very grandly.

However, she was very cool.  As a matter of fact, it was as though sensing Merlin’s energetics got up in another body.  It was as if a living masked ball, if you like, whereat Merlin was got up as the handsome woman.  Going into a backroom, I wrestled with what I was doing by taking my leave of them and the place.  Somehow, it just did not seem right.

It was then that I noticed the daughter who was standing close by – as if to see me to the door.  Robin Williams got up and came in my direction to go do something.

I abruptly left the room that I was in and hurried to the kitchen.  Of all things, I pretended to be taking a pee in the kitchen.  There was a garbage container which I decided was safe enough a place where I could take a pee.

As I began peeing into the container, Robin entered the kitchen and saw me.  My cock was partially tumescent and unusually large.  Robin wore a green t-shirt and nothing else.  His cock was very visible; it was very skinny and long but flaccid.

“Whoa, I did not know you were taking a pee.  I could come back.” he said and embarrassingly laughed.  It really was the exact likeness of the waking state actor.

Slowly, sultrily, I began turning towards him yearning for him.  He shyly giggled and behaved awkwardly and became more like his cartoonish self in the waking state,

“No, no.  Not this time.  I have to go back, okay.”

He returned to join the others and I returned to the bathroom where originally I had been primping.  I began caressing myself and admiring my dream wunder-schlong hoping that he would come back and join me.  He never, however, did come back.

*This was a very potent dream and, in some way, Merlin was definitely connected to this woman.  Her interest, as I spoke of mandalas he had done, was exactly the kind of absorption he would have shown.

I am very certain that this was seeing Merlin, in a future life, as a very handsome Jewish woman and reborn into a very old, noble family; a very pleasant, prophetic dream.

She ran a gracious home.  The furnishings were all antiques in the salon; they were very Old World pieces.  There was a wealth of heritage and august ambiance like you would expect in the palaces of the Windsors.

**I am beginning to think, especially with the passage of much time, that the woman whom I assumed to have been Merlin in a future life was actually myself in my immediate past life.  At the time, I was married to a doctor and as part of my own shamanic practice I, then Theresa, ran a salon.

I was said to have been a statuesque, strikingly handsome woman of Incan descent.  What was never shared, in the channelled overleaves, was the fact that I may well have been also of Jewish descent – in the immediate past life.

This bit of arcana would make a great deal of sense on two fronts: based on what I would later in life learn and for another, it would stand to reason that after having been Jewish in my immediate past life, I would be Black in this one.

Between Merlin and me, it should be noted that there is a bit of reversal at play.  In his immediate past life, Merlin had been Black as I am now Black and he – when Merlin – was Jewish.  Rather interesting!

Her large eyes and her Jewish heritage made me assume that it was Merlin in the future.  However, at this ‘masked’ reincarnational visitation dream, I was really encountering myself in my immediate past life.  END.

<O>

Photo: Photo of mandala created by Merlin in 1975 for his oldest friend.

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