Gosh That Was Fun!

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Thanks to World Ballet Day, there was positively nothing or no one that was going to dissuade me from hitting London town.  Armistice Day and La Bayadère, you say… ha!

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Naturally, I returned to London, in my ongoing research/quest for more connections to the past as it pertains to the six-volume dream memoirs.  Though I had hoped to publish volume three this year, 2018, ongoing research has meant its delay until Spring 2019.  

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After dropping luggage at the hotel in Russell Square, it was a quick dash on the Piccadilly Line to Leicester Square Station where the 10-day London Pass with Oyster card was collected.  On this gloriously mild Saturday morning, I took a quick snap of St. Martin-in-the-Fields across Charing Cross, before slipping into the National Portrait Gallery.  

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Before having found what I went looking for, I first took a detour through the Tudor Gallery where, alas, there were no portraits of Margaret Beaufort.  That done, I moved down to the open space where the exhibition: Black is the new Black was housed.  

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Stunning portraits, I love the blue-blackened soulfulness of the portraits; these are all eyes that are thoroughly ensouled and lived-in.  Next, it was off to the salon where what I went looking for was handsomely displayed.  

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Enraptured, I passed long forevers fully engrossed by National Portrait Gallery’s recent acquisition of Wim Heldens’ oil masterpiece – portrait of the art collector and benefactor couple, Harry and Carol Ann Djanogly.  The oil on canvas is handsomely hung in salon 38 and was painted in 2017 by Wim.  Wim, I met in NYC at Manhattan cabaret singer, Frans Bloem’s West Village townhouse when we went out back in the early 1990s.  I had been in town visiting with Frans from Vancouver; we met when I then lived in Toronto and finally, the relationship ran its course on my relocation to the west coast and not to be overlooked but sex with Frans was as meh as warm, runny vanilla ice cream.  Of course, by the time that I was visiting Frans and he was out of town, I met Wim; the latter was sick in bed and I looked in on him between going to the theatre and galleries in the city.  Apart from godawful sex, Frans was a little too obsessed with Diana Ross for my liking – it all seemed too sissy-queer-boy, clichéd and banal. 

Distracted by Wim Heldens

Besides, by the visit where I met Wim, who was the warmest of souls – Wim is an old-souled scholar and it shows in spades in his works – I had long discovered the raunchy funk of hot sex deep into the woods of Vancouver’s Stanley Park where the world’s largest city park (1000 acres) is ever ten degrees warmer than elsewhere in the city during the sodden wintry months as the half millennium-aged sitkas keep the place comfortably warm.  There was no need for the ennui of sex with Frans after tying raunchy fuckers to a sitka and whipping them; besides, positively nothing beats fucking in nature – truly, it is the most empowering, grounding experience.  

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On leaving the National Portrait Gallery, I ambled down Charing Cross, took the time to admire the bronze springbok that lords over the entrance to the Republic of South Africa’s embassy with the maple leaf-festooned Canadian Embassy to the west across Trafalgar Square.  

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Down into the bowels of Charing Cross station, I then skipped and hopped the Bakerloo Line to Lambeth North Station.  There on a gloriously temperate and sunny Saturday afternoon, I made my way to the Imperial War Museum and was rather moved by the beauty of the metallic poppies that tearfully bled from a bathysphere-styled window at the museum’s domed rotunda.  This glorious display was part of the centenary celebrations of Armistice Day 100 years earlier which marked the close of World War I.  

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Standing in the atrium of the museum, I was reminded how geography does determine the scale of architecture.  Relative to the Smithsonian Museum in Washington D. C., there is no way that the relative limitless wide-open spaces of America would find military gear in such close cramped quarters as at the Imperial War Museum’s atrium. 

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I was there to take in the exhibition, Mimesis, which honoured, on the 100th anniversary of the close of WWI, the contributions of blacks from across the Commonwealth.  Turns out, it was not a photographic exhibition; rather, it was a most evocative of films.  

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From South Bank, it was back to Embankment Station and onto the Circle Line to Tower Hill Station.  There, emerging into the sparkling and relatively warm daylight, one was readily reminded of Vancouver temperatures at this time of year.  Into the perpetual queues one headed for a chance to gaze on the Crown Jewels at Tower of London.  

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Going in, the ravens were keeping a watchful eye… as is their wont and the tourists here were predominantly East Asian.  

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Seeing these metallic simians, I was reminded how good London’s fortune is not to be inundated by predatory monkeys… as is the case in both St. Kitts and Nevis.  

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After having viewed the Crown Jewels, this photo of Tower Bridge, suggested that the fast-moving clouds, though stormy-looking, would not break just yet.  

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About half an hour later, the vista to the west looked dramatically foreboding.  I tried to negotiate and decided that these clouds did not look all that fast-moving, besides they were considerably to the west.  

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Into one of the city’s ubiquitous and thoroughly indispensable Pret A Manger joints I slipped.  There, I dined on a hearty sandwich and had one of way too many raspberry smoothies.  

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Each day, wherever I travelled, there was always one in each pocket.  

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This little rocket was the must-have.  Always, there was one handily tucked away deep inside my black Dorothy Grant messenger bag as I darted about my favourite town, on my favourite West Indian isle – it really does vibrationally feel as though in the West Indies, besotting my insatiable soul with culture, art and more high-end inspiring fare.  

After having interminably waited out the rains, along came 1700 and time for the second to last day of the torch light ceremony at the Tower of London in honour of the centenary of WWI’s conclusion.  And so, of deference one waited out the rains, which rolled through in waves – waves they were which seemed increasingly more monsoon.  Finally, the show was begun and after having been soaked sans parapluie and too many souls – I do not like crowds, I opted to make this short clip as I could not see a damn torch on the ground and headed for the warmth of a hotel suite in Bloomsbury.  

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After being soaked to the gills to get into Tower Hill Station, no sooner than being on the platform and headed towards King’s Cross St. Pancras, along came the announcement that the station was now closed as there were too many souls on the platform to assure everyone’s safety.  Back out into the torrential downpour, we all grumbled, huddled and shivered; this downpour was seriously fierce.  

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After much aimlessly darting about the crowded and flooded streets of the city, two-plus hours later, finally a cab was dispatched and into a very cool hotel suite I arrived.  Somehow, in spite being soaked to the bones and frigidly cold, I managed not to have come down with the sniffles, a cough or runny nose. 

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Soon, wakefulness gave way to sleep and I was readily awakened into a plethora of dreams, which are always thrillingly, lucidly awakened in this favourite city of my well-travelled soul.  A day filled with adventure lay ahead; it was Armistice Day 2018 and I would manage to be captured on ITV film of the ceremony at the Cenotaph in Whitehall.  

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and sweet dreams.  

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©2013-2026  Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

Concrete Cabin.

Concrete Cabin  Oil on Canvas 198 x 275 cm 1994 Peter Doig

Oil on Canvas

198 x 275 cm

1994 Peter Doig

One of my favourite Peter Doig paintings.  I rather love it for being so quintessentially Canadian.  I am more readily reminded of Vancouver, rather than Toronto, as the Sitka-like evergreens – which are the soul of Stanley Park – are so not Toronto.

Happy New Year to every last one of you.  Thank you so very much for being focussed herein; your support is immensely encouraging.  Here’s to life, health, happiness and, of course, sweet dreams!  Nothing but the very best in 2016!  I love you more…

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© 2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Diana’s Resolve… Extra-Human Tall Whites Arrive.

Diana-Princess-of-Wales-Nelson Shanks 1994 oil on canvas

One of the last dreams I would have, before moving to Montréal from Vancouver, would be a most ominous dream of Diana, Princess of Wales.  At the time, my life was in flux as I hurriedly packed up my art collection and made preparations to fly out of Vancouver to Montréal. 

As Pandora da Braga had lived in Paris for ten years, after having worked in the Prime Minister’s Office – Prime Minister, John Turner – studying then working as a journalist in the city of lights, I would make wonderful friends of my own in Paris. 

Naturally, they all implored me to move to Montréal because they could then visit me and not have to worry about not speaking English.  Of course, if you can’t live in Paris, Montréal will make a damn good substitute – the locals’ hideous xenophobia notwithstanding. 

To say the least, I was only too happy to take flight from Vancouver which had proven a racially suffocating hellhole once too many for my legendary impatience… to say nothing of pride and integrity.  Since I am not in the world to suffer the racial predator overlong, it was time to move on when I chose to.  Knowing when to take leave is key to survival in any situation. 

The astral plane dream encounter with Diana, Princess of Wales was inordinately lucid and possessed of a clarity that spoke to its prophetic potency.  Of course, on awaking from the dream, I had completely misread the message of the dynamic being played out.  At the time of the dream and on awaking, I had assumed the subject of ominous prophecy to be Prince William rather than Diana, Princess of Wales herself. 

The dream proved rather sobering.  The evening when the news broke of Diana, Princess of Wales’s death, I stood in my Montréal living room and screamed horrified because in that moment I had finally gotten whom the subject the prophetic dream was; it was Diana, Princess of Wales. 

There was the same density and foreboding in this dream as in all dreams which presage death.  There was no mistaking the ambiance of the dream; death palpably hung in the air. 

At the time, it was Sunday, July 27, 1997 and whilst the Moon then transited both Taurus and my twelfth house, I did nothing more than pack and run off to Stanley Park after dark to get one more last session of hot sex in the midst of five-hundred-year-old moss-furred Sitkas. 

Oh what delicious fun times!  Nothing beats having sex in the middle of nature; it is so primal, so spiritual, so shamanic and elemental. 

The dream was a beautiful farewell from Diana, Princess of Wales.  I am sure that she would be immensely proud of how Prince William has fared since she bade him fare well in that dream. 

Sweet dreams as ever. 

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Pandora da Braga and I visited with Diana, Princess of Wales, at night-time, in this the first dream.  I spoke to her of her great insights to world politics.

As well, I told her of how much she had learnt in this lifetime – the great insights garnered from her experiential awareness of human suffering and the human condition.

This woman was incredibly powerful in this astral plane encounter.

You had a sense of her very soul itself being present in her body.  As this was an astral plane encounter, one was not experiencing Diana, Princess of Wales the glamour puss, the manipulative or, for that matter, the fucked-up basket case.

You saw the power behind the incarnate persona and understood why she was born to be Diana, Princess of Wales.  All that emotional baggage ultimately was mere façade.  This was a very steely tough customer.

Her eyes were always very direct and clear; they were not soft and dewy or doing the virgin bride Diana Spencer routine.  She wore a powder blue suit and was in supreme control.

She then went to a near dark bedroom to check on Prince William, the future Duke of Cambridge.  The heir apparent was lying in bed, foetally curled up whilst soundly asleep.

He looked so tiny and so frail and vulnerable that one had to wonder if he were an asthmatic or suffered from seizures.  Even though asleep, Prince William seemed emotionally needy.

I was much reminded of Clarice Seberg-da Braga in this woman’s resolute steeliness.  I stood a few feet away whilst Diana, Princess of Wales stood leaning over the side of the bed next to her sleeping firstborn, Prince William.

The energies here were those of a retirement home or an orphanage.  The vibration here was both dense and very sad; it was a most sombre ambiance here.  I even passingly wondered if Prince William were in danger of dying.

When I spoke to her, she had said nothing and seemed remote, removed and otherly focussed.  However, she was undividedly listening to me.  Her focus was intense, with a singleness of purpose that was so unlike her incarnate persona, it was hard to believe that she could have become so legendarily emotionally fucked-up.

For being in this woman’s presence, one realised that this individual has seen a lot.  By far, much more than mere mortals see in the course of three or four lifetimes has she.

Her energies surprised me as they were massive.  One had to exactly wonder who she has been in past lives.  I had a sense of her that she was an early mature soul.

Prince William Wedding

*This would indeed prove a rather prophetic dream.  I remember been so upset at this dream that on awaking, I went and looked up Prince William, Duke of Cambridge’s astrological chart to see if there were any indicators that he could possibly die early in life or imminently.

So ravishing was Diana, Princess of Wales that it never occurred to me at the time of the dream or on awaking, to have looked at her chart to see if there were any signs of her possibly dying imminently.  Of course, there in her chart was a very ominously looming Pluto square transit which went exact the day she died.

I might also add that it is an afflicted Pluto which is conjunct her natal Mars.  Think what you want but there is no way that Diana, Princess of Wales was not assassinated.

She was, in the dream, clearly resigned to her fate.  She was obviously aware of her role in the historical drama being played out and she, finally, fulfilled her role with great aplomb.  END.

**Of course, at the time when living in Vancouver, where the dream was dreamt, I had attended a dinner party at friends’ Sentinel Hill bungalow where a gay South African of British aristocratic heritage spoke at length about Charles and Diana and their ‘child’.  Said he, Harry was not the child born out of wedlock – the second born was a real Windsor prince.  The real bastard had been her firstborn which meant a lot, especially since the Bourbon father was Catholic – little else was then divulged.  This was in late 1995 – with Nelson Mandela coming to power, he like many whites fled South Africa with a sizeable colony settling in the lower mainland – when Charles and Diana clearly were headed for divorce.  That dinner party was the second time that I had heard this rumour about Diana’s sons. 

A couple of years earlier, after I broke off relations with Manhattan cabaret singer Frans Bloem as a dinner guest of his proved a vile racist Jew, who vehemently denied that Blacks had any connection, let alone claim, to Jazz.  I promptly decamped for the rest of my vacation from Frans’ West Village apartment to Chelsea with an old dancer friend, whose lover had died of AIDS and left him fabulously well-off.  One evening, we went to a dinner party on the Upper West Side where the view across Central Park was to the condo where Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis would die short months later.  Present at the lovely dinner of a wealthy Mexican, whose home was truly grand, was a Spanish aristocrat; he spoke at great length of Diana and Charles – it was the time of their recent separation.  The minor Bourbon royal was keen to let it be known that Juan Carlos, the King, was William’s father and not Charles.  This he said with great pride and who knows, added he, maybe one day the Church of Rome would reclaim Westminster Abbey and Britain become annexed to Spain.  END.  

william and catherine

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Then, in this the second dream, I entered a film which advanced back in time.  I was taken back to the beginning of my reincarnational cycle here on Earth.  That is to say that for my soul’s experience here on Earth, it was the beginning of time.

There were lots of heavy-looking satellites here.  As a result, the celestial lights are strange as compared to contemporary times.  There was a sense of purple intensely coming through from the light spectrum.

Too, blue came through strongly here rather than the intense ‘white’ with which we are so accustomed.  A very interesting phenomenon this was.

This was a very rocky terrain as I stood looking down to a spectacular vista below.  Next, there was a mass influx of people who came from another planet.

There had been a mass exodus to Earth.  The arrivée extra-human’s spaceships were not all that sophisticated comparable to today’s space shuttles.  When they disembarked, they were an unusually tall race of Whites.

They averaged over seven feet each, on the short side, pushing nine feet; even the women were in excess of seven feet tall.  They were a shabbily dressed group.  Too, they looked truly shell-shocked; it was as though they had had to take flight in a hurry.

Seemingly, there had been a massive apocalyptic crisis which had precipitated their sudden departure.  As a result, they had ventured here to take up residence on Earth.  They seemed as if refugees from a war zone.

They were, the whole group of them,  quite a mess.  Immediately, they set about on a campaign to subjugate the planet and make it theirs.  Theirs was a focus that was driven of their having been from elsewhere.

This was hostile territory that had to be tamed and made to order; the new planet, Earth, had to support their agenda and nothing more.  This was the beginning of a reign of terror which clearly endures to this age.

They had a series of rulers, who came with the mass exodus, all of whom were male.  They were a militaristic culture.  They were the quintessential warrior warlords; brutish and sadistic to the core were they.  They had no qualms about killing.

They couldn’t have cared less, after all, about the people whom they were killing; after all, they were all merely humans and not of their extra-human race.

They were brutish specimens, the hunter-warrior extra-humans, with thick full beards.  These were a people who had known nothing but a long history of warfare.  They were bred to be killers.  Truth be told, they were deadly and at war with life itself.

Alas, it was a sad but true fact and one that was rather insightful as to the real deal behind history of this planet.  As life on Earth ultimately proved a non-viable long range proposition, they elected to adapt to Earth by breeding with select humans.

The group which proved, in the long term to be most viable for their genetic stock to endure and prosper would become today’s Caucasians.  As a result, the hybridised Earthly humans became as if at war with themselves.  Incidentally, all the racial groups were hybridised; however, what would become Caucasians were deemed most desirable.

I have always thought it very interesting that the all-dominant White tribe is home to Europe, the only continent on the planet where the inhabitants never constructed pyramids.  They, pyramids, are in Africa, the Americas and Asia but not to be found in Europe.

These people were truly Hitlerian in their savagery.  I could see how easy it was for the true Earthlings to have been subjected by these people.

The locals were a peaceful people who lived close to and in accord with nature – that included the pre-hybridised Caucasians.  Then along came this exodus of Tall White extra-humans who proceeded to subject both them and nature.

This seemed to have, perhaps, been in New Zealand but it was obvious from what I learnt here that the invading Whites had touched down in several locales on the planet.

Theirs was an agendum whose task demanded timely action over a given breath of time.  They were intent on suppressing the Earthlings, all over the planet.  When their extra-human stock began dying out, they then elected to hybridise the native humans of Earth.

Obviously, at the end of this campaign, they would then choose to settle in Europe.  What was really telling in all of this was the fact that all of life in the Universe is cyclical.

To that end, we see history being repeated in modern times with the campaign begun by Christopher Columbus.  There is nothing ennobling or uplifting about this European exodus which, as per the panorama I witnessed, mirrored the campaign of the Tall White extra-humans on their arrival to Earth.  Though less savage, the strong Tall White extra-human genetic markers in Caucasians has affected their outlook on being focussed here on Earth.

As a result, the hybridised Caucasians humans’ raison d’être has been about warfare, rape and separatism.  Notice, too, that until the rise of Judaism, there were no patriarchal religions on this planet.  Religions weren’t of any use, prior to the arrival of the Tall White extra-humans, as all the people of Earth were living in accord with nature.

Too, the rise of Judaism marked the ascent of the notion of a single god and, most of all, one which was vengeful, warring and decidedly patriarchal.  Like the orthodoxy of Judaism, it was anathema to the arriving extra-human Tall Whites to mix or cohabit with the true Earthlings – at least until their long term survival proved impossible.

That aside, the extra-human Tall Whites went about suppressing the planet.  They did so in a reign of terror that was truly horrific.  They murdered and savaged the Earthlings with ferocity that one would a species which was not one’s own.

The Earthlings were being killed as though they were an infestation of vermin who had to be culled and controlled.  This they did in their campaign to make the planet viable for their extra-human Tall White stock.

So very telling as this is precisely the repeated/mirrored history which we are living today.  A history, indeed, in which the White Tribe has spread over the planet in the last half millennium, displacing the local Earthlings in their path.  Sadly, so dominant is the Tall White extra-human genetic makeup in hybridised Caucasians, it has been as though their fellow humans were not also human.

This has being most actively pursued in Africa at present which thanks to racism makes it permissible.  Truly horrific a spectacle this proved.  Devastating were the campaign’s results, to say the least, on the locals then as now.

*I must note here, though, that the original Tall Whites were little related to today’s Whites.  Not only were they close to nine feet tall, if not more, they were pasty to grey-white in colour.

In the true sense of the word, they were Tall Whites rather than Caucasians.  END.

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When planning to go to a movie, in this the third dream, I had asked Ian Banks Jr. if he would accompany me.  Flatly, he replied no.

The look on his face was truly hostile as if to ask if I were out of my mind to have asked him.  I was very stunned, in fact, by his reaction.

In any event, I readily recovered and went off looking for a seat in the theatre.  I ended up close to a White couple with three small kids.

The children were talkative but there was nothing objectionable in their behaviour.  I actually quite liked being near them with their refreshing playfulness and spontaneity.

As the house lights went down and everyone grew quietly anticipatory, I seamlessly refocussed from the dreamtime to the waking state.

*On awaking, I felt exhausted from the travel involved in moving back in time to seeing and experiencing the arrival of the Tall White extra-humans.  I took the time to remain in the pyramid, after having recorded the dreams, to meditate with crystals and thereby restore my energies.  END.

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Photo/Art: HRH Diana, Princess of Wales

Oil on Canvas

64 x 40 Inches

© 1994 Nelson Shanks.

Provenance: Collection of Charles, Ninth Earl of Spencer.

© 2011 HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge.

© 2014 HRH Duke and Duchess of Cambridge.

http://www.spencerofalthorp.com/

http://www.nelsonshanks.com/

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© 2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.