Bitch! I Don’t Need Fucking Gaydar!

18.08.202410.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

President Obama bestows the Presidential Medal of Freedom on Vice-President Joe Biden

What you would want to do, is take you, your teeth, your crossdressing beard, take your private jet and vaffanculo in Italia. Keep the usual tumescent fare in your mouth, but do keep Biden’s name out your fucking mouth! Ton blasted cul… Lèche! As I once turned to someone at a dinner party at Les Karpinski’s Sentinel Hill home in tony West Vancouver and eloquently stated with vituperative panache, “Bitch I don’t need fucking Gaydar, I have had a life in showbiz and I am quite confidently in the know on this one.” At the time, there was discussion about the sexuality of a film actor with whom Merlin had had an affair. When I shared what I knew of said subject, I was readily dismissed by yet another pinched, bigot of the lisping and cum-farting brigade as telling tall tales. Thank you, President Biden and Dr. Jill Biden for your service to America. For five decades of the highest civilian service of putting nation above self. Love, respect and history will always honour you for what you’ve done for the American people.

Human civilisation comprises one planet in one star system; there are no secrets. Long years ago, I briefly worked in the theatre, and a friend of Merlin’s, I came to know; contacts like these, which are all about the best gossip to be had, are most assiduously curated. I happen to know that someone whose relative is a famous international plastic surgeon, who resides in Britain, is confident that Catherine had a facelift. It goes without saying that this is woefully obvious to anyone not a somnambulant, mere mortal on the Isle of Baby Reindeer. Truly bizarre how preventative chemotherapy can leave one looking, 173 days later, on the backend of a facelift.

Alleged cancer-stricken Catherine initiates kiss with Wimbledon champ, Barbora Krejcikova

Again, please explain to me which woman having or having had chemotherapy goes about initiating kisses with strangers whilst being immunocompromised. I have friends and relatives who have been in remission for years and would never think to handshake, let alone kiss, a stranger. Of course, this is the same workshy, charlatan, liar who after claiming Hyperemesis Gravidarum was known to have jetted off to Mustique and observed frolicking in the Sun with no signs of HG.

**Walking the facelift at Horse Guards Parade, 2024**

Just look at her on leg one of her post royal racist PR makeover. Looking for all the world like an aggressive-pussied femme au foyer; there was fraulein Naugahyde, swishing away as though arriving for a long afternoon visit at her gynecologist’s.

Catherine, the White Queen, is NOT racist as the White tribe attests

Then here she is, the lying, vile racial predator, who not only made Meghan cry but whose pegged and bothered illegitimate husband was curtly told by Meghan, “If you don’t mind, keep your finger out of my face,” putting in her only appearance at Wimbledon, the men’s final match. Like clockwork, she came in playing shy and demure, an act that she can deftly pull off for being of 1 mindset. Such persons, myself included, are not only lone wolves, but they genuinely do not like crowds, being on and all that. However, make no mistakes about it, this was about finally vanquishing the assault by a slave’s descendant of being a racist royal. Nothing infuriates and drives Whites to ready denial than being accused of being racially predatory anti-Black racist boors. But, you are darling, all nine parts, mumbled hissing, venom and aggression. There is positively no way in high hell that had Jasmine Paolini won the women’s championship that Catherine would have initiated a kiss.

**Prince Harry & Meghan, The Duke & Duchess of Sussex at the 2024 ESPYs**

Of course, two days prior, an ocean away, the slithering Lady Naugahyde looked on at the ESPY Awards and the call was made to fight back. Morning, noon and all goddamn night, they weaponise the media and her racist social media sycophants to vilify, demonise and have at Meghan. How exactly does it make the mumbling bore any less inarticulate than a pretty frock and fascinator make the Beard and Merkin’s cockeyed daughter any less ugly?

Prince Harry accepts Pat Tillman Humanitarian Award on behalf of the Invictus Games Foundation

Anyway, after their weaponised Fleet Street hacks’ febrile campaign to demonise Prince Harry for being this year’s Pat Tillman Humanitarian Award recipient, there was Harry, cool, suave and slaying in his Armani suit with, Meghan, the most elegant royal bride this century by his side. Graciously, he shot back at the same Fleet Street hacks who made of Mary Tillman an identical racially predatory boor as they have coached and handsomely paid Thomas Markle Sr. to be. By acknowledging Ms. Tillman in the same breath as a reference to his elegantly ennobled mum, Diana, Princess of Wales, Prince Harry temperately told the racist royals and their weaponised press to go fuck themselves.

One only has to look at the guests in the royal box at Wimbledon, 2024 to see the inscrutable way the Waleses taunt the Sussexes with their racism. Three separate days Baroness Marie-Christine attended Wimbledon and was ever given pride of place. The plan, of course, was for Catherine not to have attended the tennis championships altogether with The Duchess of Gloucester lined up to hand out the championship awards.

Naturally, the ever predatory and jealous Catherine could not have had Sophie, The Duchess of Edinburgh do the honours as she is more senior than, Birgitte, The Duchess of Gloucester. As Sophie is blonde and far better-looking than the older minor royal, she could not be tolerated to step in for Catherine. This gives further insight to how threatened Catherine was by Meghan being so senior a royal, Black with kids whose exoticism would have been a threat to the coverage of her children.

Day 12 and Day 14 of Wimbledon championships, the dates of the men’s semi-finals and final, Prince Michael of Kent, who is 52nd in the line of succession and his unabashedly racist wife, baroness Marie-Christine were in attendance. Always they were sat in the front row of the royal box and never on the fringe seats of the royal box where consistently, Earl Snowdon, Princess Margaret’s creative son is sat each year. David Armstrong-Jones, The 2nd Earl Snowdon is 25th in the line of succession.

On day 4 of Wimbledon, the grandparents of the future Sovereign, King George VII, Catherine’s son, were sat in the royal box. There sat Carole and Michael Middleton but once in Wimbledon’s royal box, yet the entitled, pretentious boor, baroness Marie-Christine, attended twice; she is not even wedded to a minor royal of note who unlike the Duke of Kent, his brother, does more royal duties. The 2nd Earl Snowdon is seen on arrival at Wimbledon’s royal box on day 12.

On days 6 & 14 of the Wimbledon tennis championships, there were Baroness Marie-Christine’s odd-looking son with the bizarrely deep-set eyes sat in the royal box. Naturally, for the DailyFail, they got maximum coverage and as the 53rd in the line of succession’s wife is Jewish, they were treated as though, he, rather than Prince Harry, were the Sovereign’s second son. Good god there were even photos of them at their wedding. Indeed, it is not enough to lynch Meghan at every opportunity, but it is as if their Jewish princess and her coke-headed hubby deserved to be made Duke & Duchess of South Kensington and moved into the unoccupied 21-room renovated apartment, next door to apartment 1A, the Waleses’ home at Kensington Palace. Her hubby is neither 5th nor 6th in the line of succession, yet there they are given coverage as though they are regularly on tour throughout the commonwealth, in service to King and Country. To whom pray tell is this couple’s existence important in the scheme of things that it warrants multiple photos, fawning remarks, replete with a photo of their ancient wedding as though it were a true royal wedding? I suppose in due course, Peggalicious can adopt the 53rd in the line of succession as his true brother, an adopted half-brother, and create a duchy for him as is the custom for sons/brothers of the Sovereign and future Sovereign respectively.

Now to the business of royal racism and using Wimbledon’s royal box to one-up Harry & Meghan, straight on the heels of their successful appearance at the ESPYs. Day 3 saw the ever glorious Maria Sharapova & her super cool hubby, Alexander Gilkes in the royal box. Others were not so lucky, like Marvin & Rochelle Humes, Jodie Kidd, Hannah Waddington and the always intoxicating, Emma Weymouth, Marchioness of Bath. This early in the championship, the big names are not out in force; furthermore, there was no need on the part of Peggalicious to eclipse Harry & Meghan’s appearance at the ESPYs.

Day 4 saw the grandparents of the future Sovereign, King George VII, Carole & Michael Middleton. The next day, 5, saw Oscar winner, Dustin Hoffman and wife, Andrew Lloyd-Webber recently installed as a Knight of the Garter and NFL Kansas City Chiefs champion quarterback, Patrick Mahomes & wife Brittany. They did not make it to the royal box.

On day 6, the royal box began the daily parade of sports luminaries, of which there were a few. Among the attendees was Sir Ben Ainslie whose suspicious closeness with Catherine, The Princess of Wales has seen him relocate to America, supposedly in preparation of the America’s Cup; but did it require having to sell his house, too? Also, in attendance, Chris Hoy. Cricketer Ben Stokes, an exceptionally handsome human and wife, Clare Ratcliffe. Gareth Edwards, Skater Jayne Torville along with Christopher Dean – not featured herein, Jos Buttler with wife. Rugby champion, Lawrence Dallaglio also in the royal box. Tennis great Mark Philippoussis also on day 6. Lastly, Peter Fleming was sat in the royal box.

Day 8 saw an actual royal in the royal box, Prince Albert II of Monaco with a female relative. Actor & philanthropist Lenny Henry with partner and Oscar winning actor, Mark Rylance all occupied the royal box.

Day 9th at Wimbledon saw the 28th in the line of succession, Lady Sarah Chatto and husband, Daniel Chatto. Michael McIntyre & Stephen Fry held court in the royal box. Also, in the royal box were Princess Beatrice & Edoardo Mapelli-Mozzi who’s commendably effected the princess’ blooming empowerment. On Stephen Fry’s other side was American actor, Lena Dunham. The other luminary couple in the royal box, actress Sienna Miller and beau, Oli Green.

Day 11 and the Wimbledon royal box was well attended. Queen Camilla & her handsome sister, Annabel Elliot sat front and centre at the ladies semi final matches. Also present was Bjorn Ulvaeus of ABBA fame attended. Camilla was sat between her sister and Deborah Jevans. Jemima Khan and actor Richard E. Grant were sat behind statesman, William Hague. After having been dumped by his wealthy sugar mama, Lindsay, Peter Phillips and his rebound fuck du jour were also present in the royal box. The Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby and his spouse were also spotted in SW19. Elusive actor Keira Knightley attended with her rock musician hubby. Former Governor of Bank of Canada and Bank of England, Mark Carney attended and chatted with William Hague.

On day 12, the men’s semi final, Annabel Goldsmith held court; she is the mother of Jemima Khan and Zac Goldsmith who also attended, same day as his mum and not the day prior along with his sister. Elisabet Ebenstein accompanied the dry-witted actor, Hugh Grant. Edward Norton attended with his mum, as did actor Rami Malek attend with his mum-in-law. Shirley Bassey was wrapped in a shawl. Birgitte, The Duchess of Gloucester was present; I don’t believe that I’ve ever seen, Prince Richard, The Duke of Gloucester, her spouse, in attendance at Wimbledon. Actor Stanley Tucci attended along with Tristram Hunt. The men’s semi-final was fantastically gripping.

Day 13 and the ladies championship. The young Black Italian, automatically precluded Catherine putting in an appearance. Win or lose, she was not prepared to go handshaking or make like nice to another Black female tennis player, in this case, Jasmine Paolini, who frankly choked for making it to the big time.

My lovely sister, Pandora da Brgha, her hubby, James van Hammer and our doctor niece, Edwina de Lavallée, who jetted in from New York City attended the ladies final at SW19. Persons who attended but were not in the royal box: Zendaya, looking as ever chic and elegant. Also, in attendance was actor, Pierce Brosnan who made a rather commanding 007 in his heyday. I am not certain if Tom Cruise was sat in the royal box that day, though, he definitely was the day following. Hugh Jackman was sat with the ravishing Kate Beckinsale, who days later demanded that that little twat, Lady Windsor, the royal kiss-ass and Middleton lapdog, retract an article in the DailyFail, in which the lying guttersnipe and anti-Black racist with an arch animus against Meghan, was called out for telling lies on the actress, Ms. Beckinsale. The Fleet Street vermin never learn. Also, in the royal box were broadcaster, Trevor McDonald and entertainer, Cliff Richard. Back for more, was actor, James Norton, looking less formal than the day prior. Lastly, in the royal box were Darcey Bussell one of the Royal Ballet’s true gems of her generation and fellow dancer, Johannes Radebe.

Finally, day 14, men’s championship; sadly, Carlos Alcaraz’s good luck charm, King Felipe VI was not present. Over the years, I have come to truly love Novak Djokovic, despite his vaccine politics. Myself, owing to my spouse being 24/7 on oxygen, we both have to get the latest Covid shot and I wear multiple masks at all times when out my front door. So no more annual subscriptions to the BOTS – Ballet, Opera Theatre & Symphony, but I will make the odd exception then take every possible precaution; the alternative is simply not an option.

Catherine looked sensational in one of the two official Wimbledon colours. The gold earrings beautifully complemented the purple dress. There was one odd moment where, when briefly in closeup, her mouth did this involuntary square smile, which she neurotically covered by abruptly collapsing her mouth shut. This sort of quirk, I have witnessed after persons have recently had work done when the new tautness results is muscle twitches as the new normal is being adjusted to.

On the final day, the royal box was flushed with powerful guests. After the Sussexes triumph at the ESPYs, you knew that the Waleses would respond. Catherine was accompanied by Princess Charlotte, who like her mother seems to be a warrior soul. Warriors and King souls are always the dominant partner in any relationship/dynamic. Future Sovereign or not, Catherine’s overleaves validate her being the dominant partner in their relationship in this incarnation; William and Catherine are, after all, task companions. Though she has always reminded me of Wallis Simpson, you first have to die before reincarnating; that rules out Pippa Middleton-Matthews having been Wallis Simpson in her immediate past life, the latter passed in 1986 whilst the former reincarnated in 1983. Really good to see Andre Agassi at the men’s final. I remember when his rock star vibes ruled at the SW19. Julia Roberts was a big get for the royal box; this only validates the BAFTA president, Prince William, The Prince of Wales, using his clout to try and show up the Sussexes. Does he not realise that Julia grew up knowing Martin Luther King Jr.’s family and would never countenance the anti-Black racism that the Waleses make no bones about projecting to the world, despite their denials. Tom Cruise was definitely in the royal box on the final day of Wimbledon. Benedict Cumberbatch and his wife were also sat in the royal box on the Wimbledon’s final day. Rod Laver, the Australian tennis maverick was present; good to have seen him.

**Supremacist Baroness Marie-Christine’s relations**

As ever, the royal family’s racist Baroness Marie-Christine and her gang were in full force, acting as though they were senior working royals. Then again, their presence was all about taunting Harry and Meghan; never forget how utterly obsessed, racist and petty William and Catherine are with Harry and Meghan. Finally, it is always good to see London mayor, Sadiq Khan, who thankfully is not a chav-like, blasted buffoon like a predecessor of his, who whored as Prime Minister in a bid to keep up support payments for his brood with multiple women.

That’s right, Peggalicious, losers never win and “never coming home” proved true of the UEFA trophy and Prince Harry, who made it perfectly clear that he has no intentions of bringing Meghan and his children back to Britain anytime soon. Indeed, congratulations to HM King Felipe VI and the Spanish football team for having won the 2024 UEFA Championship trophy.

Prince Harry Tabloids on Trial ITV Documentary, July 2024

Despite Harry making it perfectly clear during a sit down interview for ITV’s documentary, Tabloids on Trial, which aired on July 25, 2024, the tabloids still cakewalk as though, they had no knowledge of the documentary.

**Fabricated headline based nowhere in either fact or reality**

Furthermore, as though Prince Harry is not now engaged in legal proceedings against the Daily Mail, they persist with attacking and lying about both him and his wife. Meghan’s numerology is 4.3.4 = 11. There is nothing wishy-washy about this woman; for Meghan, no means “fuck off, you are dead to me.” Of course, the next day, DailyFail then published an article that Catherine was going to be able to spend the long summer spell at Balmoral Castle. This suggests two things: her cancer treatment is going splendidly and more importantly, the Sussexes are snubbed because they cannot be allowed to be around Catherine after the ‘negress’ had speciously alleged that there were racist concerns about Archie’s skin tone and what that would mean and look like for the royal family. Catherine has never had cancer and this was used for two reasons, to eclipse her revelation as one of two royal racists and to allow her plastic surgery procedures results to fully heal.

**Catherine The Princess of Wales Wimbledon 2024**

Never forget that Charles will never forgive Meghan for having outed him as one of the two royal racists – which eventually Omid Scobie in Endgame did, during her sit down interview in March, 2021 with Oprah. This is why when The Queen passed, Meghan was not allowed to attend Balmoral, why she was not invited to Charles’ coronation and why he will never see her blasted little pickaninnies. Charles is a fucking petty, vindictive, racist boor. Above all else, we Blacks know that you can never, ever expect Whites not to be White. Omid is truly commendable in having exposed the two royal racists’ names. After all, Prince Harry chose to backtrack and state during his ITV interview with Tom Bradby at the press rounds of SPARE that his family perhaps unknowingly suffered from unconscious bias. Well, thank goodness Omid cleared that up for Harry and Meghan in Endgame, leaving no doubts as to whom those royal racists are, Charles and Catherine; of course, they can hardly be expected to be the only members of the House of Windsor who are anti-Black racist boors.

As predictable as flies on shit, along comes another Meghan thrashing in that shit-stained Fleet Street cumrag, DailyFail, gloating over the fact that the royals yet again have not wished Meghan a happy birthday. Master numbered persons are thoroughly dismissive of persons who do not count for fuck all, Meghan included. Next day, along comes yet another article, crowning the racist baroness Marie-Christine’s daughter-in-law for her birthday. Of course, said article also had throwback photographs of her wedding in a dress that looked like cheap silk curtains that are usually seen in photographs with linoleum-covered floors. Even on her birthday, there was our darling princess on the cover of Tatler – that ode to White classist British snobbery, being celebrated for her desirability over the likes of the American whose birthday it was the day prior. You certainly won’t be hearing Chelsea Handler, Bethenny Frankel, Sharon Osborne, Angela Levin, et al, bitching with unbridled hatred about how the untrustworthy bitch, whom they do not like, is not deserving.

Let’s be very clear, the House of Windsor principals, Charles and William are letting the world know that they do not give a fuck about being perceived as anti-Black racists. By parading baroness Marie-Christine, she of the blackamoor brooch and the two black ewes named, Venus and Serena, they are telling the world that being anti-Black racist is not an issue. After all, this is a world where Apartheid existed in South Africa and the racism in Britain, from the ’70s riots in Brixton to the current racist attacks, the Sovereign(s) have not part lips, thereby showing their firm resolve that they do not give a living fuck. Tough! The fact of the matter is that Prince Andrew has all but been rendered invisible; he is not allowed to public functions as his exposed paedophilia is a source of embarrassment. More importantly, Andrew cannot be allowed to provoke the public’s wrath as to do so, will get people starting to talk about Charles’ association with Jimmy Savile, Gary Glitter and others who were/are known paedophiles. Mere mortals are readily played but parading racist baroness Marie-Christine and her ‘exceptional’ actress daughter-in-law who with her offspring were not problematic for the House of Windsor. Never mind that her kids are right little gubbiloutettes*, she is paraded front and centre and in the company of senior most royals as Charles, William and their spouses let the world know that they do not give a fuck about Blacks being butt hurt by their racism. Go fuck yourself is there staged response. Baroness Marie-Christine and her daughter-in-law do not end up at Wimbledon more than any other royals in the royal box in 2024, then turn up on the cover of Tatler if it were not sanctioned by Charles and William. William, of course, was quickly shielded way back when, as it emerged that he was doing cocaine in the company of baroness Marie-Christine’s son!

**William & his horribly scraggly beard**

Go on, you two, go out of your way to spite Meghan even more, by making your darling Jewish princess, The Duchess of South Kensington. If only one would read the fucking planet because in this post-October 8, 2023 paradigm, no one, having seen what – thanks to social media being at the epicentre of genocide, we have borne witness to, have long ago ditched what was a most suffocating jaundiced status quo. Go on, as Olivier a Montréal friend always sarcastically said in imitation of Oprah of Hollywood and its Brahminism, “You get an award! You get an award! You get an award!” Blasted murderous thugs.

**Never mind Tom Cruise, what has Catherine had done to her face?**

Again, please explain why this tactic was not taken on Catherine’s return after 173 days. There was that photo in Berkshire where her face was unusually bloated. At that time or since, any number of plastic surgeons could have been employed by the Fleet Street thugs and done an honest assessment of what work Catherine had done and by a number of leading plastic surgeons.

Instead, we keep to the line that she has cancer; of course, Tom Cruise can also be savaged as he is, after all, a mere Yank at the end of the day. I will say this much, as is clearly obvious, no amount of plastic surgery ever succeeds in glossing over the look of a hard-faced drunk. For her petty, racist obsessive grudge, which clearly extends beyond Meghan to now include Blake Lively, you can never fathom how petty these senior royals are.

Blake Lively for having provoked the wrath of the royals and their Fleet Street thugs, has found herself in hot water. Of late, she has been character assassinated, on a daily basis, with the DailyFail going to great lengths to show what a dishonorable person she is; all this because she made a quip about Catherine, The Princess of Wales when she was in hiding recovering from her facelift and not cancer as they have speciously alleged – there is no such damn thing as preventative chemotherapy. Let’s face it the House of Windsor has for generations had serious credibility issues.

She said what the hell she said and there is no reason for her to have turned around and obsequiously apologised when Britons do not give a goddamn about ‘Yanks’ and are having quite a go at eviscerating Blake’s character. Look at the campaign by British tabloids to have Blake cancelled for having given offence to their boring, inarticulate princess whom they damn well know does not have cancer but had a facelift and they fully understand, it was all a PR stunt. Blake is American, a proud self-made one at that; why should she be lynched by racist boors whom Americans defeated near 250 years ago. All this BS because the Waleses are toxic bullies and vindictive in the extreme. This headline is precisely why Blake’s SM presence is being swarmed by legions of royalist zombies hurling abuse at her. Don’t they realise that Blake is a core friend of Taylor Swift’s and her husband Ryan Reynolds will scrap with anyone in defense of his wife?

The Misogynoir Hatemongers’ Ball, an affair about as socially relevant as Pluto is to Sol. They peddle in lies, anti-Black racism and hatred and vilification of the first Black woman who broke a glass ceiling, in this case, marrying and bearing two children to the son of the Sovereign. Naturally, their stock in trade is to deny the existence or the legitimacy of Harry and Meghan’s children. Meghan for these vile trolls is no different to Michelle Obama, Dr. Jocelyn Elders, Vanessa Williams, Kamala Harris, Oprah Winfrey and many others. They are all firsts in their own right as Black women and for that, they are reviled, and no end of hatred and lies are told about them all. As Merlin said of bad productions like that masquerading on YouTube and elsewhere, “They may think it’s theatre but it is no more than farce!” Just look at it, lady my ass… Bitch you neither bleed nor breed!

When I was a child growing up in St. Kitts with its French, English and most definitely mysterious African influences, there was the most fascinating event that occurred when I was an eight-year old boy full of laughter and most lucid dreams. A family which had relatives in the U. S. Virgin Islands and travelled there from time to time, then received a parcel, at the holidays as one does. These parcels are seen as major status symbols. Well, the most fascinating spectacular soon befell that family. At all hours of the day and with no regularity, there would be screams from the house and clothing and suitcases, thrown from the house into the yard. They would be ablaze with the most white-hot looking blue-white flame. The flames had the most peculiar smell, which I have never smelt since; oddly enough, the flames made no sound. The flame would last for several minutes soothing up the item(s) aflame and then abruptly the pyrotechnical oddity would suddenly cease with an abrupt plopping out of existence. There were times even whilst fully clothed, the family members would be set ablaze. As school children, my chums and I could not wait for recess to rush across the street and take in the spectacle of the jumbie fire*. There was no getting around the fact that there were unseen forces at such times when the flames were active. This only ever occurred within the confines of the family’s home and property. Then at the exact six-month anniversary, the ‘obeah*’ induced jumbie fires simply stopped. During the course of that time, the family lost its status with at least one member fleeing the island and going off (going crazy). The tale was that the family had provoked someone’s wrath and as a result they were obeahed and that was that. For these vile racist trolls, who relentless lie and racially prey on Harry and Meghan, what a pity that Meghan’s maternal family were not West Indians…

So you know that Catherine and William are nasty people, there was Catherine in Soho on the eve of the coronation, familiarly speaking for long minutes and taking selfies with the subject on the far right in the photograph taken at the hatemongers’ ball. That troll spends night and day online, inciting anti-Black racism against Meghan, which like all cowardly racist Whites, will be readily denied as having any basis in racism and besides they always have some fucking absurd anecdotes about their Black friends and, of course, like Blacks for Trump, they’ll always be some self-loathing fool glad to be within the clique by hating Meghan even more vociferously than most. William made an attempt to have Catherine stop speaking to said troll and move along. Finally, when the Waleses were returned to the Range Rover – duct taped sideview mirror and all – as they began pulling away, William could be heard reaming Catherine as she looked out the window, doing her usual, “Fuck you, I’m a rich White girl and I don’t give two fucks,” rictus smile. The photos were captured from TikToker London City Walks livestream that day. All those professional trolls are a testament of just how much we Blacks are obsessively stalked and hated by the racial predator. I cannot think of anything more base a displacement of humanity than to make money off someone you actively hate with consuming ugliness of spirit. Truly, not fit to piss on… except on their graves.

Well, will you look at that. Perhaps, in the pre-October 8, 2023 paradigm, Kamala Harris would feel obliged to choose Josh Shapiro as her running mate. Of course, from the word go, the misogynoir surfaced, with the same accusations as levelled at Meghan being regurgitated about Kamala. Then there was the all-out racist vitriol in the comments at English language Israeli newspapers online. The usual canards were ubiquitous: she is an anti-Semite. We know the Blacks hate us. We are all voting for Trump. Well, if you are going to be so selective, could it just be that Harris and Shapiro simply would never get along? Oxes (Josh) and Dragons (Kamala, and Walz, for that matter) do not make good business partners of any kind; their numerology is also at odds.

Joan Rivers Lies about Michelle Obama

Oldest trick in showbiz, as Merlin would say, how does a Jew be racist towards Blacks? Tell a lie and make a joke of it, “ha ha ha” and readily one is believed and, of course, it is true. Well, there is the little wingless monkey from The Wizard of Oz, rotting in hell and ugly the fuck as ever. Go fuck yourself, racist gilt! That, and never having found the time to pull a second best actress Oscar from high up your ass to award a Black actress, couldn’t possibly be reasons enough why Shapiro is not on the ticket.

**Racist Briton not voting for Kamala. Truly shocked…**

Treat people like shit, being racist boors and expect them to either forget or suffer you… In what world, pray tell, would this even make sense? Seriously, how does your boohoo grudge even matter? 70% of the American electorate, you are not. Straightaway, the markets went into freefall, and did anyone even give two fucks? It is after all SOP. The ugly grudge behind Joan Rivers’ ‘joke’ is that Michelle Obama, like Meghan is a Black woman and first – first Black First Lady and first Black to marry the Princely son of a then future Sovereign, and for that on this planet, she will be the subject of the most virulent misogynoir.

**Vanessa Williams, first Black Ms. U.S.A winner, 1984**

Just look at what happened with another first, Vanessa Williams. Vanessa having been the first Black Miss U.S. A. had to be cancelled. Her victory was an affront, and by whatever means, she had to be disgraced and fall from her Icarian heights. Near the end of her reign as Miss U. S. A., Penthouse magazine published nude photographs of Ms. Williams, which were grounds enough for her to have relinquished her title and be disgraced. Had this ever happened to any of her predecessors? Of course not. Had any of her predecessors modelled in the nude prior to having been crowned? This very likely had been the case, but there was no scandal to be had in thusly exposing a White Miss U.S.A. Penthouse publishing the photographs, was about letting Vanessa Williams know that all she was, was a cheap whore and not deserving of the Miss U. S. A. title.

Kamala, Meghan, Vanessa, Michelle Obama and many others, including Oprah. They will always racially prey on these trailblazing Black women and lynch them in the media and by any means necessary, especially if they can do so via sexual scandal. That is the ugliness of misogynoir. Another trailblazing Black woman is Dr. Jocelyn Elders; she was appointed by President Clinton as the first Black female Surgeon General of the United States and only the second woman. Her appointment was seen as controversial. Everything this woman said was met with consternation and ridicule as though she were an uneducated, unqualified, unemployed woman from the sticks, who had been appointed to the job as a prank. Eventually, Dr. Elders had to resign because of her comments on masturbation. It is not just a matter of NIMBY (not in my neighbourhood), but it simply is a matter of being lynched and disgraced for having made it into the history books. Of course, we are today arrived at a chilling moment where racist boors like that homo-repressed jackass, Ron DeSantis go around banning Black books and there is a White tribal campaign that would like to remove Black history from the American education system altogether. Please then stop insulting us by squatting all over Jazz; positively nothing is more repugnant than having Black culture thusly violated.

**Jeremy Clarkson incites anti-Black racism against Meghan**

Another example of DailyFail’s relentless campaign to defame and incite racial animus against Meghan. Jeremy Clarkson, that ugly racist White male asshole, launches a second attack on Meghan, criticising her baby shower in New York – five years on, and positively every comment becomes an excuse for racist mere mortals to rabidly regurgitate lies and indulge in racist animus towards Meghan, the Black woman who dared to shatter the mythos of their princely fairytale.

**Harry, Meghan & The Queen royal ascot, June 2018**

No assholes, the baby shower was a way to escape the surveillance and racially predatory hellhole of courtiers and the Waleses so that plans could be put in motion – one always needs a Plan B when possessed of master numbers. Clearly, for Meghan, the experience of life at court was insufferable. The Queen did as much as she could; however, both The Queen and The Sussexes knew that there was no getting around Charles and William when she was fast en route to the crypt at St. George’s Chapel. Like a true entity mate, The Queen knew the wisdom in bestowing her blessing on The Sussexes’ union, because with little time left her, there could be no lengthy courtship. The Queen knew that were she to die, neither Charles nor William would have sanctioned the marriage of Harry and Meghan.

Pimped by gangsta playa, Snoop Dogg

So many moons later, just look at the desperate for approbation, “we are very much not a racist family” go out and lasso Snoop Dogg. Do these clowns not realise that their racism is an open secret in Hollywood, Black Hollywood most of all? Baldy tryin’ to flex and as ever, coming up short. They are racist boors and people never forget the way you made them feel or the wrong you did to them and continue to as you persist with pimping out your Fleet Street whores on the Sussexes.

Ms. Thiel’s log cabin hussy, never goes tricking without her Maybelline

Goddamn those log cabin Christian Nationalist Fascists; first they wanted closeted Mike Pence a heartbeat from the Presidency. Now, they want this pretty-eyed crossdresser with eyeliner like Elizabeth Taylor’s on the ticket. Certainly, he is not gonna set off Gaydar before November 5. What this log cabin madness has brought to the surface, is the abiding open racial animus from White Gays towards Blacks. Naturally, as Kamala did not choose Pete Buttigieg, White Gays have been pissed. Twice I was openly verbally attacked in the Gay Village for merely being on the sidewalk with my bike en route to or from a store. Come 2025, I hope that director, John Waters is able to convince J. D. Vance to star as Martha in a crossdressing musical remake of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Kamala could not for being Black and female have chosen Buttigieg as a running mate. She would readily lose centrist, Christian voters for whom Gay marriage, lifestyles and politics are a compromise that they are not able to morally address as open-minded as they see themselves.

Lena Horne Believe in Yourself 1981 Tony Awards

Another incident occurred post-Kamala’s campaign kickoff, which coincided with the 77th anniversary of Merlin’s birth, as I stood in line waiting my turn at the depanneur. Without fail, bigots emboldened by whatever they’ve seen and said on social media or on TV, they head out into the world intent on being racially predatory. Sure enough, along came Karen number 1 billion, 8 hundred million, five hundred thousand and sixty-one; just shy of six feet, she vulgarly barked down at me, “Look buddy, I was in the line first, get out of my spot!” Slowly, I turned and looked, “Yeah you, I’m talking to you!” Naturally, as she is White cisfemale, no one said fuck all, which made it my turn. “Bitch your ass is flat for a fucking reason, go the fuck home and take more cock up your fucking flat ass. Do I look like I just ate a goddamn Rodney King sandwich for fucking lunch?” Born a West Indian, I rudely sucked teeth at her and soon it was my turn to ring in my purchases. Her little scene not quite going as she had intended, the racist boor began baying blah, blah, blah, over which I loudly drowned her out by reworking the lyrics with a coloratura coda of vocalese, “What a little sunshine wouldn’t do….”

**Spiritual lightsabres and music to keep chakras, aura centred & fortified**

The Asian male cashier, acting as though the vituperative contretemps had not occurred, nervously said hello then graciously wished me a good day, as I took leave – you’re damn right, it was a fucking good day. Every goddamn day I head out my art-filled home, I will experience racial aggression in varying degrees of intensity; that is simply the state of the world and both a world and personal truth. I am also acutely aware that every goddamn day on this planet, White males in alarming numbers are on every continent, having sex with minors without little to no repercussions or media the world over addressing this sexually predatory pandemic. Somehow, this 5’4″ Afro-Sephardic Queen is being treated as though I had just humped that lunatic racist boor’s fucking chihuahua. Da fuck? Thus, I came home and had Lena Horne’s magic repel that low-vibrational ghoul and her hideously dense energy the fuck off my aura.

**Charlie Drinkwater & Doug Wilson, 1977**

Charlie Drinkwater and Doug Wilson were two of the most gloriously idyllic friends and lovers from my youth. I met Charlie when I would sneak off to The Quest disco on Yonge Street after studying at the Metropolitan library on Yonge at Asquith, I would then hightail it down to Yonge and Hayden Streets, where I danced my heart out oftentimes with Charlie. They were the loving and most nurturing role models of mine. I was not yet eighteen, when I met Charlie and years later, I would meet Doug in about 1985.

Doug came to a garden party at our Cabbagetown home with a mutual friend, who had actually set up Merlin and me on the blind date that started it all. Doug and I looked into the other’s soul, said hi, kissed, purred and our past-life bond was reaffirmed. Charlie was the first person whom I kissed who smoked cigarettes; it took some getting used to. Charlie loved foreplay and a super kisser of the rarest kind, he certainly was. Doug was the most flagrantly idealistic, gentle-souled lover imaginable. It goes without saying that he is an entity mate with whom I have shared many past lives, our late 20th century encounter being the 36th, which is a lot. Charlie and I were sharing our 19 reincarnational association in fin de siècle Toronto. Charlie, like Doug, is an artisan soul in my entity. Doug and I had a robust, casual sexual relationship, which was always about the most soul-soothing intimacy imaginable. They protected me and watched out for me in a way that was not commonplace in the Gay community. They made me feel at home by having me contribute to their passionate activism by helping to make posters for the marches and demonstrations. Also, among my role models was the actor, Errol Ramsay; the Bajan was the sweetest most kindhearted human imaginable. Thus, quite jarring it has been for me with all these persons long passed of AIDS, to currently experience the open racist hatred from twentysomething and thirtysomething White Gays.

Two days running as I did errands on my bike, I was accosted by tall aggressive bottom-looking White Gays who predatorily approached me as I rode on my bike. One told me to get the hell off the sidewalk and out of the neighbourhood. The day following, the three Gays who likely lived in the Vaseline Tower in which the depanneur is situated, aggressively made for me. One of them shoved his hand in my face as I hopped on the bike to ride it off the sidewalk. It is a very wide sidewalk and there was no one save the three of them and a few others coming towards me, and at a distance to the three Gays’ rear. “Get off the fucking sidewalk!” There was so much hatred in his tone; of course, I knew that it likely was rage at Kamala Harris not having chosen Pete Buttigieg as her running mate, Ducking my head as his right index finger came at me, I broke and hopped off my bike, and shot back. “Yeah, you want some, come on, you fucking backward-pussied, ass-eating cunt! Come on!” “Keep off the fucking sidewalk,” he shot back as they kept walking away. As though he so much as owned the damn sidewalk. “Trump’s gonna win and too bad for you,” called the blond in the middle. “Becky shut the fuck up and crawl the fuck back in your Vaseline log cabin,” I called after them as they kept walking away. The level of animus and racist aggression has since July 21, when President Biden stepped aside, is palpable; I cannot begin to imagine what it must be like in America.

Serigraph

32 x 32 Inches

Artist Proof: II/III

Provenance: da Brgha Collection.

Before he passed last August, my oldest friend and lover requested that I purchase a First Nations piece that I could use when meditating and on reflecting on his life and our abiding love. Sweet and blissful dreams my darling.

*Gubbiloutette – unfortunate looking. (Posh patois of creole origin; St. Kitts was both a French and English island).

*Jumbie fire – Jumbie is patois for ghost or occult/obeah phantoms.

*Obeah – patois for voodoo, the occult, sorcery.

Modern Jazz Quartet North Sea Jazz Festival 1982

Modern Jazz Quartet grooving the souls of the spiritually evolved.

Percy Heath – Bass

John Lewis – Piano

Milt Jackson – Vibraphone

Connie Cay – Drums

____________________________________________________

You are to Jazz what wings are to an ostrich; what the fuck do eagles care that queer, unaware ostriches have wings?

_______________________________________________________________________________

Flying Dream in Lemuria, Twin Earth. (Redux)

04.01.202410.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

On Monday, April 4, 1994, while the Moon transited both Capricorn and my eighth house, I would dream the following six dreams. These dreams were recorded on audiocassettes one hundred and eighty through one hundred and eighty-one.

These were marvellous dreams; there was flight and there were dreams of extra-humans. More than that, there was information gleaned in the final dream, which spoke of hidden knowledge about intelligent life here in the Solar system.

As ever, sweet and blissful dreams to you; I love you more.

Saw Wilbur Clemsworth and a couple of others outside, in this the first dream, where it was uncharacteristically sunny – at least by Vancouver standards. They were on an incline above and to the left of the street. As it turned out, they were on the hunt for extra-humans. This was because a singing, pink chimpanzee had fallen from the sky. Three or four guys had, thus far, been rounded up. A Chinese vagrant showed up from up the hill; he had been at a busy intersection seated on a large green-trunked tree. He pointed out that some of the knobby-trunked trees were, in fact, hosts for stowaway extra-humans.

I was part of the group and there were three or four others. They were all very odd-looking guys. I was then on a busy sidewalk where there energetically was lots of colour. Young couples hung out beneath café awnings whilst enjoying the Sun and their love. When looking down the block, I saw – two intersections away – a house that was painted an electric psychedelic array of colours: pinks, purples and greens predominating. There on the second storey and at the far-left window, the actor, Teri Garr was seen being deeply French-kissed by one of the extra-humans. The extra-human was a blonde vixen who literally raped Teri Garr of her breath.

I was with a very dark-skinned beauty who wore a tight white dress; there was African-beaded print that horizontally moved across the fabric. She walked so beautifully that I began dancing ahead of her while serenading her progression. Gingerly, dancing along the sidewalk, I did pas de courrus as in the coda from the Don Quixote grand pas de deux. Soon enough, I leapt into the air and took to flight. Effortlessly, I left the group and the area while moving through a towering canyonned growth of cedars. Eventually, I had come out to a cul-de-sac where the canyon ended. At that, I rose some three or four storeys higher into the air.

**Angolan Model, Maria Borges, Vogue Portugal**

Next, I started to make my way back. This time, however, I would veer off to the left; this brought into view the vibrantly painted tropical villas in the village. Going to the closest, it had orange-exteriored walls. On the villa’s patio, I would try dialling a brown phone. The phone was long abandoned, broken and cordless. As it was, the place had seemingly been broken into long ago. Going inside, there I found a lightweight silver camera; it was like the old, large flash numbers that the Hollywood paparazzi in the 1940s would use. On its underside was a large cartridge that sat to the left front when looking at it face on. On checking it out, it proved an empty case in which batteries could be stored.

I took a few frames of Penina da Braga who was about and was taken aback at the speed with which they were developed. Certainly, the thing did not seem like a Polaroid camera; yet, it had spat out the developed product even faster than a Polaroid would have. There were different exposures of Penina lying on a red footstool. The stool was reminiscent of the tacky ones that used to be at 122 Mortimer Avenue. Large enough, it was such that it could comfortably host her curled up body. Penina reclined with right knee up with her face inclined to the right. While posing, she had squarely looked up into the camera. Her pose and energy were rather warm and arrestingly beautiful. She was so impressively alive and awakened here.

_________________________________________

Going into a large, nearby empty hall, during this the second dream, there I saw a curly-haired man who was distinctly Jewish. We sat in one corner by some crates and started fondling each other. He let me know that he has got quite the mouthful. Soon, he had gotten up onto his knees facing me and rammed his ridiculously huge thick dick down my throat. His cock was so massive that I began gagging on the damn thing. I did not appreciate his hairy-back-and-arsed brawny approach. A real low-browed grunt he was.

He then yanked his monster schlong away from me. Next, he got up and left by the doors that were off to my left rear. Waiting there interminably, he never did show up again. This is the sort of thing that one could readily expect of someone of his ilk whose raison d’être is fucking le tout goyim because… well… one can. Soon after, a tall cropped-haired brunette appeared and walked her horsy-faced arse past me. By now, I was in lotus position in the middle of the room. As a result, she went and took the same position to my rear. She laughed at me as I tried bending forwards to place my chest on the floor. I had had to use my clasped hands behind my back throughout the exercise.

I had placed my hands such, to give myself momentum; however, in this instance, it caused me to fall forwards onto my forehead. Meanwhile, the size queen in me was disappointed that the wunder-schlonged Jew had not reappeared.

*Roy Cohn was not the subject of this dream; however, the Jew encountered had the same vile, racist, depravity of spirit about him. END.

___________________________________________________

**Forest with Moss-Covered Alder Trees**

Next, in this the third dream, I was walking in a grove of mossy alder. While there, I saw a species of reptile never before encountered in the dreamtime. About 8-12 inches long, they were diamond-headed and looked like young snakes. Fat-bodied, they had a short squat tail. Theirs were large black eyes with wide round mouths which were not unlike some lizards’. They did not, however, have four limbs like an iguana whose length they approximated. Nor, for that matter, did they have two limbs like a tadpole’s whose short finlike tail they matched. The face and neck of these creatures were white throughout. Too, the white applied to their undersides just aft of what would have been their four limbs.

They clung to the barks sucker-style and always hung such that their faces always faced down to the ground. Observing them for a while, I was intrigued to find out how they managed locomotion. They were never anything but perfectly immobile with the most penetrating gaze. Their intelligence was so uncannily discernible that it was almost as if they were looking into you. There was a real scorpionic intensity to their eyes; in that sense, they were not unlike Pericles da Braga’s eyes. The edge of having a scorpionic Moon that affords such persons the ability to directly look into you.

Prashant Sharma, too, does have this characteristic. Without warning, one of them leapt from its suckered perch and directly made for my face in one lightning fast move. In one agile duck, I was cleared of being attacked by the stealthy creature. From my squat position, I made a plié of it and pounced with feline ease into the air. Shooting upwards, I flew high into the air and thus avoided contact with these creatures. I then came to perch atop a 150-foot cedar which was no taller than its neighbours. The creature had been so fiercely agile that I experienced its approach as if it were happening in slow-motion. Finally, I had gotten their locomotion figured out; they simply sprung like a cobra on the attack.

They, though, were able to will themselves through the air; it was as though it were an aqueous medium and they merely newborn puppy sharks. When making for their chosen target, they simply bolted at you in an arrow-like short flight. They flew with their mouths agape because on landing, they took initial purchase by clamping down hard with their fierce-looking mouths. Theirs was a mouth full of razor-sharp-looking teeth with double fangs no less; they were a truly monstrous sight. The others, meanwhile, bolted for cover as I took flight. I suppose that they were surprised that I could fly; well, I am certainly no sleepwalker when in the dreamtime.

*This jarring experience, which truly terrified me, had had the advantageous effect of manipulating my problem neck vertebrae. Goodness knows that they had been a source of much pain of late. On awakening, I was really only too glad to have been free of the pain. When the sudden jarring motion of being startled by the attacking creature had occurred, in the dreamtime, I was suddenly aware of my body lying asleep in the pyramid. At the time, my spine was being manipulated back into place. Although I had been acutely aware of the corrective manipulation of my spine, I had not awakened.

Though I continued to be ‘under’ in the dream state, I was spatially aware of my waking state body. I remained focussed and engaged in the process of dreaming. As a result, these strange creatures could be said to have been healers whose purpose it was, to have jarringly righted my aches at this time.

**As will be obvious, this manipulation occurred in preparation of the astral projection that would take place during the sixth and final dream. END.

_____________________________________________________

Next, in this the fourth dream, I found myself in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. At the time, I was walking and thinking of Pandora da Braga as I progressed on foot across the bridge to Patrice Wellesley’s store just a short distance away. As I did so, I had heard someone call out to me and it turned out to have been Ian Banks Jr.. He then called me inside where we visited; he was exceptionally handsome. He took a break from working at the store and asked me to join him for a drink. Dimpled, he was stout and had a bit of a paunch which I found surprising.

Dismissing my fears about him possibly rejecting me, he was genuinely pleased to have seen me. I had had concerns all along that he would not have approved of me – if only because of my sexual proclivities. This man’s presence was so very real and intense that I was completely energised by him. I was really turned on by his strong sexual magnetism. Finding myself in such strongly intense dreams has never ceased to inspire awe within me. Pandora then joined us and let me know that she didn’t appreciate my being loudmouthed about her having gone Rasta, “to please some stinking-mouthed, potbellied wimp.”

You just know too that I had said as much with regards to Roman Danier. Pandora here was long-haired; her hair was braided in cornrows. Looking to shift gears, I had asked her if she had had to cut off her dreadlocks to start all over again. Somehow, she had apparently gotten her hair untangled by a professional and was able to braid it. This I thought was highly unlikely.

__________________________________________________

I went into a work area, in this the fifth dream, by some oversized cases beyond a set of machinery. There I saw Lola Davidoff as well as Lawrence Moncton. Naturally, Lola was wearing a hat and looked as stylish as ever. I was really pleased to have seen her. She wore a black outfit. There was a slight bit of tension as Lawrence was being sarcastic. Abruptly, I took my leave of them as I was not prepared to suffer either him or his bullshit.

Lola, however, was genuinely pleased to have seen me. She had been visiting with Lawrence when I happened on them. This woman was so sweet on running into her. Her face was so cute; her face was like a little China doll’s. She readily lit up and she does, in fact, remind me of Inge Wolfgang.

__________________________________________________

In what proved the sixth dream, I went through the multi-tiered lobby of a large palatial hotel. Lots of gold leaf everywhere; the carpet was a rich mix of red and gold. The interiors were wide and spacious and of old stone. The place looked as if it had been hanging around for several millennia. The colour of these walls was an off-white to near-sandy tone.

I then walked past models in different salons; they were being prepared to be in a show. Specifically, they were there to model hats; some of these hats were cascading with lots of tulle and feathers. High heels and body stockings were de rigueur. A tall, light-skinned, big-nosed Black hairdresser did the many Black models; they were all together on one side of the large vestibule of the floor that I was on. This place was quite large. Across the hallway, all the White models were being prepared; this was about their hair being prepared in as natural a state as possible. This, therefore, did require different approaches and thus the separation of the models.

I did though notice that the White models were being prepared in a much better salon than that of their counterparts. I wondered if this hairdresser was in fact Chiquita Fines, whom I’ve not yet met in the waking state but have been meaning to see.

*Chiquita would prove herself a cross-dressing queer bird, who was given to pressing up against me while having my hair permed. Certainly, it took me a while to realise the reason for the long penetrating staring, while doing my hair, when I finally figured out that it was Chiquita’s cock that was aggressively pressing against my forearm as I sat there having her/him work on my hair. END.

She did though remind me of Carmelina Dunkins, that Jamaican shrew who works in Toronto. Taking my leave of the place, I moved to the outdoors where I found myself in a covered alcove that turned out to be high up the massive structure. I was so thrilled by the density of this architectural gem that I stretched out my hands drinking in this strange city’s beauty. Across the way, on the other side of a body of water, which from the towering heights where I stood looked jet black, was a massive structure in the same Gothic style as Westminster Palace.

**Twin Earth, Relatively Gargantuan & Millennially More August**

This, however, was considerably larger; the structure was easily 7-10 times more massive than Westminster Palace. I was so invigorated by this massive metropolis that I climbed up on the balustrade then pushed off and began flying. This city was just as colossal as that encountered when up on the winding road of a city, where I was in search of a concert hall. That was that very same dream in which I would have a most sublime encounter with Merlin on July 9, 1993. Of course, that dream is in this blog and entitled: “Won’t take the A train.”

I had flown out, too, to get a better view of this truly massive city. The blackened river way below was so coloured because for being canyonned by all these massive structures, it never got direct sunlight. The replica of Westminster Palace was made from a darker rock and easily 15 millennia older than the current structure on the banks of the river Thames. What really struck me too, about this building, was that I thought at the time of how much it made Westminster Palace comparatively look like a child’s toy model of the real thing.

Finally, on getting out into the beautiful-feeling sunlight, I turned around while I had been hovering at least forty storeys above the light-starved blackened river. I had done so to gaze at the structure from which I had just flown. Though a hotel, it seemed like a beautiful palatial structure on the banks of the ancient river. The structure was sandstone and Château-like in style. Easily in excess of twenty storeys, this was a truly massive structure.

This palatial structure made the Château Frontenac in Québec City look like a child’s dollhouse. There were innumerable dark spired turrets everywhere like at Château de Chenonceau. Fleetingly, I experienced a stabbing anxiety at being so high up in the air with a body of water way below. I was worried as to whether or not I would be able to stay aloft at these heights. Thanks to the sombre, umbraed river way below, I was also fearful of possibly experiencing vertigo. Isha da Braga came rushing out onto the balcony, from which I had flown, and excitedly called out to me.

She was worried to death that I would fall; she excitedly demanded that I return at once. Truly fearful, she asked that I stop being reckless with my life and to please return. Poor dear, she didn’t quite get it; this was about complete release and being at one with All. This dream was truly lyrical; it was sheer poetry. This architecture was as distinctive and revolutionary as Antoni Gaudí’s vision has to date been on this planet.

Looking up above me, I found out that the sky too was jet black and rather ominous looking. One had the sense that there was a giant black hole on the verge of devouring the local star to this world – just as it had all others in its wake. There were no doubts in my mind that this was, definitely, not here on Earth. This, altogether, was a totally different star system to Sol. Everything here was so intense and existed on a scale that was anywhere from 3-10 times more colossal than anything on Earth which closely resembled it. Most of all, this was a beautiful old-souled world.

Architecturally, buildings here were considered old if they had survived past a dozen millennia. What really impressed me about this astrally projected experience, though, was the fact that everything was so alive, awakened and real. My senses were keenly attuned. The light here, though beneath a jet-black sky, was more intense than on Earth. Though I never did see the star, or stars, of this particular system, nonetheless, it was a stellar source which was far more intense and powerful than Sol.

A truly rhapsodic dream this proved. After having telepathically told her not to worry, I spent a great deal of time soaring higher and just indulging in every aspect of this marvellous place and completely ignored Isha.

*Before having begun audiocassette-recording the dreams, as well as after having stopped recording the dreams on audiocassettes, I have had many dreams which were set on a companion Earth. What was interesting to have discovered, is that this twin of Earth, is right here in Sol orbit, rather, than about another star. According to these dreams, the parallel Earth, which is exactly the same size as Gaia, is at exactly the same location in its orbit about Sol as Earth. That planet, however, is on the opposite side of Sol and as it travels in the same orbital plane as Earth and has the exact rotation and speed as Earth, we never see it.

In that sense, Earth’s twin which sits on the other side of Sol is much like the dark side of the Moon. Just as we never see that side of the Moon, we have also never seen Earth’s twin in the diurnal or nocturnal skies. At this time, there is common knowledge of this planet’s existence by some governmental agencies. Conversely, that twin Earth has not one but two moons. They sit at the same distance relative to Earth’s Moon to the Earth twin.

One is roughly 81.5 per cent the size of Earth’s Moon. The other is roughly 18.5 per cent the size and mass of Earth’s Moon. The smaller Moon orbits the larger one and together they have the same tidal effects on the Earth’s twin as does Earth’s moon, Luna. The twin Moons of Earth’s twin affords its ensouled inhabitants greater psychic and telepathic abilities than Earth’s humans.

However, as that world is light years more technologically advance and is populated by different ensouled species, who peaceably cohabit their planet, it is best to keep mere mortals of this planet in the dark. Incidentally, both Atlantis and Lemuria are current and starfaring civilsations on that parallel Earth. Atlantis is an aquatic civilisation of seafaring humanoids which is where the tales of mermaids originates. Lemurians are a land-based civilisation.

More than 80, 000 years ago, the Lemurians altered their genetics to totally remove the primate instincts which left their DNA prone to being a warring race – as for that matter are Earth’s humans. Atlantean Mermen do not have primate genetics and thus were never warring. Too, there are three races of ensouled cetaceans on that world. Further there are at least two dozen extra-human races with which they are in regular and ongoing contact. The parallel Earth is a favourite, galactic tourist destination. From time to time, visiting extra-humans to the hidden Earth twin venture to Earth and these are the UFOs/Aliens reported.

The reason for the sky appearing so black and foreboding, I should think, has much to do with Twin Earth having developed the technological ability to cloak the planetary and lunar space. This would afford them the ability to not be detected or photographed by a now-spacefaring, albeit solar, Earth civilisation which could prove hostile to them. I should think that the foreboding blackness of the sky, observed from while being in the dream in flight on the planet, protects Twin Earth from any contaminants, especially nuclear, from Earth should there be any accidents. This makes perfect sense when considering that both planets share the same orbit about Sol. That blackness of the sky, though it was daytime, is what affords Twin Earth from going undetected.

Roughly, 17 per cent of current Earthly humans have had a reincarnation cycle on Earth’s twin and are therefore intuitively aware of that world. For these humans, it is part of their soul memories and periodically is accessed in dreams. END.

__________________________________________________

A Love Supreme John Coltrane 1965 Full Album

Part I – Acknowledgement

Part II – Resolution

Part III – Pursuance

Part IV – Psalm

John Coltrane – Soprano & Tenor Saxophone

Jimmy Garrison – Double Bass

Elvin Jones – Drums

McCoy Tyner – Piano

______________________________________________________

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

_____________________________________________________________________

Ensouled Proboscis Simian Humans

25.10.202210.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

These utterly stunning dream experiences occurred on Thursday, February 16, 1989, whilst the Moon transited both Cancer and my second house.

_____________________________

I was on a street and just beyond the other side of the street was the edge of a cliff; it looked down into a distant valley. It was very sunny out. I was seated in front of a house. On my right was a man who had come home from work in a car. He looked very Italian except that he seemed to be very hirsute – as though he had quite dark skin. However, on closer inspection, he turned out to be rather hirsute. A little later on, he came outside again. His neighbours were looking at him, kind of strangely, like they weren’t already accustomed to looking or reacting to him in a strange manner.

He sat down next to me outside, on the neighbouring bench to my right, both of us with backs to the neighbours. He turned and looked at me and his face was rather ape-like. It was the colour black and his hair was quite different. This man had a long widow’s peak and his face was literally the colour black. It was quite ape-like. He said nothing. More than that, he seemed rather friendly and nice. Along that street, there were kids when a car had pulled up. They were very teenage kids – all boys. A boy came out further along and returned to join one of his companions.

Then it turned out that his companion was in a car that was black and seemed to move, as it were, on air-cushioned rubber wheels. This black car of his was rather aerodynamic. After his friend took off, he then – this is the little blond timid guy – went over towards the cliff. Directly in front of the hirsute ape-like man, who was seated to my right, the blond guy went into the bushes. The young guy turned out to have been his brother – that guy who looked like a twin of his or resembled a brother. They hung out together and then he went moving on.

As he passed me, going from right to left, a friend of his was coming down the road. The road had a curve in it and went steeply up a hill. The hill, in fact, looked like the hill at Toronto’s Prospect Cemetery on the south side of Kitchener Street. His friend came down and he was wearing a helmet because he had been on some sort of vehicle. He removed the helmet, carrying it in his right hand, as they greeted each other. Strangely, they greeted by grabbing each other around the hips and rubbed their crotches together, joked and laughed. In essence, they engaged in clothed frottage.

I thought it interesting that two males would engage in open sexual play, however, this seemed the natural standard way of greeting in this culture. Clearly, this was a sign that this was not exactly Kansas. I had the distinct impression that the twin blonds had gone into the gorge to do drugs. As they were blissing out, only the crown of their golden mops was visible. They were using the very intense lushness of the rolling hills, in the valley way below, as a stimulant. Everything here was so pronouncedly healthy, even the star that shined seemed more intense and pure than Sol. I carefully looked at some of the trees and realised that they were bonsai, furry, mossy centuries-old plants that seemed to hum at a frequency higher than their arboreal counterparts on Earth.

I was able to zoom into the plants in the valley way below and experience them in intimate close-up. Of course, this I accomplished whilst remaining seated on the bench where to my right on another sat the über-poilu, intensely warm, handsome ape-like man. The helmet was the same black, light, metal-plastic alloy material as the car. It seemed to have the ability to absorb the intense sunlight, which was not scorching, and cool the interior. The blond who greeted his Italian-looking helmeted friend – they were all, incidentally, the same hirsute ape-like stock as the jet-black man seated to my right – had patted the car as he moved around its rear into the road to meet his dark-haired friend. He had patted the car much like one would a trusted horse. At that, the car had hissed and lurched to the road from its hovering stationary position a foot off the ground.

Later on, in the second dream, I was still on the same street. There were all these little kids. They were on skateboards. They came down about four, five, six, of them – little guys. One of them was Black. He was quite light-skinned. They were from a high social class. They were very friendly and nice and I warmly interacted with them. However, they were quite reserved and it wasn’t as though they weren’t friendly. As I was a stranger, for that reason, they kept me at bay. On the lower part of the street, where I was with them, it was clearly a cemetery. As far as cemeteries go, it was quite different an arrangement. It had quite large tombstones in it – monuments.

There was one woman there in black who was seemingly Italian. She was carrying on; she was grieving by this one monument. It had on it a very interesting design and some of the graves were fresh. I explained to them, the little boys, that this was where one went. However, then one came back from there and was able to live a life again like they were now living. I explained to them in those terms, however, I did not force them to look at funerals. People’s focus on funerals as the end and fear of death was the trap, I explained to them.

In this the third dream, I was under these hugely tall trees and was working at the time. Clearly, I had been working for someone like Pete Wilkens or someone like him. I had left a shovel around. The shovel had been left about and from a long, long time ago. This was on the grounds of a park-like setting where there were lots of skeletons about. The skeletons were covered with a whole bunch of ants. It was strange because it seemed as though the bones were the remnants of lunch and had just been eaten. They seemed like the skeletons for fish except that the head bone of the fish – skull – was quite flat.

The head had three sides to it and the skeleton was again a narrow filament that had two identical spines that trailed the unusual-looking skull. The skeletons were quite white and were flexible like the white cartilage of a chicken breast. There was a bunch of ants all over them. I might also add that these flexible, double-spined, fish-like skeletons were covered with ants that were quite feathery and lumpy. These ants were almost like miniature tarantulas because they were so bulky, dark, rich and, in a way, nice to look at.

There was a shovel sitting about and I realised that I had left it there, when I worked last time which was some time ago, last season. However, nobody had actually moved it because it meant that it was my responsibility to have moved it. So I ended up moving a couple of rakes – they were, in fact, more like pole saws. When trying to clear the space, I took them from one area to the next. I must say that I was quite struck by the face of that particular man that I did see, whilst he sat on the neighbouring bench to my right, in the initial dream. Even here in another dream entirely, I kept seeing him in my mind’s eye.

The fourth dream found me going back to an apartment where Merlin and I were living together. There were ants all about the apartment. I told him, “You have to get out and go away for a while so I can clean away the ants.” I then went about disinfecting the place and got rid of the ants. I was even disinfecting beneath the floorboards… everywhere. Owing to his being full-blown with AIDS, I did not want Merlin being exposed to the harmful chemicals in the disinfectants. That, certainly, could have resulted in horrific consequences on his vastly compromised immune system.

With the fifth dream, I was in a large department store. There, I saw Isis da Braga who was there to buy a scarf. At the time, I was with two males; it was a Gay situation. Owen Hawksmoor was talking to someone who had a very large nose. The man to whom Owen spoke was Black. He seemed like we vaguely knew each other. He seemed, in fact, like Don Baxter. However, the face on this man was black and had hues of red in it. Not the colour black but as Black people look. More than that, such that it looked like the nose of an animal’s would like an aardvark or some such, the nose on this man was more like a snout. He wore white; both he and Owen did. There was some function, that one had to go to, for which Owen had complimentary tickets.

These two people, whom Owen and I had encountered, were saying that they did not know where their complimentary tickets were. I said that I knew I had mine. Anyway, Owen left them and went back up a flight of steps. It was quite light out, up the staircase, as though there was a skylight hung high overhead. Owen moved on and I went in search of Isis who had passed by. She was quite embarrassed, in fact, at seeing me with my arm about a Gay person. She went in and picked up a scarf and the scarf was worth 52$, I think, because she was putting down the balance of the money – the other half – 26$. She was there shopping. It was a black scarf and it had beautiful… the borders were red and green designs. It really was quite nice. I came and leaned on the counter and said hello to my sister.

She was reserved, cool and detached. She turned to me and was beautifully made up and looked very young with beautiful, flawless, flawless skin. She spoke about the fact that she did not go shopping with me anymore. She insisted that my accusation that she did not go shopping with me anymore because I was with men was not true. She was wearing a beautiful mustard-coloured jacket and a scarf about her neck. Indeed, she was quite well-off.

*The thing about these unusually droopy noses is that they looked as though this was a race of extra-humans (extra-terrestrials) which had evolved from simian mammals who were descended from proboscis monkey stock rather than not. It is a race of primates native to Borneo and the faces of those simians are rather human. This is how this man and others in this dream would appear. However, it was more than that look. END.

In the sixth dream, I was in an office that was like an indoor greenhouse. If you like, it was a mausoleum rather than greenhouse. It was sky-lit and there were a lot of caskets about. Some of them had flowers and some of them did not. When you came in, you went down some stairs and into a more open area. There you saw a burial crypt. It was an indoor burial crypt. There was a man about as well as a grand piano. Whenever the employees of the place came in, there was a woman standing about and she would excitedly say, “We have to go out, we have to go out.” I was with those little children, from the earlier dream, who were skateboarding and whom I had instructed earlier about the whole idea of reincarnation. These children were mostly White. We were also being hustled out of the place.

The woman then said, “What is he doing? There is not another service. Why is he trying to start up that piano?” The man at the piano was large and bent over and he looked somewhat out of place being there. Before we could be ushered out of the place, I managed to run up and put some flowers – some yellow flowers, on one of the brown caskets that was there.

*He was inordinately tall and hence drooped over a lot. Whilst seated at the grand piano, his towering height made it look as though an adult seated at a dollhouse piano. Too, he was inordinately pale… END.

As we were going out, the procession was coming in and people were being hustled in. It was quite a fast procession. I stuck around and tried to see the place and see why there was so much hustling. There and then, it turned out that I saw the casket. It was very flat and plain and I thought, ‘Well why is it being hustled out? If it’s a funeral why would the relations be so ecstatic?’ However, it turned out that because the burial box was so flat I thought it was going to be cremated. It turned out, however, that it was for the office. There was going to be a surprise party.

It was actually a cake. It was covered up in wonderful, colourful wrapping paper. There was going to be a celebration and those were all the workers from the company. The atmosphere was quite nice and friendly.

In this the seventh dream, I was in a very, very large and busy restaurant where I ordered myself a bowl of soup. I was going to go upstairs to the bathroom but I had my bowl of soup in my hand. It was very Gothic-styled. It seemed, in fact, like the inside of a château. It was in the Gothic style except that the walls were rose granite – rose-coloured granite. It was, however, rather smooth-surfaced. I then accidentally spilled my bowl of soup. The waitress who had come to my aid was dark-haired – short, dark hair. She looked like a dancer who danced with the Winnipeg Contemporary Dancers when I was living in Winnipeg – the one who was Lebanese and had had a back injury.

Anyway, this waitress went off and I was waiting there being quite embarrassed. I was trying to rush to the toilet. I asked someone where the toilet was and they said, “No, no, not upstairs.” It turned out that the washrooms were, in fact, to the rear. So off I went to the bathroom and I was quite embarrassed. I tidied up myself and I came back out and my white cotton pants – nice, beautiful trousers; they were baggy but they came in tight and folded in a pleat at the end at the hem – were quite stained by the soup. It was a dark sort of pea soup. A dark brownish fare, like a lentil soup, it was. However, it was not like a lentil soup because it was red.

I was trying to ask this man to move, in order to get by him, en route to the washrooms. There was a couple behind a man and they were very lovey-dovey. The man had to ask them to get up to let me get to the bathroom. He did not want to get up or anything like that but he finally realised he had to get up. So he basically moved and he was quite unusually blond. Everybody in this place was very unusual-looking. They had extraordinary features about them. They were excessively good-looking but they had an outstanding feature that made them seem Thothesque. Again, noses here were very long, droopy and bent over. Their noses were almost beaklike in that sense. That was the extraordinary thing about that jet-black skinned man, in the initial dream, as well as this blond man who had the same feature.

**Humanoid with exact nose as this Proboscis Simian**

These persons were all exceptionally tall. They were each on the other side of seven-plus feet. Also, they were so über-poilu, it made it look like they were either jet-black when Black or yellow-white for being blond. Finally, he did move and when I was leaving, I looked at him. He was looking down at me because I was out of sorts, out of place, being there. Standing before him, he really did tower over me. Clearly, these persons were EHs – extra-humans or ETs. Another person had come by and tidied me up. He busily got me back to where I was seated. Then he had mumbled something like, “Why don’t you get out of here real fast?”

So I went out into the vestibule and I was waiting and waiting for the waitress to come by because I wanted to pay her for my bowl of soup. I think it was going to be $3 or something like that. Isis just said, “Why don’t we just get out of here?” We were waiting out front and it was busy so I finally got out. However, I was arguing and said, “That’s not the point of it.” I strongly felt that I should be paying my way. So I thought to just go back and put down my money on a table somewhere – I would feel better. However, I did finally leave, after having been more or less harassed by Isis without having paid. She was asking, “If you can save the money, why not save it?” that was her attitude.

When we were leaving there was a tall, enormously tall, man. He was White. Again, he had the same beaklike nose and there was something about his face that I found immediately sexual. His face was intensely sexualised. I was going to indulge and not leave because I so wanted to explore this man. However, Isis hustled me out of there.

Dream eight found me in the streets. I was walking with a baby – a little Black baby who was light-skinned. I carried the baby on my shoulders. It was rather nice. This time, out on the street, it was dark out and it was night time. This place we went to, that was quite busy, was bustling with lots of wonderful, wonderful people. It was very cosmopolitan here. A brief dream it was too.

I next found myself in a ninth dream experience that had a great deal of uproar and tumult to it. There were figures in black who were part of some sort of religious sect. These persons were just alarmingly fanatical. They were terrorists and they wore black. They had some sort of insignia on their bodies. As a matter of fact, they were looking for me; there was no mistaking that fact. I was in what would be Catherine Angelica Montpelier’s yard. I was trying to hide out there. There were, somehow, attempts to get me out. Then there was this truck which the people who were like security guards used. I was told where to find them and where they weren’t.

So I went into this yard and it seemed like part of Catherine Angelica Montpelier’s property and the neighbourhood in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. However, it was differently set up here. There was an Indian-looking girl – Amerindian-looking and not Dravidian. She, too, had a beaklike nose and I tried to explain to her, “Well look, you know I’m being pursued…”

“Oh yes!” further, she made reference to the fact, “Oh yes, you’re the one who killed Bob… or somebody.” Up on the roof was like Bob’s brother, whoever Bob was, but it wasn’t a name that I recognised. His name was Bob, however; it was Patrice Wellesley, of all people, who was keeping a lookout. He was supposed to notify the guard-like people. I intuitively knew that on the far side of the wall, of the place where I was hiding out, was a guy and a girl. She had very long black hair and was quite militant. They were looking out for me and talking.

I was telling the Amerindian-looking girl with the Thothesque nose, who was talking to me and dropping pieces of information, to just shut up and calm down, “You don’t need to say everything and carry on and on.” However, she still kept on blabbing away. I then managed to go around the side of the house. She was with her sister and they were playing some sort of game. So I thought to actually go around, to the front of the house, to ask her who her sister was. I then went around to the front of the house and there was her sister who seemed like Diana Nottingham – with whom I modelled at OCAD and did that pose with her at OCAD that Olaf Nordstrom had painted.

Anyway, she was quite wonderfully made up in whiteface. As though she were a Kabuki actor/actress, she wore white pancake makeup. She was, in fact, an actress. She was waiting to go on and perform a role of hers. It was quite interesting because she was, in fact, filling me in on what was going on, “In point of fact Arvin, you know, basically someone died because in self-defence in a rumble with them… it was just a lazy man about town, an idler and a drifter.” He apparently ended up dying because, during some sort of attack on me, as I was defending myself he was accidentally killed. As a result, I was on the run and there was a plot – the militant group was out to get me.

**Immanuel Methodist Church, Sandy Point, St. Kitts**

She told me that what I could do was go behind the Methodist Church in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. The place, however, was set out as if a mélange of Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts and elsewhere. So she told me to go across the railroad tracks. On coming around, I would be able to come home free to my home in Crab Hill. However, she pointed out that all along the route there were the same guards – militant fanatics. However, I just had to play it safe. She confidently assured me that they could be headed off. I was grateful for her advice and took her directives to heart. Well, low and behold, the girl – the militant sibling – came around the yard and caught me. When she caught me, I fled in escape. I went and hid behind the wall. I am not referring to Diana or one of the two sisters who had been around the backyard but there were two other sisters. These other two sisters were part of the militant group that was on the hunt for me.

The girl pulled out a weapon and it had a little blade on it. It was quite deadly and I kept hiding myself trying to extricate myself out of the place. I did so by holding up one of the sisters, in front of me, as a hostage. Someone got spliced in the left hand. I don’t recall that it was me or if it was me, I simply did not feel any pain when attacked. The vicious-looking wound had self-healed right away. I had focussed my light energies on the wound and caused it to instantaneously self-heal. Anyway, I was able to push the sister onto them. I then made my way around to the back of the house. By this time, the brother was coming around the house from the other direction.

When I say I went around to the back of the house, it was where I had originally encountered the two militant sisters. By that point, she had already called for help from the guardsman. He was somewhat ecstatic as he came around. However, this was my chance to flee. So I climbed over the fence and immediately there was a lot of plastic on and all over everything. When I climbed over the wall it was, clearly, what in the waking state would be the very back end of the Methodist Church estate. It was covered with a heavy plastic and there was a lot of wood. There was scaffolding everywhere. I climbed along the wood and the sister – the white-faced, actor of the two sisters – had told me that I could get immunity by saying that I was coming to work on the grounds or some such.

Next, I crawled along the scaffolding and looked to my left. However, this being a dream, it had semblances to being Sandy Point but it wasn’t really Sandy Point either. I realised that there were apartments, tiny apartments, which were glass-enclosed. They were all quite in disarray. People lived there but nobody seemed to be home. Here I was trying to make my escape and if anybody had seen me, of course, I would be squealed on. Then I finally jumped down, out of the ceiling-like area, because there were crates and boxes and a straw-stuffed bed under me directly below the window. I came down to an open area and there I saw a much darker version of Artemis da Braga, my niece. She was sitting wrapped with a telephone cord about her as she played with the phone. I greeted her but I did not want to get her excited because I wanted to flee the area.

Next, in dream ten, I came out of this beautiful house and came out into a wonderful backyard. Immediately, whilst there, I saw another of those vans. There had also been a van in the earlier dream that showed how these people, the militant people, worked. They had a van and it had another little van on the inside when it opened up claw-like. It appeared that the top and the bottom, the back rather, could open up. Inside it revealed another vehicle that was covered in a brownish greasy goop. The most interesting feature of this entire affair was that, although they looked human enough, the militiamen were not human. They were extra-human. So too was the machine which, from its goopy fluids, was sentient. It was an EH species which they were using to capture and feed one to. It seemed that the machine-like EHs were, in fact, in control of the militia-type EHs rather than the reverse.

It seemed more creature than a vehicle and, somehow, this was what I was supposed to be put in when captured. These two Black men, who were guarding the house and who let me know that they were guarding the house, were saying, “Aha! Now we’ve caught you.” You know, I thought about it and there was just no way that I was going to let them capture me. ‘I’ve got to get away,’ I thought. At the time, one of them was taking a pee – both these men were Black. They were quite casual about having caught me. They apparently were going to get their supervisor who would take care of me.

The supervisor came and he looked like the guy from Trinidad who had worked as a chef at the Underground Railroad Restaurant when, long ago, I worked there. He did, at least, seem like that man. This man, who was their supervisor, was also Black. He had the semblance, the air about him, of that chef but he did not so much look a great deal like him. He was rotund and fairly light-complected. He lived in the house. Rather, he did not live in the house but he was staying in the house as a caretaker. I thought, ‘I’m not going to be captured. I’m not going to be caught. I can disguise myself.’

**Rendering Self Invisible by Increasing Light Vibration**

I immediately started accelerating my energies and, as a result, I was able to transform myself. As I upped my frequency, I heard an increase in the universal hum. I looked down at the backs of both my outstretched hands, keenly observing the intense sunlight react to my skin in a glowing sizzling manner, until my aura intensified and became visible about my body. My aura’s light grew brighter as my skin actually glowed with increasing intensity. It continued until the skin, throughout my entire body, was indistinguishable from the rest of the intense morning sunlight. When they went down the hill and came back with the guy, I was standing there right in front of the house. It was this particular, large wooden house.

It wasn’t large, for being a bungalow, but the door was large. This house was definitely not part of the landscape in Sandy Point, St. Kitts. As I looked on, the guards came bearing the portly gentleman. I was aware from the way he – the supervisor, Zen sage – was talking that he was aware that I was there. Perhaps, he could see me but the other two – the militant guardsmen – couldn’t see me. I realised what I had done: I had made myself light so that I blended in with the landscape and couldn’t be seen. I had rendered myself invisible!

I then decided that I could further transform myself. Next, I made myself into this little white piece of what seemed like string. However, it was more like nylon. It was like shiny waxed dental floss. Such that half way there was a loop in it, it was tied in a knot. It was doubled on itself so that it was, I would guess, three to five inches long at the most. I obviously was astrally projected to another world where, rather lucidly, I was dreaming and interacting with extra-humans. The dental floss-like string was the cord of light which keeps one’s astral body connected, to the waking state body, when astral-projected during sleep.

**The Light Umbilical Cord Connected to Astral Body**

Immediately, the caretaker guy took the cord – the wax-like cord – which was my transformed-dreamer self in his hand. It was my astral body’s cord which was left rendered visible whilst I remained invisible. He began giving the two guardsmen a walk-through of the house in which only he should have been. It was a house that was no longer lived in. It was wooden all about and very organic. It was a house that allowed for natural light to pour in. There was a skylight. The house was low in the sense that it was dug in. The house was built such that it was somewhat half-buried below the surface. In that way, it was kept cool because it was partly below-ground. All about, on either side, as you walked in every part of this beautiful, sprawling bungalow were every manner of cactus.

These were cacti that were shaped like trees that had leaves. Absolutely stunning and incredible, they enlivened the house throughout. He gave me a tour of the place with the two guardsmen, who could not see me, in tow. As he walked them back to the front door he said, “So you see, he really couldn’t be here. You go off and look for him.” He tossed me or what was my representation – the wax-looking string or my astral body’s umbilical-like cord of light – from his right hand sending it through a doorway of the house. He then went about his business and showed them to the door and got rid of them. At this point, I rematerialised back to my regular dreamer self in this dream and I was able to let on to him that I knew that he knew of my being invisible. So I called him, on another phone in the house, and I remained absolutely silent. I then telepathically shared my thoughts with him. I inferred that I knew that he was aware that I was present in the house though invisible to most. Of course, he knew that I was there but he was just not going to acknowledge my being friendly with him. The fact is that he knew that I was in trouble. He was just trying, out of the goodness of his heart, to help me out. However, he wasn’t going to befriend me or anything like that.

**Sprawling Partially Submerged Bungalow**

So anyway, on my own I began exploring this beautiful, beautiful labyrinth-like bungalow. The walls of it were wooden. It was a reddish wood like redwoods normally look. It had a shiny hue to it because it was polished. I was talking about it to someone, later on in the dream, and it was in fact the same guy – the caretaker – who had accompanied me at one point. I said it seemed like it was built by Frank Lloyd Wright and he said, “No. Not really…” It seemed like it but it was a different style altogether; however, it was more or less like Frank Lloyd Wright. Seriously though, it was a totally different style. So I went about exploring the place. I went in this one room that was clearly a bedroom. I opened the door and went in – it was a glass door. I went in and on the left were shelves.

There were tiny, tiny, little cacti in pots and some of them were large and some of them were blooming. They were heliotropically craning over to one side. This place had been abandoned for quite some time. However, all the cacti in the place had managed to grow quite large. They were big, bulbous, beautiful and wonderfully lifelike. The spread to the bed was turned down and discarded. It had been left just as when last used by the owner. There was a bulldog; it was not a live one but a statue of a bulldog. This person had a great deal of style and was quite successful. I realised that the owner, the former occupant, was Black. I saw the face and I can’t say that I can recall the face but, somehow, I got the impression that the face was a face of mine if you like.

It was interesting because when I saw the face that is basically the information that I got from looking at the face in the photo. There was a tiny time-faded photograph of a face. It was of a Black man. This was the sense that I got from it, that it was me, in fact. There were beautiful trousers about. As well, there was a large armoire with tons and tons of beautiful, silk robes that I had worn in that life. They were worn around the house by the former occupant. There were, on the bed, some clothes. Too, there was a table beside the bed. Everything in this bungalow was very organic: the bed was very organic, the desk was and even the fixtures were very organic. As well, the cloth was very organic – by organic, I mean that it wasn’t inanimate.

It was organic because it was lifelike. More than that, it was organic because it was breathing. That’s why it had lived so long because it was quite some time since last occupied by the owner. However, it was very much so still alive. The sheet and bedding, on the bed, were woollen and greyish-coloured. The only reason why I had entered the room, in the first place, was I wanted to roam – to see if there were any signs of underwear… there was. There was tons of underwear on the shelves behind me. I wanted to check and sniff his underwear, to see if he had masturbated.

Anyway, when I got into the room, that little adventure had totally evaporated. For having seen the photograph, if you like I was quite interested in exploring the place and getting to refamiliarise myself with the place. The bedroom was just absolutely beautiful. Off to the left, rather behind the shelves and straight ahead, was the closet and the bed was to the right of the door.

Down this long hallway that was sky-lit were the tables and tables of clothing. There was a door past the shelves, on the left, and it looked into more and more clothes. I then came out of there and I went about exploring all over. This time, I went to explore all the cacti in the place. There were tons and tons of them. Shortly thereafter, I was joined by Carl Leroiderien, Merlin and someone else who seemed like Mario of Paris – Mario D’Agostino, however, it wasn’t him. I had a sense of Maxime Gascoigne-de Montigny being about and Carl Leroiderien had seemed like a custodian of the place. Carl was a caretaker or curator of the sprawling bungalow which now seemed like an historic site. When he was excitedly walking everyone through the place, to show them the place, he was referring to the owner. I was there but, again, none of these people had any awareness that I was there – not even Merlin.

He was sort of filling them in on who the owner was. From what I could see, Carl was doing a good job of it. There were cacti that were tall. There were also red ones. There was one cactus that was tall and it had needles on it. It had large, large leaves and two or three leaves like those of a royal palm’s. Most of it was like a palm tree but it was like a breadfruit leaf or some sort of leaf like a maple leaf – albeit an extra large maple leaf. It was, however, cactus. Everywhere there were plants on either side of the skylight hallways. The bungalow was a series of long halls that were all connected and veered off in different directions.

However, it was a house that had basically become a living garden such that it was organic. The cacti truly were the lungs of the house. The air was really nice and it was cool. The humans were able to live with the cacti because it was a totally self-sustainable dwelling. As the light came in heliotropically sustaining the various cacti species, it added breath, depth and dimension to the space thereby making it equally organic. Too, because it was partially submerged belowground, there was a lot of moisture from underground that kept these plants alive. The cacti were quite happy and they had grown so beautifully. It was as if they were bonsai cacti. It was quite incredible how they were all over the place throughout the house.

Then I went down some steps to another open area of the bungalow. Again, there were more cacti. We moved off and came to an area where Carl said, “Oh let’s go downstairs, I can show you the basement. You can see all these wonderful things.” When you looked out the skylight area, it was of the street, the pathway into what would seem Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. So I immediately was afraid to be seen yet I was assured by Carl as he stilled my nerves telepathically saying, ‘Oh, it’s okay… it’s okay.’ I was concerned about the people, who lived across the street, reporting me to the militia-types. There was bamboo, organic bamboo if you like, that was made into a fence. It seemed like the backyard of what was the neighbour’s house and they weren’t there. I was told it was quite safe that it was okay. The neighbours weren’t there to squeal on me.

Before you went down the steps, into this other area, there were all these beautiful, beautiful organic works that are quite common in the Orient. For example there were many objets d’art. These were objets d’art which were beautiful temples and totems. They were all made from the ivory of elephants’ tusks. It was all beautifully detailed and in miniature – all the miniature designs were made of ivory. That was the sort of stuff. This particular objet d’art was large. It was square-shaped so that it wasn’t like an elephant’s tusk. More like an obelisk, if you like, it was. They were more so little temples. They were shrines and Greek temples if you like. What was truly fascinating was how incredibly detailed they were though scaled down versions of the real architectural gems.

We moved on and now we came to an area that had nothing but wares. There were lots of baskets everywhere because this was where the ornaments were kept. They were all stored therein. Carl was the caretaker of these things. He was quite familiar with every item and, again, there were bamboo basket-like wares and objets d’art. I was told that this was, in fact, like a wine cooler. It was so delicately and intricately made. Also, the item was collapsible. It could open. The objet d’art was like a valise and it could open up. Merlin went and opened it and was prying into it. It had two African skulls or heads on it and it was quite beautifully detailed as a matter of fact.

We then moved on and came into the downstairs area. This place was like a cellar. Somehow, copious rays of sunlight made it to this part of the sprawling, multi-levelled bungalow. Even though we were further underground yet, somehow, the sunlight came in. However, I soon realised that it wasn’t sunlight. It was just this light that was white and somewhat diffuse. It was quite soft and nice to the touch. Among the many stored wares, there was something that had a white bamboo-like coil. This thing had a piece of string attached to it with two yellow sticks or shoots like chopsticks.

You could insert it and it was, in fact, quite sexual. The Mario D’Agostino character immediately grabbed it up. Whilst simulating sexual play, he was playing around with it. He was making noises filled with sexual innuendo and then said, “Umm, get undressed and put it on your cock because that’s what it’s made for.” Oh he was so happy to perform and went off to try on the item.

*Here now, some further comments set in the dream in the beautiful house. Here, the atmosphere in this house was one of serenity and it was a reflection of that particular life that one had led whence the proprietor was Black. Tall and very erudite, he seemed a man of the world. He was well-travelled. He loved beautiful music and he had a collection of things in his bedroom that were totems from his travels. He was obviously tall because there were lots of khaki and white summer pants which all gave a sense of his height. When I had first entered into the room, there was also a rack that I had bumped into. I hadn’t noticed it because it was suspended from the ceiling. It was racked with leather suspenders and an enormous collection of belts: broad belts, narrow belts, as well, skinny belts.

There were all kinds of beautiful belts. They were very expensive and they were also very organic and ancient. They weren’t brand new any of them. It was all a reflection of the person’s spirit. You never met the person but you knew the person through the house. It was beautiful and wonderfully planned out. The sprawling, organic bungalow was so multidimensional; it went off in all these directions and avenues because that was who this person was in that lifetime. In a box to call home, he was not contained or restrained. The organic house constantly veered off. It had many apartments and veered off and had many cul de sacs. There were areas where he could go and be removed from all the other areas yet be surrounded by plants.

At all times, he was surrounded by life itself and it was healthy… quite nice. Whilst at the restaurant having the lentil-looking soup, the reason for the extra-tall, obvious extra-human being impatient with me was more subtle than one may assume. With their sophisticated proboscis, it is safe to assume that smell was the most developed of this extra-human race’s senses rather than sight as is the case for we humans. Likely, there was something very off-putting to my pheromone makeup which left the seated extra-human uncomfortable. I don’t think that it was a matter of my race, Black, but my species, Earthly human, which made the über-poilu, blond extra-human uncomfortable.

As I was in his home world, he naturally felt put upon for having the unfavourable aspects of my pheromones anywhere near him. At the end of the day, he was an incarnate ensouled fragment who is one of seven soul types and with the same selection of overleaves as any Earthly human. Any Earthly human would have similarly responded to having someone of outré pheromone and species in their midst.

A very serene dream it remarkably was. END.

______________________________

Groovin’ High, Dizzy Gillespie 1955

__________________________________________________________________________________________

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

__________________________________________________________________________________

Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Tag: #Sol

Bitch! I Don’t Need Fucking Gaydar!

Flying Dream in Lemuria, Twin Earth. (Redux)

Ensouled Proboscis Simian Humans