One of the most powerful dreams had, whilst living for seven years in Montréal, occurred early during my stay in the lovely city.  This dream was truly momentous.  The travels in consciousness, whilst astral-projected, were energetically facilitated by being in contact with Merlin.

The dreams occurred on Monday, October 6, 1997 whilst the Moon transited both Sagittarius and my seventh house.  I am inclined to believe that this astral-projected experience occurred not on some far-off distant world but here on Earth’s Moon. The dreams were had during the second or ‘B’ sleep cycle that day.  I had been in the meditative state prior to sleep and was also having trouble getting to sleep.

For one, my pyramid was still back in Vancouver and thus I lacked my usual grounding.  For another, I had to endure my ignoramus neighbour’s loudmouth noise pollution.  He did nothing but nightly talk, on his phone, bullshit no end. This was especially infuriating since I was then working the midnight shift.  My sleep was always being ruined when this man came home from his dead-end job and talked nonstop on the phone.  

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*Also am reposting this dream because prior to the last blog post, “Two of a Kind” I had a dream was set in this same otherworldly locale. This time, I encountered a parent and persons who have since become astral plane habitués.

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*Prior to sleep, whilst in the meditative state, I had been lying in bed.  My pyramid has not yet arrived from Vancouver.  Here I was really connected and felt increasingly relaxed and opened up to the light within.

So with that I sought to have a positive connection with my task companion during the dreamtime.  To that end, I opened myself to experience contact with my trusty soul mate.

**By the time that I had relocated to Montréal, I had learnt of my connection to Merlin.  Merlin’s overleaves and mine were, by then, channelled by Mathilde Duchenne who was part of the original Michael group. Merlin, of course, is my task companion.  END.

This experience occurred just after 21:00.

vDream one.  Simultaneously whilst still awake, I experienced a sudden, jolting surge of energy at my solar plexus.  This vibration was very powerful. Then, it was as if I began hugging and flipping from my back onto my right side in the process.  It was as though I were hugging Merlin had he been there in bed with me. I told Merlin that I loved him whilst simultaneously the energy surging through me was akin to raw, electromagnetic energy.  This was quite intense and a bit overpowering.

Too, I began experiencing a zinging, high-pitched tone in my ears.  This was so intense that it seemed as if on the verge of causing an aneurysm – or at least what I assumed an aneurysm would manifest.  It did take me a moment before realising that I was still lying on my back. Indeed, I was astral projecting.

This is what allowed me to be, simultaneously on my right side, in yet another dimension as well.  There, I was on my right side on the astral plane with Merlin.  I was hugging him whilst lying in bed yet spatially aware here in the waking state. As I was lying in embrace with Merlin, I began experiencing a variation in the zinging pitch’s tonality.  Now it began wavering, as if in and out of frequency.

Whilst alternately not so, sometimes it was high-pitched in tone.  Either way, it was most unbearable.  I was afraid that at the end of the experience, I would be rendered deaf – it was that intense.

Next, I began feeling movement behind my back – here on the bed.  It was based close up by the shoulders.  The feeling was akin to back when Merlin and I lived at 20 Amelia Street and either Zora or Whoopi would come up on the pillows during the night to be closer and more affectionate. It really did feel as though a cat had leapt onto the bed – here in my 17-2865 rue Goyer, Montréal apartment.  So to ground the experience, I said aloud, “Well, of course, it’s you Merlin because here comes one of the cats.”

The experience now became elevated to the next level.  With that, I experienced what can only be described as the cap of the top of my head explosively blowing off. My crown chakra had come undone.  I was being realigned.  My chakras and energy were thoroughly reworked by, Merlin, the dream magus himself. Simultaneously as my body rattled away, even more so than before, I began experiencing a two-way flow of the most intense, yellow-gold light energies.

Quite simply, it was as if my head was the exhaust of a space-shuttle at blast off.  As if my poor body were not sufficiently taxed, now I was being touched by Merlin’s soul itself. Even though my lids were closed, I kept them closed not wanting the experience to end anytime soon.  I was hanging on for the ride; I matched its cosmic intensity as best my body could muster. As the experience endured, it became a yellow-white light.  Throughout all this, I heard my noisy Jamaican neighbour talking.

Even though the room was dark, as I was lying there in meditation, spatially I felt it become intensely illumined.  It matched the brilliance of the light energies that I experienced. Even as I was lying there in bed, I could feel the light’s intensity on my face and exposed arms.  Clearly, I was in two planes simultaneously. My soul was lucidly focussed both on the astral plane and the physical plane.  In the latter, I was lying in meditation of a most sublime though intense nature.

Interestingly enough, just as in the fifth dream of July 9, 1993 when I would encounter Merlin on the astral plane, I was sharing energy with him who had been on my right side. When the energy transference session was concluded, which happened for quite some time, a new wave of energy was begun. Encircling my head, starting at just below the ears, a heavy wave of energy moved slowly up my head.  The energy ended at the blown-off crown chakra.  This was a truly phenomenal experience. Quite simply, it did feel as though my skull itself was being warped.  It felt like a rippling succession of waves that moved – always from bottom to top.  As it moved upwards, the sonic waves droned in and out of intensity and pulsated as well.

It was like having a humpback whale singing the same two notes, over and over again, next to one’s ears.  Overwhelming, this was an intensely charged energy experience. For whatever reasons, I decided that I would try to get up.  If my head were towards true north, I thought that it would be much better.  I was keenly aware that I was still lying in bed in my apartment. Too, I was aware that I was definitely not asleep. After all, the neighbour was arguing about whether or not Dennis Rodman was a battyman – Gay. One thing that I peripherally gathered, from their conversation, was that he was talking to a man named Henry.  This man’s conversation was such absolute, mindless bullshit.

To have hugged Merlin was like hugging pure light energy which is why it was so intense.  When it was over, my astral projecting self rolled off my right side and back onto my back. Even though I was returned to my body, I was not fully returned to the shell of my physical body.  I was still astral-projected to being with Merlin on the astral plane. I felt as though I hovered two thirds out and above my reclining body.  My astral self was levitating above my body.  It felt as though my body was a body of water, as it were, it was the ocean. My astral self felt as if floating in the water with just an inch of it above the water’s surface.  It felt as though I were floating in a heavy body of water.

Spurring myself on, I told myself that I could muster the willpower to pick up my body and move.  I said aloud, “Come on, Arvin.  You can do it.  Get up, take the bed and relocate it so that you end up with your head to the north.” Too, I thought passingly of having the light in the room turned on… somewhat.  I was keenly aware that the large crystal was directly behind my head – in the waking state, of course. I desperately wanted, at times, to reach back behind my head and touch the powerful quartz crystal.  None of these things that I wanted to do, I was able to.

Undaunted, I told myself to get it together as it was not as if I were paralysed.  When I tried to move, I got up a bit but it was so sudden that it was almost displacing. Furthermore, the whirring energies about my head intensified becoming more so crushing than before.  Instead of my, legs swinging off the bed to the floor, my body did. I landed face down, with a thud, onto the floor beside the bed.  Oh dear, not quite what I had been expecting.  I guess that I had overshot my mark.  My head was in the same direction as when I had been lying on the bed. Thank goodness, it was not a bunk bed but merely a couple of mattresses on the floor.  Of course, my furniture has yet to arrive here from Vancouver.

Collapsed, my body was crushed against the floor.  I felt more weighted, as if a ragdoll, than before. At least there was softness to the mattress.  The electromagnetic surge was much too intense.  I resolved to rectify, at whatever cost, what seemed an energy imbalance. Still feeling fairly splayed, I struggled to my feet.  I managed to get the table lamp, which the landlord loaned me, and began trying to plug it in.  However, both sockets in the room seemed to be dead. It was as if there was a blown fuse in the house.  I knew that there wasn’t a power blackout because I could hear the neighbour’s TV.  Truth be told, the TV was being drowned out by his loudmouthed phone conversation.

Now I was beginning to be confused.  Perhaps, this fall from the bed and subsequent adventure with the lamp was not taking place on the physical plane.  Indeed, perhaps, it was not centred in my 17-2865 rue Goyer apartment but instead on the astral plane. The tip-off here was the fact that the room was so incredibly dark.  It was like being inside a light vacuum.  At whatever cost, I wanted the lights on.  Now when I tried the overhead light switch, it did not work as well. Here there were two switches, whereas there is only one in my rue Goyer, Montréal apartment.  These two switches were truly bizarre.  They did not work properly and only went up halfway.  Still, they did not produce lighting when I got them all the way up.

I then decided to go out to the bathroom, where the lights were always on in the waking state, to see if the light there did work.  When I got out to the hallway, it was another room entirely.  I then went to the next room which was the bathroom. Here again, the lights did not work.  Becoming more frustrated, I began rushing about the apartment testing all the lights.  This apartment definitely was larger with added rooms too. Feeling pissed off, I called out, “Come on, Merlin!  Stop playing around with the electricity.  Turn back on the lights!”

However, in all of this, I never did see Merlin.  Finally, I made it to another room where, I found another lamp.  This was a most weird-looking lamp.  Making sure that it worked properly, I tried taking it apart. Inspecting it to see that the lamplight was properly screwed in, I had taken off its shade.  It had three prongs which held up the shade.  They were brass-coloured prongs and looked rather rusty. When I was done with the prongs, the shade just did not fit on it at all.  Regardless, I got the damn lamp and returned to the bedroom with it as the light did work.  Perhaps, the fuse there was okay and it would work. Since there was sufficient light coming through the far windows, I could get some of it inside the bedroom.  As soon as I had snapped at Merlin, there was now a flood of light outdoors that shone lots of light indoors.

It seemed as though there were three full Moons, high in the sky, flooding the apartment’s periphery.  Now there was so much light flooding the bedroom that I did not need the lamp anymore. Then I decided to move the bed across the room.  I hadn’t a clue where the energy came from but in one powerful shove, I moved the bed across the room as if by force of will.  The covers, incidentally, were on the bed. Soon, I realised that the bed was improperly lined up.  Now, it was facing due west rather than north.  So then, I tried moving it to the correct north-south alignment. I got it moved then decided that I needed to move the TV.  Obviously this was on the astral plane as I would never have the TV in my bedroom.

I found a long strip of cable wiring which, strangely enough, was transparent.  I did not think that it was going to be long enough to do the trick, so I knew that I had to reroute it. For some strange reason, I decided that I had to have the TV at the foot of the bed – just beyond my feet.  There was a stand there on which it would sit. The cable cord, which ran to the TV, was the cream-coloured one as in the waking state.  There were parts of it, however, that were transparent-looking like an IV tube. Before connecting to the TV, the cable forked into a Y-formation.  So I ripped it from along the floorboards where it ran.  There was a tiny bracket which held the cord in place but it did not, however, look like an oversized staple.

These brackets were shaped like inverted Ls.  White and made of plastic, they were also very pliant.  There was a bit of a hook at the top, up beneath which one would shove the cable cord and thus secure it. After having unhinged the cord from the brackets, I pondered next where to redirect the cable cord.  It was at this point that I noticed that there was another bed in the bedroom. Also, it was much higher than my present bed.  A well-made bed, there were several layers of sheets on it. 

One spread on it was the cover that Isis da Braga absolutely adored – when we lived at Toronto’s 122 Mortimer Avenue. It was a series of blue squares with white in between each square.  There were several floral designs on it.  All in all, it looked pretty much as if a mock quilt.  Instead of being a good quality duvet, it contained synthetics – foam – on the inside. Soon, I realised that I had way too many covers on the bed.  I definitely did not want to have the fully-opened sleeping bag.  It was much too warm for that.  I removed the sleeping bag from the bed and thought to return to bed. All this time, because I could still hear the Jamaican speaking next door, I thought that I was in the waking state.  I then, however, stopped in midstride and thought for a second that this could not be anything other than having astral-projected to a very lucid OBE – Out-of-Body-Experience.

With that, I opened my lids momentarily, only to find myself in the familiar darkened cocoon of my apartment at 17-2865 rue Goyer in Montréal.  Next door, unusually loudly, the neighbour was still blabbing away. What was really interesting was that, when I moved the bed to face its northwards orientation, I sensed a definite shift and realignment in the room’s Chi.  It was, in fact, quite noticeable. What should have triggered my awareness was the fact that there was no door from the bedroom to the balcony.  This, of course, explained why the room was so dark.  Lids closed again, I was returned to the OBE where I stood at the foot of the bed.

Returning to the bed, on the astral plane, I got in with my head due north.  At that moment, the electromagnetic surge which seemed so imbalanced immediately shifted.  Straight away, I was properly aligned.  Suddenly, I felt nothing but peace. This was such sweet surrender that I could simply have died for joy.  It was such release after the harrowing, energetic roller coaster ride that I had been on. At this point, I was then instantaneously slipped into the dreamtime… in earnest.

At once, I was as if violently ejected from my body, on returning to it on the astral plane bed.  The tranquillity that I felt, on taking to bed on the astral plane, was a false alarm.  As this the first dream suddenly began, it had been a mere momentary pause. Straight away, my astral self was projected out of my body again.  This time, it seemed to have been magnetically tugged away by a greater force. On suddenly leaping from my body, I astral-projected and found myself in midstride.  As with the earlier phase of astral projecting when my crown chakra was as if blown off, this was just as explosive.

Just as when the yellow-gold light surged through me, my ejection into this dream was as intense.  Rarely has my awareness been so fluidly and lucidly engaged as at this moment. Too, I had a strong, distinct awareness of Merlin being around me. I walked along a pathway which had an embankment on either side.  The natural earthen path was rather wide.  It was in a large, incredibly-treed, densely forested area that was much like the more lush parts of Vancouver Island. It was like the northern end of Vancouver Island around Cathedral Grove Park.  This was a rainforest during its dry season.  At points, it did so seem as if in Vancouver’s Stanley Park.

What immediately I thought of was that initial dream encounter with Merlin almost twenty years prior in 1978.  The only difference here is that, the trees were close to seven times taller than those at Cathedral Grove Park and Stanley Park.  They were thick-trunked evergreens.  These trees were the most potent energy forms imaginable. Straight away, I was reminded of the arboreal giants who seemed sentient, or at least on the verge thereof, back in that OBE on Boxing Day 1972.  These massive arboreal giants were the energies that had been coming through to me. In concert, these arboreal greats used their harmonised energies to assist with my realignment to the light within.  Utterly healing it was to have experienced this transformation.  Such marvellous validation, it proved, of much that had been learnt in that experience on Boxing Day, 1972.

As I wandered along the pathway, I noticed that there was something wrong.  I could hear the same vibrational whirring but, this time, it was not occurring inside my head and destabilising me.  It was off somewhere. Although I can’t honestly say that I ever did see him, I could also hear Merlin speaking to me.  Merlin then warned me to be careful and watch out.  It was then that I noticed a person getting up. When I looked more closely, I saw that the individual was unusually proportioned.  Though they seemed human enough, they had unusually weird-looking arses. Their arses just did not hang right.  Rather, their arses did not look remotely like a human’s.  The arses here were not dissimilar to the arses on those short elfin Whites, whom I encountered in the ‘Hellsgate Bar’, in the dreams of the November 4, 1989.

Here these people had jet-black, extra-long hair that covered their entire bodies.  They were über-poilu – excessively hirsute – in the extreme. They were, too, quite large-bodied an extra-human species.  This led me to ask Merlin if, indeed, the notion of the Sasquatch was not true.  There were family groupings with parents and children. They began coming down from off the right embankment as I walked past. 

As a matter of fact, they were not running away from me but crossing the street.  They were going to the other embankment, on the left, which was lower. Their behaviour, the way that they got up, suggested that they slept out in the open.  Seemingly, they rose up and simply began going about their daily routine.  From the embankment the land sloped downwards away from the road.

There had been a break-like path, in the embankment, down which they progressed.  Their movement was casual.  They did not, however, interact with me.  Indeed, they did not acknowledge my being there. I counted about seven small family groupings.  More to the point, I did not like the vibration that I was getting from them.  It was about not, as it were, being in familiar territory. Definitely, since this was not Kansas, the plan was to stay out of harm’s way.

So with that, I pushed off and opted for the expediency of flight.  I levitated, going up into the air.  Whilst in flight, I was as if lying on my stomach, face down to the ground, with my arms outstretched directly before me. This is a position in which I can’t recall having flown and, if so, quite rarely.  I did this because I wanted to be able to travel really swiftly.  I was doing this to jettison my way on out of this place.

I wanted to push beyond so that I could go to some new dimension to which I had never ventured before.  Initially, I had not been flying at great speeds and this only left me feeling impatient. I just did not like the feeling of entrapment that, deep within me, such slow flight induced.  So I sought to go beyond, the bounds of, the very dimension in which I was questing. I wanted to experience some grand illuminating, uplifting experience like, in too long, I have not.  Thanks in large measure to the morass, back in Vancouver, through which my life had been dredging. Earlier, when I had snapped at Merlin, it was my way of saying to him that I needed some help.  So that I could go push further beyond, I wanted him to give me a boost.

I desperately wanted, in my spiritual unfoldment, to push beyond the bounds to which I have already quested.  When astral projecting, I was reminded that the transparent cabling represented the astral self’s cord. Even though in an OBE state, when I was lying in the rearranged bed on the astral plane, I was then projected out of my body yet again.  I was about to quest into, a whole other dream realm of, new adventures and dimensional experiences. I had mistakenly been of the impression that when I was lying, with my head due north, that that was the point at which I went to sleep.  Obviously, this was not the case. Soon, I began flying past large ferns – some of which floated lazily in the sky.  They, like every other arboreal life-form here, were especially lush.

They floated, only on the level at which I flew, on either side of the wide earthen path.  They managed to have overhung the pathway by using tree branches to have affected the feat. Even though I flew considerably high up, I was nowhere higher than the trees which were uniformly tall and majestic.  When I came from beyond the growth, where the hirsute beings were, it was now an open space that basked in intense sunlight. The men were about 9 feet tall whilst the women some 7 feet tall; they were possibly taller but for being unfamiliar, with having to gauge such heights, my observations were likely off. They were a brawny, robust people who were clearly extra-human.  There were no distinguishing features to their faces as their long, jet-black hair entirely covered their faces. Though I had not found them frightening, I thought it best to keep a low profile.  After all, I was in their domain.  Since my speed was not picking up, as desired, I grew less impatient.

Intrigued by the environment, I paused to check out a sheer rock face which was all black stone.  The rock was stratified by the thinnest layers conceivable. I had noticed it, off to the left, as I flew back in the direction over the road.  I was flying back along the route, which I had taken, when in a hurry to flee the place.  This was a place truly like no other before experienced. Now I could no longer discern the whirring sounds, of the vibrational energy surge, which had previously played mightily on my ears.  However, I wanted some of that energy to assist me in flying faster.  I just wanted to get beyond, to the next level, to whatever that adventure might be.

Since I had already accomplished much energy work, in the meditative and vision states, there was no need to have gone any faster.  This I had concluded when reasoning with self. I had already been revved up, with more than ample energy, to get me through these experiences.  I was, as ever, my usual impatient self.  I was an amalgam of both ego and soul. When the sheer rock face finished, there was a large opening where there was an incredibly super, mammoth civilisation.  This metropolis dwarfed any that I had, before in the dreamtime, ever encountered.

By far, it was one thousand times larger than that metropolis, which I saw from the hilltop, in the dreams where I would meet Merlin on July 9, 1993. It was more massive, by several thousand times, than the inverted Machu Pichu-like civilisation – to which I had travelled in the dreamtime on December 29, 1990. When I had happened on it, I was in flight and looking down on this most spectacular vista.  Just past the rock face, the civilisation began way below.  It was not only surprising but revolutionary. Too, there were giant holograms in the air.  They featured Blacks in hair care advertisements.  The Blacks in these holographs were very upper middle class-looking and healthy.

They had great skin, teeth and were spectacularly dark-complected.  I had flown off, to the left, to check out the holograms. I then noticed that, way below me, there was a golden, bronze-coloured maze that was made of the smoothest stone.  It can only be called a maze as its complexity defies description. At times, it was hard to tell whether it was actually stone or metal.  The element’s tonality subtly changed throughout.  It was a flat surface which had lots of openings in it. Basically, these were portals at the top of the civilisation.  They were simply tunnels to let the natural light in, as well as, to let off heat and exhaust.  For below its impenetrable shell, this civilisation was teeming with unimaginably large masses.

This was the roof of the civilisation.  Through the gaping portals was revealed windows galore.  Every portal had massive skyscrapers that were easily in excess of five hundred storeys. However, none of these skyscrapers broke above the flat, rock-metallic-looking surface.  When arriving at this super-metropolis, I had first seen the portals. Several of these massive skyscrapers fit into each of the portals.  The rock face encircled the entire civilisation.  The rock face left this super-metropolis neither as distant nor canyoned as that inverted Machu Pichu-like metropolis.

*This, of course, refers to the Machu-Pichu-like civilisation encountered in the dreams of December 29, 1990.  END.

This area was most massive.  There were vats of red light that shot up into the air, on escaping from the portals, as the civilisation’s glowing lights made it from the bowels of the depths. The portals were each hexagonal in shape.  Though all of the portals contained the ultra-modern, five-hundred-storey-plus skyscrapers, they never protruded above their rims. This civilisation on its own must have easily been home to at least 200 billion souls.  This was a truly humbling experience. I felt as if a mere pygmy moth, in flight, traversing across the width of a canyoned, bronze-stoned encased structure.  Truly phenomenal a sight and experience this was.

When looking down and discovering all this, I must have been in flight some three thousand feet in the air.  Prior to having experienced it, one could not have conceived of anything on this scale. A truly densely populated civilisation this was.  Blown away by the massiveness and beauty of this place, I flew across as much of the golden-bronze civilisation’s rooftop as I could. Thank goodness that I had earlier gotten such a boost of energy.  Nothing less could have sustained me, when in flight, across the top of this complex, massive civilisation.  Just for security’s sake, from time to time, I hugged the rock face whilst in flight. Whilst in flight, there was no way that I wanted to run out of my fuel of light energies.  Energies they were which Merlin had shared with me, I was firmly convinced.

I then noticed that, up in one section of the rock face, there was also a built up extension of things.  The same architectural designs were also used. Worked into the intricate structure was the monolithic face of a woman.  Indeed, could this have been a matriarchal civilisation? However, even though a face made of stone, I then noticed that she began speaking.  Clearly, this woman was pretty pissed off, “I’m going to show them.  I’ll get them yet.” Whilst part of a sculpture which looked much like Earth’s Mount Rushmore in the United States of America, she was operating some levers.  The stone, with a seeming mix of metal – in this case gold, was nicely worked into her face.

As she spoke and her features became animated, the play of light on her features was kaleidoscopic.  It seemed that she was out to show the inhabitants, of the portalled civilisation, a thing or two. She announced that she would release a much-feared creature on the civilisation.  A voracious carnivore, it was expected to go into one of the portals where it would feast on a few million citizens. Intrigued, I slowed down and alighted on a ledge in the rock face.  It was around a large outcropping of golden-bronze, metallic stone. Around the corner to my right, beyond the outcropping, was the enraged woman whose face was made of stone or seemingly so.  To my right, on the rock face, towering above the civilisation was the creature’s face.

Its eyes were fairly close to me.  Like a griffin or the mythic dragon, it was a bird creature of some sort.  It was not a very pretty-looking creature and you just knew that it could be a real menacing terror. These were the eyes of an eagle which predatorily flickered, a couple of times, as I looked at it.  Even though worked into the rock face, like its mistress, it seemed simultaneously mechanical though she did not. However, this creature was quite so alive.

Whilst distracted by the griffin, I had failed to have noticed that there was some other creature.  Hungrily snapping up at me, the creature was just below my feet. It was a pet of the dominatrix’s; it was as if a dog though not.  It was covered in a white membrane which was as if a giant sloth with large beaver-like teeth. Definitely not game, I shoved off and levitated higher up the rock face.  Obviously, I sought to get out of its reach.

She, however, was not aware that its yapping was because I was there.  Frankly, I don’t think that she could have cared less. I suspect that she thought that it was greedily anticipating the kill which, shortly, the large griffin-like creature would undertake. With a coiled tail, like a serpent’s or a dragon’s even, this griffin-like creature was more so a bird of prey.  Next, an aperture opened up in the rock face about the creature. In so doing, it revealed that the creature had an immensely long body with a shell on its back.  It really did look much like a turtle’s shell.  Similarly, the white membrane which covered the tiny pet’s body covered the amphibian-looking, predatory, griffin-like creature.

Sure enough, like any bird would, it noisily crowed.  The cry was always a dual-toned affair and noisy at that.  On her signal, the über-griffin came from its lair and leapt from the opening.  It then began effortlessly flying downwards to the civilisation below. Meanwhile, she had used other levers to close almost all the dozens of hexagonal portals in the civilisation’s rooftop.  When she was finished, there was only one portal left open.

Naturally, everyone in the mega-metropolis would be filled with terror.  Clearly, this could only mean that the dreaded monster was upon them. The other portals were closed to prevent anyone’s escape.  She would have none of it.  She ruled the civilisation and clearly she was a god of revenge who used terror to keep her subjects in line. The portal covers fitted so seamlessly that it was hard to discern that previously there had been massive, gaping apertures in the metallic-stone-looking maze.  This surface had no lustre to it; rather, it was a matte finish.

Off to my left, there was a recession in the rock face.  There, I noticed that there was a ledge.  The civilisation did not, however, expand over into that direction.  A paved area it was rather damp. The dominatrix’s pet sloth-like creature went scurrying after something that was over in that direction.  I did not, however, make out what it was. As compared to the white membrane which covered the rest of its body, the griffin-like creature’s shell was rather dark.  One interesting feature about it was that its eyes were, on long pods, like a snail’s eyes. They were capable of moving independent of each other, even though they were such large imposing birdlike eyes. 

These were not the eyes of a turtle or a snake but definitely those of an eagle’s.  Like an eagle, it effortlessly flew through the air. Peripherally, it noticed the pet making for the kill so diverted and swooped down with an eagle’s deadly precision.  Of course, it got ahead of the pet.  It was obvious from its head movements that it had captured the tidbit. The pet sloth-like creature noisily protested being cheated out of a snack.  This was all that I needed to see and said to myself, “Well darlings, whilst you work that out, I’m getting on out of here.”

With that, I took to the air, I flew away from there.  I followed the rock face which encircled some seventy-five per cent of the civilisation.  Definitely, it was more than a semicircle.  The rock face was shaped like the hook at the top of a question mark. I made my way around the rock face and got away from where the sadistic goddess ruler was.  Coming around the large abutment of the rock face, I happened on a massive cabling of root systems.

This was now a very cavernous damp area.  This area was completely unlike the cool built-up civilisation.  Moss covered the massive root systems throughout and made the smell here the most ripe, fecund perfume. Here I happened on two children who stood in amongst the forest of cabling roots.  They were very Oriental-looking but dark-complected.  They were not though like dark-complected Asians – in the waking state. What they seemed to be were an amalgam of all the races.  They were taller than the average, South East Asian, more than six feet tall, even though clearly children.  Also, they were a lovely olive complexion like Hispanics.

They weren’t as dark as say Sri Lankans or Sumatrans.  More than anything else, they were tall and long-limbed as though Maasai children.  I thought that this was what humanity had racially evolved to, sometime in the distant future. With Asians being the dominant tribal grouping on the planet, it did make perfect sense.  Finally, there was truly one human race, no more of this hideous idiocy of divisiveness. They were full-lipped and large almond-eyed with beautifully flared nostrils.  Then I thought about it, a bit, remembering the Blacks in the hair care ads.  Clearly, this suggested that there were still specific tribal groupings around.

Looking as if lost, this boy and girl were just standing there.  There were little creatures on the ground behind them.  Though they looked like crows, they were clearly not.  They were more so like winged squirrels.  They were as nonthreatening as squirrels or, for that matter, crows. As they stood side-by-side the girl was closer to me whilst the creatures were off to their left.  Though kids, they were already six feet whilst I flew in the air at just above six feet. I had come around, in flight, from off their right shoulders.  He was a little older and a tad taller than her.  I flew around them, noticing the white membrane here.  The membrane covered the entire ground here.

It was a strange-looking substance and like nothing in the waking state.  I never did get close enough to the ground, so that I could touch it, to test its consistency. With that I took flight, again, soaring upwards and flying ahead to yet another vista.

*Each time that I would soar higher here, I would be posited into what would be a new dream experience.  However, this was a rather seamless progression from dream to dream. I moved from dream to dream, in what was the same extraordinary, never-before-visited civilisation.  Thus, unless warranted, I will let the dreams flow one into the other.  END.

Now as if in the yard of the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house, I was posited in the second dream.  Here I noticed lots of twigs which seemed to be from the genip tree.  However, as they had large thorns on them, it would seem that they were from a shaddock tree. Here it was night time out and a very beautiful light illumined the area.  Soon, I noticed a lovely dark-complected woman in the yard who reminded me of Joy Westhammer. However, it was not Joy.  Indeed, this woman was much more beautiful and looked a lot like Naomi Campbell.  As a matter of fact, the look was more like Kiara Kabukuru’s, the model.  She was long-limbed, svelte and wonderful to look at.

She was then, down in the gutter, taking clippings from the trees.  Not that I would mind her doing it but I suggested that there was nothing wrong with her coming by and asking if she could do so. Of course, I would have let her have some.  After all, as it would be propagating the plant, I would gladly have allowed her to.  However, since I was the proprietor, she was socially obliged to have approached me and asked for my permission. This was the only way that civil society could be maintained and not dissolved into anarchy.  As a matter of fact, I would have loved to have counselled her on which parts of the tree to have chosen.

I would have loved to have shown her how best to prune a tree.  As I pointed this out, I was stunned as she became pissed off with me.  From her point of view, I was attacking her. She let me know that she had no intentions of returning them.  Of course, I had no desire to have them returned to me.  Why would I?  They are nature; I could never own them. With that, she started fleeing but I called after her.  I told her that there was no need for that response.  With that, I went chasing after her as she went running around the property.  Here, it was more than the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house’s property.

This was now part of a large estate as we went running around to the side which led up to Yvette Morehead’s.  From there, she went running into Max Worsthorne’s yard.  I knew that she definitely was not Elizabeth Westhammer’s daughter. This woman was the classic, beautiful artisan soul.  She was cosmopolitan and upper middle class.  In her flight, she had dropped the twigs which stood upright as if tuning forks.

*Of course, this harkens back to that dream on November 4, 1989.  In said dream, there were the golden-coloured, Y-shaped, yod-like tools which similarly acted when falling to the ground.  END.

Somehow, it seemed as though they were magnetised by an energy flow deep below the surface.  Gathering them up, I tossed them over the fence back into the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house’s backyard. When returning to the yard, I stood on the steps from Harella da Braga’s bedroom and looked off into the yard.  Peripherally, I had noticed some movement.  Shocked was I to find that she had returned to pick the twigs. I admonished her and told her that she did not have to be like that.  I told her that there was no need to have fled or even have vilified me.  However, she did need my permission if she were to go on taking the twigs.

Nonetheless, she would have none of it.  She disagreed by yelling at me then stubbornly ran off.  With that, I went to inspect the tree as I wondered if she had only returned just so that she could do deliberate damage to the tree. Obviously, she had taken offence at being counselled by me.  This woman exhibited that stinking ignorance so rife, the world over, amongst much of human society. This is an attitude whereby one would rather hate and kill one another than communicate.  It made no sense to have behaved the way that she had.

Going to the tree, I noticed that there was a dark-haired, White male down in the gutter.  Initially, I thought that he had been taking a piss but he remained motionless for much too long. Soon, I realised that there was obviously more at play here.  I decided to go and discreetly check things out.  Clearing the bushes, I snuck down into the gut where he was standing.  He stood facing that opening in the wall of the Crab Hill Bridge. He stood there at the portal in the bridge’s wall as though keeping a lookout… or so it seemed.  As I grew closer, I noticed that there was a man squatting in front of him who gave him head.

Both were decidedly North American-looking, White Gays.  Each was in his early twenties; they rudely reacted to my coming and blocking them.  I, for one, felt badly for having walked in on them. I thought that he had been alone, at the most, possibly jacking-off.  They were quite pissed off that I had shown up.  Intrigued, I wanted to play voyeur and check out the action. Furious, they abruptly stopped then got up and took off.  Going onto the street, they stood there with their backs against the wall of the bridge.  Where they had been standing on the other side of the bridge’s wall, they were just beside the portal. Waiting for me to get lost, they stood there making snarky remarks about me.  I did not hear and could not have cared less about them and their remarks.

Once indoors, I was now posited in this the third dream.  Readily, much to my horror, I realised that my apartment was not at all that secured.  The door that leads to the inner fire escape – here at my rue Goyer, Montréal apartment – had had its doorknob and the two latches at top and bottom removed. To say the least, I was really pissed off because anyone could easily have entered my apartment.  Looking through, I noticed that there was an apartment next door with two beds. It seemed that there were two White women living there; they were young.  They seemed like classical dancers.  The one on the far bed reminded me of Mindy Asparian.

She was working on a macramé that was likely going to be a Christmas present.  There was a design on it that looked like a little ragdoll.  A most unusual design though it was. A large body, two heads attached, plus two little bodies that fell from beneath either arm.  It was propped up on the bed so that it looked rather garish.  About 18.0 inches tall, it was a thick, Babushka-type doll. I had been peering through the hole, where my doorknob bloody-well ought to have been, when I saw all of this going down.  I wondered how long that the door had been an open invitation. They, or anyone else for that matter, could have come over and spied on me.  Regardless, as soon as possible, I wanted the situation taken care of.

Daytime now found me in a narrow cobblestoned street, here in the fourth dream.  Though wet, it was also bright out in this unfamiliar city. All the buildings here, by several millennia, were rather ancient.  They were, however, in the Gothic style.  Again, this was not in Europe but this strange world to which I had travelled. Were it in Europe, then it would likely have been Germany rather than France.  To be sure, this was in another dimension entirely.

Isis da Braga and her Jamaican friend Dahlia Compton were together.  We were together and Dahlia said that she felt rather tired and wanted to rest for awhile. Meanwhile, I was being complimented for having fluttered my lashes whilst smiling at the beauty of the place.  In this dimension, I Arvin was terribly racy, witty and possessed of a confidence that was supremely sexy. Indeed, I was also an actor by profession and was incredibly charming.  Here, I was greatly loved by everyone.  Obviously, this was a dimension in which I hadn’t Harella da Braga and Pericles da Braga with whom to contend in childhood.

My eyes here were riveting and I was known to possess this beguiling quality when speaking.  My eyes perpetually were flirting, dancing and feverishly darting about. At the time, I had a paper fan with which I covered my mouth whilst speaking.  This, of course, drew more attention to my eyes.  In a mocking fashion, I had been self-consciously covering my mouth. I was being flirtatious whilst pretending to be a woman.  This was a caricature that I did in that dimension.  My teeth were perfectly beautiful when smiling and were for that matter capped and rather large.

However, I was aware that the Arvin of that dimension was not aware of why he felt the need to cover his handsome mouth.  When Arvin of that dimension did his caricature, though it came through from the level of soul, it was intimately connected to all Arvins. In particular, it had been inspired by me in this dimension.  In that sense, he was as if channelling me here though not consciously aware of the roots of his caricature. Here in this dimension, Isis was rather sweet towards me.  I was much favoured by her.  There was no dynamic here of being manipulated within the family by either Harella or Pericles. Eventually turning onto a narrow little street, we had been walking back and forth.  Here, there were some wide stately steps that led up to the buildings.

The steps were very dark as if covered with a dried-up moss.  Being on this street, I was immediately reminded me of a street on which I had been on two previous occasions. The previous times when I was on this street, obviously occurred in the dreamtime, when living in New York City.  The other occasion was much earlier during childhood in St. Kitts. Soon, I saw a Black man coming down the street who looked like a friend in Montréal.  In these parts, I was readily warmed at the reminder of a friend.  I had said that I referred to that Haïtien friend as ‘Belle Tête.’  I explained that it meant ‘beautiful head’ as in the shape of his exquisite skull.

Here in the dreamtime, I had even called the man the same thing.  He too had asked what it meant which I had tempered by being flirtatious.  Dahlia had rather enjoyed my playfulness and sweetly laughed. I was quite amazed at this other aspect of self.  For here, one was being deferred to rather that opposed or rejected.  Truly revolutionary! Whilst we visited, a car came down the street in our direction then pulled up and parked beyond us.  We walked up and past it.  I wanted to go explore some trees that looked like cherry trees; they beautifully overhung the street.

Beautifully pruned, they were not more than nine feet tall… if that much.  As we went down, I noticed that a couple of macaques came out into the street from off the trees.  I thought it the most charming thing imaginable. Right away, I was reminded of the macaques in Japanese snowy mountains or those in Nepal about which Sjaak van der Velde speaks so highly.  However, this particular species had unusually long tails that curled. Dark-furred, their fur was also a bit on the long side.  On closer scrutiny, I realised that there was something off about them.  Sure enough, their eyes were exceptionally large and monochromatic.

Some were black-within-black eyes whilst others were exclusively crimson red-within-crimson red eyes.  If ever there were any doubts as to this not being Kansas, they were certainly then dispelled. As we grew closer, they ran away and scurried into the long stretch of cherry trees.  These trees lined the ancient, moss-covered cobblestone road. The trees soon became noisy from the rustling of the large tribe of monkeys in their crowns.  The inordinately beautiful macaques were exceptionally noisy.  This street ran off one of the many piazzas which, incidentally, stood before one of the many large Gothic structures. Though the look of these structures was cathedral-like, they were though several storeys high.  They were in excess of one hundred storeys each.

Made of pure stone, they were moss and time-blackened office and residential towers.  These fantastic structures were in the Gothic style with flying buttresses and Gothic spires at their far-off crowns. The stone, though seemingly darkened by the wetness which drenched the place, was innately that dark aside from the moss that covered them and everything else. The moisture from the rainfall left the black stone with a glossy finish that was truly spectacular.  With a noisy bevy of macaques on either side of us in the treetops, I said quietly, “I think my dear Isis we ought to turn back now.”

I just did not want to alarm this one.  Many of the macaques were crossing over from one tree to the next, over the middle of the street, in the most acrobatic of flying leaps. Firmly taking Isis’s hand, I told her that whatever happened we simply couldn’t start running.  As a matter of fact, these macaques seemed feral and ready to attack. Next, there was a swarm of what initially I thought to be flies.  They proved, however, to be some furry genus of bees.  They had a symbiotic relationship with the macaques.

In essence, the bees’ role was to eat the very honey-sweet, perpetual mucous from the macaques’ spectacularly monochromatic eyes.  Every now and again, in unison, the bees would simply fly away. For a brief moment, they would take leave of their host macaques.  Interestingly enough, the macaques would never have stirred or brushed away the bees yet they would buzz away for a moment. This was some sort of hive response to some aspect of the macaques’ rhythm.  It was one which clearly still stirred some instinctive fear in them.

At one point, I saw one of the macaque counterparts, of this far-off, never-before-visited-in-the-dreamtime-dimension, in an intimate close-up as I intently studied it. Its eyes were the same intensity of red as what you would find in the red of round, red pieces – which along with black ones – form the basis for a game of checkers.  The others had brown-black rather than jet-black eyes. Clearly, this was some aspect of the astral plane to which I rarely travelled.  As it were, this was not astral terra firma as I am accustomed to experiencing things when on the astral plane.

As we had made our way down the tiny road, a large tribe of the macaques came rushing across the piazza to our left.  With the most amazingly agile ease, they took to the trees before and behind us. They squatted there in the treetops and looked down at us.  There was no getting around the fact that they were intelligent beings. Their posture when squatting suggested that they were as if macaque-man.  Clearly, they were some evolutionary manifestation of ensoulment in simian mammalia. As we walked past them, as if into a well-laid trap, they were facing in the direction from which we had come.  It seemed likely that the couple of macaques which had been standing there, drawing my attention, were part of a well-laid plan.

A ruse whereby the unsuspecting were entrapped and then made a meal of, later on, or what have you.  When we turned around, their backs were now turned on us.  They all faced the same direction and never looked over their shoulders back at us. Again, knowing her only too well, I asked Isis not to freak out regardless of whatever happened.  Rather than running, I told her that we had to appear cool by walking away. Were we to have run, they would be disturbed and the only likely reaction would be fearful.  I added that I did not see how such a reaction could not be inimical. If they were to come after us, I assured her that we did not stand much of a chance against them.  We were, I reminded her, in their territory and did not quite know of their capabilities.  All of this, I telepathically said to Isis.

I firmly reached into her mind and thus stilled her fears.  I had had to initially take her hand, on entering her mind, as she was about to freak out not knowing what was going on. Hand-in-hand, I was able to guide her out of there.  Cautiously, we ventured out from beneath the entrapping tunnel of macaque-filled, riotously blooming, cherry trees.

Here, in this the fifth dream, I was running into several former members of the National Ballet of Canada.  As well, there were some current dancers from the company.  They were all tightly spaced. This again took place in one of the same tightly-spaced, cobblestoned, wet black-stoned streets.  As they were getting ready to go onstage, here it was nighttime.

Some sort of spectacular was about to be staged with these dancers.  Several others were also going to be participating.  I passingly wondered if it meant that Celia Franca had died. Perhaps, too, the National Ballet of Canada was celebrating its 50th or 60th anniversary.  As I moved through the gaggle of dancers, they were all decked out in colourful costumes that were designed unmistakably by Hélène Plotte-de Visage.

Evelyn Hart was not among the dancers here though I did see Karen Kain.  As well, I saw just about every dance luminary from the company’s illustrious past.  They were all so very excited to be reunited.

One dancer, in particular, caught my eye.  He was dark-complected and obviously John Alleyne whom I have never met.  As I passed, he was to my right as we were all tightly packed in the backstage area and I said, “Well hello, Kevin Pugh.”

Of course, it was not Kevin – to whom I was briefly acquainted in the waking state.  Those nearby heard the gaffe and giggled at the idea that I was implying that ‘they all look alike.’  Since I too was Black, especially drôle it seemed to those who had heard my gaffe. I was merely nervous as all hell to have been there and to have met John Alleyne.  These things happen, after all, so why not here in the dreamtime.

About four persons later, I did in fact see Kevin Pugh.  I explained to him what had just occurred.  We briefly, warmly chatted.  To have done what I had, I told him how embarrassing and racially insensitive it was of me. One dancer next to Kevin, undoubtedly it was Owen Montague,  hysterically laughed and threw his head back in the process.  It really was true though and embarrassingly funny.

Kevin gave me a pat on the forearm, whilst smiling, as I walked away.  It was amazing how very real he was.  He was as if before me in the waking state.  I could even smell his very intense, sweat-soaked costume. Here, I was the same racy-personae, other-dimensional Arvin.  I was very much the actor who was recognised.  To everything that I said, everyone hung on to my every word.

I did have quite an alluring quicksilver wit and intellect.  One had to be ‘on’ when listening to me as it created an illuminating high when I spoke.  I was charm personified.  Clearly, my overleaves here in this dimension were different. To my personality’s makeup, there was great sagacity.  I seemed so much more so a sage soul rather than an artisan soul.  Naturally, this was no doubt due to being focussed in an actorly fashion. This would not be so hard to pull off, for being an artisan soul, on the expression axis.  One is, after all, more readily connected to sage soul sensibilities.

As I moved on, I noticed that there were persons who would be performing two roles.  For the specially choreographed piece, to celebrate the event, they were singing and acting roles.  The soprano came rushing backstage declaring, “Oh dear, we suckers have to get lost…” It turned out that who should show up, to narrate and sing, but Maureen Forester and Jessica Tandy.  Jessica Tandy, now discarnate, came walking across the dark-stoned piazza with all the ducal elegance as, Katherine Worsley, Duchess of Kent herself – who does bear a passing resemblance to her.

Jessica Tandy was a little bit ahead and to the right of the great Canadian singer.  Maureen Forester looked refreshed, grounded and utterly approachable. Both women were dressed in beautiful pink robes.  I can’t say enough, how radiant Jessica Tandy looked.  As if it were not obvious when she was incarnate, now her inner light eclipsed us all. Maureen Forester, even though dressed up, looked slightly frumpy but on the verge of winsomeness.  To look at her, I thought right away that this woman was likely a slave soul with very strong sage soul influence.

Perhaps, from her task companion or that the sagely energies were rather marked in her casting.  She just had that slave soul feel about her. She was a real trouper and it showed through and through.  This had been the case, one sensed, for more lifetimes than most.  Full stop. She was honoured to have been asked to participate.  To look at her, you just knew that she would pour her very soul into the task at hand. Serving the common good thus, this was her very raison d’être.  Warmed by this woman’s spirit, I broke into a smile.  Gracious.

To go cross to another part of the location, I left the backstage area.  However, I ended up taking a divergent route which took me around to another area.

I was then in a pavilion which reminded me of the one in Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  However, it was definitely not that pavilion.  Whilst I was there, high up in the stands, I looked out to a field and saw Morag O’Hoare. Morag was telepathically speaking to me though it seemed as if we were speaking on headphones.  She was saying that she did not appreciate my trying to contact her. She said that this was the third time that I was doing so and she found it terribly upsetting.  She went on to say that she did not, in the least, appreciate it.  Firmly, she insisted that I not do it again.

Then she became very loud, shouting at me, letting me know that she was not going to take what I had done to her.  Neither was she going to take what I was saying about her.  Livid, she was really pissed.  Before I knew what, she began coming after me. Turning around, I saw a couple of kids who were blond except that there was something odd about them.  Extra blond, they were also very pale. On closer inspection, their lashes were silver and their eyes – I tell you, good people – were pure white.  Slinking down a smooth pylon, I left the upper deck where I had been hanging out.

*Darlings, this is some Kansas, ain’t it?  This was most unusual and about high time that I clicked my high heels.  END.

This one feature is why I had been reminded of the pavilion at the Recreation Grounds, in Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  As I did not want any interaction with Morag, I went running away – not of cowardice but quite simply hers were not energies of a very evolved nature. She wore a cream-coloured, long woollen tunic over long, white stretch pants.  She began coming after me, in a full-throttle rage, not surprisingly from the same rage that informed her telepathic connection.

I had no desire to be corded by this individual, her conscience and its manifested implosion – Parkinson’s disease – is her problem.  Thinking about it, it dawned on me that Morag had likely knitted the woollen tunic.

In any event, I went bolting from the pavilion into a maze of tiny, wet and black, cobblestone streets.  Here, I happened on a large number of entertainers.  Among them were a large number of boys who were in full drag. As the drag queens were waiting to go on, I hid out for a bit and waited to be able to cross the street.  I did not wish to be seen by Morag.  Where I stood, a number of streets had converged with a large public parking area setup there.

In that sense, it did seem terribly European like the old Gothic architecture.  However, this was millennia older than anything in Europe.  As I began crossing the heavily-trafficked, converging streets, I noticed that Morag was down the street and off to my right. She did the most ridiculously bizarre thing.  In a bid not to be seen by me, as she was hot on my trail, she covered her face whilst standing still in the middle of the street.  This was truly hilarious. This just betrayed how spiritually immature she is; it’s a dream, all one has to do is render oneself invisible.

The energies coming from her were rapacious and fiercely determined.  With that, I bolted and fled in earnest yet again.  She was letting me know that I hadn’t any idea how much I had caused her to suffer. I told her to fuck-off and deal with it.  It was not an iota as much as the pain that her betrayal had caused Merlin.  Even though I had been on a different street at the time, I telepathically told her this as we were always in contact this way.

Fleeing her, I dodged into a complex where I waited inside in the near-dark.  Although I could have sensed their presence, it took me awhile to realise that there were persons here. A long table sat at the centre of the room.  Here, I saw that beautiful woman, Jeanette Giroux.  Here again, I was my usually charming, actorly self. There were lots of people here which, of course, meant that I immediately was ‘on’.  She seemed surprised to see me there and asked what exactly brought me to these parts.

I was about to sit down when she referred to me as ‘Dumbo’ in a snide reference to the waking state – my abysmal French leaves me seeming as if a deaf and dumb, lost soul. As I was anything but ‘Dumbo,’ in these parts where I was so witty, it was seen as a humorous aside.  Turning to my right, I looked at her as though she were mad.  I truly wondered why the hell anyone would think of me as ‘Dumbo’. Ignoring her, I hysterically laughed as though she had just gotten undressed and revealed herself a double-cocked hermaphrodite.  However, my dreamer self was affected by her cutting remark.

If for no other reason, it proved rather an insightful revelation about her.  Throughout these experiences, I was quite lucidly aware that I was dreaming. As a result, I was dual-personae in these dreams.  There was my persona from that dream dimension, plus the lucidity of my waking state persona, the former unaware of the other’s presence – naturally. The table was a narrow wooden affair where there were lots of exciting persons gathered.  The energies here were giddily intellectual.  I felt right at home here. When I joined the table, all the attention became directed my way.  Again, everyone hung on to my every word. 

Meanwhile, we were waiting for a car to come get both Jeanette Giroux and me to take us to a performance. Jeanette got up from the table to go powder her nose.  Whilst she went off, along came an unusually tall man of between 8-9 feet tall who was completely at ease and possessed of his body.  It was natural for him to have been that tall. He wore a dark suit and was there to chauffeur us to the performance.  Going outside, would reveal that he had shown up with the most gorgeous Rolls Royce imaginable. Red, it was truly electrifying and all that I could think of at the time was just how much Isis would love the racy colour – it is her favourite.  A convertible, it was a white, leather-interiored work of art.

Going outside, I was stylishly charming and simply glowed for living in such fine style.  Just prior to obvious extra-human chauffeur coming inside, to announce that the ride was ready, in had come Prince.  The diminutive performer recently was Scott Joplin, of course, reincarnationally in his immediate past life. He was utterly stunning and held that part of the astral universe in his right breast pocket.  He wore a red suit which rode quite tightly about his sexualised arse.

I really can’t see how this man is not Bisexual.  A white shirt was pinned up to the neck with lots of frills at the neck and sleeves.  Truly stylish, he readily eclipsed me. Just as others had deferred to me so too did I fall into line and deferred to him.  As a witty aside, I commented on his very Mozartian look to the enthralled table. I then added that though Prince would like to think that he was Wolfgang A. Mozart in a past life, the latter’s soul would never emulate his past life persona.

I added that, as a matter of fact, the soul in question would in fact not be interested in its past life as Mozart to the degree that Prince clearly was.  I dismissed Prince as a Mozart impostor. There was then a petition being passed around, prior to Jeanette Giroux having left the table.  As I signed with great flourish, I said, “It is, October the sixth and Luna my friends is in, not Aries but Sagittarius!” They all looked at me as if to say that they had never heard anything so bizarre in all their discriminating, learned years.  To deflect their concern of my being a bit ‘off’ as it were, I pompously added, “Believe me, I know.  It is in Sagittarius.”

I realised as I did this that this was quite a dead giveaway of my not being from that dimension.  Meanwhile, the Arvin of that dimension, whose script was as fluid as mine, thought to himself whilst mildly horrified, “What the devil am I saying?” Indeed, a bleed-through of my waking state persona had nosily barged in and channelled through information which was, in that dimension, at best a non sequitur.  At the most, it was a sign of the old effete losing his marbles.  Dieu!

The reason for this bleed-through was the high that one vicariously experienced for experiencing another Arvin.  As I said that, Jeanette – who was seated at the table next to me – tapped me on the shoulder asking, “What are you talking about, ‘Dumbo’?” One had the sense of her that she was a fellow actor with whom I shared many passionate fucks and good times.  She does so much remind me of Maria di Caspieri, which was why it was ultimately not all that surprising to have found her in these parts.

There were no residues of the ofttimes friendly ridicule which I experience here… in the waking state. The tall man and I then went outside.  There we waited for Jeanette Giroux to stop waiting for the contact cement on her face to dry. What else could have taken her so long, anyway?  Finally, she came out joining us and we got into the swank-interiored car whose roof was not down.  We were then en route to the special performance across town.

As the car tried crossing a street to head into where the main piazza was, there were all these lisping Gays who were in full drag.  They were, in fact, all professional drag queens. They were all dressed up as famous female entertainers whom they could never be in a million lifetimes. 

As we came around the corner, I announced aloud, “And here, of course, we have the genuine article.” Here was Barbra Streisand… about whom I rarely ever dream.  Next to my strong, demonstrative otherly dimensional personality, she was very subdued and earthy. Charming as ever, I was speaking a mile-a-minute which was part of my conversational magnetism.  I spoke with a rapidity that was truly mind-blowing. Whilst speaking, I had slipped into an impersonation of Barbara Streisand.  Touching the back of my hair and pulling on my nose, I did so in an elongating gesture.  Using an arch, nasal accent, I copped a ‘Dolly Levi’ impersonation that was truly hysterical.

Here in this dimension, it seemed that said film, “Hello, Dolly!” had recently been premiered.  I was doing the impersonation in front of her.  Clearly, she was charmed by me as was everyone as she blushed and genuinely smiled. It was not a socially uncomfortable situation for her.  She was genuinely at ease in my presence or at least that of my otherly dimensional Arvin.  She remained seated whilst I regaled her. Again, like both Jessica Tandy and Maureen Forrester, she wore the same pink floral gown.  Barbra Streisand was seated before a makeup mirror getting ready to go on.

All the lisping Gays had gathered around and clung on to everything that I said.  Here, my enunciation was crystal clear.  Too, my speech was not only lyrical but it lilted in flowing cadences that were truly musical. It was basically an art form to have spoken as I did.  It was, however, not affected but utterly of my spirit.  My speech was basically sung.  As such, it was a form of musicality that was most elevated and refined. The ‘everything’ about everything that I said was laced with the raciest double-entendres, all delivered with the greatest of timing.  This was a supremely colourful use of language as revolutionary as Rap is to music as was and continues to be Jazz.

One had to be really ‘with it’ and ‘on’ to have gotten my shrewd intellect.  Of course, it all was part of the winning, stellar charm here in this dimension. Most people just did not get it except, of course, those rare souls who floated about from salon to salon where intellect was prized above even fine wine, food, music and art. What I, dreamer Arvin of the waking state, vicariously loved about it all was how utterly smart everyone in these circles were.  There was a high, zingy vibration to these people. This was especially true at the long narrow table as I had let rip with some of my colourful insights.  Above all else, I was never at any given moment speaking bullshit.

It was all straight-shooting, witty insightfulness on an order that was stratospherically intellectual… revolutionary.  It was also none of it cutting or mean-spirited. Going on, I said to Barbra Streisand, “Darling, there are only three divine divas; the three Supremes.  And, they are, herself (Barbra Streisand) and either Cher or Bette Midler.  And the other one, honey Chile, on this funky-assed, backwater world of a planet, this mother you don’t want to mess with, ‘cause she ah bitch!” The rapidity and coloratura with which these words bloomed from my smiling lips was truly operatic.  As I did so, I slowly leaned in, into the face of Barbra Streisand.  She sat there as if enraptured by my every word.

Even my dreamer self had had to coast along so many nanoseconds behind trying to get it.  She sat there being intoxicated by my bewitching turn as magus palaver extraordinaire. At once witty and funky, yet elevated in its brilliant composition, my use of language was truly impressive.  Even when being profane, I was sublimely colourful.  The whole thing was sheer magic.  Her face became illumined as I spoke.

When I said that last bit, she threw her head back and earthily laughed as there was no denying, from my facial expressions, that one was referring to Diana Ross.  Barbra Streisand was tickled to the very soul. With that I took my leave of her and moved on.  I arrived at an area where I noticed that the narrow streets were becoming more crowded.  Lots of persons were headed for the main piazza where the performance was to have taken place.

*When I awoke and discovered that my head was not facing due north, I was though rather surprised.  More than that, I had not experienced residual fatigue or feelings of being psychically splayed.

**The portalled city, which I had intuitively deduced was on the Moon, would later be validated by the massive, lit, portal-like structure in the Moon’s Aristarchus Crater which had been photographed during NASA’s Apollo 11 mission to the Moon.  END.

Truly extraordinary an experience these astral-projected dreams were.  In the first dream, when I began walking down the street, the neighbour’s voice here in the waking state dropped off.

Now it was back in its loud, earnest, ignorance – so quintessentially low-life Jamaican.

***There is a definite tie-in between this dream and one dreamt years earlier.  The dream in question occurred on April 4, 1993.  As with that dream’s reference to Minerva – the mythic woman turned to stone – that persona was here animated as the dominatrix made of stone who unleashed the massive deadly creature into the portalled metropolis.

I believe both dreams to have been focussed on Luna, Earth’s Moon.  Though we Gaian humans are given to believe that it is a barren satellite, I rather suspect – from both these two dreams and others – that there are many extra-human civilisations which have been based on Luna for countless millennia many of which are still focussed there at present.  END.

Art Blakey – Drums

Freddie Hubbard – Trumpet

Wayne Shorter – Tenor Saxophone

Cedar Walton – Piano

Curtis Fuller – Trombone

Reggie Workman – Bass

To the Moon & Hell with You – December 2023

One of the reasons for sharing the dream of Lemuria set on Twin Earth in January 2024, was that in late 2023, on 10th December, I had had a dream which was set there. In the dream, many of the major players would feature heavily in subsequent weeks. At the time of the dream, Harella, my mum, was present and served in the role of a guide to me as to what was unfolding in the dream. The dream was layered and it triggered dreams from many years earlier, which lay dormant until triggered during the dream. Harella and I were ensconced in a heavily peopled hall where most of whom were world famous persons.

We entered a millennia ancient structured hall, which vaguely resembled the entrance to London’s St. Paul’s Cathedral. This structure, though, was definitely not St. Paul’s Cathedral; it seemed much as if a temple though it was not. A large gathering place, for the most part, 9 of 10 persons recognised here were astral plane habitués. Present were HLM Queen Elizabeth II who was speaking to a man, whom Harella said was a trusted horse breeder associate of hers; clearly, he was Arab and had been rather wealthy when alive, the gold in his softly glowing, pine green kandura actually glimmered in the dimly diffused light of the massively cavernous hall. The Queen looked much as she had in the prophetic dream had of her on the eve of King Charles III’s 73rd birthday in November 2021; once again, The Queen appeared to be in her early 50s – she was neither wearing gloves nor carrying a handbag.

Off to the left, before we turned right on Harella’s direction, through an arch into another wing of the colossal structure, was the diminutive performer, Prince who here looked as regal and arrogant as he did in the above dream encounter from 1997. He stood in deep conversation with none other than the Princess of Wales, to which as an aside Harella whispered, “murdered.” The Princess of Wales wore a red version of the green off-the-shoulder gown that she wore to the state banquet in Jamaica whilst on the Platinum Jubilee royal tour of Jamaica in March, 2022.

Once through the arch, we were posited into a giant library where on the small, round café-style table, at which we sat, was a familiar sight which I had first dreamt of long before the turn of the century. That dream instrument, had in the ’90s, would yet be invented and become the familiar e-readers like the Kindle. Here as in the dream when first encountered, the e-readers were globular and looked like a crystal ball; however, they were lightweight rather than the hefty familiarity of a crystal ball that large. These e-readers were interesting and by now familiar to me, it was about five inches in diametre. You simply looked into the crystal ball-like globe and the book would come to life holographically. Though the moving images of the book would be fully animated and perfectly as though a hologram, its contents would never extend beyond the crystal ball’s spherical shell. Thus, whatever you were focussed on would be private to self and its contents imparted audio-visually. In that sense it was much like an audio book whose contents were exclusively shared telepathically with the reader.

As Harella is an astral habituée – she has since reincarnated, male and resides in London, England; however, as is standard, the astral body of any past incarnation endures eternally – she wanted to show me an animated book within the confines of the astral plane crystal ball-like e-reader that was of great importance. Obviously, for being in this massive library setting, we were poring through the Akashic records – though Harella never alluded to this being the case, it was not lost on me that this was so.

As the animation of the globular e-book began, it readily triggered a dream had over 40 years earlier in November, 1980. I had just spoken to my father by phone to wish him happy birthday. Harella had been dead less than four months and I was concerned how he was doing. I then had the most lucid of dreams, which saw a most unusual bride and groom emerge from an otherworldly St. Paul’s Cathedral.

She wore a black wedding dress with heavy cowl, looking more like a gothic medieval bride rather than not. Her groom wore a golden metallic panoply with a horned helmet. Though a massive, millennia old version of St. Paul’s Cathedral, at the first landing of the stairs from the west front, there was large canal. This astral plane city was as if a mélange of London and Venice.

As though they were leaving the Santa Maria della Salute on the Grand Canal, the couple entered a royal carriage which here was converted to a water-faring vessel with the usual horses fashioned into wooden white steeds that formed part of the carriage. Soon, they were off down the canal when I awoke, stirred by Devon initiating sexual play.

The book came alive, and showed the scene with which we are all familiar by now; it was that of Prince Charles’ young bride walking alone up the aisle at St. Paul’s to meet him; much as Meghan, the Duchess of Sussex had when first she was unaccompanied as she walked up the aisle at St. George’s Chapel Windsor to meet HRH Prince Charles, the Prince of Wales who escorted her to his son, Prince Harry. Here, Diana’s father, Edward Spencer, 8th Earl Spencer, at no point participated in the nuptials. The ceremony progressed and then Diana was walked further up the alter after her vows and instead of turning right to sign the registry, she and Prince Charles turned left and went through a massive arch which exists only in this colossal version of St. Paul’s Cathedral.

The young couple progressed down into the bowel of the astral plane copy of St. Paul’s Cathedral where here, it was a much deeper basement; this structure was millennia old and easily dwarfed its waking state counterpart by five times. Straight away, the couple were separated and a phalanx of women in flowing white robes took Diana, Princess of Wales away. When we saw her again, Diana was changed from her black wedding gown with cowl and wore a blindfold and was taken into a relatively small copula, for this massive structure, where there, she was disrobed and ritually bathed then taken away.

The globular book further unfolded as Diana then entered into a candlelit chamber where she walked accompanied by a female attended on each side. She now wore a red blindfold, red high heels and wore nothing save a sheer red veil that fell down to just above her ankles, covering her milky hued naked body. Candles encircled the large wooden bed draped in lavender linen; they were beeswax candles at least ten feet tall and looking much like a scene from Stanley Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut, from the lavender gothic room’s silhouetted periphery a lone man, wearing black panoply with horned helmet, emerged; his panoply was draped in a black robe. As he approached the Princess of Wales, the gothic room suddenly became flooded by moonlight with trees styled in the most ornate topiary of varying heights all around just beyond the tall gothic windows. Casting aside the robe with it the panoply disappeared, leaving the black horned helmet in place. The naked disguised man, then joined the supine Diana in bed.

Very methodically, he began ritualistically making love to her with great intensity. It was obvious that he had a job to perform. It was also obvious that it was not Prince Charles and that this event occurred within months of their marriage. As he walked away from the bed, where she remained, exhausted, he effortlessly removed the panoply’s horned helmet, revealing an unusually large skull. Still tumescent, he was hung. This man was, though, not readily familiar.

The man was older and taller than Prince Charles that much was certain. As the man retreated, he moved effortlessly through the gothic window pane and into the darkness of the extensive growth of topiary with giant firs and cedars beyond that encircled the bed chamber where the Princess of Wales remained; Diana then gathered the lavender bedding about her naked and ravaged body. The holographic book collapsed within the crystal ball-like e-reader at which Harella gestured for me to get up and simply stated, “Remember, the wedding and a birthday are the keys to everything… your friend was off the mark, nor was it by normal means.” Her words were so stark, the import of what she imparted, posed a riddle that had me immediately awaken in my Toronto apartment when Buster chirped as I came to. He watched me with those soulful eyes of his; little did I know that in less than three months, he would be dead. Indeed, in that short space of time, much would unfold and a riddle reveal itself.

*This music played on repeat whilst I slept dreaming in December 2023 in my trusty pyramid which I have used for 40 years now. Throughout the dream, Jessye Norman’s booming voice set the mood as she sang Richard Strauss’ Four Last Songs. It is a touchstone for me and it is always the surest way to have a dream of high spiritual moment on the astral plane. It was also playing on arriving home after an all night shift, before the dreams later that day in October, 1997, and shared earlier. Jessye was an old soul priest soul with the most glorious overleaves. Her mastery of her craft was unparalleled. Quite remarkably, Jessye Norman was a high-priestess who worked magic through music. This music has spirited me to astral plane flying dreams of the greatest lucidity, more so than any other recording. Certainly it kept me aloft on finding myself exquisitely alone in the world on Merlin’s passing. END.

_____________________________________________________________________________

On March 22, 2024 about an hour after Catherine, HRH the Princess of Wales announced via a video, which has since been revealed to have been AI generated, I had the most jaw-dropping epiphany. There was Catherine, announcing that she was undergoing chemotherapy for Cancer, after she was seen in that dream in December speaking to musical genius and astral plane habitué, Prince. I put my hand over my mouth, got from the pyramid – from which I never move on awaking, until the dreamtime’s cache are fully recalled – then quickly went to look at my formidable numerology database. Straight away, I yelled, “Bingo!” the riddle that my astral plane habitué mum, Harella, had set me, was finally drawn fully into focus.

“The wedding is the key!” That was what had me going over my discarnate mum’s carefully worded riddle. The wedding was not Charles and Diana’s, which was the focus of the lucid astral plane dream, it was William and Catherine’s. They were wedded on April 29, 2011, which happened to not have been the birthday of the Spanish King; besides, and he was not the man who walked away naked and tumescent from bed, having seeded Diana, Princess of Wales in that dream, in which I looked into the globular crystal ball-like e-book reader. As my mum, Harella, stated at least once a week my entire childhood, “There are no coincidences…” In the dream, Harella had given assurances that other allegations of William’s paternity were incorrect. This then requires that we rigorously review everything that to date we thought that we knew, through the new lens of someone else having played a most pivotal role in the transformation of the House of Windsor.

This comes with the caveat that a review is based on the arcana gleaned in a rather lucid astral plane dream encounter with my departed mum, Harella, in December, 2023. This was an astral plane dream just as arcane and lucid as that which foreshadowed the passing of the The Queen, had on the eve of Prince Charles’ 73rd birthday; interestingly enough, the day of that dream, rather than listening to Jazz, I had intently listened to Jessye Norman, singing Strauss’ Four Last Songs. Without doubt, both totemic dreams were triggered by having listened to the towering artistry of astral plane habituée, Jessye Norman singing Strauss’ Four Last Songs prior to sleep.

William going to Jerusalem in 2018 and the London synagogue days after Thomas Kingston’s violent death, were the definitive clues. In both instances, William’s distinctively large cranium, wearing a kippah was remarkably unlike King Charles III’s. Indeed, could William’s discovery of the news of a death, the day after Thomas Kingston’s murder, have caused him to have pulled out within minutes of King Constantine II of Greece’s royal service of thanksgiving. Clearly, William had more important business to address the day of his late godfather, King Constantine II’s service.

William overcome with a tsunami of emotions: Catherine’s cancer, Thomas Kingston’s murder or suicide who will ever really know, the King’s cancer diagnosis being made public, no wonder he was literally falling apart, swaying on his feet and then dropping the pendant days later at an investiture in early February. William has a unique trait, apart from the large distinctive-looking and uniquely shaped cranium among Windsor men, he favours leaning his head to one side when sat or standing still.

Moreover, weeks before the service of thanksgiving for King Constantine II, there was William issuing a statement about the ongoing grievous slaughter in Gaza, which both shocked the world and caused many to state that it was not his place to get involved. Too, it has been William who has stated that he doesn’t feel himself particularly inclined to become the head of the Church of England in due course, which was quickly condemned by the much-loved late Christopher Hitchens’ brother, Peter Hitchens.

All that has happened before and after the Sussexes moved to America, has been William’s vicious, pernicious, racist, jealous, obsessive, focussed animus directing the House of Windsor campaign against the Sussexes. Funny, too, that a disproportionate number of persons with open animus towards Meghan have and continue to be Jewish; indeed, what do they know?

At the loss of the American colonies in the revolutionary war, and later the Napoleonic War, England was on the brink of bankruptcy. HM King George IV entered into a 200 year agreement. Naturally, as the agreement was coming to an end, it was quite possible for the future king, the then Prince Charles, to have agreed to new terms for that agreement’s continuation.

HM Queen Elizabeth II.

Since having had this dream, it turns out that Diana, Princess of Wales spoke of a key figure in question and was clearly wary of him as she dismissed him as a gossip; however, she also alluded to “the agreement” by emphatically stating that he was a very clever man. That, of course, would be his energy body of 2; very charming and chatty but also utterly deceitful and duplicitous. As much as I love reading, especially biographies, I will notoriously abandon any book before its conclusion if I find its contents making its way into the dreamtime. I quite value my dreams and I want when therein focussed, not to have my dreams corrupted by experiences absorbed from books, films or television. This just makes the dreams seem so inauthentic, so rather than not, I will more readily abandon any book if this occurs. I have pored through books about Diana, Princess of Wales but never finished any specifically for this reason. That is why, I was surprised when a friend shared what Diana had to say about the key figure in all this intrigue, in a biography, which in light of the revelatory dream with Harella makes perfect sense.

Diana was no one’s fool but having to rapidly swim, as she put it, she always fought back; Diana during her Panorama interview with BBC’s Martin Bashir displayed an intellect and shrewdness, which no one had ever attributed to her. She was a virgin bride who was used during renegotiation of an agreement; nonetheless, she was not a damn fool. This is why after the dream which divulged how she was used by Charles and his confidant to sire William and seal an agreement, she dashed herself down flights of stairs in a bid to abort a child that she was carrying to seal a deal.

What I think the deal involved, was Diana being artificially inseminated and possibly she was tricked into this by way of Charles, claiming to want a child but concerned about his inability to perform his duties. Once seeing a specialist about her viability to give birth, it may have been suggested that they try artificial insemination at which point, the subject of the dream rather than Charles’s sperm was used to ‘seed’ Diana. Seeding was the specific word used in the astral plane dream in December, 2023 and Harella then added that it was not by normal means; clearly, that would be either surrogacy or artificial insemination. In the dream wherein Diana was seeded, it was clearly set at Highgrove House, which would have been all too possible without The Queen knowing. A weekend away at Highgrove House, Diana inseminated after seemingly failed attempts without her realising that she was not being seeded by Charles. Obviously, Diana was genuinely pregnant at the time, so that rules out surrogacy.

In this probable reality, the artificial insemination likely did occur, the agreement was a business one and at that level of society as it was a soft hostile takeover. The artificial insemination option would have been like choosing a prize racehorse, say Secretariat, to sire desired offspring – and quite the stallion he appeared on walking away from the dream bed in which Diana was seeded. This would explain why Prince Harry rather than William looks like both a Spencer and Windsor. Naturally, when Diana made to further hamper the deal, by attempting to marry a Muslim, clearly, she was too naïve to know that could be interpreted as breaking a contract agreed to by Charles. So unacceptable would such a marriage be that someone connected to that agreement would not think twice about doing her in. Diana would clearly have known of the deal and breaking the contract, by starting a Moslem court of Fayed, came with consequences. Incidentally, not only like Diana is Dodi Fayed an artisan soul, he is also an entity mate of Diana’s. Dodi and Diana were more familiar to each other as their spectacular exit was the 27th incarnation where they were known to each other. Dodi and Diana two artisans are in entity 1, cadre 6, greater cadre 48 of pod 380. In that sense, Charles and Diana were relatively unfamiliar; Charles is in pod 404.

God only knows that Meghan entering the House of Windsor, which was gladly approved of by HM Queen Elizabeth II, who was likely only cognisant of Charles’ agreement after William’s birth, would have proven a gross insult to persons in Charles’ confidant’s sphere of influence. Moreover, the very shrewd, canny HM Queen Elizabeth II in affording her consent to the marriage of Harry & Meghan, was a rebuttal shot across the bow for how she was callously disregarded in late August, 1997. In the end, fully cognisant of what a true viper’s nest, where racial animus towards Meghan would never cease, Prince Harry made the right call and cleared out of Dodge. Who gives a rat’s ass about being the first Black, which therefore means that one has to stay there and take it; as time has shown, William & Catherine are two wholly unsavoury, vile racist boors who are not worth the waste of time. They will never change and as he was seeded; interloper William will never cease having a prejudicial view of Meghan and her Black heritage – he has been bred and groomed with certain expectations, which he clearly steadfastly adheres to. To fuck with that.

As with Dodi and Diana being entity mates, let’s then look at other royals who are both entity and cadre mates. In the preceding photograph, all persons present are cadre mates save Prince Philip; Philip is a 4th mature warrior soul and in pod 408. The Queen, Prince Harry and Meghan are entity mates. There are anywhere from 800 to 1200 souls in an entity and there are seven entities in a cadre. Each entity will be represented by one if not all of the seven soul types, with each soul type corresponding to a number and the qualities associated with that number. The seven roles or soul types are: Slave/One, Artisan/Two, Warrior/Three, Scholar/Four, Sage/Five, Priest/Six and King/Seven. Seven cadres make up a greater cadre and there are 49 greater cadres in a pod. Seven is the highest number in the Michael Overleaves Teachings. The Queen, Harry & Meghan are in entity one or slave entity; this entity is focussed in being of service to the common good and both loyal and enduring. This is why The Queen stated at her start of her reign that she would be devoted, however long her life may be, to be in service as Queen. That she ably did. This too is why Harry/Warrior and Meghan/Artisan have pointedly stated that “Service is Universal.” Again, all three, The Queen, Harry and Meghan are in entity 1 of cadre 6, greater cadre 7, pod 418. The Queen was on her second incarnation as a third-level mature soul Slave. This is Prince Harry’s fourth life as a fifth-level mature Warrior soul. His entity mate and wife, Meghan, is a mid-cycle mature Artisan soul on her third life at mid-cycle, which is the gap between third and fourth-level mature soul – the only time this occurs in the soul cycles. This, incidentally, is the twenty-first incarnation wherein Harry and Meghan’s souls have gotten together. Each pairing they like other souls do not choose to be exclusively man and wife, they could have been parent/child, cousins, siblings, grandparent/grandchild, friends, enemies, business partners et al. Camilla is also living a mid-cycle mature life but she is a scholar soul and not in their pod but pod 129*. All persons in the preceding photograph are mature souls. Of them, Prince Archie is the oldest soul; he is a seventh-level mature priest soul and an entity mate of Prince George’s who is a fourth mature king soul – they are in entity five of cadre 6, greater cadre 7 of pod 418. Also, in the same cadre is Doria a fifth-level mature slave in entity 3 of the same cadre, 6. Your soul type and casting never change from life to life. There is no way that the Queen would not have welcome Meghan into her family. Evidence of that soul bond is gleaned in the Sussexes’ engagement interview when Prince Harry shared that Meghan walked in and The Queen’s corgis were approvingly tail-wagging at Meghan’s feet. Dogs can sense vibrational connections between souls as they can also see auras. The Queen’s corgis would have seen Meghan as a new family member.

*129. Souls in pod 129 are: Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother, Shirley MacLaine, Barbra Streisand, Whoopi Goldberg, George Harrison, Queen Camilla, Titian, George Lucas, Georgia O’Keeffe, Stephen Hawking, Mikhail Baryshnikov, Marilyn Monroe, Robert Mapplethorpe, Amadeo Modigliani, Sidney Poitier, Stevie Wonder, Art Tatum, Charlie Parker and lots more. Incidentally, Titian was a seventh-level mature artisan soul, second life at that level and is a member of entity 2, cadre 4, greater cadre 1, pod 129.

Weeks before Diana, Princess of Wales’ contracted demise in Paris, I dreamt the most lucid dream, which was clearly set on the astral plane. Pandora and I were together and were alone in a large bedroom as Prince William, about 12 or thirteen years old in the dream in 1997, was curled up in bed asleep, wearing pyjamas. Diana, Princess of Wales stood with back to large window, alone and looked rather deep in though – as a matter of fact, she looked withdrawn. Absently, more so as an aside to self, rather than to us, Diana said, “I really hope that they don’t do anything to him.” I thought that it was so strange, even long weeks after the dream, I meditated on the meaning of the dream and wondered if it meant that William was a sickly child and as a result would be eliminated as he could never be deemed fit to become sovereign.

Diana then left the darkened bedroom and headed out into the street of the city, which was not remotely familiar, with Pandora and I in tow. I readily knew that this dream was set on the astral plane as the architecture here was vastly more colossal than anything in the waking state and seemed to be more millennia aged as compared to any structure in the waking state. This was a metropolis with a population well in excess of 10 billion, a city – rather than world – so populous a city that it could only mean that one was focussed on the astral plane. Of course, mere weeks later with Diana’s life violently cut short, I realised that the dream was of Diana, saying goodbye to William rather than him being sickly and likely to perish. William was so immensely fragile and vulnerable in the dream. At no point, during the dream did William awaken. Of course, Diana feared William being eliminated and not made Sovereign if his true heritage for having been seeded were to be discovered. Certainly, the Church of England would be both concerned and threatened; the church may well oppose any such interloper heir becoming their supreme governor.

Harella also mentioned in passing, how good it was of me to have shared ‘far and wide’ the dream of The Queen’s homecoming in November 2021 before the fact as to have done so after the fact, would have been perceived as having serious credibility issues.

https://dreampoetica.com/2021/11/15/homecoming/

On awaking, I knew that I had to share that prophetic dream tout de suite as the astral plane dream was so immensely lucid and indicated that the The Queen was likely to pass in the near future.

Then on April 24, 2024, two days into Passover, this rather flagrant occult spectacle unfolded for six miles through the streets of London. Of course, the two horses were on a set course; fulfill their role in what seemed a flagrant course-altering of history, they most certainly did. In all the reign of HM Queen Elizabeth II’s 70 years as Sovereign never did so bold an occult spectacle ever unfold. That was not mere happenstance. Nothing is ever coincidental!

December 25, 2023 to June 1, 2024, it has now been 159 days since Catherine has not been seen. What has happened, has she run off and how if at all is this connected to Thomas Kingston’s violent demise? The supernova of rumours have caused the digital universe to spiral out of control. Something foul is afoot and there is no getting around that fact. Naturally, the Fleet Street abattoirs are seeking distraction by way of heaping on more abuse and lynching of Harry & Meghan, because well, they can. Is Catherine in hiding, refusing to a divorce and waiting for Charles to die, which automatically makes her Queen – especially so if Camilla’s favoured chatelaine in Norfolk has demanded a quick divorce so that she in time becomes Queen at William’s coronation rather than Catherine? Kensington Palace’s troop of Fleet Street fabulist are so patently offering fabulist tales of Catherine’s whereabouts, including being seen at the end of May walking about, yet positively no photograph has been produced of the event, when there are commoners everywhere with cameras ever at the ready. Why is there an obvious coverup afoot?

Something truly diabolical is afoot of late: shocking deaths, MIA royals and alleged cancers ravaging the House of Windsor. Of course, as the photo agency authorities have dismissed Kensington Palace: TRH Prince & Princess of Wales, chiefly William, of lacking integrity and credibility, nothing is to be believed anymore. This equine episode on April 24, 2024 for six miles through the streets of central London was saturated with occult symbolism. Of course, there was then a statement released that the bloodied white horse had a history of being readily spooked; however, at Horse Guards, the official entrance to Buckingham Palace, at the same time horses there were also uncharacteristically acting up. I don’t care how royals and their semi-feral fabulist troop of Fleet Street hacks lie, I am supremely convinced that Charles’ cancer is a cover for Catherine’s cancer, which is likely not cancer at all. Catherine, alas, may be very dead. As the royal’s social calendars go, expect their to be news of Catherine taking a turn for the worse and a funeral, after all these long months embalmed and hidden away, taking place in September after the Balmoral break and the royal calendar start up in earnest in October as has predictably always been the case.

Indeed, though the current vogue is to blame Meghan, and to a lesser degree, Harry for all that is going on in the House of Windsor, we need not lose sight of the fact that William & Catherine have been problematic from long before Meghan married in. What has evolved, is that the cabal of Fleet Street hacks have conspired to protect and present the Waleses as above reproach no matter what the evidence otherwise suggests.

Long before Meghan, that undesirable ‘Yank’ marrying in, William made it perfectly clear to American, Dave Clark that he did not approve of his relationship with his cousin, HRH Princess Beatrice of York, and he did not want him marrying into the House of Windsor. So adverse was William to Dave Clark’s existence that he refused to have him attend his wedding to Catherine as his cousin, Princess Beatrice’s plus one. Indeed, it was Prince William and not Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh, who was against Sarah, Duchess of York attending the Cambridges’ wedding. Proof of that fact was borne out 7 years later at Prince Harry’s wedding, Prince Philip was then alive, and Sarah was an invited guest because it is what Harry wanted; it was not Prince Philip’s call to have made.

The best way to hide a secret is to keep it in plain view. And as we are well aware, the House of Windsor’s MO is slight of hand. They have steadfastly perpetuated, through their network of Fleet Street hacks and unofficially an approved troop of biographers, the lie that Prince Harry was James Hewitt’s child and even got Diana, Princess of Wales to go along with it, by revealing her affair with James Hewitt, though the affair between Diana, Princess of Wales and James Hewitt occurred two years after Prince Harry’s birth. But you have never once heard any such utterance or rumour about William’s paternity as that is too dangerous a secret to ever see the light of day.

Prince Charles & Barbra. Prince William & Barbra

From the earliest times, Charles’ confidant of immense wealth would have been the one to have facilitated the connection between Barbra Streisand & Prince Charles. Thus it was that Barbra was the one to have hosted the newly wedded William in Los Angeles when they visited after their first royal tour to Canada in July 2011. The event though hosted by the American wing of BAFTA in Los Angeles, was also about making sure that Barbra hosted Charles’ stepson’s coming out in Hollywood as the newly minted President of BAFTA.

I will always remember howling, long and hard, early in our relationship, one weekend that Merlin and I stayed at the storied Chelsea Hotel. Hello Dolly was on TV and I wanted to go watch it at Attila Isaksen’s Williamsburg apartment to which he had invited me; however, Merlin wanted to go 20 blocks uptown to Frederick Jones’s West 43rd Street townhouse. Merlin yelled at me to call off going to Brooklyn to watch damn TV as he considered Barbra a fraud. “Come on, you don’t for a second think that there was a tie, do you? I mean, just maybe, I could contemplate a possible tie between her and Shelley the fuck Winters, but are you kidding me, Katharine Hepburn and her getting matching number of votes? It’s a travesty. She did not win that award fair and square!” I remained silent, looking out the window of the checker cab as we sailed up 8th Avenue en route to Frederick’s. “Come on… stop pouting and look at me…” He negotiated with a kiss on the left cheek, the tickle of his beard so arousing that I abruptly turned and began the delicious face-fucking that we readily, perpetually indulged.

As The Queen was no one’s fool, she was keenly aware of the duplicitous games and racist campaign directed by William and Catherine, to which she openly aired her displeasure by brushing them off at Christmas 2020 at Windsor Castle during Covid and after the Sussexes were effectively ousted by the venal cancerous racist senior royals Charles and William and their spouses. So then let’s go through all the ways in which William & his venal, cancerous wife engaged in their racist campaign against Meghan, and Harry too. Not to be outdone were they, of course, by Charles & Camilla.

Christmas Day, 2019 Sandringham Estate

William makes no effort to disguise his revulsion at Meghan when she turned around to say something to him, whereupon he simply stepped back and scowled as though he smelt shit. By this point, Christmas Day, 2018, Meghan is pregnant with Prince Archie and she and Harry had completed their first royal tour which proved a success. Also, by this point, William and Catherine had planted the character assassinating story with Camilla Tominey, in the Daily Telegraph, in which she speciously alleged that Meghan had made Catherine cry. The reason for doing this, is that no matter what, the principal royals, who are in line to be sovereign and heir with their spouses, are never faulted for anything and will be defended to the hilt. Thus, it was the perfect coup, Meghan is marrying in, she is both a Yank & Black, which made her even more otiose and dangerous than Wallis Simpson.

*I am visible in the YouTube screen capture with the red line passing at the back of my head and just below my right ear as I craned up looking at the balcony whereat Meghan, the Duchess of Sussex stood with the German President’s wife.

As I stood in Whitehall on Remembrance Sunday for the 100th anniversary of Armistice Day, I had never felt so overcome with fear and dread before. Positively everyone around me spoke negatively about Meghan. To that point, Camilla Tominey’s character assassination planted lie ‘Meghan Made Catherine Cry’ had yet to appear. Meghan was called that Yank. She was openly ridiculed with lots of laughter when someone said that she would likely appear at the window, wearing white dress, hat and gloves. The racist remarks are not worth repeating here. All this whilst Meghan was pregnant with Prince Archie. Prince Harry was stood feet away in front of me; however, I never saw him, so tall were the bearskin hats worn by the guards two rows deep and ahead of a row of regular soldiers and a line of Metropolitan police officers who kept a keen eye on the crowds.

Just as he bullied and had his way at Pippa, Catherine’s sister’s wedding, William also saw to it that his interference meant that Meghan would be blocked from attending the Middleton-Matthews wedding. William & Catherine are possessed of 9 in their numerology and it is about being intransigent, conceited, racist, stubborn, faultfinding and shit-disturbing. Of course, William’s dubious paternity is reason enough to see why he would be so vehemently opposed to Meghan becoming a member of the House of Windsor, which for all intents based on the arcana gleaned in the lucid dream with Harella in December 2023, will shortly cease being the House of Windsor – indeed, always playing the long game.

This would, of course, explain why his best friend and royal relative took a wife who, though non-traditional, at least was infinitely more favourable than Harry taking a non-traditional and most undesirable wife. That relative’s mum, baroness Marie-Christine, was not shy about currying favour with princes Charles and William by wearing the blackamoor brooch. What did she care, HM Queen Elizabeth II was on her way out and it would only be a matter of time before William would be king and the tide truly turned. Indeed, no doubt that as part of the long-term strategy of acclimatising the public towards an eventual end of House of Windsor, was William’s closest royal friend, Lord Frederick Windsor taking a favourable non-traditional wife by way of actor, Sophie Winkleman. Baroness Marie-Christine knew that there would never be offence taken by Charles and William at her sporting the blackamoor brooch to Meghan’s first royal outing, The Queen’s Christmas lunch of 2017 at Buckingham Palace.

Just look at the most handsome member of his generation from the House of Windsor, James Ogilvy, sat behind baroness Marie-Christine and her husband, the day after their son-in-law was clearly murdered. Though fake as all fuck, baroness Marie-Christine copped hauteur, but James looked as though he had been to hell and back, at least on the astral plane. However, he was sat there, well aware that this was no dream, Thomas was murdered, William was missing, obviously owing to another important passing. All this meant that ‘Ella’ was being returned to baroness Marie-Christine still childless, a spinster and now a newly minted widow. Though Prince Michael of Kent has always been admirable, there is no way to gloss over the fact that baroness Marie-Christine is as rough as a backstairs whore and just as racist! A mere three months on from Thomas Kingston’s murder and just look at how massively the elegant Prince Michael of Kent has aged with vastly compromised mobility as he turned up at the Chelsea Flower Show in May, 2024. Indeed, the backstairs thug recently declined the invitation from King Tampon himself to attend a Buckingham Palace garden party; one is clearly not done with being pissed off about the coverup of Thomas’ demise – oh just go write a tell-all already! That’s right toots, karma does exist and there are repercussions for thinking that anti-Black racism is racy sport. Honest to god, when in The Queen’s long reign did this sort of vulgar schadenfreude come so fast and so loose?

In the early days of our relationship, spent in Manhattan, Merlin opened up and shared a deeply disturbing episode from his childhood. We had been at a social gathering which being theatre folk, was for him always professional. There was an actress there who ridiculously kept turning and blowing cigarette smoke in my face. At one point, I spat on her which caused no end of upheaval at the gathering. Soon, Merlin abruptly took leave with me in tow. As we rode down 7th Avenue, Merlin laid down the law, under no circumstances was I to behave that way again. According to him that woman was Jewish and could have me thrown in jail for no good reason. I made it perfectly clear to Merlin that though I was prepared to tolerate his cigarette smoking, as a rule, I abhorred the smell and practice. Merlin tried to assure me that I was being baited by the woman and that she was deliberately blowing smoke in my face because I was Black and she did not approve of my existence. It was so terribly gauche to my upbringing to be related to in this way.

According to Merlin, on his deathbed his grandfather commanded his father, to go out and buy a new house with separate bedrooms for him and his wife, with the promise that he would never sleep with his wife, Merlin’s mum, again. Merlin’s mum was of Irish heritage which was wholly unacceptable for his paternal grandfather. More disturbing, as Merlin wept quietly, each time that he was presented to his paternal grandfather, he was spat at or on and dismissed as a freak, all because his Polish Ashkenazi grandfather could not forgive his son, doing ‘that’ to him. As a result, Merlin went out and purchased a tree so that each Spring the showy magnolia bloom – one of the earliest each year – would be a source of inspiration just outside his mum’s bedroom window as she was never allowed to sleep in the same bed with her husband again. My response to Merlin was that his father should have taken the pillow and suffocated his father after spitting in his face for having repeatedly spat on his beloved son, Merlin and insulted his wife. Thereafter, I always had great empathy for Merlin’s dad and we enjoyed a close bond, which grew closer when Merlin was diagnosed with full-blown AIDS.

In March, 1989 with Merlin returned from hospitalisation at St. Michael’s Hospital, I went to Nevis for a break with Pandora joining me from Paris, at one point, I flew into St. Croix, U.S.V.I to visit my adorable aunt, who was the most regal of souls. On my return, Merlin and I spent hours poring through the developed photographs from my trip. He was thrilled to see the photos of the Jewish cemetery and dilapidated synagogue in Charlestown, Nevis. What intrigued him even more was the family photo of my mum’s father, a copy of which I had secured from my aunt in St. Croix. Merlin was convinced that my mum’s dad had to have been of Jewish heritage. Of course, that was the case, Merlin stated that if they were Portuguese by way of Brazil then they would have been Sephardic. “My god that would make you even more Jewish than me…” I made Merlin swear never to tell anyone as I frankly did not want persons in his life suddenly changing their behaviour towards me. In particular, as per that New York incident, there was one Ashkenazi Jew in particular who was always keen to blow cigarette smoke in my direction; she eventually was banned from our Cabbagetown home. It has been my experience that Ashkenazi Jews are alarmingly anti-Black racist in the extreme.

Though both men went to great lengths to never be photographed together, why pray tell does William look so like the man in that revelatory dream? Cranium, lower lip, mouth, teeth, smiles, bone structure & nostrils all nicely match. William’s balding pattern mirrors the man in that dream as well. There are no coincidences. Once entered into this deal, which I believe was strictly between Charles and his confidant, what could The Queen have done? Positively nothing. Under no circumstances did The Queen want a possible constitutional crisis during her reign, coming so close after the one which saw King Edward VIII abdicate in favour of her father, King George VI. There is nothing that they could have done to William without swift repercussions from that entity or others in his sphere. That is why when Diana came to no good end, Charles wailed as he did on seeing her body in the Paris hospital. He had made a deal with his master and when Diana provoked his wrath, by wanting to start a parallel court with Dodi, a Moslem, she was swiftly, coldly removed from the scene.

Recently, I went off to look at the graduating student exhibition at OCADU – Ontario College of Art & Design University; back in the ’80s, I modelled there and elsewhere for George Hawken and others. Annually, George and I went on the Sunday afternoon to catch the show; it was always humorous to listen to his critiques of some students’ works – bored, rudderless middle class snobs without a fucking clue.’ Of course, at the time, he lived down McCaul just above Queen Street West and there we would retire and indulge in more wanton salaciousness. This time, I attended with Pandora and we rather enjoyed ourselves though retreated to the AGO where I found a vegan leather *eye roll whatever the fuck next* wallet with snazzy Haida motif. I got home having discovered two awesome Palestinian-Canadian grad students focussed in the graphic and environmental design worlds, turned on the TV to have this blasted little smug talking head on CP24 announce the latest on the Israel-Hamas war. Are you fucking kidding me? Where are the Palestinian tanks, fighter jets, military; a war involves combatants moderately, equally armed and on somewhat equal footing. America and others afford Ukraine military arms to assist in its war declared by Russia. Who the hell then is affording Palestinians arms, if it truly is a war between Israel and Palestinians? Soon, I was out the door again, into the Gay Village where I grabbed a few boxes of Craig’s Cookies on Church Street, A1C be damned. The fucking idiocy of everyone not having an opinion for fear of… fuck forget being cancelled, more like annihilated.

You know, I may not have 50 friends to send a King Tampon mug, but I sure as hell will be sharing a few of these mugs, come Christmas, stuffed with tampons. I have never been described as humourless!

Just think of the power and arrogance of a man who sired a royal heir once displeased with Diana, Princess of Wales being entangled with Dodi Fayed, a Moslem. With swift expediency, Diana was removed; she was assassinated. Of course, when you review all the facts that have lurked just below the surface, ‘the establishment’ Dodi’s dad relentlessly referred to Diana & his son’s assassination – Diana’s fourth number was 7, three things always stood out. Why did Charles wail as he did on seeing Diana’s exterminated body in Paris? Certainly, Charles had not envisioned Diana’s sacrifice for having made a deal with his confidant, albeit likely indirectly connected to said confidant. Furthermore, why did the royals remain at Balmoral as long they did? They were in shock; this was not something that they had either envisioned or sanctioned. This left, The Queen, in particular, acutely aware of their vulnerability. Then, too, there was William’s reaction at Balmoral. Suddenly, he went missing and was unaccounted for. He must then have been approached by his ‘handler’ and Charles’ confidant to be given a stiff talking to and told of his role. Also, was he then told of his true heritage, if Diana had not previously told him?

Suddenly, heavy indeed was the crown. With Diana’s assassination, The Queen was made aware that her power was strictly ceremonial; the real power lay at the feet of her son’s confidant. Indeed, not only was the agreement readdressed, it was sealed with William’s birth. There was a very real and definite threat to The Queen and anyone else with regard’s William’s safety and wellbeing. Too, The Queen knew that any hushed whispers of who gave the order to have Diana removed, would be squarely focussed in her direction. Indeed, after Diana, Princess of Wales’ assassination, there could be no doubt who wielded true power. With Diana, Princess of Wales’ assassination, the House of Windsor had effectively ended. There could be no greater clue to that transition to mark the end of the House of Windsor than 13.5 years later, with Catherine wearing the assassinated Diana’s ring, William would be wedded on both the feast day of St. Catherine of Siena and a rather pivotal character’s birthday. That day effectively marked the end of the House of Windsor. A coup was affected across social and cultural lines without so much as a single shot having been fired on August 31, 1997 – or at least that we know of. And just as with Jesus, Diana had two sacrificial deaths alongside hers as she was a modern day sacrifice to herald the dawn of a new royal house.

Just imagine what it was like for The Queen to have returned to London from Balmoral, knowing quite well that the little people hadn’t a clue of what was truly going on. Indeed, much like Meghan being blamed for Catherine having made her cry, the Queen became a crucible for people’s rage at Diana’s assassination, when she did not, in fact, give the order to have William’s – who was truly her step-grandson – mother, Diana, Princess of Wales, assassinated. Also, think of the exquisite fear that suddenly befell The Queen because she too could at anytime be removed, thanks to the colossal power of Charles’ confidant.

Of course, Charles’ confidant was quite confident that regardless how long The Queen lived, she would never be around for Prince George’s marriage at which point, William would have been stridently groomed to see to it that George took no ordinary bride, thereby effectively achieving the confidant’s long range objective. Well, the one thing that The Queen was not, was unaware; shrewd to the very end, she made sure that Prince Harry, whom for obvious reasons she favoured over William, had a grand wedding. Too, to protect her vision, she threw the wedding within the confines of Windsor Castle where there was little chance of anything disastrous unfolding as previously with Diana, Princess of Wales almost twenty-one years earlier. Look at William & Charles’ rude display at Prince Harry’s wedding, openly ridiculing Harry’s wife and her culture. Interestingly enough, not once did Prince Andrew betray this open animus towards his nephew and his Black wife’s culture.

So there were Charles, Camilla, William and Catherine sat across the quire from TV professionals whose job it is, to stage and rigorously read every nuance of human behaviour, as the senior royals openly ridiculed Meghan, her friends and colleagues, and her culture.

As rightly can be expected, The Queen & Prince Philip sat there dignified and decorous as is befitting. They were sufficiently aware and human that they did not engage in petty, racist behaviour, banter and open ridicule which was plain for the world to see from other senior royals. Not once did Prince Andrew engage in this vulgar, uncouth racist display; for that much, he is to be commended. Sat there was Andrew both aware of the optics and clearly appalled at his brother Prince Charles & nephew Prince William’s behaviour and, of course, not the least bit surprised that their spouses would shadow their open racism. Andrew ought to turn on them and write his own damn palace exposé.

As at Prince Harry’s wedding, there too were Camilla & Charles openly ridiculing non-Whites whilst Inuit throat singers performed as they represented HM The Queen on royal tour to Canada. Just look at that ugly backstairs cocksucker, sat there before the Canadian flag, dismissing a noble people and their culture; she is as fucking ugly as she is uncouth. He, of course, is ever a petty, nasty little blood-soaked tampon… the blasted fool. Naturally, Catherine, Camilla, Charles & William are as vile as they are for having been enthralled at the court of the real King, Charles’ rather powerful confidant.

So after having dispensed with Diana, Princess of Wales, her firstborn ‘the plant’ declares his allegiance by marrying Catherine on the feast day of St. Catherine of Siena and another’s birthday. Of course, as this is all covert and one is ever onlooking from the sidelines, the confidant was nowhere to be seen at said wedding. After all, he was not expected to attend the most important society wedding, royals or not as the Windsors are not wealthier than him.

HM King Charles III

Oil on Canvas

8’15” x 6′ 15″

©2024 Jonathan Yeo

At long last, the little grovelling bastard, King Tampon irreverently realised as he truly is, lord of all Hades most debauched bathhouse. Clueless as all fuck, he is finally at home where positively no one gives two fucks, much as now. Sold off the House of Windsor, yet still scrounged around for bags of cash. A right racist boor and a damn fool to boot his entire life. Immolating before our very eyes. An empty, indulgent life; fat little grasping fingers ravaged and ravenous by the same debauched proclivities as his cohorts Gary and Jimmy. Ready to rage is he, because finally acceded the throne, he is as charisma-challenged as a bored, fatigued koala. For what it’s worth, Jonathan Yeo is a sixth-level mature scholar soul (fourth life at current soul age) and an entity mate of seventh-level mature warrior soul, King Charles III. They are both members of entity 4, cadre 4, greater cadre 16, pod 404.

What Charles is doing to Harry is not different to every bigoted/prejudiced parent, who disowns and rejects their son because that son comes out as Gay, openly takes a male lover then marries that male lover. There was so much expectation of what their son was supposed to have become and for Charles, Harry going off and taking a Black wife, Meghan, and starting a family with her – two beautiful children, was clearly as much a betrayal for Charles as if Prince Harry had come out as Gay, gone off and taken a male lover and wedded him.

It was simply not acceptable for Charles, William and Britons at large. Charles has secretly despised Blacks his life long and then, as his racist psyche perceives the situation, his son, Prince Harry, does this to him. Indeed, a son who his life long clearly experienced the open racist conversations and attitudes towards Blacks from his father and others within the royal family – how could Harry not have been exposed to this racial animus towards Blacks? As far as they are concerned: Charles, Camilla, William and Catherine, Harry has rebelled – at least as they see it, never mind that he and Meghan have a strong past-life history together – against their ugly ignorance and racist bigotry!

It is fairly obvious how deep was the gaslighting, abuse and control that Charles & William exercised over Harry. Just look at the photographs in SPARE of Nottingham Cottage where Harry lived prior to and briefly after marrying Meghan; it’s a shockingly horrid dive. This explains why Harry keeps going back to England, to family. Of course, Meghan never interferes, she lets him go back, each time knowing that he is one visit closer to saying, “To fuck with it, I am done with these people; I’ve a family of my own.” Obviously, Harry knows this, but emotional and mental abuse are more addictive than any drug going. Apart from the House of Windsor, Prince Harry has the House of Spencer in England to keep him grounded, loved and supported; he can always return for the sake of his children, knowing their English heritage, by favouring the Spencers rather than Windsors.

So in order to spite Harry whilst in London for the Invictus Games’ 10th anniversary service of thanksgiving, what does he do, King Tampon gets together with a high profile personality who since attending Harry’s wedding, has clearly taken sides. It is obvious where Charles’ favoured guest stands as a family friend with a retarded sibling likes yapping like the bipedal chihuahua that she is at Meghan’s expense. Never forget that William and Charles are also possessed of fourth number of 5, which is all about sexual scandal, sexual infamy, sexual debauchery, sexual perversion and sexual addiction. Andrew, too, is possessed of fourth number of 5 and we all know how that’s turned out for him. As the numerology deftly betrays and as the photos and video above validate, a picture never lies; smoke and mirrors are the preferred MO every damn time.

These are the rarefied zones where the worlds truly closeted famous persons let their hair down. These men are always well-guarded. They are usually family men who seemingly never have many friends beyond the family and are rarely photographed hanging with other men and they can never be perceived as a man’s man. The wife and kids give good cover. Away from all that, their debauchery and real passions are reserved for the guarded privacy of yachts, private planes and private islands where the paparazzi, the little people and media have no access. Most of these closeted men were expertly groomed from the word go and though not exclusively so, they usually hail from the worlds of sports and entertainment; they’ve got talent, they were of modest means and were hungry for it all. Fame always comes at a price. This arrangement is as old as time itself. Some break out of the mould and don’t give a damn who may know nor do they care, like the late George Michael. Overwhelmingly, for 95 percent of these persons, there is a veneer of their fluidity just below the surface; however, ever they remain guarded and living in utter fear. Of course, in dreams there are neither secrets nor lies and since human civilisation occupies but one planet in one star system, my life long, I’ve gleaned a galaxy of truth in dreams of inordinate lucidity.

One such person, I know of. He was a lover of Merlin’s who preceded me by four others. He is a movie star, not an Oscar winner, but a household name the world over. I have seen the amorous photos of him with Merlin, with the lover of Merlin’s with whom he ran off and of them both in various stages of passion and tumescence. It is all very sad really because truth be told, humans are just that… humans. No one is male or female; you are a soul incarnate and you will connect with those with whom you’ve shared intense and frequent past lives passed in a positive mode. Based on numerology, it would be bizarre if some persons did not find the time to connect; it is a dance of spirits, vibrations harmonising and it can never, once consensual, be a negative thing, provided there is no control and intimidation involved. But alas, when money – big money, I might add – is involved, you’d better damn well believe that every effort will be made to live the most closeted and guarded, fear-plagued existence.   

Therein lies the crux of the matter, though homoerotic in essence – 5 in the fourth position, Charles & William are dead set against Harry having taken a Black wife, Meghan, because this is the rage of far too many White Gays everywhere; they secretly detest Black women – whether these men are fathers, closeted and with all that miserable angst, or all out Queer, they overwhelmingly do not like Black women. They are profoundly racist, though, they will be the first to most vehemently deny this fact. I remember an evening with Merlin & I at Frederick Jones and his Puerto Rican lover at this Hell’s Kitchen home on West 43rd Street. Frederick stated whilst guzzling god-only-knows which glass of liquor that day that White Gays hated Black women because “they don’t have motherfucking big black dicks…”

In less than two short years, since The Queen’s departure, so much has happened and none of it either edifying or constructive for those she left in charge of the firm. Meghan was supremely astute and had the greatest counsel, that is what the baby shower in New York City was about in February, 2019 – just look at who attended: Serena Williams, Abigail Spencer, Misha Nonoo-Hess, Amal Clooney, Gayle King. All these women were trusted and part of Meghan’s inner sanctum. Amal would give superior advise, Gayle would be a liaison for Oprah. Being a senior working royal clearly was a hellish experience for Meghan and her support network needed to see her. There is no way that Serena was going to let Meghan perish. Meghan, and Harry, had to take leave of that racially predatory environment, the firm.

The crown prince & his heir needed Harry and Meghan to be around to play their roles within the pantomime, the perpetually scorned scapegoats. However, knowing that The Queen hadn’t much longer to live, Caligula II & quadrant mates knew that it was better to expel Harry & Meghan sooner rather than after The Queen’s imminent demise. In that way, The Queen, who is never faulted, can be seen to have dispensed with the Sussexes and clear the racist boors of culpability. Crucial in all of this was Harry’s account in his memoir, SPARE, of what occurred at the Sandringham Summit. Knowing that she was not long for this world, The Queen remained silent throughout the tense meeting; thereby, she betrayed her support for Harry and Meghan and in having chosen to not become engaged in the proceedings, she was letting the Sussexes know that this was not her doing. Thusly, The Queen exposed Caligula II & the seeded, pegged and bothered, racist boor as the architects of the racist expulsion of the Sussexes.

What has since transpired is that Meghan has made a man and father of Harry; they have a beautiful family, are far removed from the racist boors, who haunt the kingdom that HM Queen Elizabeth II, greatest Sovereign of the last half millennium, departed. The mess that her two immediate successors have created may well not be reparable with George’s reign…

Listen to Tina Brown having to eat her words. This same woman wrote The Palace Papers and in all those pages, there was not a single mention of the blackamoor brooch incident. The Briton who’s earned her fame and fortune in America, deceptively sought to prosecute the notion that the royals aren’t racist and that Britons aren’t racist. How is it even possible to write about the reason for The Queen’s grandson and his Black wife having to leave the royal family without so much as mentioning race. Post-colonial Britain and its White citizens are ever ready to deny their history, however, facts do not tolerate fictions. The Sussexes have left and are thriving, doing marvellously well, successful and no amount of at this late hour admitting that Harry & Meghan’s departure was a tragic loss for the firm, changes anything. The four principals: Charles, Camilla, William and Catherine will never change nor will they ever admit to having been racist towards Meghan – goodness they are still cowardly sniping from the wings through the fabulist, race-baiting troop of Fleet Street hacks of theirs.

My, but I love this rather poignant photograph; it perfectly captures the end of the reign of HM Queen Elizabeth II. With that deeply respectful, elegant curtsey and Harry’s dignified bow, Meghan was saying goodbye to The Queen. More importantly, Meghan was saying Adieu to the island kingdom and her husband Prince Harry’s family. Meghan has proven since then that it is ill-advised to disrespect and play a Black woman for a fool. She will never return to Britain and be seen curtseying to Charles and his ugly beard, Camilla. Most definitely, she will never bow to that violent racist boor, William and his cancerous wife, Catherine – his racially predatory vindictiveness cost her and Harry the life of a child. This bid on the part of the left-behind royals to have their troop of Fleet Street hacks float the idea that Harry & Meghan need to apologise, shows how blindly conceited Whites, as opposed to Caucasians, are. At this stage, if Charles were to apologise to Harry and Meghan in a Christmas message, it would change nothing. Meghan will never set foot in Britain again to suffer the indignity of having to bow to racist boors who are neither worth her time nor knowing in any capacity. Meghan is an American, a Black America; she knows her worth.

As the Invictus Games and Archewell Foundation tour of Nigeria proved, Harry & Meghan do not a racist island kingdom need. Quite simply, the world is their realm.

Herbie Hancock – Piano

Dexter Gordon – Tenor Saxophone

Billy Higgins – Drums, Percussion

Freddie Hubbard – Trumpet

Butch Warren – Double Bass

I will always remember my mum, Harella, dancing in the living room of our St. Kitts home to this Jazz masterpiece. She was being taken higher, truly inspired. One of my greatest memories in the early 1970s.

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Photo: Close-up of Moon.

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

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© 2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.