At Last, The Day Has Finally Arrived.

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With a spring in my step, I came up for air at Piccadilly Circus Station, whistling Ludwig Minkus’ glorious recurrent melody from La Bayadère with thoughts of the astounding Natalia Osipova uppermost in my thoughts.  

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I was returned to the Royal Academy to hunt for coffee table books.  

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More than that, I was on a mission; returned to Fortnum & Mason was I, directed there by the gracious clerk at The British Museum’s Grenville Room.  

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Armed with just over a dozen rose petal jellies, there was no less spring in my step as by now I sang aloud my merry little melody from La Bayadère.  I truly felt as though, on this trip to London, I was lucidly awakened in the most sensual dream.  Dreams so luscious are the ones which cause you to pause, smile and whisper near-mischievously, “Arvin, this is a dream and you’ve earned it.  Now push off and start flying.” 

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At such times, there is no thunder more glorious than the roar of my very soul as I laugh, enjoying my creative soul fulfilling itself.  I was reminded of those early days in our relationship in Manhattan when whilst ambling late at night for staying at Merlin’s agent Joyce Ketay’s Upper West Side apartment, whilst holding hands, I would push down as in dreams but end up doing an assemblé, in place of flying.  His rosy choirboy lips would warm in a smile whilst the ubiquitous fag or joint was elegantly perched between left index and middle fingers. 

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Bailing into to Piccadilly Circus, still feeling mighty spiffy of spirit, I opted against heading back down into the Underground – the place leaves me with sooty phlegm each time nose-blowing.  With that, I bailed out of the Circus and onto Shaftesbury Avenue and made my way to a favourite joint, Ben’s Fish n Chips.  

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There at a cosy table in the rear, I leisurely pleasured myself whilst finally reading the HRH Princess Margaret biography; it is delicious.  

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Blisters be damned, I elected to walk from Shaftesbury Square up to The British Museum and take in more art.  This being a Friday, there were school kids everywhere; my goodness, children have got powerful noise-making lungs!  Then again, what is childhood but play for the soul, which after having recently lived and died is now reborn and gets to celebrate and run up and down in a brand spankingly new and excitingly different body – to say nothing of being in the company of reincarnational travel companions some of whom now you can get a good schtup off of this time around, seeing that last time he now she looked like Quasimodo and even so, you weren’t then same-sexed focussed.  Ha!  

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In the bookstore was a clerk with whom I shared an interesting conversation last winter; he was a dead-ringer for scholar soul, right down to the glasses.  He suggested that I could take refuge in the Japanese wing and avoid the madness that was happily reincarnated souls screaming their lungs out and running hither and yon.  

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Before I could get there, moving around one corner from one gallery to the next, will you look at what I happened on.  

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On seeing it, I was readily warmed of spirit and let out a celebratory, “Yeah, yeah, yeah!”  In that moment, the sense of fellowship and belonging I only ever feel when in Canada for being around First Nations cultures, whether at a pow wow or not, proved the most refreshing drink for my questing soul around a corner in my favourite city, London.  

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Up one elevator, down one corridor then up another elevator and one was then posited into the most serene of galleries.  Now this is more my kind of groove.  

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All this exquisite splendour and not a single recently reincarnated soul running about and screaming way too powerful lungs out for such a tiny body.  

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This proved an interlude of slow-dancing with my very soul… the vibrations here were utterly harmonious with spirit.  

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Photography can never do this masterpiece justice.  

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I am reminded with this gem of the fabulous kimono of Merlin’s hung in our Cabbagetown home.  

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Can you hear my soul purring…

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Phenomenal. 

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My very favourite piece in the gallery; warm, fecund, sensual, curvaceous, feminine, grounding.  It truly is perfection; this after all is what womakind are: perfection of creation – we men just can’t handle it, hence religions which all without exception oppress womankind and tell them that creation is outside of themselves and some warring male god somewhere.  Ha… we men can never endure the pain of labour then get up a completely new aspect of creaturehood – no longer a woman but a mother to whom that child will ever be more closely bonded.  Love this piece.  

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This was the most beautiful adventure… for now, with a couple of coffee table books and toys for kids of a friend’s, I crisscrossed Russell Square Park and slept with my blistered feet raised whilst being held closer in sleep’s warm nurturing bosom and was readily tugged under into the world of lucid, inspired dreams.  

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On a gloriously balmy mid-November evening, I emerged from Covent Garden Station into a sea of humanity filled with love and laughter as the weekend was begun.  As lovers ambled past holding hands, I was reminded then of my life twenty-nine years earlier when the Berlin Wall was being toppled.  I was grateful in the moment because back then, two days before Merlin’s passing, I could not imagine myself being still focussed in this life with so much death and dying around me. 

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Yet, here was I with my happy little lambious (Merlin called me Lamb because I was more 9 parts enraged grizzly than timid lamb) self, in Covent Garden about to see a ballet because Marianela Nuñez, Natalia Osipova, Vadim Muntagirov, Matthew Ball, Francesca Hayward, Joseph Sissens, Steven McCrae, Iana Salenko were part of the most glorious group of ballet dancers.  

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Oh my, look at this; there have been changes afoot since last winter.  

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My pilgrimage to the shrine of high art is finally here!  What’s this, new coat check, new toilets, new dining area… wow! 

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No sooner than was I sat and along came a Jurassic hybrid, no chin, back so long may well have extra vertebrae and a neck that is too thick and long to be on a woman’s body but I am not judging just saying,.. 

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Well I did not cross the Atlantic just for this obstruction and her pheromone were decidedly reptilian.  As Frederick Jones would say, “I’m not havin’ it!” After a few gracious words with the accommodating ushers, my offer to stand through the entire performance seemed reasonable enough. 

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I stood on the steps up to the last row that was more centre of house than my ticket.  I did my best to ignore the chinless spinster who sat at the edge of the row, who promptly repositioned her handbag, as if it were a blasted Birkin!  Naturally, she kept eyeing me.  As I always carry Shaniqua in my back pocket, I was ready to hiss, the minute she stepped out of line.  

During the performance after the Bronze Idol danced his spectacular solo, I lost myself and yelled the loudest bravo in the house and wouldn’t the old bat have something to say, “Be quiet!” to which I leaned in and hissed, “grip harder on your butt plug and shut the fuck up!” Why do people insist on leaving their homes and act as though they are lord or lady of anyone else’s reality.  

Never mind her, the lovely Russian couple who sat in the front row looked back and approvingly yelled “Da!” at my exuberance.  Truly, what a glorious night in the theatre.  You cannot possibly begin to fathom the amount of flying dreams I have had since that night; it is as though, I perpetually am now flying-without-moving.  Of course, I haven’t yet shaken that exquisite Minkus melody from my lips but so be it.  There was something simply transcendent about having experienced the purity and perfection of the Kingdom of the Shades opening of Act III that will ever keep me richly inspired.  

Love is all and whatever it is that makes you want to fly without moving when awake grab on and tightly hold on – drugs don’t do it, they do you!  As ever, come closer let’s have a group hug and a bit of air frottage because life, alas, is the sweetest of dreams!  

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

Here’s to Life! A celebration of the 70th anniversary of Merlin’s birth.

 

On this the eve of the July 21, 2017, 70th anniversary of Merlin’s birth, I am still over the moon and greatly inspired for having travelled to London, England, Paris and Versailles France and Amsterdam, the Netherlands in June.  I wanted to take in the pomp and pageantry of trooping the colour, revisit the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square, the British Museum, the National Portrait Gallery, Tate Britain, Tate Modern… and did!  I really loved my visit to the new wing of the Tate Modern and the beautiful panoramic views that it affords of the north bank across River Thames.

Staying in the beautiful SW10, I had a great place to stay and had a marvellous time.  Great it was to revisit Westminster Abbey, feeling the sense of history and the grandeur of the abbey.  Every moment of being in London was sheer magic.  This city, more than any other, readily evokes a sense of home –- somehow, in its magical agedness, there vibrationally is something perfectly harmonised about London with aspects of the West Indies into which I chose to reincarnate and where my sense of ‘home’ is grounded.

The LGBT exhibition at Tate Britain was a bit underwhelming; however, I enjoyed being exposed to the many female artists and their Lesbian-themed art, which heretofore I was not cognisant of.  Naturally, the male perspective has always been prominent in homoerotic art.  Without doubt, the best exhibition was at the Queen’s Gallery at Buckingham Palace and the Crown’s exhibition of aspects of the Canaletto collection.  Naturally, I did have to return to the National Gallery to take in my favourite Sir Anthony van Dycks in their collection; among them, that ode to sage essence grandeur, King Charles I’s Equestrian Portrait of Charles I.  The Rotunda at Ranelagh remains my favourite and most moving Canaletto; of course, it did prominently feature at the end of a flying dream, during early pubescence, that had me dreamquest to a past life in London, England.

That past-life was shared with Merlin when we were musicians at court in late 18th century London.  During that lifetime, we knew 1st Duke of Brontë, Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson.  Apparently, Viscount Nelson was a great raconteur and it was likely his tales of his love of Nevis which proved the seed that eventually led to my choice at the level of soul to have reincarnated into Nevis –- which incidentally Canadians are wont to mispronounce as Knévis…  Sorry, the third world natives are not wrong; besides no one in London would ever think to say, Knévis.  The correct pronunciation is Kneevis… Knévis is no more correct than is Kanarda the correct pronunciation of Canada.  Enough about the risible ignorance of elitist petit bourgeois Canadians and their need to forever condescend.

So, there was I arrived in London with umbrella, pea coat, raincoat and it was all hotter-than-hell climes for the two weeks!  After trooping the colour, I decided to escape the heat of London and decamp à Paris… what was I thinking; goodness, it was at least 5 degrees hotter there!  Alas, Paris has become an armed camp -– I suppose this is what Paris during the Nazi occupation in WWII was like.  Either way, I could not wait to hightail it out of there.  Firstly, though, I had to head off to Versailles where previously I had not been.  Goodness, what grandeur -– the scales are truly phenomenal.  If I had ever had a dream set on the grounds of Versailles, it is highly likely that I would have awakened and assumed that I had just dreamquested to a marvellous world where the architectural scales surpass anything witnessed here on Earth.

In all that heat, I was told it was just a stroll away from the entry gates of Versailles to Grand Trianon to take in the Pierre Le Grand exhibition celebrating the 300th anniversary of Peter the Great’s trip to Paris.  Finally, after 50 minutes in my brand-new Crockett & Jones wellingtons, I arrived to what was not an especially impressive show.  However, the last piece — a beautiful bust of the Tsar — made my sweaty and blistered foot ordeal worthwhile.

After having been quite underwhelmed by Paris –- save of course my visit to Père Lachaise cemetery where I left pine cone tributes to Marcel Proust, Chopin, Oscar Wilde and Honoré de Balzac –- it was off to Amsterdam.  Finally, I had escaped hellish climes!  Amsterdam proved the most gloriously idyllic experience.  With a cool welcome breeze off the North Sea, the temps were in the low 20s and, of course, everywhere just about everyone rode a bike.  As I made the pilgrimage to the Rijksmuseum to be richly inspired, I was warmed as passing cyclists called out to me in my white panama hat that I purchased at Chateau de Versailles to beat the heat, “Hello!”  “Hi there!”  “Hi ya!”  This excursion to Amsterdam was truly soul-warming.  Nothing was more glorious than entering that salon and seeing Night Watch and the Meager Company.

Whilst browsing, I thought of George Hawken and wondered if ever he had made it to Amsterdam.  Just like that, on coming around the corner, the first painting I noticed in the salon which contains Jan Vermeer’s The Milkmaid, was an exquisite, stunning still-life of white asparagus.  The one legume that George considered the perfect signature to a fine meal -– cooked by himself -– was asparagus.  His most memorable meals ever featured asparagus coated in the most sublime sauces made from scratch.  I was truly warmed on seeing the still-life seconds after nostalgically thinking of him.  Yet another moment of synchronicity.

On preparing for the video to celebrate the 70th anniversary of Merlin’s birth, I decided last week to head off the costumer, Malabar on McCaul Street where George lived in the late 80s to early 90s.  Inspired by the first dream of Merlin had 39 years ago in July 1978, I decided to get a cowl as a tribute to the cowl Merlin wore in the inaugural dream encounter with him, four years before having met on Friday, October 1, 1982 in New York City.  So, there was I at Mount Pleasant Cemetery last Saturday, July 15, 2017 in my cowl and the panama hat purchased at Versailles to escape the heat.  I thought it fitting as Merlin always loved wearing panama hats.

My trusty friend, J.J. who happens to be an artisan entity mate whom I have known in 20 past lives –- which is a high incidence of contact -– was the director.  Initially, I had hoped to throw a white party on the lawn to the southwest of the chapel at Mount Pleasant Cemetery and have a drone film the event where a gathering of friends would raise a glass to Merlin on the anniversary of his ennobled birth.  Merlin always threw a white party each year for his birthday at his parents stunning backyard in north Toronto’s Servington Crescent.

The plan was not approved by the cemetery and thus, one had to improvise.  I got my panama hat and my cowl and together, we proceeded with a dozen long-stem white roses to visit Merlin’s resting place.  I had a pretty good idea what I was after.  With the matching white cowl, I wanted to evoke the magic of meeting Merlin in that initial dream which is shared in volume one of the dream memoirs which is already published: Merlin and Arvin: A Shamanic Dream Odyssey.

Get your copy!  Thanks as ever for your support!

In the hardcover edition of human civilisation’s first dream memoirs, the initial dream encounter with Merlin is shared.  The dream begins on page 110 in the hardcover edition.  I wanted the same sense of wonderment and magic that I felt for having met Merlin in that first dream four years prior to having met reflected in the video.  In that dream, Merlin’s appearance was preceded by a white totemic creature which seemed, in its astral plane outréness, to be part Russian wolfhound, part alpaca, part dog.

So, moving to the lawn, having descended the steps of the chapel, I began walking across the open lawn towards the statuesque lion festooned mausoleum with the five remaining white long-stem white roses.  Seven roses, of course, were left at Merlin’s grave -– one rose for each of our seven glorious years together.  As I stepped onto the lawn, it seemed magical… timeless even.  Slowly, confidently as I approached the filmmaker at the other end of the lawn, I thought of Merlin and that initial dream.

Just then, I very distinctly thought of Merlin greeting me by purring, “Hello Lambs.”  As if right on cue, from off stage left, an adult deer came from behind the bushes and tombstones that line the far edges of the open lawn.  Never before had I seen a deer at Mount Pleasant Cemetery.  Indeed, the good burghers of Forest Hill who clearly regularly jogged in the park-like setting stopped and were overheard remarking that they had never seen a deer in the cemetery before.  All that I could do was tear up and continue walking as the deer then bolted and ran from stage left to right as I continued my stride uninterrupted –- unfazed by the appearance of an adult deer on the grounds of the cemetery.  What is more astounding, is that J.J. at the time was filming my walk; at the last minute, I decided against a run-through as I was concerned about the natural light possibly changing if we were to rehearse the shot.

Unbeknownst to me, the deer after having made it to stage right, then returned to the centre of the lawn and stood there perfectly still whilst observing my progression across the lawn.  J.J. who was astounded by the occurrence remarked that he had just witnessed a miracle.   There is no doubt in my mind as I tried to recapture the magic of that initial dream encounter that there was a subtle validation of that dream from the magical shaman himself on the other side by having had Merlin’s spirit step in as director emeritus and had the deer enter the shot as validation and a token of his appreciation of the love that we shared and my steadfast loyalty to him.  After crossing the lawn and turning to watch the deer stand there, looking down the lawn at me, I felt such utter peacefulness and abandonment of spirit — just as when alone and intimate in the dark with Merlin.

Yes, I believe in magic as did Merlin and as though an appreciation of having stridently done everything to fulfil his mandate to me, Merlin’s astral body conjure up the same magic here and now as he had in July 1978 –- four years before slipping inside a Hell’s Kitchen walk-up and readily winning me over with his sexy elfin charm, magic and sex that proved the most grounding shamanic passion… every time.

All the music chosen for this 13-minute video is music that Merlin loved whilst incarnate and to which he returned time and again -– whether at Joe Morton’s tiny Upper West Side apartment in autumn of 1983, Toronto’s 20 Amelia Street in tony Cabbagetown.  From Glenn Gould’s mastery of Johann Sebastian Bach’s Goldberg Variations, to Elton John, Stevie Wonder, Gladys Knight and Dionne Warwick singing That’s What Friends Are For –- in that segment of the video, I included friends whom Merlin valued: Kareem Benezra, myself, Wayne Robson and his oldest and most loyal friend, the ever-gracious, Maxime Gascoigne-de Montigny.

Of course, for Stevie Wonder’s Isn’t She Lovely, I exclusively included photos of Merlin and his very handsome and gracious father, David Ben-Daniel.  Whereas I favoured Sir Paul McCartney’s Hey Jude, Merlin ever loved George Harrison and especially My Sweet Lord.  Of course, one Saturday, whilst staying at actor, Joe Morton’s Manhattan apartment, when Merlin and I secretly committed to being together, we slow-danced to Supertramp and Roger Hodgson’s unmatched magical vocals on Supertramp’s Breakfast In America.

Additionally, Jeffrey Osborne’s On the Wings of Love which was one of Merlin’s favourite ballads is also included.  Merlin loved Black male soul singers: Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, Jeffrey Osborne –- most especially –- George Benson, Al Green, Teddy Pendergrass, Donny Hathaway, Barry White.  Most of all, I am especially proud of the video that J.J. and I have created; I think that it masterfully captures the depth of my love and fealty to the most fabulously magical shaman encountered on this incarnation’s spiritual odyssey.

Naturally, before having left for Mount Pleasant Cemetery, I had flooded my apartment with the music that appears in the video.  Perhaps, unwittingly by so doing, I was evoking Merlin’s spirit which later joined us when he played ultimate director and pulled off the most magical bit of stage direction –- an adult deer in the middle of a cemetery in the heart of mid-town Toronto.  Lastly, I played the sublimely soulful Shirley Horn’s interpretation of, Here’s to Life!  Whilst raising a glass of coconut water, I had forgotten to pick up some champagne the evening prior and it was too early in the morning to find champagne anywhere –- the lighting was way too good.  Besides who knows if that magical deer would have been anywhere about.

Here’s to life… most of all, here’s to Merlin… here’s to dream shamans everywhere!

Merlin & Arvin 1987

Going forward, please know that this wordpress joint: http://www.dreampoetica.com is being synchronised with my author page: http://www.arvindabrgha.com  Everything that’s appeared here over the years, now can be found there.  In coming weeks, there will also be other links to other sites associated with this celebration of Merlin and his mandate to me:

“Please my darling, I want you to write about our lives together.  I promise you, however possible, I am going to send you dreams to include in the story of our love… our lives together.”

Of course, there is my Instagram account:  Instagram Arvin da Brgha

The YouTube channel is:  Arvin da Brgha YouTube

Do please be patient and stay tuned as there will be a site where one can purchase merchandise that’ll greatly assist with the costs of having overleaves channelled that will yet appear in the five volumes of human civilisation’s first dream memoirs to come.  Also, there will be a podcast link.

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For now, here’s to life, here’s to you and thanks so much for your ongoing support all these years!

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

Look Who’s Coming To Dinner!

A Cheesecake 2015

Recently, I caught up with old friends; a bunch of Leos all, we decided to get together and share our birthdays which all six fall within an eight-day period.  I still have yet to actually meet someone born on August second, my actual birthday. 

In any event, there just had to be that dinner guest that made a point of being a dumb-as-fuck catty fag who spent most of the dinner trying to throw shade my way.  Bitch please, I long ago turned in my Gay card – why be a card-carrying member in a society which is marked with intense racial animus towards Blacks?  

I simply do not play.  Go be Gay and all that that stands for.  I don’t lisp and I especially do not suffer anyone who does. 

Naturally, there was overlong discussion of that silly White male dickless wonder-looking attention whore whose appearance on the cover of Vanity Fair was the final straw for me.  Dominick Dunne is gone as is Christopher Hitchens – what soft hands he had and such sad lonely eyes. 

In any event, the cumfarting twit was fast taken to task when deliberately regurgitating the usual media hate-fest now at fever pitch about Bill Cosby.  Well, of course, he is guilty – he is a man and a successful man. 

Which successful man doesn’t have access to readily available sex?  What the fool guest did not get was what was really at play in all this, namely why is that fugly – tell me, her retroussé-ugly face does not resemble a bat’s in extreme close-up – lawyer’s obsession with Black men? 

First it was Michael Jackson, then on to Tiger Woods and now Bill Cosby.  Better watch out Will Smith, hell Sidney Poitier is still alive… no successful Black male in America beloved and respected by the media is safe. 

Look at what a laughing stock Tiger Woods has become.  All three men, as most people and that idiotic dinner guest – about whom I coolly hissed whilst looking unflinchingly at the roast on my plate, “What is this doing out of the oven?” – fail to realise, had a legacy which was beyond the norm. 

Clearly, it isn’t about merely being Black; it is always about having ventured into uncharted territory.  Who can deny Michael Jackson’s stellar genius?  Who could have imagined anyone achieving, let alone conquering Tiger Woods’ spectacular accomplishments?  Then there was Bill Cosby, after Norman Lear had given the noctambulant masses the image of what Blacks ought to damn well be, presenting perfectly normal middle class Blacks without rage, baggage and drug issues. 

In short order this klanswoman replete with invisible hood has devoted her professional life to latter day lynching of Black men with legacies which are too unpalatable for the likes of her ilk to suffer.  As it is, I was in no mood to suffer some lunatic Jewish queen and his need to raise his rear right leg and piss all over Blacks with smug conceit known only to the equally smug few. 

Clearly, there were no Black men in Heidi Fleiss’ little black book or by now our honorary Klanswoman would have trotted them all out by noose to that most effective of poplar trees, the television medium and then onwards to court to effectively circumcise their legacy. 

The day prior as I rode from job three en route home to take a nap using my snazzy new CPAP machine and attend one of three parties over two days, I had quite the little adventure.  Riding alongside me as I rode in the street – I never ride my bike on sidewalks, a white BMW edged next to me. 

Inside, there were Whites in back and front seats.  With windows rolled down, they cruised along to keep pace with me as I leisurely rode and enjoyed the feel of blazing sunlight on my skin.  As is customary, I wore my shades. 

“Oh look it’s Ray Charles.  No wait, I think it’s Stevie Wonder,” said the dumb-as-fuck-looking blonde in the backseat smugly looking out and grinning her more-gums-than-teeth, saurian-lipped-hideous and blissfully ignorant face at the sight of me. 

Their laughter was that hideous semi-feral clipped affair known only to the White tribe when it is enjoying being racially predatory and making sport of Black lives.  The big White male next to her who likely preferred fucking her in the arse than not, called out, “Hey bud, guess what?  No more Jell-O pudding for you!” to which there was even more wicked gales of laughter known only to Blacks when being racially preyed on by Whites who will ever swear up and down that there is no such thing as racism.  Hell, the term racial predator does not exist. 

So nice to know that by millennium’s end, this murderous Saurian predator masquerading as human will be yet hunted by an even more menacing terror – those who think nothing of cutting empty brain-dead skulls from bodies and placing them in the small of the back.  Yes dumbasses, you too like Rome will fall and you too will yet be the hunted. 

Next, the male driver who howled with wicked delight then did something that never before had I experienced, for the next block and a half – he rode alongside, matching my speed, never allowing me to drop behind or overtake his car – he turned on the windshield wiper which naturally saw wiper fluid jet beyond the car’s roof and left me good and drenched. 

I got home  a sticky, stinging ashy-white mess as anti-freeze fluids and sweat took their toll in the glaring heat for several kilometres.  Long had it been since I had been reduced to tears at having been racially attacked. 

So as this arse-eating venal swine sat across from me going on ad nauseam about Bill Cosby, I quietly excused myself and took to the host’s bathroom where I feverishly texted my delightful Panamanian-born Montréal friend, Raoul de Castro and told him where to come find me and spirit me away from this gold-and-diamond-thieving arse-eating fool. 

Returned to dinner, whilst I patiently awaited Raoul’s arrival, I began speaking of the audacity of New Jersey paying out one million dollars to Holocaust survivors in the state who numbered more than 40k.  How many were there in Florida, Illinois, Arizona, New Mexico to say nothing of California and New York?  Were they being paid for Holocaust PTSD too? 

Why pray tell were American taxpayers making any such payments when the Third Reich had not occupied America nor for that matter had the Holocaust occurred on American soil?  Funny how quickly some can go from being smug to being downright accusatory. 

Once challenged with fact, the fool began accusing me of being anti-Semitic.  Some things truly are as predictable as flies on shit as Frederick ‘Mr. Hat’ Jones would ever impart. 

Our idiotic otiose dinner guest soon demanded of our host why he was allowing our dinner party to be ruined by all this slanderous anti-Semitic talk.  Grabbing my Samsung Note, I gladly shared the news article on the Jerusalem Post’s website which heaped praise on the New Jersey governor for being a good little porcine Goy and paying out needless, to say nothing of dubious, guilt money. 

All talk of Bill Cosby ceased as the subject was changed to the Andy Warhol show here in town – which I have yet to see but soon shall.  Soon enough, and well before dessert, Raoul crashed the dinner party and rescued me. 

As we left, in a manner that was crass and as can be expected of a sage soul born in the year of the Monkey, Raoul called across the room to the South African-born boorish Semite and waved at him in a gesture that was decidedly born of the Reich, “Farewell to all that!” 

Naturally, Raoul was in town because at the weekend it would be the annual Caribana or whatever it is now called.  I never attend, too much Sun and crowds – two things which cause my vampiric soul to cringe – you’d be amazed what working night shift for more than two decades will do to your reaction to sunlight. 

Raoul was in town because like me, also leonine, it was the annual fest of big Black American cock.  Can’t never have too much of a good thing indeed! 

Alas, drink of my spirit and savour this truly beautiful dream where I dined on the astral plane with my task companion and then astral plane habitué, Merlin.  Now there was a true Semite; above all else, he was a remarkable human being. 

As Raoul and I rode by cab from the horrid dinner party in the Beaches, I remarked how rare a light Merlin was to him.  During those seven years that I knew him, Merlin never once referred to himself as a Jew. 

He was not ghettoised, he had nothing to prove.  What was even more remarkable in those seven years, Merlin always referred to everyone whom I had yet met as ‘my friend…’  So it was that on Halloween 1982, we went to ‘my friend Joe’s’ pumpkin kill party and pleasantly surprised was I when we got to the 12th or was it 14th storey apartment in the upper west 90s and his friend Joe turned out to be Black – of course, that friend Joe is the actor, Joe Morton. 

This was the most remarkable thing about Merlin, meeting all his friends over the years, was like being at a reincarnational ball, you were ever surprised when the door opened and you finally met ‘my friend’ so-and-so only to discover that they were Japanese, Chinese, Jewish, Black, Armenian… whatever.  No wonder I have never had patience for ghettoised fools like the boor at the abandonned dinner party in the Beaches. 

The dream was lived in telepathic lucidity befitting not merely entity mates but task companions no less.  At the time, Luna did as is her wont, she grooved through Leo and thus my third house like Sarah Vaughan some lazy, syrupy scat. 

That Wednesday, I was coming near the end of my stay in Vancouver as it was April 16, 1997.  Too, the dream was audiocassette-recorded on tape two hundred and twenty-nine and is yet to be found in volume XXIII of the twenty-five volume dream opus. 

Say what you want but intellect is the most beautiful flower on this world or, for that matter, any other across this vast universe.  Befitting a late mature artisan of pronounced scepticism, aren’t you glad that that I can readily see through any shabbily concocted fraud?  

Yes, indeed, Vanity Fair has no time to report on Ferguson or the #BlackLivesMatter issue, any more than it cowardly avoids reporting on taxpayers’ money being brazenly scammed in New Jersey – about which you can damn well bet Vanity Fair and its editorial staffers are cognisant.

On one thing I am uncompromising: If you don’t like Black people…  Fuck you!   

Life is but a dream and sweet it is when you fear nothing and no one.  Sweet dreams, you are more magical and beautiful than you know.  For being focussed herein, I am both grateful and honoured by your patronage. 

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a stag light arrangement

A rustic restaurant at nighttime, which was wide-open with lots of exposed wooden beams, proved the setting for this dream.  Seated with my left side to the aisle, where the waiter came and went, I was at a table for four.

There were persons, across the aisle from us, to whom I really did not pay much attention.  Who should though be on my right but Merlin!

Whilst interminably waiting to be served, we silently sat there.  Before being taken, our order took almost forever.

Leaning forwards from behind us, a waiter finally did appear.  Smiling, he asked us to come with him as he now had a table for us.

So, we got up and began walking back with the waiter.  We were as though going to the back of the restaurant.

We moved through a beautiful interior which was nicely, dimly lit.  The flames here were live flames in glass beaker-like vases.

Too, there were the most spectacular antlers and horns displayed high up on the walls.  Some of the horns were on the ceilings about the light fixtures.

All in all, it was a beautiful ambiance here.  Too, there were rustic paintings on the walls that I paid little attention to.

The seats in this section allowed you to face out into the aisle with your back against the wall.  I had been concerned about our not having been served for so long.

Though we were not saying anything to one another, I was not concerned about that.  There were no doubts that Merlin wanted to be there with me.

We passed much of our time together, lost in a silence which was born of our being communicatively engaged, on alternate levels of reality which precluded speech.  We were being exclusively telepathic.

We sat side by side, facing out to the dining room, which gave us a commanding view of the persons on display.  The atmosphere here was very nice.

I quite enjoyed being with Merlin.  There was nothing more sublime than our silently sitting there, whilst together taking a meal, by candlelight and some mellow Jazz instrumentals perfuming and further intoxicating our very souls.

*Christopher Hitchens’ Michael Overleaves now to be found in Michael Overleaves Appendix.

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Photo: White truffle chocolate strawberry cheesecake from Daniel et Daniel

Antler/horn lighting fixture.

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

Happy 100th Birthday Billie Holiday!

a-billie-holiday

Billie Holiday.

07.04.191517.07.1959

God Bless The Child

Voice: Billie Holiday

Composition: Billie Holiday, Arthur Herzog Jr. c. 1939

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Fine and Mellow

Written: Billie Holiday c. 1939

Live TV recording 1957.

Voice: Billie Holiday

Piano: Mal Waldon

Double Bass: Milt Hinton

Guitar: Danny Barker

Tenor Saxophone: BenWebster & Lester Young & Coleman Hawkins

Baritone Saxophone: Gerry Mulligan

Trombone: Vic Dickenson

Trumpet: Doc Cheatham & Roy Eldridge

Drums: Osie Johnson

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Strange Fruit

Written: Abel Meeropol c. 1937

Composition: Billie Holiday c. 1939

Live TV Performance

Voice: Billie Holiday.

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Lover Man, Oh Where Can You Be.

Written: Jimmy Davis & Roger Ramirez & James Sherman c. 1941

Live performance 1958, Oakdale Music Theater, Wallingford, Connecticut.

Voice: Billie Holiday

Piano: Mal Waldron

Bass: Milt Hinton

Trumpet: Buck Clayton

Drums: Don Lamond

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One of my all-time favourite Billie Holiday tunes.  I first fell in love with it whilst working at the Underground Railroad Restaurant on King Street East just west of Sherbourne Street back in the late 1970s – all whilst finding time to run around the city taking ballet class and studying in high school then later at York University – when Salome Bey was doing her Cabaret show and her husband, Howard Matthews was part owner, along with Jazz drummer, Archie Alleyne.  There was an intense and wonderful Jazz education!

Too, there was that memorable Sunday Brunch in late 1982 at the actress, Patricia Neal’s grand Upper West Side apartment which Merlin took on a short-term sublet.  Frederick Jones and his Puerto Rican-born lover were there, along with a couple of dancer friends of mine and, of course, fellow dancer and friend of Merlin’s, Miguel Godreau.

Merlin the night we met, Friday, October 1, 1982, had excused himself from dinner at the Afro-Cuban restaurant, around from my West 49th Street apartment, on 9th Avenue in Hell’s Kitchen.  He had gone to make a phone call – ah yes, there was an age before the cellphone’s ubiquity – and cancelled getting together with Miguel.  They had been dating after Miguel had appeared in Ken Russell’s 1980 film, Altered States starring, William Hurt and who at that time was a member of the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater.

Just in case, I had proven an utter bore, Merlin had made alternate plans; however, after I had passed most of dinner to the groovy music massaging his burgeoning lap across the deuce from me with my nimbly dexterous pointed feet, Miguel did not stand a chance.

Besides, one does not exactly say no to one’s task companion when first meeting on the physical plane… again, especially when it was planned.  In any event, after fruit-filled pancakes drowned in Canadian maple syrup, Merlin and I – who by then had had multiple ménage-à-trois with Miguel – blew each other soft kisses whilst he sat admiringly looking at Miguel and me slow dance to this truly haunting tune.

Merlin almost never danced; however, our pas de deux between the sheets has left Merlin an unsurpassed lover of magical skills.

Happy Birthday Billie Holiday and, wherever you are, may your current incarnation be a most blessed lucid dream.  You know, I really ought to do her overleaves…

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

432 Park Avenue.

432_Park_Avenue,_Aug_2014

Architecture as high art.

At last, New York City’s two iconic structures, Empire State Building and Chrysler Building, have a companion.  Henceforth, there will a troika of granite structures which ever will define Manhattan.

Not a day goes by without me checking in to the webcam of this marvel as it comes into its own.  Simple lines; uniformity from first to 96th storey.  So elegant… so stunningly beautiful.  Classic.  Iconic.  Unsurpassed.

http://www.432parkavenue.com/new-construction-in-NYC/#video2

http://432parkavenue.com/?state=home

http://432parkavenue.com/?state=views

http://432parkavenue.com/?state=residences

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Photo:  432 Park Avenue, August 2014.

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

Happy 90th anniversary James Baldwin.

James Baldwin Art

Watercolour

© 2013 James Gayles

http://www.jamesgayles.com/

Born in the year of the Rat and on the same day (August 2) as me, James also happens to be an entity mate.  Though I never met him, Merlin did.  As we drove from actor, Joe Morton’s Upper West Side tiny apartment from his annual Halloween pumpkin kill in 1982 – we were en route to Times Square and Frederick Jones’s where we would first meet, had also met Joe Morton for the first time that night – Merlin spoke lovingly of James Baldwin whom he had met the year prior through a Black American writer friend of Frederick’s whom I never met as he had died in a car crash in July 1982.  James ever will remain one of my favourite writers.  Of course, it goes without saying that whilst he was alive, I dreamt often of James thanks to our being entity mates.

Happy birthday entity mate.  

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