Cicada Principle

25.11.202525.11.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

So much of what happens in the waking state is smothered by fear-based strictures like tribalism, classism, sexism, racism et al which results in one being preyed on – one’s very life threatened. Sadly too many proceed through their lives impervious of the Maya that effectively leaves them blind to the ties that bind us all together as souls incarnate in the human experience.

Being as awakened when awake as when asleep and dreaming, gives one a greater appreciation of the beauty of life and the beauty of all humanity. This awareness also allows one to see across the illusion of time. This sensitivity and awareness affords one the ability to perceive and appreciate the gift of persons known and loved along the way – from lifetime to lifetime.

This visionary dream not only spans the rifts of time but it also gets to the heart of the love that binds all souls together. That love that endures regardless the strictures of the waking state and the perceptions of those involved. The dream was rather magically and lucidly experienced, on Tuesday, January 9, 1996, whilst the Moon transited both Leo and near-conjunct the cusp of my fourth house.

*Prior to sleep, I meditated with crystals in the pyramid. I then focussed on being able to astral project, during sleep, to specific points on the astral plane where desired experiences could be had. I opened myself up to, requested of my soul itself, pleasurable experiences with persons whom I have shared multiple past life experiences. Most of all, I was clear that the bonds had to have been predominantly of a positive nature.

Thus, I fell into sleep open to whatever laid ahead.

In the first dream, I was having a phone conversation with both Isis and Isabella. In some way, this involved much discussion about Pandora. I had been concerned afterwards that I had not upset Pandora for having overly spoken of her. This is an area, her private affairs, which Pandora never treads into with anyone. There was real pressure here, on both her siblings’ part, to see to it that Pandora went out and got herself a job. Both were furious with Pandora and claimed that she was not putting any effort into finding a job.

Concerned for Pandora, naturally, I thought of how possibly I could help her get grounded. I thought perhaps to phone Maddox Pool and see if he could not get her work in I.A.T.S.E. However, I really did not think that Pandora would be able to adapt to such a work environment. Besides which, realistically, my connections to the place precluded her being able to get her foot through the door. Since Owen Hawksmoor knew Pandora and her connection to me, I knew that Vikram Srinivasan would definitely not approve of her getting work there.

**Officine Renault Oil on Linen 2007 Alessandro Papetti**

The next dream then found me in an incredibly far-off land. This is the only way that one can best describe this place. Here, it was nighttime out. A black capsule, in which one was able to sit, was being prepared. An additional person could sit on one’s lap though it was basically a single-occupant capsule. It was shaped not unlike the lunar modules, which returned to Earth and landed in the ocean, during the Apollo missions to the Moon at NASA’s heyday in the late 1960s to early 1970s. However, this capsule was conical. There were exceptionally tall men who wore black clothing that covered them from head to toe. Their faces were kept hidden by black visors. The capsule door was opened and closed by these same men who seemed like sentries.

At this point, when sitting in the closed capsule one would seemingly travel to distant places without moving. Of course, this was the astral projection that I had coveted during pre-sleep meditation whilst in the pyramid. Nonetheless, I became highly suspect of this capsule’s true purpose. A couple was there with a young child. They wanted the child to sit in the mother’s open legs whilst she was already seated in the male parent’s opened legs. The three members of the family wore thick saffron robes. For whatever reasons, the little girl tugged free of her mother’s embrace and began running away. Immediately, the sentries were hot on the heels of the child in a bid to apprehend her.

Of course, as it only validated my reservations about the true nature of this machine, this I did not find very reassuring. Opting out of taking a flight aboard the capsule, I shoved off instead and began flying. I left the large hangar-like structure behind me and flew out into the outdoors. Next, I was beneath the awning of the building; the awning extended from the building for about fifty yards. It was a most massive structure! The architectural proportions here were inordinately massive. The scale here was on the order that things appeared in that dream of Merlin, on July 9, 1993, which was truly astral… truly colossal.

I thought that I shouldn’t stay too close to the building – any of the sentries could come around the corner and apprehend me for having left the queue to the capsule. I then held on to the awning’s beams whilst inverted much as though I were a fly on the awning’s underside. I then went to the right, of the far left corner, where persons were way below me who busily walked about on the sidewalk and in the infrequently trafficked street. No one had noticed me. I did grow concerned, nonetheless, at being spotted from below thereby drawing unwelcome attention to myself. As I crawled along the awning, it gave way inside to the ceiling of a very noisy watering hole.

This bar was jam-packed with high-spirited persons. Not liking the energies here I crawled, still inverted, back into the large complex from which I had fled. From inside I peered outside, beyond the awning, where I saw a large craft. White and massive, it made the Boeing 747-400 series look like a compact glider. The craft’s nose, however, more resembled that of the Concorde aircraft. Thinking that the sentries were perhaps on the inside of the craft, I let go of the awning beams. Of course, these beams were the typical dark woods of the astral plane.

With that, I had resumed flying. Whilst still inverted, I flew from just inches below the beams. From time to time, I held on to a beam to get my bearings. At such times, I looked over my shoulder below and behind me. I then went in through a proper entrance to the building which I used for crossing over to another section of the noisy bar. With that I then did a half-tumble, rolling over, to now face down to the patrons in the bar below. Slowly and effortlessly, I floated down and alighted. I had not made too much of a spectacle of myself as there was a major disturbance happening in the bar to which everyone was noisily focussed.

A Hispanic man and another, who much reminded me of Diego Lunamas, were being especially rowdy. The bartender decided to maintain order and left his post to show them to the door. He was a large burly man. The door, through which they had been ushered outside, had a view to the outdoors. The natural pathway from the bar led to a large tropical-looking growth beyond the complex. Soon after they went outdoors, there was a sudden outbreak of light flashes. Basically, they had had a run-in of sorts or had been apprehended by the sentries who were clearly extra-humans. Soon after they had left the bar, I also headed outside. In search of the Hispanic with the uncanny resemblance to Diego Lunamas, I had gone flying through the air. I had remained, when airborne, between ten and fifteen feet off the ground. My flight was slow; my flight was languorous. This was clearly astral projection.

The growth here was very thick. Enjoying the purity of their energetic signature, I flew through the trees whilst simultaneously revitalising myself in the process. This soon gave way to an opening, in the thick growth, beyond which was the most breathtaking vista. These were by far the most beautiful trees imaginable. They were simply colossal. Each arboreal’s trunk was about fifty feet across whilst they towered up at least a mile. I momentarily hovered whilst my entire body quivered throughout at the powerful vibration that they exuded. This was a truly humbling experience for me. Right away, I was reminded of the ecstatic epiphany that I experienced on Boxing Day, 1972.

One tree snaked from the ground and rose up into the air. It leaned against the right side of a tree that was incredibly immense. It seemed a mile-high astral plane baobab. Flying over, I landed on the trunk of one tree. This tree had two leaves that were frond-like but incredibly oversized. Whilst I stood on the trunk, a slight man – he looked Amerindian though likely Balinese or even Fijian – approached me.

*He seemed from an earlier age in human history. Of course, this was likely owing to the fact that he was yet another humanoid, extra-human species. END.

He suggested that I look at where the growth began. The vine-like trunk was some fifty to seventy-five feet in the air; it extended at an incline to a great distance far away. It was a truly fantastical tree. There were the beginnings of the two frond-like leaves close-by. He told me that he used them to get milk. He said that the milk derived from this rare arboreal genus was used in all manner of applications.

He was a shaman. He was a true, innate dream magus.

I then noticed an indigenous ladder that they used to climb up the tree. Here it was nighttime. The frond-like leaves grew side-by-side and curled over. The leaves looked, as a matter of fact, not unlike umbrellas. It was these trees to which the locals came to harvest the vine-like tree’s milk. I then began moving down the tree trunk growing concerned as the much-feared extra-humans were expected to return soon. They seemingly appeared at set intervals and their intentions were generally adversarial.

With that, I flew away and returned into the clearing. As I flew back, where there was now a large open area below, I saw a Black man who was an agricultural engineer. He carried a wheelbarrow of earth. He had placed the earth over a trap of some sort which employed a cord system. They apparently also captured cicadas. When I came off the inclined vine-like tree, I had briefly landed on the ground before taking flight again. To my amazement, I had landed in a patch of a few hundred cicadas. They were exclusively on a tree which seemed the very centre of the growth. This central tree gave off a definite hum. All the cicadas were on the trunk of the same unique tree that seemed, by its vibrational signature, to be a life-sustaining energetic magnet. This tree was not a member of the pine family. Rather, it was a tropical tree which made the Sitkas in Vancouver’s Stanley Park or the redwoods in northern California look like seedlings.

I remained motionless for the longest while. I was magnetised by the tree’s vibrational hum. It was hypnotic. There was nothing but love radiating from this tree. It was a truly humbling encounter. The cicadas had swarmed onto its trunk to become harmonised with its vibration. As I flew off and looked back, I realised that the cicadas were being caught by the locals as they had proven themselves a nuisance. The cicadas were not in the habit of eating the crops but there were so many of them that their noisy song made the locals devise a plan. The locals simply captured and relocated as many of the cicadas as they could. I realised that this bit of drama, being acted out in the clearing, was also a metaphor for the larger drama back at the cosmopolitan complex.

There the extra-humans were laying traps, by way of the oval-shaped black capsule, for capturing unsuspecting humans. However, there was also another aspect to all this symbology that was not lost on me. I knew, though many of the cicadas were still alive, that the ones who had left their empty shells behind represented two things. The symbol of the empty cicada shell was that of being astral-projected out of the shell of the sleeping body. Secondly, the other symbolic reference was that, each discarded cicada shell represented a lifetime already concluded. They were as if totems of past lives. This was validated by the fact that here was I visiting, as it were, a remnant of a former life. It was a life that was lived in Southeast Asia. A life it was in which my spirituality was closely connected to the strong bondedness that I achieved with the all-encompassing beauty of nature.

This was validated by the ectomorphic loin-clothed Balinese – Southeast Asian – who had come from his little thatched hut to greet me and serve as a guide to me. He was, if not me, then definitely someone whom I have known in this lifetime but with whom I have shared multiple past lives. I can’t say, however, that this was Merlin in a past life. He was quite familiar and was more than likely an entity mate of mine. I was similarly reminded of Diego Lunamas in his fey sweet-eyed beauteousness.

I then flew back through the growth where I saw the Hispanic man who had been kicked out of the bar. He was standing outside a thatched hut. This man was so exceptionally good-looking. He no longer looked like his Hispanic self when at the bar. Then he had had a striking resemblance to Diego Lunamas. Here he seemed now Balinese, possibly Sumatran, though on the outside chance he could have been Filipino. He held something in his hand that looked like a knife. However, it was not a weapon as such. As he stood there, his back to the hut, he was unaware of the intense light flashes taking place inside his hut.

This to me suggested that the extra-humans were inside the hut. It was possible that this man had alternately just died and had emerged from the hut, his final astral projection, though not yet aware that he had died. I then moved inside the hut where I was able to get a handle on what was taking place. The door to the hut was a drape of green banana leaves that were regularly replaced. Lots of bamboo shoots were used to anchor and set the frame of the hut. The slight man had been desperately trying to cut through the door of leaves in a bid to get outside.

Each time that he would cut his way through one drape of leaves, to get through the door, another would manifest beyond the other that already existed there. He could never seem to cut his way free fast enough. It proved a futile attempt to get out. Each door was made of a different type of leaf and reed but all of them were green. The hut was eight feet square with a conical roof. As a matter of fact, it was more so pyramidal. I floated close to the ceiling of the hut as he desperately tried to break out. I am not at all sure that most people were able to observe me in any of these giddy dream experiences.

The loin-clothed local did not quite comprehend the nature of the shiny object that he used to try and cut his way free. Soon enough, the hut was burnt-out with a few burnt-out frame beams standing. The remaining beams were charred with black ashes everywhere. It was obvious that in his bid to escape he had not made it out. Here, it seemed as though I was experiencing a series of vignettes – vignettes into past lives – all of which were interconnected. A very intense experience of soul journeying these dreams would prove.

Again, I saw the man who much reminded me of Diego Lunamas. I flew out to the tree, with the two frond-like leaves, on which I had been earlier. I, soon enough, came down off the tree on seeing these green gourds that were cut open down on the ground. From the inside, a thicker version of what looked like coconut milk spilt out. The milk was being bled into appropriately placed containers. On closer inspection, I realised that the gourds were grown below the surface of the ground. The liquid looked much like cassava root milk.

From there, I flew ahead to another section of the great arboreal growth. Now I came to a clearing which was set in Japan. I intuitively knew that this dream occurred in Japan. For me, this was readily discernible owing to the strong past-life resonance that I experienced for being in this locale. There I saw a series of cultured rivulets that were part of a water fountain. The fountain was part of an extensive irrigation system. The cultured rivulets were stone affairs in which flowed green fluid rather than the clear transparency of water. As I had flown over this site, I saw from on high that everything was completely white.

The trees and every aspect of the landscape were completely white. I knew that it was not a snow-covered landscape. Rather, this was the result of some sort of attack from the black-clad and visored extra-humans with the conical, black space capsules. This I knew meant that they would soon be returning to the area where I was. Closer to hand, I hovered above the Japanese village.

I saw here lots of Japanese women who were performing a ritualised dance. They ritually sang and danced using fans. As they danced, they were a study in grace and reserve. From there, I decided to fly on in search of the source of the oddly green river. I rose in the air as I flew by following the incline to where the fountain began. This led me in flight into a hilltop complex where the fountain began. It was a large compound which included a temple, shrine and living quarters. Here there were more women who, though not ritually dancing, carried fans and were just as reserved.

At once, I alighted hurriedly moving through the compound. I was as if possessed. I knew at every turn which corridor to follow. On my arrival, I let out a cry upset at what I had found. I couldn’t believe what these people had done. They had desecrated this important bit of their culture and heritage. Of course, this was an astral projection to a past life milieu. Everything was at once familiar. My sense of smell was acute. All the writings I fully understood though they were in Kanji and Sanskrit. In that past life, my former self had had a hand in establishing the temple and its shrine. Now some time later, however, they were performing these rituals in appeasement of the new overlords.

Of course, the new overlords would have been the extra-humans. I was really upset… I was really hurt. They shook the fans as they danced and this was supposed to have mimicked something about the extra-humans’ culture with which I was not familiar. To atone, the Japanese humans had set up several altars to the extra-humans. Truth be told, they worshipped the extra-humans as their deities. The reserved women had the same milk-like substance which I had earlier seen being harvested. Said harvesting area looked to be in Bali more than anywhere else. The harvested milk-like drink was stored in very ornate vessels that were decidedly Japanese and examples of ancient Japanese pottery.

In particular, there was a large dark-wood altar – Butsudan – that captivated me. Inside the Butsudan were several wooden carvings which were in the likeness of the visored extra-humans. I grabbed one of the carvings, enraged, and began banging it against the other carvings. In short order, I had desecrated the imposition that the extra-humans’ presence represented. I began furiously yelling at the Japanese locals for having sold out. What really surprised me was just how enraged and powerful a persona I possessed. I was intensely warrior-spirited. I seemingly was a member of a Samurai sect which meant that there was fierce pride and honour at stake here. This was such a gross betrayal.

“Where was their loyalty to traditions and history?” I rhetorically asked. As I bashed away at the carvings, I heavily panted. I felt rather passionate, on my return, about the fruits of my past-life labour having been defiled once left behind on my passing in that former lifetime. I addressed them in Japanese, no less. It was quite something.

*It much reminded me of that dream encounter with ‘Francesca,’ on January 1, 1989. I had then encountered the fiery redheaded Briton who had been a former life of mine. I was quite the strong-personalitied dramatic woman who was quite sparkling-personalitied and with great presence. END.

In that former Japanese life my body of work was clearly dear to me. I couldn’t conceive of how these people would turn their backs on the efforts made on their behalf. With that I took leave of them and went rushing into the shrine’s private apartments. I ran up the stairs then stopped and walked along the unusually narrow hallways. The proportions here were decidedly Japanese. On the walls were engravings that bore inspiring words and poems. All of the art was spiritually focussed. Too, there were lots of long narrow rugs on the wooden floor of the hallways.

An extremely ancient Butsudan sat in the private apartments where once I had lived in that former life. The Butsudan’s two silver latches were complicated to open. In fact, they were not readily opened based on the way that they appeared. Nonetheless, from memory, I effortlessly opened them on the first try. The shrine was so immediately familiar. I couldn’t believe that it still stood there. My fingers actually trembled as I made to open the latches. The Butsudan was also covered in wooden engravings. One set of the latches ran across the midsection of the Butsudan. Still, the other latch system came down vertically at the bottom. So excited was I that I began levitating whilst opening the Butsudan.

I first opened the one at the midsection, then the other, after which I flung open the door excited to once more see the Butsudan’s coveted scroll. Just inside the door, there was a dark-brown leather flap with engravings on it. Raising the flap finally led the light to be cast in on the most time-yellowed Gohonzon imaginable. It was truly antique and I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing. The structure was so very powerful. On realising what it was, I shuddered and began quivering throughout. Immediately, my connection to Buddhism in this lifetime was being validated. Of course, having seen Diego Lunamas in the environs of prior dreams made perfect sense.

He had also been on the palatial grounds of the temple as I had hovered in the air. On opening the shrine, I alighted and collapsed on the floor in lotus position before the Gohonzon. I keenly focussed on the Gohonzon though mindful of the fact that the black-clad and visored extra-humans would be returning soon. Here in this most awakened of dreams, I began chanting Daimoku. I cannot stress enough how intensely lucid a dream experience this was. As I chanted, I became aware of my vibration rapidly intensifying. I remained reverential before the ancient Gohonzon, with hands clasped, yet I found it hard to believe that I was having the experience. More than that, the flow of energies from the time-yellowed Gohonzon to me was as real and intense as the intense light flooding the tiny private apartments – an apartment where once I had lived in a former life when Japanese.

There was the sillage of sweet sandalwood incense ghosting the air. For some time, I chanted aloud then concluded with a long, slow, piercing utterance of Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo. With that, I shot to my feet and fled from the room going down the hallway and turned to the left. In my haste, I had left the Butsudan opened with the Gohonzon exposed. However, there was a strong sense that it was to have been left opened. The light and energies from the Gohonzon needed to be obstructed no more. I then arrived into the large palatial living quarters that were quite open. There was a low mat, a futon actually, to the left of the door on entering the room.

To the right of the door, half of the wall area opened up to a view of the beautifully terraced gardens outdoors. I knew that whoever presently lived there was coming. I could sense the person’s approach down on the grounds to the right. With that, I floated down to the ground level and effortlessly moved through the pane of glass. I simply upped my frequency and willed myself to become light-bodied. Thus, I was able to effortlessly move through the thick floor-to-ceiling pane of glass. I went to the left of the building, slowly moving through the night air, on the terraced grounds of the temple compound. At that point, I noticed that there was a man approaching.

About my neck, I still wore a brown scarf that had covered the Gohonzon. On opening up the large Butsudan, I had removed and placed the scarf about my shoulders. As I flew with the scarf, I realised that I could be apprehended once spotted with the unique telltale scarf. The man waited for me around some large wooden pylons that served as the opening in the fence. It was, in fact, a gate system. It led from the private inner courtyard to the outer courtyard where others could gather. There were several wooden stools on which one could sit and reflect on the beautiful gardens. Architecturally, this place was simply inspiring. It was truly Zen here and was both uplifting and conducive to serenity.

On coming around the pylons, the man turned out to be none other than Kaarlsohn Frieden. From above in the air, I was stunned to have both seen and found him here and excitedly beamed down at him. He wore only a large top that fell to just below his arse. Floating down, I alighted whilst the brilliance of a full Moon night seemed to magically shift to intense daylight. The lighting here was truly ethereal. The energies here were wonderful. Here on the grounds of this compound, the energy was very densely negative-ioned.

Way down the hill, whilst in flight, I had noticed several children playing. They were all Japanese. I had landed by a series of stone shrines that had been strategically placed about the gardens. A stone table sat close by that looked several centuries old. I simply couldn’t believe that I was having a dream encounter with Kaarlsohn. Here was I so lucid and he was so real. Truly, this was an astral plane encounter of the highest order. On ambling over, I warmly greeted him. I chose not to try and get rid of the scarf. I was, though, concerned whether or not he would be mad with me for being there.

He called me over. Kaarlsohn’s stubby thighs were strong and athletic-looking as though he were in his twenties. Understandably, he did look older than when I knew him. On the inside of his right thigh, I noticed a large thick vein. As he looked at me warmly smiling, I stood to his left. Kaarlsohn was so warm but, more importantly, I couldn’t get over how real an encounter this was. As he was only wearing the large unisexed top, and nothing beneath it, I got a good drift of his sex’s strong musk. It was a bit overwhelming but I kept focussed on his clear smiling eyes.

Looking into his eyes, I spoke to him making sure to be simultaneously telepathic – there is greater power of persuasion when thus focussed, “Oh my god, Kaarlsohn, I’d give anything to be alone with you. To be intimate but not necessarily sexual, mind you. “I’d do anything to relax and recline with you, sensually. I’d really love to laze about with you… caressing.” At that point, I placed my arm about his lower back whilst we unflinchingly looked into the other’s eyes. He smiled sweetly blushing. I then caressed his arse and felt its firm roundness beneath the sheer light fabric.

Then Kaarlsohn surprised me by saying, “Well, I like to do that, from time to time…” He slowly, suggestively arched his brows high up his forehead. It was a gesture that was reminiscent of Merlin when he wanted to be intimate. What was really telling though was Kaarlsohn’s enunciation when he had uttered those words. By ‘time’ he meant reincarnational time and not time relating to his present incarnation. So that he meant at the level of soul, he did not mind having a same-sexed or bisexual focus ever so often when incarnate.

I looked at him and was blown away by his mischievousness. With that, we both playfully laughed at his teasing winsome handsomeness. Here his voice was not as strong a bass as his voice is in this lifetime. Beyond all that, the level of love, warmth and intimacy between us was astonishing. It was a rare pleasure to be so genuinely intimate with another soul. This depth of openness and acceptance simply blew me away. Then as if all that weren’t revolutionary Kaarlsohn initiated sexual play. He fondled me whilst undoing me with the most sensual kisses all over.

By this point, we were now sitting down on the table in lotus position ravenously groping each other. From time to time, he would stop kissing me to directly look into my eyes. On those occasions, it was as though time itself stood still. My senses were so heightened that I thought I would simply die of joy during the dreamtime. Kaarlsohn’s eyes were so real and focussed. His eyes’ intensity was only distantly frightening as they were so potent. Lips passion-reddened, moist and apart revealed his quivering tongue. He quickly breathed in shallow breaths in between groaning. His groans were filled with yearning and called out to me.

Truly aroused, he seductively invited me to come out of myself to join him in ecstasy. His hard, firm hands were tightly wrapped about my throbbing cock slowly kneading and massaging it. What he was doing was not sexual. Rather, he was performing energy work. With each groan that called out to me, he was inviting me to do the same for him. So I did in kind. Kneading, gently and just as painstakingly slowly, I massaged his thick, large, foreskinned cock. There was nothing more potent and shamanic than the energies that passed between us. It was electrifying. It was magus.

I did sense that there were a couple of bruises on his cock which I had passingly noticed. I thought that, perhaps, they were from an outbreak of herpes. He then said, as my cock grew more tumescent, “This is a really nice cock, you’ve got…” As he gently massaged me and pulled back on my foreskin, my cock kept stabbing into the centre of his cupped right palm. As I danced and flew without moving, in spirit, a more sensual solo variation could not have been danced by Evelyn Hart. Indeed, he was as if David Peregrine to my Evelyn Hart – in the sensually exquisite pas de deux, Belong.

At this point, I lucidly became aware of my intentions prior to sleep. I had specifically meditated asking to have memorable experiences, on the astral plane, with those whom I have shared positive past life experiences. Whilst I looked hypnotised into his large clear eyes – which here were a brownish-green, I recalled having shaped my dreams. The light here was so intensely brilliant. Much of the light here was being initiated by the love that this man’s very august soul was imparting to me. A truly energising magus dream experience this was.

*What is most phenomenal about this soulfully intimate experience, of all the people I know, Kaarlsohn is the least homoeroticised. He is also the most macho of men. Too, I had neither spoken to him in ages nor had I recently thought of him. Yet here was this major totemic encounter. It truly proved healing and insightful a dream encounter. Whilst in the midst of our intimacy, I let out a sigh and suddenly found myself being slapped back into my body. At having had my astral projection aborted, there was weightiness at my solar plexus as I suddenly awoke. I had been slapped awake by the shrill cries of raccoons outside my opened bedroom window. They were having yet another nasty fight. They had come out of Stanley Park to forage for food.

I had been terrified on hearing the grunting and screeching, whilst in the midst of my potent astral plane encounter with Kaarlsohn. I had assumed that it was the sound of the extra-humans advancing on us. Now, I realised that these so-called extra-humans were, in fact, astral guides. Rather than being a negative force, the sentries were there to assist with proper astral protection. I had been projecting the disturbance outside the window onto the visored and unseen astral guides. Raccoons are visored, as it were, with their distinctive black band across their faces at the eyes. As was the case, the raccoons had been fighting for some time and continued fighting for much of the night. In fact, they fought till daybreak. They prowled the West End in search of food before scurrying back to Stanley Park at twilight.

**What’s really interesting about these astral plane rendezvous was that both Diego Lunamas and Kaarlsohn Frieden I met during my stay in Winnipeg. With both men, I had enjoyed an ease of communication and instinctively knew that we had had past life contacts. Diego I had introduced to Nichiren Buddhism. Kaarlsohn had already been practicing when I started. Kaarlsohn proved a good companion with whom to chant Daimoku. Rarely have I felt this satiated on awakening from the dreamtime. Though understandably aroused as all hell, I cried for joy at the beauty that I had just experienced and chose to remain lying in repose within the pyramid. The reason for some of the cicadas having been alive was that they represented the ever present “now” of the soul which does not experience time. Initially, the cicadas had all been alive but then some flickered out of existence.

Those cicadas that remained were quite a few. They surely represented the potential of future lifetimes. However, the remaining cicadas that were still alive were not in the majority. The cicadas initially were all alive because to the soul they were being experienced simultaneously – past lifetimes, future lifetimes and this lifetime. The sum totality of my lifetimes, as symbolised by the cicadas, was a swarm of creative energy which was magnetised to this great arboreal giant. Of course, the arboreal giant represented the soul to which ultimately all cicadas – in order that they may experience transformation, reincarnational metamorphosis – are anchored. The tree to which the cicadas were anchored also represented the physical plane. A physical plane into which the lifetimes of the reincarnating soul, as symbolised by the cicadas, had to manifest in order to become self-actualised and fulfilled both spiritually and creatively.

As much as the arboreal giant represented the soul quality on the astral plane, simultaneously, it represented the physical plane into which the soul was reincarnationally focussed. Since I was on the astral plane whilst dreaming – where time as such does not exist – the cicadas were all-extant. The totemic cicadas represented every lifetime’s dreamer self which is never extinguished. Thus the dreamer self forms a conduit, like the black teleportation-like capsule, to having connective glimpses into past or even future lifetimes.

I suppose too that, at the start of this lyrical dream adventure, the black conical capsule in which one sat and travelled was a symbolic icon of my pyramid. Of course, when lucidly dreaming these truly marvellous dreams of uplifting adventure, I was sleeping in my pyramid. This was a truly illuminating dream experience. To have experientially undertaken this astral awakening was very rhapsodic, in each lucid moment, as it swept me along. A sensory feast this was. A feast on which my very soul was made pleasurably besotted. A truly magus dream odyssey this was and one which validated anew that dreams truly are the poetry of the soul. END.

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Late last month, October26, 2025, I attended the final evening of concerts in honour of Oscar Peterson’s centennial. It was simply glorious. At the end of part two, Cécile McLorin-Salvant sung the most haunting rendition of Hymn to Freedom, which above is performed live in 1964 in Denmark by Oscar Peterson and his trio of Ray Brown and Ed Thigpen. Sweet and blissful dreams ever be yours ennobled Sir.

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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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An Orgiastic Porcine Feast (Redux)

25.09.202512.10.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

‡This blog is a return of a dream blog shared more than a decade ago. I am adding it here rather than my usual focus on principals of the House of Windsor and the evolving relations. I have chosen to take a break this month as I am working on a more detailed blog for next round. Besides, after the animus from last month’s blog, “To Be A Princess, You Have to Be Born A Princess.” I am so wary of predominantly Americans having decided that Meghan is Princess Meghan, Duchess Meghan et al. Why must Americans always decide that they must put their take on everything, because as it was – in this case royal styles and titles – of course it was all wrong until they decided to fix it.

**THR Prince William and Catherine, the Prince & Princess of Wales, September, 2025**

Let me take the time to share this photo that left me brimming with joy. Never before has Catherine, HRH The Princess of Wales looked more glorious; furthermore, William wore the Windsor uniform and has his left hand on his wife’s waist. Someone chided me because I posted this image on my Instagram; they wanted to know how I could do so when I hate them. Firstly, you can hate no one. I will never forget how my lips trembled and I grew teary as Catherine stood there in her Sarah Burton for Alexander McQueen wedding dress, at the foot of the aisle. She was in closeup, looking at the dean of Westminster Abbey and smiled her earring matching her eyes sparkle. You can never eclipse a winning wow moment like that. Heck, everyone told me to be quiet as I began yelling at William and telling him to get up and sit properly but to remain standing until his new bride was sat in the landau. Then Meghan came along and they proved themselves far too human and myopic without realising the gravity of their roles. Meghan could never be a threat; they are both in their destined role as further King and Queen Consort/King Mother as was the case previously when William was then King Henry IV and Catherine his first wife, Mary, who died young. As Meghan was Margaret Beaufort and thus no reincarnational pushover, boundaries clearly had to be set and the current arrangement is the best way to have establish one’s self-respect and dignity and not be subjected to a insufferable, racially predatory degrading work/life experience.

**Return, Oil Painting ©2025 Gordon Shadrach**

These next dreams occurred on March, 26; however, rather than 1995, they occurred in 1998. I was then resident in Montréal. What’s more, the day was Thursday and at the time, the Moon transited both Pisces and my tenth house.

It was a rather long, involved, operatic dream and it was an encounter with an extra-human (ET) species never before encountered in the dreamtime. Hey, you want to believe that Mary lay down and gave birth without once having beautifully made love like every other woman and that the universe was made simply for unimaginative human dolts to gaze in the sky and praise their made up deity, knock yourself out.

The purpose of being incarnate is to explore intellect or else we are merely nothing more than semi-feral simians over-breeding and out of season at that… That having been said, the purpose of being awakened in the dream realms is so that one can awaken to the personal truth that all of life is experiential.

It is not for you, dear reader, to project and read into what the dreams shared herein are about, any more than it is good work to go crossing to the other side of the street, more firmly clutching your handbag, at the sight of me – Black male – approaching; I don’t want your fucking handbag… you pigeon-toed dolt…

After having read the next dream, please try and fathom the futility of trying to ‘read’ the signs of dreams. Experiences in the dream realms are as real, at times even more so, as the regurgitated maya-saturated dreck we daily drudge our way through oftentimes somnambulantly…

Why do I dream as I do… choice, of course. I chose to thusly be focussed in this incarnation. I do not nor have I ever done drugs; no shrooms, DMT, Ayahuasca, no LSD, hell, I do not look at television, do not own a television… it is mindlessness… the last time that I watched television was to look at both inaugurations of President Barack H. Obama and between those events, the royal wedding of William & Catherine – so beautiful when any two souls find each other in this vast universe – and you know that I’ve watched it repeatedly on DVD since… I choose being focussed in each moment of being incarnate whether awake or asleep; and trust you me with the amount of fear and bullshit in the waking state one needs the grounding and fluidity of the dream realms to repair the spirit. Of course, being focussed in the dreamtime is a function of being a sixth positioned, late-mature artisan; if I don’t like what’s going down on channel one, I’ve got four other options – who needs TV, seriously? Of course, why do drugs when crystals, isolation tanks and pyramids can do wonders for harmonising and focussing the mind, body and spirit to afford the unfoldment of intellect – especially when focussed in the dream realms… imagination is everything… besides, as a sceptic, it did not take too long before I realised that choosing the easy route in life looked like no end of ennui…

**Tall Tundra Bird ©2013 Kenojuak Ashevak**

Now before you dismissively sniff, let’s move on to the reason why you are here, to be richly inspired by my spirit’s light as it manifests when in the dreamtime… there is negligible growth in fearfulness… pay keen attention to how I chose to respond to the dream experience as it unfolded; I’d be honoured if it inspires you…

Here, in this the first dream, I was lucidly awakened. Night-time found me with a friend whose sex I am not now certain of. The person was about my height and seemed energetically to be a man.

As we walked on a wide boulevard, up ahead I noticed that the street dead-ended. Beyond it was an empty lot. Here it was bright out though not necessarily a full Moon. Here the energies were strange, just a tad off. The buildings all around were made of red brick, like those buildings at Ellis Island New York where Eurotrash descended like feral jackals in the last century.

This place left me feeling as if I were in Brooklyn, New York City. The buildings were reminiscent of Brooklyn brownstones except that these were six to eight storeys tall. Set back a bit from the road, these were though rather colossal buildings. What was weird about it all was that the entire area seemed to have been long deserted.

Something about these houses just didn’t seem right. Sure enough, someone headed down the street towards us. Finding the place a bit on the creepy side, we had only noticed him for having turned around to check out the lay of the land. Swarthy, he had a full thick beard with a look that was not readily discernible. He could well have been North African, Hispanic, Jewish, Arabic or even Italian. His look was a mélange of so many ethnicities.

He wore a parka which struck me as odd as it was not cold out; neither, for that matter, were we dressed for cold weather. Joining us, he began speaking to us warmly with energies that were nonthreatening. I had been the one to have initiated dialogue. When heading down towards the dead-ended street, he had joined us in the middle of the block. As he walked, I encouraged him to walk between us. I pointed out that the buildings seemed like those at Ellis Island which were featured in the film, Brother From Another Planet in which Merlin’s friend the actor, Noëll Saltmarche starred.

As I had never been to Ellis Island, I added that I couldn’t be sure that it was as much. Perhaps, I speculated, it was that part of Brooklyn in the neighbourhood of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. However, he shrugged off the suggestion; he seemingly was more confident of its location than either my friend or I were. As we progressed, I asked why exactly we were headed towards this dead-end in the boulevard anyway. So we turned around and when I went to look up into the face of this burly brawny man to smile, I noticed the sky just beyond his towering face. He was a warrior-spirited man with a great deal of Jovian energies to his body.

Here, there were a phenomenal number of intensely bright stars in the night sky. One constellation caught my eye but left me confused as to whether it was Orion or Pegasus. I pointed out its odd formation in the sky but the stranger pointed out that it was nothing really. He seemed much too casual about it all. Clearly, he was trying to distract me from cluing into what was up here.

Right away, I grew wary of his motives and wondered what all of this was about anyway. My friend looked up and confirmed that this was not the heavens as, in the waking state, we perceived them from Sol local. Absently, he said aloud that there was something weird about this which there was. In the sky was white light in the shape of an arrow which led from what was clearly Orion off to another constellation. I remarked that there were never arrows in the sky before, either from Orion or any other constellation. Obviously, there was something about all this that was not Kansan in the least.

It seemed highly improbable that there would be any manmade objects in orbit that would be in the shape of an arrow. With that I suggested that we walk back rather than proceed any further. Artfully, I claimed, wanting to go explore the other streets. I said that I wanted to explore the architecture in the neighbourhood which I describe as being charming. Though the buildings were mostly red brick, there were some architectural signatures which were of pale sandstone that nicely set off the red brick. They were, however, far and few between. The colossal buildings here tended to have clock towers on them for the most part. The taller the buildings rose in the sky the more they receded ziggurat-like with towers of impressive neo-Gothic spires.

My keen sense impression was alerted to there being something odd about these buildings. To my way of thinking, they seemed merely façade for something else entirely different. Most of all, I knew quite lucidly that I was dreaming – which is to say that, at any time, I could collapse the experience by tuning vibrationally away from this place. Yet my curiosity was piqued by the outréness of the place. This is why I had been keenly observant of the stranger’s energies. For this reason, so as not to awaken any alien and possible inimical response in him, I had been warm and engaging with him.

Even his parka seemed so much cover, hiding god-only-knows-what outréness about his physique, which would prove alien to humans’. In a friendly but dismissing gesture, I went to place my hand on his arm – to affectionately pat him – pointing out that it was good to have seen him and hoped to see him around some time. I again touched him, this time just beyond his wrist, only to feel a skin that was covered throughout with large knobby clumps. For the life of me I couldn’t tell whether these were clumps of his hirsute hairs forming into little dreadlock clusters or the fact that he was diseased. If the latter, perhaps, it was his reason for wearing the parka. Either way, it just didn’t seem all that right to me.

It was as if the skin of a crocodile or at least as one would expect it to feel. Though it was most bizarre, I kept direct eye contact with him; I chose never to betray dread or fear in what sinister extra-human this could possibly be. Saying that he would stay behind to study the stars, he agreed to say so long. As we headed back trying not to do so, too hurriedly, I looked off to the right and noticed a spectacular array of stars in the sky. Both of us stopped to marvel at the beauty and intensity of the stellar concentration. It was as if being close to the hub of our galaxy, it was quite fantastic.

Just then, I noticed yet another arrow streaking through the blackness of interstellar space; this one considerably longer than the one which streaked from Orion. From our extra-stellar perspective, both Orion and Pegasus seemed to have collided several million light years earlier and left an amalgam of both. It was all very strange. The head of the arrow, plus a bit of its stem, had been protruding from Orion. Now with this newly discovered arrow, its light was made of black light.

Even against the blackness of interstellar space, it was a discernibly black light. It was considerably longer than the white arrow. To my right, its point was headed away from the street on which we stood truly spellbound. It was at a fifteen degree angle to the deserted street. Since there was something much too weird about it all, we decided to turn back. What’s more, the man was no longer with us. Though extra-human he may be, it was good to have had anyone rather than no one.

On turning back, though we had only taken a few steps, the man was no longer anywhere to be seen. Certainly, he couldn’t have entered any of the buildings as they were far too removed from the sidewalk for him to have dodged into any of them. Quite simply, he had vanished into thin air. My companion said matter-of-factly, “Oh well. He’s definitely an extra-human and has beamed up.” Even if he had leapt into the sky to take flight, we would have at least seen him aloft, yet he was nowhere to be found. There was definitely something afoot here.

I told my friend that we had to make ourselves as scarce as possible; thus, walking briskly to the point of being on the verge of jogging, we took off. However, looking as menacing as one would expect sinister extra-humans to be posturing, two other men had immediately come from the buildings up the road. Again, they looked pretty much of the same stock as the disappeared, parka-clad extra-human did and were also just as abundantly hirsute. They were exceptionally tall, close to seven feet, and seemed as if hobos.

That, of course, was all part of their camouflage. However, it was not their true identity. I told my companion that we simply had to split up, to confuse them, he agreed.

With that, I pushed off immediately and took to flight. Now I was flying, at great speeds, veering off to the left though I had been on my companion’s left. Going along a street after having sped across a row of identical, red-bricked colossal buildings, I flew on ahead. As I flew on, I looked after myself to find them standing there on the ground. Surveilling me keenly, with an intense fixed gaze, they stood there on the street below. It was as though, by means of telepathy, they were recording my flight to transmit it live elsewhere. I then noticed as I flew overtop the city that there were never any persons on the streets.

However, from time to time, one would see the same kinds of people like the hirsute stranger who in his charming way had at one point had his arm around us whilst directing us ahead. Had we not been aware, he could well have captured us. What was of concern to me, rather than their camouflaged, none-too-convincing human disguise, was how these persons looked in their natural state. Who knows what their agendum was? Were they here to hurt us? Did we represent nothing more to them but food? Were we dispensable collateral?

Were their interests solely in seizing the planet for their species and as such Earthlings were like Africans, squatting on valuable resource-rich, real estate, are perceived by the rest of humanity? This left me thinking of how very vulnerable we are for being here isolated on this planet. We are as if truly alone in this sector of the galaxy. Of course, like any individual long isolated, we humans have been a deeply troubled fragmented tribe. How pray tell would we fare if we were to be visited by an aggressive species of Extra-humans?

One rather suspects that they would care little about who was who on the racial pecking order but see us all as dispensable. We are not a united species and for that there would be no way that we could prove anywhere of a threat to any species with designs of a hostile intervention on this planet. These people walking about in human camouflage were quite Wotanesque in stature and looked very healthy indeed. Clearly, neither Earth nor humans posed an inimical proposition for their agenda however sinister or otherwise. Following the streets below, rather than staying over any of the colossal buildings, I kept on flying over the city. Too, I remained not too high as I didn’t want to be tracked by the Extra-humans.

Besides, who knew if there was some ‘cloaked’ spaceship of theirs hovering invisibly just above the rooftops. This would leave me vulnerable to being readily attacked or apprehended by them.

Eventually, I flew on ahead and came to an area where more of the same buildings enclosed a square. Here the buildings were ancient and were built such that it was reminiscent of being in Lower Manhattan, where that part of town was built during the early part of the 20^th century. On arriving at one building, I hovered above the courtyard or the back thereof. Just as I was about to alight on a ledge, I looked for an open window. I discovered an open window so slowly began alighting towards it. Before touching down, I saw a young Chinese woman inside it who looked like a student. I remained hovering in the air outside and slightly above the window observing her as she paced neurotically about the room.

She was speaking to herself and was noticeably upset about something. Exasperated, she sighed heavily saying, “I just can’t take this anymore. I have to do this…” With that she came and stood on the ledge of the wide-open large window in what seemed like an industrial-building-turned-loft-space. She squatted on the sill, wearing black pants which revealed her wide-hipped with a burgundy-coloured top over top that. She would have been in her early twenties but very intense.

Hers was a cramped, very beautifully laid out apartment which reminded me of my tiny apartment at 425-1915 Haro Street in Vancouver’s West End. Even down to the walls, they were the same cream-coloured affair as that apartment of mine. Before I knew what next, she pushed off and began falling straight down to the ground. Never once did she make a single sound. She landed hard with a thump that had a massive sonic impact on the environment. This I think was because of the gravity of what she had just done. Definitely, there was no way that she had survived this fall. In an old building with high-ceilinged floors, she had been more than five storeys up.

She fell into the courtyard where it was damp below. At the time of her suicide, there was no one about to witness her violent exit. I then landed on the same sill just after she pushed off. I had no intentions of trying to stop her as it was fairly obvious that she was determined to carry out her deed. The whole thing was much too massive, karmically, for me to have tried intervening. I didn’t know the score – what was motivating her to do what she did. Like all suicides, what she was doing carried too massive a psychic burden for me to have become entangled with her.

Since I needed desperately a place to hide out, her place seemed ideal. Her untidy, selfish exit was all very convenient for me. On entering her just-vacated apartment, I began exploring it. The place was a very scholarly-looking dwelling. There was no getting around the fact that this woman was a Scholar Soul. She was quite a well-organised student. Off in one corner was a kitchenette where she clearly did like to cook. Lots of seasonings and drying herbs were stuffed everywhere in the kitchenette. Though a tiny space, every nook and cranny of it was perfectly laid out and compartmentalised.

Taking the time, I tried to get a good appreciation of her just concluded life. To that end, I went pouring deftly through every square inch of the place. I absorbed all the clues to her life and emotional makeup as exhibited by her dwelling. One had the sense that this woman was so tightly strung that suicide would seem to have been a most logical solution to a major crisis. I tried not to leave fingerprints about. To that end, I had grabbed a piece of fabric from the kitchen that was green and white though not checkered. I used it to pull drawers and items open as I poured through the place. All that I wanted to know was where the devil was the door from her tiny apartment that led out to the hallway.

Each time that I opened a door, the cloth in hand covering the knob, it would lead into yet another well-stocked, cramped closet. After having cautiously opened yet another door, only to find no such thing as a door to the hallway, it became a bit amusing. One door, which I was convinced led to the hallway, led right into her bathroom which was fragrant-smelling. To say the least, it was quite nicely stocked and ladylike a place. The kitchenette was beautiful with a wonderful rack system in which she kept all her fresh vegetables. There I saw spaghetti squashes, on one shelf, whilst above that ripening tomatoes. Still below the squashes were onions, garlic, shallots.

Interestingly, she used the slat-filled crates in which produce was shipped to stores, converting them into a drawer storage system in which her produce were stored. In that way, they were able to breathe without growing mold and going bad. This was so beautifully organised that it was quite good to have seen. I was saddened that she had had to choose suicide rather than seek some other resolution to her crisis whatever it was. I thought that for having experienced her dwelling that she was a beautiful person which only made her passing that much more tragic a loss. I was saddened after having taken a tour of the place.

In all honesty, it had never been my intentions to do any such thing but in the end that’s what happened as each door led me to anywhere but the hallway. I wanted to be able to leave the apartment unobserved without, having disturbed anything, giving the impression that I had been an intruder. From there I had planned to go downstairs, and take my leave of the building, so as to blend in with the locals. Off to the left of the window, on entering, was a door which originally I had assumed was a broom closet. In the end, it would prove to be the apartment’s front door but there were no demarcations on it to suggest that it was such.

The bathtub was a tiny affair which couldn’t have accommodated anyone other than a child. Adults would have to stand up and take a shower rather than attempt taking a bath therein. The whole style here was decidedly 1930s, in the deco style though not exclusively. The student had a laptop computer over on a desk on which were, piled high, all manner of books. Rather a beautiful space, this place. An old faded rug dominated the central living space which was not especially large. The main room was not square as over in one corner the lines were broken to accommodate the bathroom area. Diagonally, was the alcove which led to the front door, next to the single large window which flooded the room with light.

The window was a sliding affair whose bottom half slid up to open. A lone futon was the only signs of a sleeping area which I suspect she customarily never had time to open beyond the sofa position. The desk with laptop was directly across the room from the large open window. Off to the left, beyond another alcove, and across the room was the door which led to the kitchen. Once inside, there were tiny, white, quarter inch square tiles covering the kitchenette floor. Intentionally faded, the look was caesarean Rome.

In back of the sofa, there was a wall of bookcases. Every square inch of each crammed, of course, plus there were lively, healthy hanging plants cascading from on top. One didn’t get the sense that she owned a pet besides which I didn’t see one. The bookcase unit created a partition of sorts around which she could retreat to get undressed. Obviously, this woman did not entertain. A very studious woman she was. Wondered as to what could have caused her to have snapped. It didn’t seem as if she were the type to become caught up in some intense amour fou ménage à trois, in which she was betrayed and lost out in the end.

More than likely, she had probably failed miserably on her exams. Or perhaps she had been found out cheating in which case the only way out for her was suicide rather than be expelled and dishonoured. I really did feel for her loss. Going to the apartment’s front door, I slowly pried it open cautiously. Before doing so, listening to see if there was anyone outside who would possibly see me, I had stood there a long while. Seeing that it was the dead of night, I thought better of being so overly cautious as there was likely no one outside. Indeed, hearing that there was no one outside, I slowly opened the door only to have discovered the bathroom. It was hysterical indeed.

Eventually, I did find the nondescript alcove through which one entered and exited the beautiful little apartment. Sure enough, this was the apartment’s front door. The large window was the second to last from the end of the building; however, there was a stairwell close by as soon as you got into the hallway. She was in the back of the building and looking to the courtyard; once outside in the hallway, the building was laid out confusingly. There was a large, grand square formation staircase in this wing of the building which led downstairs.

Looking below it was quite the drop to the bottom which was a marble-tiled affair. A long-haired White male student had just left his apartment and heard when I closed the door to the Oriental’s. His was dirty blond and parted in the center. Familiarly, he had called out to her, calling her ‘Junko’ which is definitely a Japanese name. On seeing me, he became immediately concerned… understandably. He knew that she almost never had anyone in her apartment. Even more awkward was the fact that I couldn’t tell him that his friend had just committed suicide.

More than that, there was the matter of her apartment window being open with her dead body below in the courtyard. This did not look good for me at all. He naturally had every right to assume that for having seen me leave her place – a total stranger – that I had been an interloper who, once confronted, had shoved her to her death. It was the only logical thing to have concluded and race had nothing whatsoever to do with that conclusion. Junko, a loner, wouldn’t have had a stranger there. Seemingly, this was a student’s residence connected to some university or other. Naturally, he would have known that I was not a resident in the building.

Since I was clearly out of sorts there, I doubled back on myself. Only further implicating myself, I made my way into a tiny, narrow wooden fire escape. This was, of course, inside the building itself. On leaving the building, in a bit of a rush, I noticed two women standing outside. Wearing outfits which made much noise when they walked, these women were unusually dressed. There were tiny squares of bronzish-purple colour which were made of pliant hard plastic. They stood at the foot of a wonderful old European cobblestone bridge that spanned a river; it was not as wide as the river Thames is at Westminster Abbey.

All the fixtures here were beautiful, rich with black art nouveau lampposts from a bygone era. Their lights cascaded over, like hanging plant in bloom. They were on the left side of the bridge when looking towards the city’s other bank. Standing there, they solicited by handing out flyers. I for one didn’t want to get too involved in the crowd that they were attracting. Then again, I didn’t want to make myself conspicuous by snubbing them. Instead, after having taken the flyer then feigned reading it whilst hurrying away along the bridge, I pretended to be in a hurry. Here, as I crossed the bridge, the sunlight was beginning to come up.

The first thing that I noticed on crossing the bridge was that all the buildings here were like those first seen which reminded me of Ellis Island. Something was quite so off about this entire place. Seeing a table close by, I decided to go there to sit and get my bearings. There were already three women seated at the table. Approaching them, I asked if they would mind my sitting there. It was a large round table at an outdoor café. It wasn’t until sitting down that I noticed in my hand the same dish cloth, so as not to leave my fingerprints lying about, which I had been using back at ‘Junko’s’ apartment to handle everything.

Discreetly, I placed it on my right thigh to make it look like a napkin. My back was being bathed by the rising sun behind me as I drank in the energies all about me. The women were visiting warmly, laughing and enjoying themselves. These were genuinely happy persons. Not wanting to intrude on them by doing or saying anything, I ordered something to eat. They told me not to mind them as they visited and I assured them that I would be quite okay keeping to myself. The next thing that I knew, however, some undercover cops showed up. They apprehended me and placed me under arrest. Feigning ignorance, I asked what they were talking about. Yet deep within I knew that, my having been in Junko’s university residence and after having been seen by her long-haired friend, I was a prime suspect.

Of course, no one had shoved Junko to her death any more than Junko had willed her way to her death with great forcefulness. They told me to stop pretending because they had gotten a good description of me from a key witness who had discovered Junko’s body. Apparently, many persons living in the complex had seen me leaving. Basically, they had pieced together a scenario not wildly removed from what I had long concluded: that there had been a struggle between Junko and me when I broke into her apartment. Naturally, being larger than her, I had been able to shove her through the window of her apartment to her death. They told me that one of the witnesses had heard Junko scream.

This I knew was bullshit as I recalled distinctly Junko never once having made a sound as she violently tossed her body to her death. Needless to say, this was not what had happened but naturally this made sense as they made a science of pinning me with her death. The officers then instructed me to look to my left as further proof of my having been the perpetrator of Junko’s demise. There, I noticed that the wall was a reddish-to-sandstone colour which looked like fired clay. Nicely camouflaged against it was a ladder which was of the same material and colour. Its purpose was for getting one up to the building’s fire escape system. This, of course, only further cemented their case against me.

They accused me of having used that ladder to make it onto the fire escape. As it turned out that building though on the other side of the river was part of the same complex in which Junko lived. That having been the case, it stood to reason that after having murdered her, I had slid down the fire escape then sat there at the table taking a meal. All of this conjecture when I didn’t even know the women with whom I shared a table. True enough. This definitely did not look good. They got me up, carrying me to a low-riding yellow transport. A lone Black woman stood there looking on at me with a look of deep anguish warping her face.

To protect its passenger, the yellow transport had flaps on it. There was little room inside as I sat down low to the ground – the flap covering me up from being made a shameful spectacle whilst being transported. Soon I was joined by a Black female officer who came inside the already crowded transport. Before I knew what next, she began groping me being really aggressive about it too. More than that, she was really squeezing on my balls. Ouch! Forcefully, without missing a beat, I began violently kicking at her and told her to fuck off. Kicking her aside, I shoved aside the flap and bolted from the transport.

As it travelled, seemingly on autopilot, I had been sitting with my back to the front of the transport as it travelled. My transport was part of a long caravan of similar transports. Obviously, the other cars were filled with other convicts whom they had already picked up. I intended not to be part of their daily catch. As the others were quite prepared to be hauled off to some holding cell or other somewhere, I had no such ambitions. This was much too ridiculous. Escaping, by not running but simply soaring high into the air at fantastic speeds, I simply took my leave of the place. My destination was back to the complex where Junko had committed suicide. If only to somehow right an injustice, I wanted to return to the scene of the crime. I wanted to see if they had already removed the body.

I alighted onto the sill of the open window which was opposite Junko’s across the courtyard. Naturally, this apartment was set up differently as it was reversed to Junko’s. I entered, only to find a young White woman there who was all skin and bones, definitely she was suffering from anorexia nervosa. As a matter of fact, she was so skinny as to look otherworldly as though an astral plane habitué or an extra-human. On closer inspection, I noticed that her complexion was definitely not human rather she was yellowish-white. Not unlike the extra-humans in the, Ron Howard film, Cocoon, was she.

Throwing water on her body, she was seated in the quarter-sized tub. Further scrutiny revealed that she hadn’t any hair on her oversized cranium. This was not a situation where she was bald for having undergone chemotherapy rather she was void any hair whatsoever. Clearly, I had long flown the coop which is Kansas. There was no escaping the fact that this woman was an extra-human. It took a while before she noticed me and when she did she fixed me with jet-black oversized eyes. Quite simply, she was bizarre-looking. Depending on her moods, thoughts or emotions, her skin seemed to glow at varying intensities. There was a yellowish hue to it but not as if she suffered from jaundice.

In that sense she looked as if made of time-yellowed old ceramics. My initial thought was, “Well I’m definitely not going to want any pussy off you.”

With that I didn’t even waste time making for the door, I simply tuned out; thus, I effortlessly moved through the wall of her apartment and went into the hallway. On this side of the courtyard, the building was set out differently than at Junko’s across the courtyard. From there, I went to the apartment where Junko had lived until recently. On entering, I was stunned to find that it was completely gutted and as if having been ravaged by a fire. There was not a sign of furniture anywhere. More than that, the man whom my companion and I had originally met on the street, the brawny, Wotanesque supra-hirsute, was now there. Clearly, he was there to capture me.

With him was an old man who was quite tall. Toothless, the man was at least an octogenarian with a briskness of energies which was reminiscent of Isadore da Braga’s. This, of course, would leave me to believe that this mercurial man was a priest soul. Furthermore, he was the quintessential ‘Dark Priest’ archetype. There was a fanatical zeal about him which was unmistakably priestly. As far as he was concerned, I was the enemy and to that end I had to be captured if not eliminated. He came to get me. At that, I flew up and went beneath a steel staircase where I held on to its underside. Looking like a fly on a ceiling, there I hung upside down.

Both men had been outside on a fire escape a few storeys below where I had been in Junko’s former apartment. They had looked up and seen me there because on this visit much of the building was now gutted, not just Junko’s former apartment. Remaining where I was, I waited for them to enter my wing of the complex. As soon as they did so, I flew out the window from beneath the staircase’s underside. On noticing me, sounding pretty much like a cave filled with bats in heat, the priestly accomplice furiously screamed. Flying close to the building, I dropped down a few storeys and then dodged back inside the building through another of its windows. Once I had alighted, I set off running at full speed through the building’s cavernous labyrinthine interior; thus I tried to lose them in my wake.

I managed to have eventually made my way outside where I saw them again. Much to my surprise, they had already captured the other human with whom I had originally been. Presently, they were torturing him which was not the most pleasant of sights; nor was it anything with which I remotely wanted to have become familiar. He was being fisted by these truly sadistic men with the old dark priest man really getting off on the torture. I shuddered as I watched them reach in and pull out his innards. This was serious shit. Literally! I was immediately reminded of my youth in Sandy Point, St. Kitts when I would go to the market on the weekends and watch the animals being gutted. It was truly grim.

There was definitely something wrong with this image and it had to be stopped. I simply couldn’t abide that being done to a friend. What next happened was truly amazing, I saw that there were lots of pigs in a clearing in a slot. This looked pretty much like one was on New York City’s 5^th Avenue going down towards Amsterdam Square. They stood there in the open area of the abandoned street, in the equally abandoned city. There was a great deal of pig feed everywhere. Looking very white and on the hideous side, all of the pigs were shaved. Presently, they were in a feeding frenzy; the look and sound of them being truly gross.

One of them I noticed had been neurotically twitching. Closer inspection revealed that its arse was exceptionally fat. It seemed as if it were trying to either have a big dump or even give birth. Quite bizarre! The stuff which started coming out of its arse was basically the pig’s innards. Right away, I realised that there had to have been a connection to the companion of mine who had been fisted to the point of having the life, literally yanked out of him by way of his innards. Clearly, these pigs were totemic animals for what few genuine humans there were among this culture of disguised extra-humans; though, as in the case of the female bather, they were not all in disguise.

I thought that, perhaps, they were doing this to the human as this was the way that they achieved a sexual high. It then dawned on me that, perhaps, the pigs were more so representative of the extra-humans rather than being totems which the extra-humans had fashioned of their human captives.

With that in mind, I got a torch and approached the twitching pig’s body setting it ablaze. I figured that it was connected to my companion or the persons torturing him. True enough, I could hear cries of protest from the next block away where the human was being tortured. The other street was off to the left whilst facing the pigs. When I attacked, the pigs were feeding in a tight frenzied cluster. Definitely, it was the extra-human with whom my companion and I had been speaking who screamed aloud as the pig burnt.

The pig was more than his familiar. They were both connected and such that his response was a simpatico psychic phenomenon which didn’t need for them to be in close quarters for the extra-human to have experienced the terror which the squealing pig did. It was definitely his voice. Then and there, I knew that I was on to something. Immediately, I began setting all the pigs afire. Enraged the extra-human stopped screaming and headed in my direction to exact his revenge. Obviously, these pigs were further-disguised extra-humans which were more so in accord with their true nature than not. What was telling about these pigs was that they were the same yellow-white colour as the lone extra-human female whom I had seen taking a bath – in the apartment across the courtyard from Junko’s.

Indeed, it was on seeing the pig’s complexion that I was able to make the connection to the humanoid extra-humans which was more disguise than not. Closer inspection made me realise that the pigs were not feeding exclusively but were rather engaging in group sex. It seemed that they had at least two sex organs in the rear and possibly one or more close to their hideous faces. So their eating was for the most part a sexual act. Their large exposed sex organs in the rear could have made it look as though they were being disemboweled; however, they were in a state of arousal. Truth be told, the pig behaving neurotically was more accurately in the throes of orgasm.

Their bodies were shaped differently to a pig’s. Truth be told, these creatures did look from their long-backed selves more like a greyhound’s or even an upright creature which had reverted to walking on all fours. This was so confusing when initially I had assumed that the twitching neurotic pig was going into labour; rather, it was having sex. The pigs were having sex because their humanoid fellow extra-humans were having a sexual high for torturing my companion. Obviously, both these extra-humans had a symbiotic relationship of some sort. After having discovered their weakness, I set about to destroy the pig-like creatures who were having an orgy disguised as a feeding frenzy.

Whilst doing this, so that together we could suppress the extra-humans among us, I screamed aloud calling for help from other humans. As the other pig-like creatures were being set afire, they were so obese that it was hard for them to have taken flight. Meanwhile, no humans had appeared on the scene to come to my aid. Soon enough, I noticed that there was an outflow of extra-humans from all the abandoned-looking buildings on the street. They were all the same tall, Wotanesque supra-hirsute types as the original extra-human who had befriended my companion and me. They looked truly enraged – deadly even. Without exceptions, they all wore parkas. I do believe that the parkas were to maintain a certain body temperature and to block out as much natural sunlight as possible.

Too, there seemed to be some parasitic culture to which their bodies played host and which needed to be protected by the parkas. Indeed, the parkas were more than likely their space suits as it were. Sure enough, the two extra-humans – who had been looking at me, when I initially had taken to the air – I saw again coming down the street towards me. I was quite aware that though they never took flight, any of these extra-humans, that they were quite capable of doing so. I had seen them do as much. Earlier, when escaping the two back at the abandoned complex where Junko lived, the unusually tall octogenarian-seeming zealot had come flying after me whilst screaming much like a pig so enraged was he.

As they came towards me, they began screaming as if their bodies were afire. They pleaded with me not to do as much to them. The more they tried to come closer, the more their progress became laborious – to the point where they could no longer move. They were arrested by fear and by a psychic terror that was crippling. Their bodies in conjunction with the burning pig-like creatures experienced immolation. Though they were not on fire they were being burnt. As the pig-like creatures’ bodies burnt away, the extra-humans’ bodies correspondingly simply began disappearing. It was as though they were being erased or being made invisible, in patches, throughout their bodies.

Indeed, perhaps, these Wotanesque humanoids were merely holographic projections. Quite frankly, I had the upper hand. Though they wanted me to stop, I told them no way. They had already unleashed their sadistic terror on humans, therefore they deserved just retribution. Before I knew what next, there appeared above them in the sky a massive flame. Blue, it looked like the flame from a gas range. It was a square formation rather than the quintessential flying saucer shape of conventional human extra-human vehicle wisdom. Hovering there, it undulated whilst spewing out little red charges of flame.

The flame was a live entity which immediately began speaking. It did make biblical references to ‘Jeremiah’ and to Christ having been murdered. Telling me that it was wrong of me to have attacked the extra-humans, of which it was obviously in favour, the flame was speaking to me. I didn’t, of course, see his Flameness anywhere in the sky, pontificating whilst my companion was being fisted and disemboweled. The energy given off by the blue flame entity were extremely intense. I was convinced that the flame had appeared to retaliate against me, in the extra-humans’ defence; instead, he was there to deal with the extra-humans.

What I could gather from what transpired here was that the flame was an extra-human bounty hunter; he, the flame, was on the hunt for fugitives which in essence is what this colony of sadistic extra-humans represented. As the extra-humans were afire, this created a tear in the fabric of their cloaking devices which made it possible for the fugitives to be detected. As a result, the flame was – so to speak – beaming up the fugitives who were suffering immolation. Though they feared being on fire, it was clear that they didn’t want to be captured by the flame. For being in distress, they set off the signatures which allowed their pursuers to locale them across Space.

Clearly, these extra-humans had the ability to jump space and possible travel cross time. The voice from the flaming entity in the sky had a booming strong resonant voice which was reminiscent of the actor, James Earl Jones’s. The booming voice made several references to human history – all of which were fairly accurate and impressive. With that, the flaming entity in the sky started consuming the pig-like creatures which were screeching whilst on fire in the middle of the street. As it consumed the creatures, it was clear that they did not relish their fate. There were no illusions as to the fate of these extra-humans. They were being relocated elsewhere and it was definitely to their home which was nowhere on this planet.

I then realised that the buildings, which all looked like they were out on Ellis Island, actually were the extra-humans’ spaceships which were artfully disguised. All the buildings were on dead-end streets which likely had not existed before. This entire neck of the woods had been artificially made. The whole affair had been plunked down in the middle of nowhere yet made to look like part of a large metropolitan area. It was a factory of sorts. By that I mean that, the captured humans were brought there and subjected to various forms of the hunt. Afterwards, they were captured outright and subjected to sadistic torture sessions in which the extra-humans sexually got off.

Quite intriguing, most especially since the real extra-humans were closer to being like pigs than humans.

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Cleo Laine & Ray Charles Porgy & Bess Medley

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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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Changes Afoot…

26.03.202527.03.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

**Prime Minister Mark Carney & Justin Trudeau**

On the cusp of his sixtieth birthday, this economic shaman, Mark Carney, born in the year of the Snake, handsomely won the Liberal leadership on the first ballot, thereby becoming Canada’s 24th Prime Minister. Thank you, dear Justin Trudeau for nobly having served this great beautiful land of ours. I fell deeply in love with this man and his family when in 1998 in the biting cold of a Montréal winter’s day, I stood outside St. Viateur and wept with most everyone onlooking as Justin and his bereft family followed their brother and beloved son’s casket from the tiny church. Pierre Trudeau was never the same after that; thereafter, he’d be observed in the park next to his lovely art deco home with the black dog aimlessly playing with itself and quietly attendant as the former Prime Minister stood alone and worlds removed from his outer reality.

Chancellor George Osborne announces Mark Carney as Governor of the Bank of England

So many wonderful firsts for PM Carney. First Canadian Prime Minister from the territories, first foreign born Governor of the Bank of England, after having served as the Governor of the Bank of Canada. Harvard & Oxford educated, our new Prime Minister, Mark Carney has a PHD in Economics. Of course, since having been elected that blasted felon has had to take a moment to recalibrate.

This pathological liar and reptilian off-worlder, with a fiendishly loyal band of violent stowaways, seems to think that he can lie his way into the annexation of Canada. He is the most vile, hideous, disruptive moron and, of course, he represents the White tribe’s last great stand as the planet’s top baboon. You can fight all you want and throw up all manner of repressive lunatic edicts favoured by tyrants throughout time, your murderous regime will never endure. We here in Canada do not have time to be another territory of a rogue colonial Middle Eastern gulag where Poles and others get to indulge their genocidal tendencies. This is Canada and we are not disavowing our sovereignty to please anyone, entitled or otherwise. Just like England’s Henry VI, that reptilian masquerading as human will come to no good end, his racialised empire is doomed to failure.

We are Canadian and under no circumstances are we ever giving up 18 months of paid parental leave, healthcare, child support to age 18, childcare, dental care for minors and seniors, subsidised drugs after age 65. OAS, CPP and GIS. Why exactly would we give up any of these benefits, let alone all and for what? Healthcare should not involve bankruptcy or having to resort to gofundme.com as a desperate way to fund one’s healthcare. We don’t have mass school shootings and don’t want them. We most definitely do not want Canada suddenly overrun by at least 70 million gun-crazed, Christo-fascist lunatics demanding that Canadians fall into line, which is precisely the outcome that would unfold.

Effectively, immediately, with the declaration of war from the mentally unbalanced President, Canada needs to ban the movement of Americans across its borders as far too many of them will be attempting to cross the border in advance of annexation about which they’ve grown obsessed since their fabulist insurrectionist lied to them and falsely declared that Canada owes them money and that America has been subsidising Canada to the tune of 200$B plus per year.

This is not a threat; the declaration of war from the world’s biggest loser, has united Canada and has catapulted us into looking inward and divorcing our glorious nation from being in any way associated with a failed, bankrupt, racist, collapsing empire of 750 plus military bases across the planet. This is our Canada, not America’s. From our lumber, to potash, steel, aluminium, oil, gas, nickel, pharmaceuticals and hydro electricity, we are done with you. We will take this time to save Canadian steel by immediately building high-speed rail from Toronto, Ottawa, Montréal to Québec City and from Edmonton, Calgary, Banff to Vancouver in the Lower Mainland. To hell with you, you’ve nothing edifying to offer. We are tired of your racism. We are tired with your grooming gun-crazed cop shows, film and TV ethos of latter day Brahminism where the few damn well rewrite American history whilst erasing Black, Brown & Native American history and culture.

PC Pierre Poilievre

Conservative leader, Pierre Poilievre is compromised and is supported by the likes of Jordan Peterson, Elon Musk and favoured by Donald Trump, despite his recent remarks. More importantly, Pierre has styled himself as a Trumpian conservative. Precisely why this man who has never introduced a single bill in Parliament after 20 years, is unfit to be prime minister is that he was the subject of a CSIS investigation, which concluded that the Government of India interfered in the last Canadian Federal election to Poilievre’s advantage; this is why he refuses to get a security clearance. Pierre opposes abortion, LGBTQ rights, First Nations’ reconciliation and other alarming American conservative positions. Poilievre has voted in parliament against the expansion of the Canada Pension to match the rise in the cost of living, he has also voted in favour of not expanding the Canada pension scheme; too, he favoured the idea of Employers not paying in to their workers’ pension plan. Poilievre would readily sell off universal healthcare in Canada to the American insurers who would readily expand their market share and make Canadians have to resort to gofundme to cover their healthcare costs in an emergency.

In a recent show of her disdain for Canadian federalism, Danielle Smith refused to attend in person a premier’s emergency meeting to address Trump tariffs, instead attending by Zoom. She has dismissed Prime Minister Mark Carney as not having any experience in federal politics; this said while pitching Canada as a 51st state in Texas. The man who single-handedly saved Canada in the banking crisis of 2008 and again kept afloat the British banking system and economy at Brexit, when both governor of the Banks of Canada and England is ill-equipped to manage the finances of Canada in its greatest financial crisis, Smith sees PM Mark Carney as unqualified for the job of Canadian prime minister. Smith, unlike any other Canadian premier hightailed it to Mar-a-Lago after Trump’s win to promise him that she would secure him Alberta oil at a cheap rate. All resources are Canada’s and no province has sole proprietorship. She is a wild rose conservative, who welcomes the Christo-fascism of the Trump administration.

NDP leader Jagmeet Singh needs to do the honourable thing, like Bloc Québécois leader, Yves-François Blanchet and announce to their supporters to vote three NDP and Bloc Québécois candidates into power and the rest of their vote should strategically go to secure a resounding Liberal majority, headed by economist PM, Mark Carney. America has declared war on Canada and now, more than ever, we need to vote intelligently. Neither the Bloc nor NDP can form the opposition or for that matter the next government. A vote for them is the terrifyingly real possibility of Poilievre becoming the next Canadian prime minister. That would assuredly mean that he would roll over to Trump and allow Canada to lose its sovereignty and become the 51st state.

Make no mistakes about it, America is broke and Canada’s resources are what these power mad clowns are after. DOGE will be their undoing. Both are racist White male boors who are little aware of the bigger picture. Seriously, how is that even supposed to work? We just surrender and in exchange for gun-crazed Americans by the tens of millions, rushing across their northern border and seeing it as the new gold rush into the wild wild north of yesteryear’s wild wild west, we get to be American second-class citizens. Fuck that! Canadians are as different to Americans as Norwegians are to Italians. We have distinct cultures and morals that have positively nothing in common. I would defend with every fibre of my being First Nations societies and the Québécois maintaining their distinct cultures and languages. Time to elbow up and ban all America fare, not just alcohol, but TV, film. Slap tariffs on their film and television, because it is not as though they favour Canadian culture or actors. Nope, we are never as favoured or seemingly as good as Britons, thanks to their proximity to the Royal family and BAFTA having its only external wing in Los Angeles that affords them elbow room over all other foreign comers. Well, to hell with all that. Time to take Canadian film and TV to the next level.

True north strong and free! Elbows way up. Vive le Canada libre!

Oscar Peterson Trio – C Jam Blues

Live in Denmark,1964.

Oscar Peterson – Piano

Ray Brown – Bass

Ed Thigpen – Drums

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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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Bitch! I Don’t Need Fucking Gaydar!

18.08.202410.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Prince Harry Tabloids on Trial ITV Documentary, July 2024

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

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

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

**Catherine The Princess of Wales Wimbledon 2024**

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

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

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

**William & his horribly scraggly beard**

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joan Rivers Lies about Michelle Obama

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pimped by gangsta playa, Snoop Dogg

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

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

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

Lena Horne Believe in Yourself 1981 Tony Awards

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

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

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

**Charlie Drinkwater & Doug Wilson, 1977**

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

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

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

Serigraph

32 x 32 Inches

Artist Proof: II/III

Provenance: da Brgha Collection.

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

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

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

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

Modern Jazz Quartet North Sea Jazz Festival 1982

Modern Jazz Quartet grooving the souls of the spiritually evolved.

Percy Heath – Bass

John Lewis – Piano

Milt Jackson – Vibraphone

Connie Cay – Drums

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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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Two of A Kind…

04.04.202410.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

**Prince Andrew Duke of York, HRH Prince William, The Prince of Wales, HRH Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex**

Both HRH Prince Andrew, Duke of York & HRH Prince Harry, the Duke of Sussex are Spares; both were second in line to the throne at their respective births. However, they have positively nothing in common. Naturally, among other things, numerology strongly factors into the equation. Prince Harry, a spare, rather than being louche and given to a workshy, idle life, arch snobbery and uneclipsed contempt for mere mortals, has proven himself, time and again, a man of the people… beloved by the people.

All three Windsor princes are marked by their numerology. 5 in the fourth position, both Andrew & William, brings sexual scandal, marked snobbery, grudges, vindictiveness. These are people with the inability to control their base instincts – sexual depravity, gambling, alcoholism and cruel abuse: emotional, mental & physical are hallmarks of this placement of 5. They are all, especially so the men, louches. They do not give a fuck about working when the little people are in the world to do just that; they avoid becoming engaged in anything overly demanding of their time. They are not given to being focussed in lives of service; they are hedonists who are all about indulging themselves… debauchery is de rigueur.

Unlike Andrew & William, Harry’s life is marked by being actively focussed in service and duty for the greater good. From service to Her Late Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, to Sentebale, Invictus Games with its Endeavour Fund and Archewell. Indeed, service is universal and Prince Harry has continued being focussed in a life of service. All that being part of the royal family served, was to have afforded him that head start; it has propelled him into a position from which to build and comfortably grow. At age, 22, Prince Harry begun, with Prince Seeiso of Lesotho, Sentebale. At the age of 25, Prince Harry set up the Royal Foundation with his brother, Prince William; there is no doubt that based on their numerology and having gotten the service/charity bug for working on Sentebale with Prince Seeiso – Harry felt himself aligned with his mum, Diana, Princess of Wales’ purpose, higher ideals and legacy. At age, 30, Prince Harry began the Invictus Games, which has grown from strength to strength and about to start a winter edition of the games in Vancouver/Whistler in 2025. Then at age, 36, having divorced himself, once ejected by his archly jealous, vindictive and racist brother – in large part bullied by his ‘handlers’ – Prince Harry with his beautiful, very capable wife, Meghan, began Archewell in 2020; unlike Andrew or William, Harry & Meghan were not going to abandon their core principles and take leave of their belief and devotion to service being universal.

Though no longer a working royal, whatever that means, Prince Harry has kept apace with beign focussed in his life of service. This has included travelling to Asia with Nachio Figueras, whilst raising funds for Sentebale.

Whilst a founding member of the Royal Foundation with William then the Duchess of Cambridge, Catherine, Prince Harry began the Endeavour Found in 2012, three years after the Royal Foundation was founded. Solely under Prince Harry’s direction, the Endeavour Fund focussed on service to injured and recovering members of the Royal Armed Forces in UK. The grants and fundraising activities of the Endeavour Fund, afforded Prince Harry to join the American Service personnel endeavour, the Warrior Games in 2013. There, at the Warrior Games, Prince Harry was inspired to set sail and harness that endeavour for service personnel in the United Kingdom and thus the Invictus Games were born, thanks to the input of America’s politicians the Obamas & Bidens.

On stepping away from being part of the Royal Family, the funds raised by Prince Harry’s Endeavour Fund whilst part of the Royal Foundation, were turned over to Prince Harry by Prince William in 2020 as they were rightly so funds raised by Prince Harry and belonging to the Endeavour Fund. Naturally, these funds were directed to the Invictus Games begun in 2014 by which time in 2020, the Games were a growing success. The funds Prince William presented Prince Harry were not a gift from the Royal Foundation, they were rightly so Prince Harry’s raised on behalf of the Endeavour Fund.

Prince Andrew, the Spare of HLM Queen Elizabeth II’s, created the Prince Andrew Charitable Trust in 1984 at age, 24. The lacklustre affair disbanded in 2021 as a result of his ongoing legal issues related to paedophilia, owing to his long running association with disgraced, convicted paedophile and sexual predatory trafficker, Jeffrey Epstein. Naturally, in all those 37 years, there is little in the way of services and achievements to show for Andrew and his charitable trust’s efforts. Andrew is as arrogant and vile a character as you can ever come across. Being royal simply allowed the egomania alluded to by his two numerological 1s to run amuck. Sadly, for all these royal men, positively no one tells them anything. I might also add, as Queen Margrethe II of Denmark effectively illustrated, you are not just Queen of a realm, you are also Queen of your entire family. All the scandals, divorces, racism, sexual debauchery fall squarely on Queen Elizabeth II’s head. She failed miserably in leading her family.

William perpetually poses as the ever regal, suave, beloved dutiful and ideal son of Diana, Princess of Wales. Nothing, though, could be further from the truth. This man is more debauched than even Prince Andrew. June 21, 1982. Year of the Dog and on the summer solstice. 21.6.1982 -> 3.9.2 = 5. As with Prince George, King Charles III and Prince Andrew, William is possessed of 5 in the fourth position. In short, lazy good-for-nothing hedonistic lout. The Royal Foundation was not William’s idea when begun in 2009 at age 27 with Prince Harry. Within the auspices of the Royal Foundation once Harry left and took the Endeavour Fund, it was not William’s place to have afforded Harry those allocated funds.

William like Andrew has done bugger all; it is only now in Prince Harry & Meghan’s departure that obsessively, competitively, he is scrambling to look either engaged or god forbid statesman-like. EarthShot Prize is a paltry way of addressing the planet’s climate change crisis; truly, it comes off looking like a vanity project for himself. As for his statement on the horrific annihilation of Palestinians in Gaza, the matter was not his business to wade into. Of course, as time has passed, we have come to realise that it was so much pre-emptive damage control for all that is unfolding, with glacial transparency to this point.

Irony of all ironies, EarthShot is the name given to a prize by William when there is much rumour about how Thomas Kingston was found with a catastrophic head wound and a gun beside the body – a coroner’s words are everything; she did not state, a self-inflicted gunshot wound. The next day at the last minute, William cancelled his reading at his godfather, King Constantine II’s royal service at St. George’s Chapel then two days later, he showed up at a London synagogue with less of a black eye and severe bruises on the left side of his neck. As we know from AFP stating that Kensington Palace is not a trustworthy source, the Palace/William lie to manipulate perception.

Although the Waleses go to great lengths not to have their private lives revealed; they do holiday more than most royals and they spend lots of time in Africa, which in an official capacity, they are loathe to do. When you are too lazy to undertake your royal duties and think yourself entitled to do as you please, this is precisely what you end up with, Princes Andrew & William who have never once taken any initiative to undertake any project that is either realistic or conducive to meaningful change.

Both Andrew and William are possessed of five in the fourth position and being debauched hedonists is their metier. They do not care for little else; everything is a fucking bother as far as such men are concerned. Clearly, his only passion is playing Super Goy and bringing peace to the Middle East and likely in the process disbanding the Commonwealth – too many revolting Black & Brown animal-people – and join forces with Israel. Too bad, for it is a brand new paradigm, which is never going back to what it was before.

These two are closer than they let on. What I have always thought peculiar is how, Prince Harry has never been made a Knight of the Garter; he’s never ridden during Trooping the Colour. Like Andrew, Harry has served in the war theatre, yet, he was never decorated and I do believe that this has much to do with William’s longstanding grudge of his younger brother, Prince Harry, being afforded too much or what William would deem more than he deserves.

The repercussions of Charles, William & Catherine’s affinity for Israel and the fact that their inner circle is almost exclusively Jewish, is discernible in Prince George’s numerology. Recently, at his passing, it was said of the 4th Baron Rothschild that Jacob for 50 years spoke daily by phone to Prince Charles aka HM King Charles III. Theirs was a true love affair; no, nothing homoerotic rather it was a marriage of intellect & spirit. Here were two humans who based on the placement of their 2 would have felt a true sense of home in the other’s company. King Charles III is a consummate sensualist; he is stimulated by ideas, music, the arts and of course, gardening and painting bring him the greatest pleasure – all reflected in that placement of 2 and his 5 in first position. The 5 in fourth position, of course, brought about the scandal of libidinal proportions of which we are all familiar.

The fact that 4th Baron Rothschild was an alleged Zionist sympathiser or god forbid a Jew, these were inconsequential where King Charles III is concerned… or anyone else for that matter. Persons with 2 in the first position, 4th Baron Rothschild, have the gift of voice and it is most effective during phone conversations. Such persons, live on the phone rather than get together; they have the gift to make the focus of their attention feel loved, inspired and healed of spirit by way of the power of their voice. They will cause the chosen subject of their focus to experience inspiration, healing of spirit, if not body and definitely mind. Of course, the gift of sexual seduction is acute with such person but they can make you see things as no one else can and bring the joy of laughter as no one else can. I think that what transpires in Israel since October, 2023 could quite possibly have been experienced as a betrayal to the 4th Baron Rothschild and it may well have caused him to lose his will to be focussed here and now. King Charles III & Prince William both have third & fourth numbers in common: 2 & 5. Both beset by scandal, they are also easily susceptible to being hoodwinked, conned, deceived, by the placement of 2 in the third position. This also means that William would instinctually mimic and obediently follow in his father’s footsteps and reflect that worldview.

After having been elegantly groomed by the 4th Baron Rothschild, KCIII & William will in their son, Prince George fulfill the 4th Baron Rothschild’s ambitions. Without doubt, Prince George will likely take a Jewish consort; this is readily evident in his numerology. 4 energy body is that of the very passionate, strong-willed and ambitious male; Prince George is also a snake – best dressed with a vengeful, violent streak. Second number of 2, creative, spacy and easily deceived and controlled. Could also be rather susceptible to drug/drink abuse. Third number of 8, we shall return to. Fourth number of 5, like William, his father, Andrew his paedophile great uncle and King Charles III his sexually disgraced grandfather, George will also be exposed in a sexual scandal of some sort. Most of all, with a third number of 8, it means that fortunes are lost and dynasties are toppled… displaced. With a Jewish wife, thereafter, all future sovereigns would be Jewish and that would be the end of the House of Windsor and the end of the Church of England’s relevance.

It can never be overlooked, the importance of William having banished Harry and Meghan, – his brother in particular – from the kingdom. William’s jealousy meant that at their father, King Charles III’s coronation, Harry would not be decorated and play no role. Rather, Harry would be in morning suit and a mere spectator – how’s that for having been afforded special dispensation by HLM Queen Elizabeth II to wear a beard at his marriage to Meghan, where William was not afforded any such dispensation. William, Catherine & Charles all have a chief feature of stubbornness; this makes them petty shit-disturbers who are all about payback, exclusion as a form of punishment and Harry’s appearance at HM King Charles III’s coronation not just without his Black wife, but also not robed and decorated instead in morning suit, is all about power and vengefulness. Never ever underestimate the pettiness of Prince William.

Prince Harry announces the birth of Prince Archie, May, 2019

Silly sods, what did Prince Harry care, it was the fourth anniversary of his beautiful wife, Meghan, having made a man and a father of him with their beauteous baby boy, Prince Archie’s birth. Besides, just look at Harry sat there in Westminster Abbey, he had the love and support of his aunt, HRH Princess Anne, the Princess Royal and his cousins HRH Princess Eugenie & Princess Beatrice with their admirable spouses Jack Brooksbank and Edoardo Mapelli Mozzi.

Much of what is taking place here and now, is rooted in the fact that all three major principals of the Wales family were previously major royals of the British royal family in past lives and related. Prince William was then King Henry IV, who started the Lancastrian dynasty. His wife, Queen Mary de Bohun is currently, Catherine, HRH the Princess of Wales. That is not particularly surprising, considering that they are not only entity mates, but also task companions. What is keen to note, is that during that life, Catherine died after 13 years of marriage during labour with Princess Philippa who became Queen of Denmark, Norway & Sweden and pretty much ran the show as her King Eric was weak. That Princess Philippa, who became Queen of the Scandinavians, is now HRH Prince George of Wales. As William then proved a disruptor and ended the Plantagenet dynasty, I think his role here will be to signal the end of the Windsor dynasty with George likely taking a Jewish wife… or husband. Of course, none of this is written in stone and choice being paramount, history will reveal how William, Catherine & George choose to manifest their destinies.

***William 6th Mature Warrior, Meghan Mid-Cycle Mature Artisan & Prince Harry 5th Mature Warrior***

Prince William, Meghan & Prince Harry Anzac Day, April 2018

There are no major past karmic debts between William and Meghan. Meghan is the only of the principal royals, whose Michael overleaves are known, who have had two previous lives as a member of the British royal family. Queen Elizabeth, Prince William, Catherine, the Princess of Wales, Prince George of Wales and HM King Charles III all have had one prior life. To date, Prince Harry has had no prior past life(s) as a member of the British royal family. There is a major karmic debt between Harry & Catherine, which I will not herein discuss. For William his rejection of Meghan is a repayment of a debt between him and Harry.

13the century Mongol leader, Kublai Khan

Previously, in the 13th century, William and Harry were both males and served in the military of one of the Mongol Khan, though, not Genghis Khan or likely Kublai Khan. At that time, William was a high-ranking respected commander who never married nor had children as he preferred the company of men and had many male lovers. Incidentally, during that lifetime, Catherine was male and one of William’s many lovers. Also, at that time, Harry who was related to William was violently opposed to then military man aka William’s life choice and felt that he was betraying society and the family by preferring the company of men and taking male lovers. Now, at this time, William has used Meghan’s outréness – Race/Nationality to repay that debt to Harry by rejecting and launching his well-documented campaign against Meghan, which has been validated during court proceedings.

**HRH Prince Harry, Meghan the Duchess of Sussex & Catherine HRH the Princess of Wales**

As there is very serious Karma between Harry and Catherine, both Harry & Catherine being Warrior souls, there would be major trust issues coming into the current life experience. Furthermore, Catherine in collusion with William, her scholar soul task companion, would seek to avenge herself of Harry in this lifetime by any means necessary. Meanwhile, in all of this, there is karma between both Meghan and Catherine, though to be fair, it is nothing as compared to that between Catherine & Harry.

**Catherine 5th Mature Warrior & Meghan *Mid-Cylce Mature Artisan**

In a past-life in Portugal, Meghan who was then male, was the spouse of Catherine’s. War broke out and whilst away, Meghan, then male soldier, had multiple affairs. He, now Meghan, did NOT return to Catherine and abandoned her; there has developed a major issue of trust and Catherine, then the wife, felt betrayed and never fully recovered. In tandem William & Catherine have been able to address Harry & Meghan respectively by way of rejection in what would become known as Megxit.

7th century Tang dynasty silk painting

Away from more recent times in Portugal, the roots of discord between Catherine & Meghan occurred in 7th century China. Both were members of an aristocratic family and there was a battle royal between them vis-à-vis wealth, titles and all the things that keep the passionate juices and Maya intense in aristocratic circles. That infighting would have greatly informed their future run-ins and clearly the matter has not fully resolved at this time. As with both Catherine & Harry for being both warrior souls, five level lives, especially when a mature soul, tend to ramp up the drama.

*Mid-Cycle Mature – these are 1 to 3 lifetimes which pass between 3rd & 4th Mature soul age and only ever occur at the Mature soul age. It is a tough passage. Also, Mid-Cycle mature is Queen Camilla; however, she is a Scholar soul as is William though he is 6th Mature and infinitely more complex than Catherine – 5th Mature Warrior, Harry – 5th Mature Warrior, Meghan – Mid-Cycle Mature Artisan, Camilla – Mid-Cycle Mature Scholar, Queen Elizabeth II – Third Mature Slave, Prince Philip – Fourth Mature Warrior, Diana, Princess of Wales – Second Mature Artisan, Princess Lilibet – Third Mature Sage & Prince George – Third Mature King. Both Prince Archie & King Charles III for being 7th level Mature souls, Priest & Warrior respectively, are the most complex and old-souled of the grouping.

One of a kind, Harry is like no other royal, which explains the public’s affinity towards him. Andrew & William, however, are two of a kind – entitled, arrogant and cutthroat.

Herbie Hancock Empyrean Isles

Herbie Hancock – Piano

Tony Williams – Drums

Ron Carter – Bass

Freddie Hubbard – Cornet

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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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Revisited: Dream of Meghan!

18.03.202410.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

All these years later, I have finally had an initial dream encounter with Meghan, the Duchess of Sussex. It occurred as I slept during mid-day on Friday, January 27, 2023 whilst the Moon transited both Aries and my 11th house. As per usual, Prince Harry (fifth-level mature warrior soul) was in the dream and as ever, he was sat at the top of three steps to a large wooden structure. Not surprisingly, here as in every other dream encounter with this fifth mature warrior soul, Harry was barefooted, unpretentious and again, I marvelled at how hirsute his arms were. There were a couple of men visiting them and the one who did most of the talking, had an American accent. He was strongly advising the couple to acquire the surrounding lands, to the tune of thousands of acres, to their property which was about 100 acres. Opposite the wooden structure was a stand of trees with a small body of water hidden within the growth.

The second man chimed in and he had a toff’s accent; he expressed concerns about what would become of the expanse of land where clearly the polo pitch was located. Henry made it clear that the pitch was not going to be relocated and the very enterprising American was pointing off to the left and beyond the pitch that they could grow food staples for their business.

Just then, Archie could be heard calling out to his mum. We all then moved inside and there I’d eventually see her – my first dream encounter with Meghan. This building was massive and like all dreams set on the astral plane, not only were there lots of exposed woods and high ceilings; my senses were truly awakened in this rather bucolic and lucid dream. As with astral plane-focussed dreams, there was no natural light flooding the interior.

We got in and the place was set out like a chalet with seating arrangements that encourage socialising and circulating. What soon became apparent was that this was a lifestyle store as much as it was a log cabin. Products were casually on display without their placement being the conventional hard-sell of a boutique. Over in one corner a door opened and out walked Archie (7th level mature priest soul), who here appeared about 10 or 12 – I have no children of my own so it is always hard to gauge children’s ages.

Archie had a big curly afro and carried a large wooden tray with lots of jars of honey. A strong-willed female child (likely Lilibet Diana, third-level mature sage soul in dominance) could be heard in the room from which Archie arrived. Forthright, he placed the tray on a counter and began passing them to his father, to be placed on the shelves behind him where there were other jars. The jars were all glass with an ornate monogram and no paper markings; they were also of various sizes.

Still there were others that contained lemon flowers, orange flowers, rose petals and removing the lid from one jar, Meghan offered it to me for a sniff whilst slyly smiling. Reaching forward, I maintained eye contact with her as she anticipatorily waited. I took a long, full-lunged sniff; instantaneously, I was just as lucidly awakened as second earlier whilst looking at her smiling eyes, on closing my own. The magic of dreams indeed; the particular large jar of honey proffered by Meghan, had been infused with the most fragrant elderflower imaginable!

As I never get out of bed before fully recalling dreams dreamt, I then realised that this dream was casting light on the fact that this was a lifestyle and wellness business with each bottle monogrammed with the same elaborate calligraphy. I had a sense that the property may well have been in the English country side, though, it could just have easily been in New Zealand, the American mountain states, or even Canada’s B.C. interior. The American was talking about iced wines; this on awakening could also mean a vineyard here in Ontario. One definitely did not get the sense that this property was in California. The American advisor seemed to be pushing for a vineyard to be planted, but definitely there was to be an expansion of the small orchard – 20 acres or so, which supplied the ginger and various fruits and berries that infused the honeys some of which were blond, others richly dark.

**Woman, Artists Proof. Lithograph. © 1980 George Hawken**

Waiting for me to finally wake up, my FTM transitioning wife brought me a large bowl of hot porridge infused with dates, figs, raspberries (especial favourite) and bananas – the smell of which I cannot abide; their skins make me salivate and grow nauseous. Beaming, I then shared that I had just had my first, very lucid dream encounter with Meghan to which she, a mature soul warrior, also seventh level mature like yours truly but a cynic to my skeptic, faster than lightning striking the CN Tower shot back, “Well, it’s about damn time!”

Here’s to American Riviera Orchard, every success Ma’am. And to Prince Harry, Prince Archie, Princess Lilibet Diana & Doria.

Sing It Natalie! So many people in Vancouver were introduced to Jazz thanks to my West End apartment 365 overflowing with Jazz 24/7 blasting from the open windows. Vocalese Queen, Natalie was/is an entity mate (fifth mature artisan soul). Several months after she passed, just as with HLM The Queen, I dreamt of her passing over – in the latter’s case, a year prior to her actual passing. And oh lord Jesus, astral plane homecomings for most Blacks is usually a masquerade of celebration with music saturating every fabric of the astral plane. Natalie took to the stage and performed acapella and until that dream, I had not heard vocalese so stratospherically exalted and complex!
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Life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!

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Flying Dream in Lemuria, Twin Earth. (Redux)

04.01.202410.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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**Forest with Moss-Covered Alder Trees**

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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A Love Supreme John Coltrane 1965 Full Album

Part I – Acknowledgement

Part II – Resolution

Part III – Pursuance

Part IV – Psalm

John Coltrane – Soprano & Tenor Saxophone

Jimmy Garrison – Double Bass

Elvin Jones – Drums

McCoy Tyner – Piano

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

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Dream of Meghan!

28.01.202310.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

All these years later, I have finally had an initial dream encounter with Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. It occurred as I slept during mid-day on Friday, January 27 whilst the Moon transited both Aries and my 11th house. As per usual, Henry (fifth-level mature warrior soul) was in the dream and as ever, he was sat at the top of three steps to a large wooden structure. Not surprisingly, here as in every other dream encounter with this fifth mature warrior soul, Henry was barefooted, unpretentious and again, I marvelled at how hirsute his arms were. There were a couple of men visiting them and the one who did most of the talking, had an American accent. He was strongly advising the couple to acquire the surrounding lands, to the tune of thousands of acres, to their property which was about 100 acres. Opposite the wooden structure was a stand of trees with a small body of water hidden within the growth.

This building was massive and like all dreams set on the astral plane, not only were there lots of exposed woods and high ceilings; my senses were truly awakened in this rather bucolic and lucid dream. As with astral plane-focussed dreams, there was no natural light flooding the interior. We got in and the place was set out like a chalet with seating arrangements that encourage socialising and circulating. What soon became apparent was that this was a lifestyle store as much as it was a log cabin. Products were casually on display without their placement being the conventional hard-sell of a boutique. Over in one corner a door opened and out walked Archie (7th level mature priest soul), who here appeared about 10 or 12 – I have no children of my own so it is always hard to gauge children’s ages. Archie had a big curly afro and carried a large wooden tray with lots of jars of honey. A strong-willed female child (likely Lilibet Diana, third-level mature sage soul in dominance) could be heard in the room through which Archie arrived. Forthright, he placed the tray on a counter and began passing them to his father, to be placed on the shelves behind him where there were other jars. The jars were all glass with an ornate monogram and no paper markings; they were also of various sizes.

Everyone turned and looked and said hello as a warmly smiling Meghan (mid-cycle mature artisan soul) entered through the same door as Archie moments earlier had; she also carried a tray of honeys as she entered. I was completely stunned to see her and realised that I was having my first dream encounter with the very iconic and well-fortified Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. She was poised and as solid and powerful as the Empire State Building is singularly granite. Whereas Archie carried honey-filled jars that were small and seemingly sampler jars, Meghan’s jars were large and of varying sizes. Placed on the counter, there were jars that contained honeycombs; however, most of the jars contained honeys that were infused with ginger, lemon, orange, raspberries, blueberries, blackberries. Still there were others that contained lemon flowers, orange flowers, rose petals and removing the lid from one jar, Meghan offered it to me for a sniff whilst slyly smiling. Reaching forward, I maintained eye contact with her as she anticipatorily waited. I took a long, full-lunged sniff; instantaneously, I was just as lucidly awakened as second earlier whilst looking at her smiling eyes, on closing my own. The magic of dreams indeed; the particular large jar of honey proffered by Meghan, had been infused with the most fragrant elderflower imaginable!

Waiting for me to finally wake up, my FTM transitioning wife brought me a large bowl of hot porridge infused with dates, figs, raspberries (especial favourite) and bananas – the smell of which I cannot abide; their skins make me salivate and grow nauseous. Beaming, I then shared that I had just had my first, very lucid dream encounter with Meghan to which she, a mature soul warrior, also seventh level mature like yours truly but a cynic, faster than lightning striking the CN Tower shot back, “Well, it’s about damn time!”

Sing It Natalie! So many people in Vancouver were introduced to Jazz thanks to my West End apartment 365 overflowing with Jazz 24/7 blasting from the open windows. Vocalese Queen, Natalie was an entity mate (fifth mature artisan soul). Several months after she passed, just as with HLM The Queen, I dreamt of her passing over – in the latter’s case, a year prior to her actual passing. And oh lord Jesus, astral plane homecomings for most Blacks is usually a masquerade of celebration with music saturating every fabric of the astral plane. Natalie took to the stage and performed acapella and until that dream, I had not heard vocalese so stratospherically exalted and complex!

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

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Gaslighting: No. 1 Response to Anti-Black Racism & How the End of A Dynasty Rather Than Monarchy Unfolds.

21.12.202210.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

“What Didn’t You Do to Bury Us But You Forgot We Are Seeds.”

HM Queen Elizabeth Sharing A Racist Gorilla Joke in Royal Documentary, June 1969

Transcript of racist Joke told by HM The Queen during June 1969 BBC documentary look at the family’s private life:

HMQEII: It’s just extremely difficult sometimes to keep a straight face. When Home Secretary said to me, there’s a gorilla coming in. So I said, what an extraordinary remark to make and unkind about anybody. So, I stood in the middle of the room, pressed the bell, the doors open and there was a gorilla. And I had the most terrible trouble in keeping… you know, he had short torso, long arms and I had the most appalling trouble… (room descends into raucous laughter, that hideous breath that Whites exclusively use when being racist towards Blacks). HM King Charles III, then 20 years old, leans back in his chair, guffawing.

This is a copy of said joke that I made, in the event that the original were to yet again be scrubbed from the Internet.

Outtake from 2021 Oprah Interview which never aired during show.

One of the most important things that the Lady Susan Hussey illumined, was the degree to which ‘others’ go to great lengths to deny the existence of anti-Black racism. Surprised then was I when of all persons, Piers Morgan whilst hosting a discussion of the event, took the position that the decision to remove LSH from the royal household toute de suite, was the right one to have taken. There were two guests, an old bizarre-looking White male who thought that LSH had dutifully served the Crown for decades (6) and ought not to have been treated this way. He, of course, attacked Ngozi Fulani and declared that she had an agendum in all this.

Piers Morgan and Guests Discuss the Lady Susan Hussey Race Row

Naturally, this too is the line that Angela Levin took, as ever that blasted Yenta has to hammer away with her anti-Black racism, making money off of hating Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. The other guest was a BLM female Briton who rather illumined the Black experience and rather articulately stated that the guaranteed response to anti-Black racism is that Blacks claiming anti-Black racism will readily be gaslighted and in effect suffer even more racism.

Actor, Wayne Robson 1970s Vancouver

Early one Friday evening in April 1986, actor Wayne Robson, his lovely wife, Lynn Woodman, Merlin and I, joined two other couples in a Vietnamese, if I’m not mistaken rather than Chinese, restaurant on the south side of Gerrard Street East, just east of Broadview Avenue where the Don River delineates between downtown and east end Toronto. Broadview and Gerrard is one of the city’s Chinatowns which easterly along Gerrard Street East becomes Little India. Charles Lawther, another actor who like Wayne had not yet begun his family was present with his lovely wife, Suzette Couture. The other couple, I had never met and was sat next to them. She was a loud, big-boned, blonde whose fuck du jour, she had just returned from a holiday in the Sun where clearly apart from tanning to excess, they fucked their brains out. Meanwhile, her husband, a filmmaker was off in Europe on location and since her young daughter was undeniably on the spectrum, she was living without a care, ignoring her daughter and on the hunt for bigger dick than she had clearly wedded. Her fuck was a wealthy, South African Jew, who was the most hairy back-and-arsed freak I had yet seen and god was he racially oppressive and acutely hostile in the extreme. We were there to celebrate Wayne’s 40th birthday. Lynn and I, for being the ordinal partners of successful professionals in their circle knew our place and got on well. I always loved going to their Seaton Street apartment which sat atop a townhouse on the east side of the street and sat at the corner of Shuter Street; it was a wonderful home with mementos of Wayne’s acting career with items from the set of Popeye and a panoramic photograph of the film set, shot in Malta with actor, Robin Williams. We got back from that dinner on Gerrard Street East and Merlin became violently sick. He was being taunted for being Jewish and being with me. More than that, he was made sick by a Jew being so hideously possessed of anti-Black racial animus. By that point, I had seen it all and simply checked out and focussed on my lover’s beautiful eyes and the exquisite fare on which we dined.

Eight years later, five years after Merlin’s passing, newly arrived in Vancouver, I stayed at Les karpinsky and his lover Ken’s Sentinel Hill home with the most spectacular views. I was there for a fortnight whilst my West End apartment was being painted and repainted and smudged before I took full possession. One evening, a new friend of theirs came to dinner; he lived on the Sunshine Coast and was an expat South African Jew. As I was no longer Merlin’s significant other, which meant having to hold one’s tongue rather than not, after spending too much time blithering about everyone and everything Jewish, our dinner guest trained his scathing anti-Black racism in my direction. Naturally, much of his banter was about Steven Spielberg’s film the year prior, Schindler’s List. When asked by Les if I had seen the film, I very elegantly, murderously, dismissively, unflinchingly stated that since I am a keen student of American history and interested in only genuine American history, as Auschwitz is not in America, I saw no need to thusly engage. Our expat Joburg Jew readily acted as though I were Himmler returned. Ken who never countenanced confrontations, began clearing the dishes from the table and said he was not feeling well and wanted to go to bed. By then, Ken, Les and I spent most of our time in bed whilst great music saturated their home though not successfully drowning out our salaciousness. As our racist guest, enraged and bothered, abruptly took leave, cutting the eye at me, I bluntly stated, be sure to bring a map of America bearing Auschwitz, Treblinka and Dachau on your next visit and educate me. Having sat there uncomfortably with Ken and Les as the expat South African Ashkenazi Jew blamed the evils of this world on Blacks, chiefly South African and American Blacks, Afro-Sephardic yours truly was sure to succinctly give as fucking good as I had gotten.

Ken and Les apologised and assured me that they had no idea their new friend was such a piece of work, though, Ken did say that he had encountered that kind of intense racial animus from Jews towards Blacks and though it bizarre. Certainly, Merlin definitely did as well. The only time that Merlin ever got mad, was when someone Jewish was on TV openly inciting anti-Black racism. At such times, Merlin would become so upset that he would abruptly get up, scratching his beard at the chin and storm from the room with a weary, loud sigh. Still, at other times, Merlin would hurl whatever book he had at hand, tossing it at the TV and demand that I change the channel at once. As though to embalm ourselves from all that hideousness, after having assured Ken and Les that I was not the least bit upset and they gave assurances that the racist boor was dead to them, we were soon indulging in sexual play like stressed Bonobos. Reaching back, I held Ken’s head in place and twerked like Cardi B. as his tongue behaved as though a famished hog’s set loose in a truffle patch, “Yeah, that’s right, keep your fucking tongue right there!”

Camilla Tominey Justifiably Getting Served Her Racist, Lying Flat Arse

This woman who is truly, hideously clit-nosed had the temerity to attack Meghan, a Black woman, as though there are no other Black women on the planet. Camilla floated the lie that Meghan made Catherine cry and thus began the avalanche of anti-Black racism that has seen Meghan emerge as the most hated Black woman in history. To date, there have been 246 thousand plus articles by the British media, attacking Tungsten each hundred thousand for the number of years, 246, that America violently threw off the yoke of British imperial oppression.

Just like George Floyd, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex plays her role in this the 250 year cycle as Pluto transits Capricorn and violently sets aright that which needs to be dismantled and abolished. She is lancing the bile of 400 plus years of slavery that was officially begun by HM Queen Elizabeth I, who was Margaret Beaufort, Meghan’s soul in a past life’s great-granddaughter, and now culminating in the too-long reign of HM Queen Elizabeth II.

Now let’s explore what is at the heart of all this. The Waleses with their 9-focussed numerology plus the fact that they are task companions, would definitely have been behind the push to oust the Duchess of Sussex from the royal family. They would clearly not have allowed Harry to marry Meghan if they were in the Queen’s position. As events have validated, the Waleses and the Courtesan Queen have their backers whose directives they diligently obey. Of course, the Queen sanctioned the marriage as it would be good for her legacy and the racist Waleses, formerly Cambridges, had no intentions of touring a predominantly Black commonwealth nation and only finally did after Meghan and Harry were driven out and the Queen was dying of cancer.

June, 2018, a month after the Sussexes’ wedding, where the buffoon openly ridiculed his sister-in-law and her Black heritage. Naturally, William was in Jerusalem for his paternal great-grandmother, Philip’s rather ape batshit crazy mother who is buried in the city; or so the excuse was made. He went to the wailing wall to say a prayer directly to god as this is what would definitely get the cushim out of the family.

Ben Goldsmith

Apart from the fact that the royals are not a Jewish family, the intense animus towards Meghan from some Jews has raised more than a few eyebrows within the Black community. Of course, as the saying goes, when you know, you know. The diamond consortia whose tentacles stretch from South Africa, to Israel, to Antwerp, to London and New York City have and always will be a Jewish monopoly. This explains why little Lord Fauntleroy, who’s clearly still pissed that his wife fled his chopped up schmeckel for big Black cock, just had to go flapping his Prissy-arsed gums at Meghan’s expense. Who is this Putz, cussing out Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, calling her a bully if he were not one of the Waleses’ inner circle Jews?

Whenever someone Black rises above their accepted station, this mightily seems to threaten some Jews, not all Jews. In my experience, Ashkenazi Jews are almost violent in their open anti-Black racism. Just look at this woman, Orly Taitz, who told lie, after lie, after lie, followed by absurd litigious campaigns to prevent a Black male, Barack Obama, becoming American President; she can of course be credited with having given that treasonous conman and buffoon ideas and the rest is history.

Seriously, what is driving these persons to obsess and want Meghan dead. Tom Bower declaring on-air, it’s her (Meghan) I’m after. Bethenny Frankel spewing hatred when she hasn’t spent a minute, exploring the racism to which Meghan was subjected – not that it would matter in the least. Of course, there is a reason for all this. One must never be criticised but definitely one always has the right to incite anti-Black racism without Blacks daring to challenge such persons. Gathering like vultures, there’s a mounting and ubiquitous presence of the aforementioned and others like Maureen Lipman, Claudia Winkleman, Howard Stern and Richard Quest. Meghan’s presence has ‘others’ attend court as though to stake their claim and make it clear that one matters most and ought not be side-lined.

Falashas have been Jewish since long before converso Europeans became Ashkenazi Jews. Imagine, the state of Israel, committing genocide without so much as one nation on the planet, pausing to shine a light and say, wait a minute, you, Israel, committing genocide? There is no terror greater than the terror of bullying others into silence. How in god’s name do you justify targeting and sterilising the Black Ethiopian Jews, living in Israel, leaving their population diminished by 50 percent? Then again, why should one be remotely surprised? Apartheid existed not for the convenience of the Afrikaner; it was about the Oppenheimers, Shapiros and other Jewish families who control the diamond mining industry. Apartheid was much like the arrangement in Nevis, which saw Brazilian Jews – of which I am descended – engaging in the cotton trade during slavery with one caveat that enslaved Blacks were allowed to will land to their descendants thereby allowing Jews to be in Nevis without technically participating in slavery. Apartheid was another system like the one in Nevis, which was used to technically get around the obvious enslavement of Black South Africans and the hellish work conditions they endure in the diamond mining industry.

Catherine, George & William at Wimbledon, 2022

One thing is perfectly clear in all of this, in 20 years time, when HM King Charles III has long given way to HM King William V, HRH Prince George, Prince of Wales will get married. This, of course, like his parents’ marriage, will be staged at a time when there needs to be a surge in economic activity, boosting the kingdom’s wealth. Without doubt, all the grandstanding and vitriol being orchestrated here and now against Meghan, the Black duchess, will have been for one purpose only, to have William and Catherine favour a Jewish wife for George. This will the crowning achievement for Jews the world over and, of course, with a Jewish mother, thereafter the BRF becomes a very Jewish monarchy. Now it will be William and Catherine’s karma to have this whole affair blow up in their face. As with his father, William, George does have a 5 in the fourth position. This will assure that not only will he cheat on his Jewish wife but he will most likely seek to dissolve their marriage and as she is Jewish, he would be readily killed off, conveniently by accident. In that way, she stays as head of the very Jewish dynasty and her heirs affording that the Crown Jewels remain in Jewish control. If this were to happen it would occur before William’s death and after George’s Jewish wife has had royal children. In the end, William would lose the dynasty to Jews because not trusting and betraying family will be a hostile lesson to have to learn from the opposite perspective whilst still incarnate. In short, what he’s done to Harry and Meghan is likely to be returned to him via his son’s Jewish wife. Never should one be surprised by the staggering stupidity of anti-Black racist Whites.

Sam Waley Cohen

With inner circle stalwarts like Sam Waley Cohen, why else do you think there has been this global attack on Meghan, demonising her and making her the most hated Black woman in history as the Fleet Street abattoirs do as directed from the Bourbon bastard and his handlers? Meghan has been lynched like no other Black person in history as those who matter fiercely show their fealty to the future Sovereign William whose prejudice against Blacks is both readily discernible and documented. The threat of Meghan will be radically addressed with a course correction that will see the Windsors becoming a Jewish dynasty much as America’s visceral response to the effrontery of President Obama gave way to the biggest liar, buffoon, conman who proved the great White hope, though he was twice impeached and treasonously attempted a coup. So, too, will George’s Jewish spouse be seen as the second coming of Mary. Indeed, Charles and the Courtesan’s affair gave way to opportunistic King Juan Carlos, a Bourbon bastard and though not returning the kingdom to the Church of Rome, instead, delivers it up in hostile takeover to become the ultimate status of Jewish ascendancy. There will never be a single negative article about George’s Jewish Queen and the Fleet Street abattoirs will see to it that she is more loved and revered than HLM Queen Elizabeth II and all within a century of her long reign.

Hasidic Wedding

Oh my, wouldn’t that be just grand, King William V’s great-granddaughter and future sovereign’s wedding to an Orthodox Jew from one of the more conservative rabbinical families of Israel. Of course, unlike at the Sussexes wedding won’t anyone be openly ridiculing the ‘other’s’ quaint customs. This would be such sweet poetic karmic justice. As for the British tabloids, they will be most deferential to the ‘spiritually’ evolved new dynasty… so many duchies to invent.

All this because George’s father and mother, William and Catherine, are vile racists who did not want the most otiose of cushim in their midst. This probable future could not eventualise fast enough. Just like that, you lose the empire and will never get it back. Never again will the kingdom be ruled by wholesome blue-blooded protestants. Just as William has been most violently opposed to Black blood tainting the royal bloodlines, so too his handlers know that he is too damn stupid to realise that in a single generation, they are going to be able to wrestle and launch a hostile takeover of the United Kingdom’s monarchy, changing it for all time from a protestant dynasty begun by Tudor matriarch, Margaret Beaufort – now reincarnated as Meghan Markle – and changing it to Jewish dynasty with Rothschild interests as per the protestations of that blasted pussy, Ben Goldsmith.

Here were the Waleses in Los Angeles, in July 2011. This was part of their first royal tour that brought them to Canada to celebrate Canada Day, July 1, 2011. Then next they deplaned in Los Angeles where they were hosted by the Los Angeles wing of BAFTA. To date they still have not been on a royal tour to Kenya where the Prince of Wales proposed. As he is the president of BAFTA, both the Oscars and BAFTAs sneakily acquired a name change, becoming an international film awards. This enables the overwhelmingly aggressive awarding of an American acting award to Britons and for no other reasons as Hollywood is in the thrall of the Court of St. James where rubbing shoulders with aristocrats and royals is the ultimate sign of Hollywood exclusivity.

Legally, only a film festival can be open to actors from diverse countries to be eligible to be both nominated and win acting awards. The current arrangement of rebranding the Oscars international does not make it a film festival; thus, Britons are not eligible to be nominated nor win Oscars. Of course, like the diamond mining and trade in South Africa, Hollywood is not principally an Armenian industry. William as president of BAFTA ventured to Hollywood to serve the interests of British actors but chiefly, he was there at the request of the same diamond consortia who would push him to have Meghan removed from the royal family. You can take the titles all you want but you would also have to murder Harry, Meghan, Archie and Lilibet Diana to put an end to the threat they pose for being so senior in succession rank. Of course, such persons are perfectly capable of doing just that, in the meantime, they demonise the Black woman to make her and family’s elimination no surprise if it were to happen.

Just consider this, Meghan whilst a senior working royal never once wore a tiara, except at her wedding. That, I can assure you, had much to do with the power brokers who saw the Waleses lashing out and waging a campaign against Black Meghan being in the royal family. That cushim should not be allowed to wear a diamond-filled tiara. No better have the Waleses been than Orly Taitz, Tom Bower, Bethenny Frankel, Angela Levin in inciting anti-Black racism towards Meghan, Duchess of Sussex all for rising above her station. Needless to say, Princess Michael of Kent sported the blackamoor brooch as her show of solidarity with the Waleses and those Jews who were violently opposed to a Black being highly placed within the royal family. Just as Lady Susan Hussey could be removed then made to publicly apologised which was a real bit of White voodoo, so too, HLM Queen Elizabeth II ought to have stripped Princess Michael of Kent of her HRH title and had her publicly apologise to Meghan and Henry. Instead, the flat-arsed, racist snob was sat in the quire at the Sussexes’ royal wedding because The Queen will not be told what to do. Furthermore, as her cancerous immolation endured, The Queen tore her arse in the Sussexes’ faces by her antics at the Platinum Jubilee – seating at St. Paul’s Cathedral and being banned from the balcony at Trooping the Colour.

Back in mid-Autumn 1988 after Merlin had been hospitalised with his first bout of AIDS-related pneumocystis and suffered a punctured lung in the process, we were at dinner at his ‘folks’ as he lovingly called his journalist parents. Looking south out the dining room window at 36 Servington Crescent, where in summer you then got an unobstructed view of the lake dotted with egret-looking yachts, we lovingly admired the rain-blackened bark of the magnolia tree that Merlin had planted at age seven. That evening, his younger brother, with whom I enjoyed relations than can best be charitably described as hissing, thankfully was not present. Merlin’s mum always waited for his arrival before cooking dinner as he was a superior cook to her and it allowed them quality time together. As for me, I would go down to the basement and his father’s office where we would eat the best soft bread from a Lebanese bakery in the neighbourhood (Yonge Street). As Merlin pointed out, if my dad shares bread with you, you are family; this is something he also lovingly did on the occasions I attended their home when his writer colleague Pierre Berton was present – breads, breads, breads and more breads. Soon enough, talk turned to literature and writers and Barbara Amiel came up in conversation. Because of the stance she took with support of Apartheid South Africa, Merlin always dismissively referred to her as that Semite. As Merlin argued with his father, her inexcusable position was merely in support of the Jewish diamond cartel, he flatly stated. Merlin had stopped smoking Pall Mall cigarettes as they were connected to Apartheid South African and rigorously campaigned to have his friends stop smoking that and other South African owned brands of cigarettes. Needless to say, Amiel Black has chimed in on the Negro in the palace and you can bet she too disputes Meghan’s claim of racism as does Tom Bower. She nor anyone else Jewish will ever make mention of the blackamoor brooch incident as this is in keeping with Jewish denial that there is any such thing as anti-Black racism. More proof that the wagons have firmly encircled the Waleses and Prince George will have a lovely Jewish wedding, starting the shift of the kingdom from a protestant to a Jewish dynasty, which will never shift back to being protestant. Most of all, how dare that damn cushim, being more senior a royal than their engineered coup of having Sophie Winkleman marry into the royal family and to Princess Blackamoor Brooch’s son no less, which, I suppose, would make the BRF Jewish by proxy.

L to R: Me feeding a cat, actor Wayne Robson, Merlin’s brother, Merlin and his writer father in our Cabbagetown back garden, summer 1988.

In any event, Barbara is a prime example of why one should never take a position on someone and not back down. Long after Merlin’s passing, my position and I am confident Merlin’s, too, had he lived, considerably changed. I paid close attention to her spouse, Conrad Black’s trial in Chicago; I was much impressed how each day this woman got up, put her face on, elegantly strode into the court house past the world’s media and was never anything but dignified. Mr. Black did time but there is no need to have held stridently to former perceptions of her. After all, she attended a Rosedale dinner, here in Toronto, where Nelson Mandela was being feted. And that’s coming a long way after her positions in the Toronto Sun newspaper. In the end, she is wedded to the most brilliant intellect in the English-speaking world, if not the world, and for that, it would be juvenile to not admire the woman; she also happens to be a great writer in her own right. To spend a lifetime despising her for her position during Apartheid, ultimately is nothing more than ugly anti-Semitism.

If indeed Meghan were a bully and difficult, her character Rachel Zane on Suits would have been written out of the show within one season; Meghan lasted 7 seasons. There are multiple unions involved in all film and TV productions; you run afoul of anyone, the union gets involved and soon enough after investigations, you are outright fired or quietly written out of the production. Similarly, If Meghan were a kleptomaniac whilst working on Suits, merely for changing countries, she would remain a kleptomaniac in Britain. Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has yet to be accused of having stolen the purloined Crown Jewels – though I would not put it past the fuckers.

What Meghan has dramatised to the entire world, is the damage to the psyche, indeed, the very soul of the island kingdom, that having been an enslaving, dehumanising, racist – architects of Apartheid – empire, Britons one and all have generationally suffered and become from Queen Elizabeth I through to Queen Elizabeth II to HRH Prince William, Prince of Wales. The latter’s second number of 9 (mindset) reveals him to be a bigot with an intense anti-Black racist animus.

Just look at this old fraud; she grabbed that handbag, the white gloves, the right brooch and hat, smiled and waved and the little old lady schtick only worked to her benefit. The longer she lived the more her façade dropped away, revealing her true unsightly visage. Knowing that William and Catherine were bigots, who refused to go on royal tours to predominantly Black commonwealth countries, The Queen readily approved the marriage of Henry and Meghan. After all, it would be a plus for her legacy to show how far the kingdom had come and all during her reign. Unfortunately, what she had not anticipated was the response of the Waleses; they knew that she had cancer and they wanted it made perfectly clear that they did not want Meghan within the royal family. Perhaps William saw this as his chance to avenge his mum’s murder by The Queen. In sacrificing Meghan, he was paying back a debt for his mum’s murder. The banishment of the Sussexes from the kingdom was William’s way of sabotaging The Queen’s legacy before she was dead and buried; of course, he knew damn well that the trusty Fleet Street Abattoirs would gladly blame that blasted cushim, Meghan, for Philip and Elizabeth’s deaths.

HLM Queen Elizabeth II Canker-Infested Legs May 2016, Before Harry Met Meghan

Just after her 90th birthday in 2016, HM Queen Elizabeth began showing signs of her emergent cancer with canker sores at the shins; this was long before Meghan appeared on the scene. Phillip just got tired of living a lie with the little garden gnome wife from whom for decades, he had been long estranged as everyone knew but chose not to see.

Catherine, HRH Princess of Wales Abandoning Tiara Etiquette in 2011 & 2022

Possessed as they both are of 9 in their numerological makeup, it means that William and Catherine can always be counted on to be difficult; in Catherine’s case a 9 energy body is the signature of the shit-disturber. There is a good reason why Catherine would have worn her hair down at her wedding; she was thumbing her nose at the tabloids and aristocracy, who objected to her marrying above her station and let her know it, going on a decade. It was subtle but it was not surprising for someone with an energy body of 9 and also someone marrying her task companion. She would be guaranteed to fight back. William likely did not know that she would wear her hair down and frankly he is so damn stupid that he probably paid no notice just as he did not know to remain stood in the carriage and assist his new wife in, until she was comfortably sat. Instead, he sat back to the horse, then sat properly never stood up and kept pushing away her wedding gown as she clearly sat too close to him – how could central casting have gotten this one so wrong, then again, there was a mix up in the coupling, if only Charles had done his honeymoon duties. HM The Queen who had been mentored by HM Queen Mary would have taken note of Catherine’s hair being down and not approved. One does not wear hair down when wearing a tiara… never. Going on a school run, shopping at Waitrose, yes. Just imagine if Meghan were to have done this at her wedding; of course, the campaign to remove the effrontery of her Black blood within the senior royal ranks meant that she was banished to her American homeland before having an opportunity to ever wear a tiara again.

Eh voilà, all the signs you ever needed, unless you are the blind, island kingdom cultists, who choose never to see beyond the fairy story, which got really idyllic and the Waleses the epitome of White supremacy and wholesomeness as soon as Meghan appeared at the ball. Thought they are lined up as per line of succession? There is though lots more at play in this photograph. Catherine walks a little behind and holding Louis’s hand, who does not hold his sister, Charlotte’s hand. William, though, is holding George’s hand who in turn is holding Charlotte’s.

Remember this spectacle. Little Damian Ainslie’s coming out. At no point, was he ever sat next to or held by his father, William, neither was he ever related to by Prince George as William’s firstborn is already well aware that William is not the bastard’s father. That explains why, William, in the Christmas 2022 family photograph, is not walking between both sons and holding either’s hand. Rather he is connected to George and Charlotte by handholding, who in turn are not holding hands with Louis/Damian and their mother, Catherine.

William simply has nothing to do with Louis, which is precisely why Louis acted out the way he did at the Jubilee celebrations and all that Catherine, who was down the way and not sat with Louis between her and William for comfort and anchoring him, could do, was sit there and take Louis’s abuse and sheepishly peer down at William from time to time. Instead, yet again he was sat apart from William, of whom he is likely terrified – his mindset of 9 would trigger operatic screaming which would leave Damian/Louis, who instinctually knows that William is not his father, ever fearful of the man who has clearly long ago rejected him. Indeed, during the Jubilee parade last June, 2022, Damian was sent to sit on his step-grandfather and soon to be king, HM King Charles III’s lap. Though William has his lovechild with Rose, Countess Rocksavage who cannot be explained away in public family outings, Catherine who was pregnant, could bring her lovechild with Ben Ainslie everywhere after all one would naturally assume that the child is William’s.

Charles & Diana’s Royal Wedding July 29, 1981

At the end of it all, William has been undeniably outed as the architect of the Kensington Palace leaks to the Fleet Street abattoirs against Meghan. Enough of him.

Harry & Meghan’s Royal Wedding May 19, 2018

Princely royal wedding day etiquette could not be clearer. The prince enters the carriage first and assists his wife’s entry into the carriage. This, of course, was the case for both Diana and Meghan, their chivalrous princes entered the carriage, is stood welcoming them inside and only after they are comfortably sat, is he rightly sat.

William & Catherine’s Royal Wedding April 29, 2011

No such luck when it comes to good old conceited and archly unaware Bourbon Billy. He gets into the carriage, sits rather than is stood there, not only does he improperly sits with back to horses and then shifts to the correct carriage seat, rather than is stood welcoming in his new wife to the carriage. Further, conceited Bourbon Billy thinks more of his Irish Guard’s uniform as he brushes off Catherine’s exquisite Alexander McQueen wedding gown off his uniform. Are we then surprised that as revealed by Harry, William is the controlling pain in the arse that his numerology betrays? Just look at him, eight times after Catherine was sat next to him, he edged away from her, fidgeted and acted as though she was sat much too close to him?

Lindsay Wallace & Peter Phillips Arrive by Carriage to Royal Ascot, 2022

Lindsay Wallace, 40, Scottish, divorced with two kids. Finalised in June 2021, Peter Phillips was now free to pursue Lindsay, whose Scottish father is a multimillionaire oilman. Lindsay attended Gordonstoun with Peter’s sister, Zara Tindall. She is in the family fold. Why, though, when she is neither fiancée nor wife did she arrive on day one of Royal Ascot 2022 with the then Cambridges presiding. Of course, The Queen was then dying of cancer.

The soon-to-be Prince of Wales made a point of being sociable and engaging with Lindsay Wallace. Catherine also made a point of being engaging with Ms. Wallace in the royal box at Royal Ascot, 2022. There is no sense of Catherine or William being ill at ease in the presence of Lindsay. Is it because she is not a Yank, Black, nor intelligent therefore deemed a non-threat. The way that the then Cambridges behaved and socialised with Ms. Wallace, he being welcoming of Lindsay into the fold, validates how much the now Waleses were keen on freezing out Meghan. In light of what we learnt in the Netflix documentary and the Lady Susan Hussey and Jeremy Clarkson episodes, Meghan is way too good to be in any capacity associated with these snobbish racist asshats. William’s sucking up to Lindsay Wallace for being hyper wealthy, White and British illustrates how easy it will be for he and Catherine’s Jewish handlers to readily sway this man into having George marry into the faith and thereby lose the dynasty outright.

Courtesan Queen Holding Court at Mayfair’s Murano

As the Courtesan Queen does not give a damn, she entertained her courtiers at Mayfair’s Murano. What does she care about revealing her hand, she has gotten what she wanted by bullying it out of the cancer-stricken Misogynist Queen. She is Queen Consort, sorry, Courtesan Queen.

Courtesan Queen Hosting Vile Racists Who Have Been Open In Their Animus of Meghan, Duchess of Duchess

Mayfair’s Murano recently hosted members of the Courtesan Queen’s inner circle, which of course was a show of support after Netflix’s Harry & Meghan docuseries. Naturally, persons who have been most openly critical and racially predatory towards Meghan were in attendance, chief among them, Piers Morgan, Jeremy Clarkson and Judi Dench. Naturally, there were Jews present to the exclusion of East Indians, Chinese or Black Britons; Claudia Winkleman, Maureen Lipman. Additionally, also present were: Maggie Smith, Tess Daly, Chris Evans, Tom Parker Bowles, Tracey Emin, Hugh Bonneville.

Within 24 hours of their little kissy kissy boosh boosh, there appeared Jeremy Clarkson’s commentary in The Sun in which he fantasised about Meghan being paraded naked throughout each town of the kingdom and stoned with human faeces.

Classic Response from A Jew As Per BrandyBreath. Ignore It Of Course As Long As Its Blacks But Definitely Not if It Were Deemed Anti-Semitic.

This is not an apology, not that it matters. It is no business of Meghan’s or anyone Black what the fuck you think. You are racist scum. Go on, fuck off and crawl into your casket and rot in hell, with the Queen because we all know beyond the schtick, she was damn racist – the royal documentary of June 1969 irrefutably validates as much.

The sickness of some Whites: their every reaction to someone Black is instinctually negative, most are often never even aware that they are engaging in racially predatory unconscious bias. Trust me, your perceptions of us is just that, a symptom of your having been savagely enslaving during which time, you lost your humanity. We Blacks, I can assure you, do not care anymore than we either care or need to go lay in the Sun to look good.

How Gullible Do These People Look to Those Eager to Usurp the Crown Jewels via Prince George’s Marriage?

4 days and counting and there has been not a single word form the Courtesan Queen, Tampax King, Peggalicious Bourbon Billy and partially animated Sodden Cardboard. Why am I not surprised? Of course, in a move never indulged by his predecessor, Tampax King released a message on the eve of Chanukah; twenty years and counting down indeed.

Courtesan Queen Deplanes In Edinburgh and Rudely Abandons Protocol and Retires to Limousine

From deliberately ignoring tiara etiquette to doing as one damn well pleases. Obviously, the Courtesan Queen was relieved that the Misogynist Queen finally got off the stage. Don’t you worry, just pray that you predecease the Tampax King or else you will be muzzled and crop-whipped by Catherine as well she damn well ought to. Seabiscuit aka Courtesan Queen it was, who had driven Catherine from the palace, thereby causing a break in William and Catherine’s decade-long courtship. Just look at this blasted shrew snubbing Nicola Sturgeon – who yes is a pill and half – to go sit in the limousine whilst The Late Queen’s body was not yet returned to London.

Prissy Presented At Court

In Meghan, the Waleses and the Courtesan Queen otherwise known as Seabiscuit – who clearly stormed free of the Windsor stables – were expecting to have their very own Prissy in their midst, instead they got a forthright, self-made, intelligent, articulate woman, all the things that mumbling, social climbing boor, Catherine is not. Once removed from court, though the tabloids defamed Meghan’s character no end, the royals have managed to do themselves in rather handsomely. Indeed, the grave you did for others will be the one you fall into. Meghan took a look and thought the gig absurd, they ravaged her as so many Blacks experience for being the lone Black entering into a White institution. Finally, Henry made the call and they walked. Bravo!

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Coeur de Loup Philipppe Lafontaine In Concert

After having just looked at episodes 4 through 6 of Meghan & Harry A Netflix Docuseries. Let’s just get up and shake our ass and remove ourselves from all that dross that is the House of Windsor – Victorian Misogynist, Tampax King, Seabiscuit aka Courtesan Queen, Peggalicious and Catherine with her lovechild, Damian, with Big Ben. When living in Montréal for seven years what made an otherwise hellish work experience tolerable, was the music that ensouls the nation’s distinctly unique culture. From Isabelle Boulay, to Lara Fabian, Mitsou, Patricia Kaas and, of course, Céline Dion plus so many others. Indeed, until you’ve lived in Québec, you do not truly get the soul of Canada, just as it is also imperative that you explore and appreciate the culture of First Nations peoples.

L to R: Lilibet Diana, Henry, Archie & Meghan

Bravely and rather admirably, the Sussexes have told their story. Most of all, as if I had not been intermittently crying but as the closing credits of episode 6 began rolling, the music was Nancy Wilson singing “How Glad I AM.” This is the very same Jazz music chosen for this blog’s last post dated, December 2, 2022, 6 days before the first 3 episodes of Netflix’s Harry & Meghan dropped. I was immediately reminded how I was compelled to feverishly pen the blog on November 15, 2021, a day after HM King Charles III’s birthday as the most lucid astral plane dream was dreamt the day prior, November 13, 2021. There was no mistaking the fact that the dream presaged HM Queen Elizabeth II’s death in the coming year; for this reason, I simply had to write the blog so that after the fact, no one could roll their eyes, if I were to have chosen to share the dream after The Queen’s passing in September 2022.

Tyler Perry 13. 9. 1969 Rooster 4. 4. 2 = 1

Truly, Tyler Perry is a Prince among mere titled reborn bigots who are nothing more than stewards of an ancient dynasty. Too bad though that Prince William and Catherine, Princess of Wales are on the cusp of woefully undoing six hundred years of Protestantism all because of their blind bigotry. Serves them right too.

The most memorable Nancy Wilson Jazz performance, I enjoyed in winter 1993 when Milan Newcombe and I flew into New York City for the weekend, to attend the Blue Note Jazz Club concert. Milan lived in a magical loft on Spadina Avenue in Kensington Market. He was adorably eccentric rather than crazy – who needs the drama? He was 10.5 inches of intense powerful sex. Though I rarely bottom, I most definitely never bottom for any cock less than 9.5 inches. Milan and I had spent a glorious weekend in May 1992 in Montréal where we attended the 350th anniversary of the founding of the city. I spent the evening walking the city streets where the night time parade coursed down Boulevard St. Laurent, the city’s main drag. Milan that afternoon had decided that we had to attend the parade in masks and costumes, all of which we found at a costume shop at St. Laurent and rue Ontario Est. He insisted and as he was such an exciting lover, for the first time, I wore six-inch black patent leather Bally talons hauts (high heels) thus giving birth to at least a dozen of my known 72 personalities – this an aunt declared of me on a visit to Nevis; the wife of an uncle whom no one liked, she was without pretentions and ready to set the record straight on everything – she was great fun and we got on riotously well.

We sat close to the stage and dined on delicious fare. I had a bit too much Cointreau but as ever, Nancy’s performance was sublime. On our return to Toronto, though Milan’s music library exceeded 1000 recordings and spanned 3.5 centuries – most of it harpsichord recordings and yes he did have a harpsichord, which he played nightly after noisily ploughing me into sweet surrender – we listened to Nancy’s recording of How Glad I Am. Indeed, I had introduced Milan to Jazz, which he voraciously explored, listening to various recordings late into the night. Naturally, he was smitten with Oscar Peterson whose trio we caught one cold wintry evening on Bloor Street West, in Yorkville’s Bermuda Onion. On occasion, Milan managed to play some of Oscar’s recordings on his marvellously magical harpsichord, late at night in his purple-interiored salon lit throughout by candlelight.

Oscar Peterson Trio Live in Denmark 1964

C Jam Blues

Oscar Peterson – Piano

Ray Brown – Bass

Ed Thigpen – Drums

Listen to you, talking shit about Jazz has its roots in Klezmer; then again that gold and diamond thieves are liars should come as no surprise. Jazz is the music of the people whom though enslaved – one continues to make money off (Meghan by way of peddling anti-Black racism) – openly revile, hate and vilify, our spirit remains indomitable. We are a people whose spirit you’ll never break because Jazz, like all great art, cannot be mined from veins of vile, racist hatefulness.

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

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I Remember… Plus, Dream of Queen’s Passing.

04.09.202210.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

**Looking Southeast from Sentinel Hill into Vancouver’s Stanley Park, West End and City.**

ACT ONE

Mere days after having relocated to Vancouver on a job transfer, I bumped into Ken, very late at night at the Club Vancouver bathhouse. Our spirits purred on rekindling positive past-life associations. Of course, he wanted to know if I would like to join him at his place, his lover was there, and thus began a magical relationship with two very beautiful souls. The drive through Stanley Park lazily drifted from bucolic and then into what proved the most magical journey to the top of Sentinel Hill. There their glass-walled living area, for sitting highest on the hill, gave a commanding view of Stanley Park beyond Lion’s Gate Bridge, the West End and the rest of Vancouver. At the time, I was staying at the funky Niagara Hotel a block away on the same street as the Club Vancouver on West Pender Street.

**Niagara Hotel 435 West Pender Street, Vancouver**

Readily, I accepted their offer, after a night of wanton passion and exquisite pleasure. I was having very bad luck in scoring a place that I wanted. I would call up and make appointments and finally on presenting, not having sounded a thing like I looked, Black, the place had just suddenly been rented out. I wanted to live in the West End and nowhere else. Finally, Les, Ken’s remarkably handsome of spirit lover found me a place when posing as my partner and getting the place into which we would be living, chiefly myself. The things one has to do at times to get by in what is supposed to be a civilised world. In the meantime, I spent almost three weeks living with them and it was both memorable and pleasurable.

Though they wanted me to live with them and take over their basement, which was the back of the house on the slope that made it anything but a basement, I declined the offer. I had moved out to Vancouver with my art collection and had had my home in storage since months after Merlin’s passing in November, 1989. I needed to breathe, to grow, to have my own space and walk about in open capes, naked in a pair of six-inch, black patent leather stilettos whilst listening and singing along to either Jazz or opera. Though, I moved out, I spent most free weekends with them, going for long hikes in North Vancouver’s foothills, walking around the seawall in Stanley Park, making dinners together and most of all, having great threesomes to the most glorious music.

Where Ken was soft, warm and laid back, Les was though diminutive, a towering force of nature. His was laughter that I had never nor since encountered. It was truly operatic and like great music, it was possessed of positively no bile or hostility. Les’s laughter was a pure, unfiltered distillation of his beauty of spirit. Learned and fluent in multiple languages, apart from being the chief librarian at UBC, University of British Columbia, he was also of note in Vancouver’s choral societies. Always there was great music, creating the just-so magical ambiance in their divine home. Nowhere in the universe was more harmoniously zen than a dinner party at Les and Ken’s Sentinel Hill home in November, when it had been raining almost imperceptibly for the last 3 to 6 days as is often the case in autumn. At such times, there would be mist rising off the crowns of Stanley Park’s stately Sitkas as autumn set in and winter was never going to be no less than 10 degrees Celsius.

**878 Gilford – Top Two Windows on Left Were My Suite**

Les knew a wealth of persons and many from Vancouver’s well-heeled Gay community; they were all music lovers. On Sunday mornings, after we had been in bed a tangle of arms, tongues and legs doing what wanton sinners do best, we would go for a hike in North Vancouver’s foothills. Ken and Les always said hello to everyone encountered on their walks. This one Sunday morning, there was a very handsome, dark-haired man, taller than Ken and me, who was ruggedly handsome in spades. As it was obvious that the attraction was mutual, he leaned in and kissed me then invited himself to dinner later; nothing is ever more sexy than confidence.

**1915 Haro Where Pedro & I Watched Gianni Versace Funeral Coverage on CNN, July 1997.**

Pedro became a casual sexual partner; for one thing, he was legendarily hung like the famed Rubirosa if not more so and the girth on that bad boy… Lord Jesus. We saw each other whenever he happened to be in town. He had expat South Africans from Cape town, who lived on the Sunshine Coast to the west of West Vancouver whom he visited from time to time and another couple who lived in the British Properties; most definitely, that meant that I was neither invited along nor could give two fucks about being in the presence of such blasted dreck.

As I was then living in my own apartment in the West End, we would get together whenever he was in town and phoned wanting hot mansex as he liked calling it. His watch was the first time that I had seen a Panerai and loved it and he always smelled good; dark piercing eyes were free of guile as he forged into his late 50s with a sexual stamina foreign to most men 30 years his junior. Once after intense fucking, we talked afterwards and remarking about aspects of his colouring, I asked him how many people ever asked or even knew that he was of Black blood. According to him, no one ever had before though he shared that his maternal grandfather was light-skinned Black Brazilian with one of the many names that attest to Brazilian colourism.

That grandfather had been the result of a love affair of a local doctor and the family had gone to great lengths to protect his Black heritage and it was facilitated by his having been an only child. The fact that I had broached the subject had left him always calling whenever he was in town. He also found it widely fascinating that each time that he slept over that I awoke, grabbed a tape-recorder and began bringing forth my dreams; Pedro shared that it was a gift that his mother had and was always convinced that it came from her maternal grandfather’s bloodlines.

**Sting, Anna Wintour, Trudie Styler, Karl Lagerfeld, Diana, Princess of Wales & André Leon Talley.**

In late July, 1997, I was packing up my West End home with days to spare before moving to Montréal. At the time, Pedro and I sat around on the floor, propped up against boxes and trucks, looking at CNN as the funeral and all the circus around Gianni Versace’s murder unfolded over a couple of weeks. Pedro was talking about how dangerous persons like Andrew Cunanan, Gianni’s murderer, were. He thought that it was bad news to not stick within a tight circle of known and trusted friends and lovers. In any event, at the time, we were watching reports of Gianni’s funeral when Pedro began speaking of Diana, Princess of Wales. According to him, she was secretly seeing a very wealthy Arab and Muslim and it was likely that they would marry. The only thing, at the time, I remember about the names that he mentioned, was Khashoggi; apparently, whoever Diana was seeing, was the nephew of Adnan Khashoggi’s and his father was an obvious billionaire. Pedro said that not only would they be married but Diana, would definitely convert to Islam and bare him children as a way to get back at the royal family. Said he, they had deliberately given her a divorce settlement that was way less than she ought to have received. He said it was because The Queen was both cheap and spiteful.

This left Diana, Princess of Wales in a position, much like Jacqueline Kennedy, Pedro stated, of having to marry for money to maintain the lifetime to which she ought to be kept, much as Jacqueline marrying Aristotle Onassis. Pedro thought that The Queen was a vile, nasty person. Then Pedro said, sadly for Diana, they will never let her get away with it and definitely not twice. When asked what he meant by twice, said he, Diana realising that Charles did not love her and was with Camilla, had an affair with the King of Spain and it resulted in her firstborn not being fathered by Charles. They will sooner kill her than have her marry a Muslim, convert to Islam and set up a rival dynasty. Diana is daring enough… but also stupid enough, said he.

**Diana, Princess of Wales Funeral, 1997**

Exactly a week later, after watching the funeral with Pedro in my Haro Street, West End apartment, I was on a plane flying to Montréal and almost spat out my tea when the clown behind me requested of the attendant, “de thé, s’il te plait?” The male attended curtly shot back, “du thé, Madame…” Four years later, I was returned to Vancouver, chiefly to buy Haida art, attend pow wows, see Ken and Les and of course my oldest friend, who lives in Victoria and who in an illustrious past life was the painter, Sir Anthony van Dyck. It goes without saying, there were long nights of reckless abandon spent in Stanley Park, the world’s largest bathhouse au bois, getting lewdly carnal – as I had with Pedro; many were the times I found him there, not realising that he was in town. After having made some good art purchases, I spent time with Ken: Les was away at the time of my visit. When we dined one evening as I spent three days at their new North Vancouver condo and I mentioned how strange it was that just about everything that Pedro had said about Diana, Princess of Wales a month before her passing, was eerily almost prescient.

Ken told me that was because Pedro was the lovechild of a Spanish duke with a South American actress and he had also, for years, been the lover of another Spanish duke. Ken assured me if anyone would know high society gossip, it would most definitely be Pedro; also, said Ken, Pedro knows and always speaks the truth of high society goings on. Ken confirmed that Pedro had shared that Prince William was not fathered by Charles but King Juan Carlos, adding if anyone ought to know, it would be the very well-placed lover of a relative of the King’s. As we dined on a cold soup and the most exquisitely prepared salmon, Ken was a sublime cook, Ken said, ‘Of course, she was murdered. Diana, did not take her enemies as seriously as obviously they took the threat of her. Nothing will ever come of it. She was put down by The Queen and who is going to prosecute The Queen. “Precisely,” I replied. Ken, of course, I would learn from his lover, Les, when we first met was of Polish nobility and it showed in spades. Ken was not a snob but he was well-bred as West Indians say; more than that, after dinner Ken and I took to bed and he performed magic better than most. Holding his head in place, I writhed facedown in the pillow as Ken’s tongue feverishly kept pace with my twerking, pleasured arse.

Clueless. Conceited. Stubborn.

ACT TWO

Actions filmed betray the truth, every time… Just look at that blasted clueless man! There is not a sage soul who has ever incarnated, who would not have gotten into that carriage and stood there, open his chest, raise his chin and gallantly extend his gloved hand to his new bride and duchess, future Queen Consort, future King Mother then sit after she was sat. Instead, we get blissfully self-absorbed, selfish, totally unaware and conceited as all fuck, Bastard Bourbon Billy, sitting with his back to the horses, then not only does he completely ignore his new bride and sit, barely helping her in, but he keeps pushing her dress off his uniform when she was finally sat. Never once did he think to stand up and assist, welcome his wife into the carriage. And just remember, he is sixth mature, all persons living sixth mature lives are ever bereft of drama all of their own creation thanks to their self-karmic issues for one.

Just look at this woman, born with coalmining soot lining her lungs, which explains her addiction to cigarette-smoking, openly shunning a Black woman. This occurred during her first royal tour to a predominantly Black commonwealth nation, the first in her nearly twelve years of marriage. Lord only knows, it would not have happened if she and her racially predatory husband had not driven his brother and his Black wife out of the monarchy; they would have been tasked to undertake those utterly detestable tours to the wretched, overpopulated dirty people regions of the commonwealth. She recoils by flicking her hair and standing back when the Jamaican minister of sport reaches out to take her hand. She then defensively holds her hands together and actually pulls back her hands rather than take the cabinet minister’s hand. Catherine then reluctantly saves face, and still holds her fingers together, thereby allowing the forthright minister to take her left forearm. Next, she shoves her held left forearm at the cabinet minister when wrestling her arm away from the otiose, undesirable, Black thing’s sullied hand. None of this racist bigotry, as you can well imagine, was once mentioned, discussed, and afforded multiple articles by the vile British tabloid press.

Numbers never ever lie. Catherine’s energy body is 9. She would not be her bigoted self if she had not reacted that way to the Black Jamaican cabinet minister. Protocol my arse! You do not see her behaving that way towards Jews and she certainly didn’t stand there at the Buckingham Palace garden party and hold on to her umbrella with both hands whilst grinning her disingenuous, fuck you, fake-as-all-hell smile at ‘them.’

Just look at these blasted ninny goats; how quickly they fall into line and like the media hacks in North Korea, whatever BBB (Bastard Bourbon Billy) decrees when going nuclear, they readily change tune and do as commanded. His reign will be a nasty business, scandal-saturated to the gills, what with that fourth number of 5. If that woman, who seems incapable of reading the room and sensibly taken leave with Philip, were to live to be 106 years, which is not impossible, by then Charles will have long passed without having acceded and at age 50, you can damn well bet Bastard Bourbon Billy would gladly eliminate her and justify it as revenge for his mother, Diana, Princess of Wales, having been murdered by her. It is what royals do, what royals have always done. Needless to say, the somnambulant of the island realm would never question the obvious, as most definitely they did not at Diana’s assassination; instead they audaciously claimed that Prince Philip and the MI6 were the ones who had Diana murdered and not HM The Queen.

**Princess Blackamoor with the Two Black Sheep Named, Venus and Serena**

Just look at them: Dan Wootton and Piers Morgan, speaking truth about Princess Michael of Kent, at the announcement of Harry and Meghan’s engagement in November, 2017, which would come to pass as she stepped out wearing the blackamoor brooch the following month, yet there was no investigation into allegations of racism within the royal family or royal households.

**Princess Blackamoor in blackface (Obviously, I am no photoshop wizard)**

Princess Michael of Kent wearing the blackamoor brooch is no less racist than if she had turned up that Christmas lunch at Buckingham Palace in blackface. Somehow, these fools the world over would like you to believe that there was nothing racist about the brooch and once again, Blacks are being overly sensitive and paranoid. When it pleases HM The Queen to act that she does, as when she tore her arse in the kingdom’s face and insisted that her lovechild, Andrew, escort her into Westminster Abbey at the service of thanksgiving for the life of the Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh.

Houghton Hall Sat Next to Anmer Hall, Norfolk.

So in a bid to kill the hot rumour of Billy going next-door for the real honey pot, the same blasted media sycophants who sang Meghan’s praises on the announcement of the engagement in 2017, Dan Wootton and Piers Morgan and others, course-corrected and were let loose on Meghan, Princess Henry of Wales by none other than William with the tacit agreement of HM The Queen. Naturally, The Queen would go along with the media smear of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex as all Sovereigns are above reproach and should never ever be sullied by British tabloid media; besides, HM The Queen had her own reasons.

Adelaide ‘Dog Pound’ Cottage

Well off to the pound with you, BBB (Bastard Bourbon Billy) for raiding the Savage Rock chick inn. And wouldn’t you know it, just like his Bourbon father, Billy goes off and breeds with another man’s wife. That precisely is why he has been made to relocate to Adelaide ‘Dog Pound’ Cottage with only one of his two daughters in tow. Some consolation that; Bastard Bourbon Billy was not allowed to ditch the family embarrassment, Damien, for the Bastard Princess of Norfolk.

**Look At Risible Control Freak, Bastard Bourbon Billy Getting Pussy-whipped by Ben Ainslie’s Lover.**

Who pray tell the fuck are you, to go pulling away from the hand of the Jamaican Minister of Sport and you think there is nothing for it? Soot-lunged arriviste! At the end of the day, we all shit and piss and crawl into a casket, by whatever means ours or someone’s doing. That said, you don’t like Black please, please go lie your tired arse on a beach somewhere in the Sun, get cancer and crawl the fuck in your casket. Ever, I will be most fuck-all indefatigable in my support and defence of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex and her family: Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex, Archie Harrison, Lilibet-Diana and Doria Ragland.

Not that she could give a rat’s arse, for there she was for all the world to see, being Big Ben Ainslie’s yacht girl. Whether being a goddamn bigot with the Jamaican minister of sport or openly flirting with the knighted yachtsman, she knows damn well that just like with Meghan, she will never be held to task for her conduct. After all, Meghan has been reduced to the most ridiculed, reviled, hated fugitive from justice for having had the temerity for marrying Diana, Princess of Wales’ son. To illuminate Meghan, Duchess of Sussex’s words as she articulated during her interview with Orpah: if you love Catherine, you don’t have to hate me and if you love me, you don’t have to hate her. Well, sadly, that is not how the White tribe’s collective psyche works. There always must be a threat to defend oneself against and there is always an evil in the world, which never ever could be oneself, regardless what the empirical evidence indicates.

**Diana, Princess of Wales Adorned In the Spencer Tiara**

To paraphrase Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, if you love Diana, Princess of Wales, you don’t have to hate William and Catherine; conversely, if you truly love Diana, Princess of Wales, you don’t have to hate Harry and Meghan.

**Please Standby, The Palace Diaries Are Yet to Be Published**

Meghan has now emerged as the most reviled, hated and lied about woman in human history. The fact that she is Black is no coincidence and certainly, the fact that she had the audacity to call Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge a liar on Oprah, along with all her other enablers, was the declaration of war. Thus far, myopic British media have no awareness that their reach is not total in America and at the end of the day, when Meghan does speak her truth, very few Americans are going to want to countenance a royal family and Britons whom they damn well dispensed with 246 years ago.

Every day, there is another story, in which these venal arse-wipes… every single last one of them, go on bleating on and on about Meghan, telling every lie imaginable and inciting anti-Black racism, go on and on and blasted motherfucking on, making a liar, failure, clown of both Meghan and Harry. Fuck every last one of you. The easiest thing to do on this planet, is to tell a lie on someone Black. As ever, one will be believed and there will most certainly never be any repercussions for doing so. If there was ever a single possibility of finding oneself “Nick Berged/Rushdied,” every one of these snake-bellied bigots would never once move their hideous lizard lips to say a single word against Meghan… and Harry.

Honest to fucking god, what is little flat-arsed, soot-lunged, adulterer going to say that she is not racist and she never made Meghan cry? Yeah, right… just like she never refused to shake hands with some blasted bipedal simian bitch in Jamaica. Sooner or later, every dog will not only lick itself but will also eat its vomit and never ever, should you be either shocked or surprised by that. It is in the nature of dogs to do so, just as it is in the nature of far too many Whites to hate, lie and vilify Blacks for positively no fucking reason. Of course, they will ever say they have nothing to do with slavery and may even glibly apologise in their best insincere “fuck you, get over it” banter as when William did just that in Jamaica and again at the unveiling of the Windrush sculpture at Waterloo Station. It means absolutely nothing when you know that this is the same dolt who had the temerity to protest, the day after the Oprah interview aired, claiming, “We are very much not a racist family.” Seriously, were it not for the subjugation of Chinese and Indians and the gross enslavement of Black Africans, Britons today would be no better off that miserably poor-as-fuck Albanians.

**Archetypes: A Happenin’ Joint on Spotify.**

A strong woman walks and does more than survive, she damn-well thrives. Most definitely, she does not keep breeding, to keep an adulterous man and thereby end up with superfreak numero un, Damien, that’s who. That’s right, Karma does not lie. You no more want to be near the ailing Queen by moving to Adelaide Cottage, than does The Queen want your fake arse anywhere near her. You are both equally treacherous and despise each other in equal measure, the world has long seen this and even before Meghan appeared on the scene.

As that blasted island kingdom is clearly overrun by semi-feral hyenas en chaleur, it has long become evident to anyone not obsequiously rimming the royals’ collective arse that the predators have moved from fox hunting to nigger hunting with fever-pitched intensity; when is being racially predatory not sport for Whites who choose to be so focussed and engaged? Everyone of these pretentious boors are ever ready to gnarl and bark at Meghan. Just look at that god fugly oxygen thief, talking shit about why give them (Meghan and Harry) oxygen? How about you crawl the fuck in your casket. People talk and all she ever was for many a Hollywood moon, was just another casting couch whore. Don’t recall her having received an Oscar. She has been more jizzed on than a urinal cake in Penn Station during cruisy evening rush hour. Let’s make it perfectly fucking clear, any jackass and his shadow is ever ready to openly hate Blacks, please know that we are not all prepared to sit by idly and suffer your hideous arse or bullshit. If for a nanosecond people do not think that this constant open animus against Meghan, Duchess of Sussex is not racially motivated and, more importantly, that it does not affect the lives of Blacks going about their daily business, you are truly not focussed in this reality. Rimming Warren Beatty like a drunken manwhore at a bathhouse and where pray tell the fuck were you in Shampoo or Heaven Can Wait That’s right, just another cumrag at a Hollywood circle jerk. All that pouting and vamping for just as many decades as Liz and it never got you a blasted Oscar. Just like Princess Blackamoor, both raising your rabid rear right leg and whizzing par-fucking-tout. Please just stop with the BS about Diana told you when exiting Harry’s Bar that she just had lunch with the most boring king in Europe; either you know bugger all or it was another attempt at throwing shade. Either way, what does it matter, your you-know-what smells like a crate of rotten oranges and your shadow is beyond bored, having to suffer you being a fugitive from your casket 1.5 decades and counting. Go on, take a clue from Lilibet, stop stealing oxygen and crawl the fuck in your casket. Not a single goddamn acting award because there are no awards for casting couch whores and a damn Golden Globe has as much cache as a frigging BAFTA.

This woman got her arse booted from an American talk-show where all she ever did was cuss off Meghan in her typically racially predatory, poseur Toff British bully persona. Just won’t do. For one, one of her co-hosts was Julie Chen Moonvez, whose husband, Les Moonvez was the CEO of CBS. These things matter and the whole culture of Americans associated with showbiz, though both Moonvez were no longer associated with the show and network by the time of Osborne’s departure, it still had an impact. The fact is, Sharon and Ozzy became social pariahs as Americans simply have no countenance for Britons playing holier than thou and treating Americans like crap.

Yet another displaced otiose Briton, Cara Delevingne squatting in America as though either welcome and doing nothing more than taking jobs from Americans. Just look at this blasted crack whore and you can bet your bottom dollar for not being Black, she has managed never to have had a run in with the local constabulary.

**HM Queen Elizabeth II 21.4.1926 Tiger 08.9.2022**

ACT THREE

I began writing this blog as the 25th anniversary of Diana, Princess of Wales assassination approached and because it had me revisit that time leading up to her death, when I was relocating from Vancouver to Montréal in late July, 1997. I also wanted to address the unrelenting, racially predatory hunt of Meghan from all quarters and watching Vanessa Feltz that smug sow, who seems so pleased as muddied swine that she was getting Black cock that she just couldn’t help turning her racial hatred in Meghan’s direction. First of all, no honey, fucking a nigger makes you a goddamn nigger; in case you’ve not noticed niggers and Blacks have nothing in common but what would you know? As if? There is not enough money on this planet to pay a Black man to piss on you… blasted sow. Thankfully, Holly Willoughby took her to task as she sat her fat, flat arse all over Meghan’s name. Her mea culpa of sorts occurred days later as she broke into the most transparent display of crocodile tears as she announced on-air the passing of HM The Queen. Nigger please! The other trigger was that washed up casting cough whore spewing off; how ungrateful are this ever burgeoning ghetto of Brits in Hollywood that one then has to be reminded of their stinking racial animus towards Blacks when the casket fugitive mouths off.

https://dreampoetica.com/2022/08/01/tea-time/

Here’s is the link to a dream of HM The Queen’s passing on the eve of HM King Charles III’s birthday in 2021. With The Queen’s passing, especially so after HM King Charles III’s speech to the kingdom, you could sense that there was a deep vibrational shift begun within the realm.

With The Queen’s long overdue departure, things can now open up and with Catherine and William now becoming Prince and Princess of Wales, they don’t need any longer to feel the gross insecurity and prejudice that saw them run to the Fleet Street abattoirs and have Meghan slaughtered at the tabloid altars. Some strange white voodoo that… but it damn well works that’s for frigging sure.

The Grand Canal With Santa Maria della Salute Looking East Towards the Bacino

Oil on Canvas

50 x 80

1744 Canaletto

Provenance: Royal Collection Trust, St. James’s Palace

Will you just get a load of that Canaletto in St. James’s Palace throne room? Phenomenal!

HM King Charles III First Speech on Death of HM The Queen

As HM King Charles III made it clear, Harry and Meghan are focussed overseas. So please by all means, now that you are Prince and Princess of Wales with just as fractious a marriage as Charles and Diana’s were, please do shine and show the world what megastars you are as you are, after all, royal rather than celebrities. Get out there and show the world your uneclipsed love; maturing into expected titles is not a sign of a successful marriage. William will always cheat and as Diana and her adultery were outed in a get-back by Charles, don’t expect Catherine’s whoring with Ben to be touched with a titanium javelin anytime soon. That’s the really sad part because thanks to the iron-fisted reign of Elizabeth over the family rather than firm, Windsor men sadly are all castrati in varying degrees.

I do believe that had HM The Queen exited the stage long ago, likely before Meghan’s arrival on the scene, ‘Megxit’ would have turned out differently or simply not have eventualised. As it is, yet again, here was another example of The Queen turning her back and not giving a damn, stubbornly she even dug in her heels as if to protest the claim of racism against Princess Michael of Kent by deliberately having her attend the Sussexes wedding and this after having Angela Kelly, snubbing Meghan for a tiara fitting. Then on their return to court for the Jubilee celebrations, Princess Blackamoor was sat close to the former Prince and Princess of Wales (Charles & Camilla) and the current Prince and Princess of Wales, (William and Catherine). Go on, go run up and down the planet, grinning your best “fuck you, die” smile with HM King Charles III, serving as new peace envoy.

As the seating at St. Paul’s Cathedral during the Platinum Jubilee revealed, it was all about HM The Queen’s stubbornness. She saw nothing wrong in what HRH Princess Michael of Kent did in wearing the blackamoor brooch to her Christmas lunch in December, 2017. As far as The Queen saw it, Meghan was offensively ungrateful. £35m spent on the Sussexes’ wedding and an expectation of conducting the overseas commonwealth tours that the then Cambridges had no desire of undertaking. Look at Catherine, HRH Princess of Wales in the preceding video. She turns around, sees where the Sussexes are sat and says wow, which was a comment on the stern impertinence of HM The Queen.

**Duke & Duchess of Sussex with Oprah Winfrey**

Do not ever underestimate the power of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex and her astute awareness of her power. Her appearance on Oprah was all strategy. Meghan plays the long game. When she mentioned the threat of the slimmed down monarchy and Archie and Lilibet not being afforded their HRH status when The Queen passes and the Prince of Wales becomes HM King Charles III, it was an implicit threat. Meghan at any time has the right and can and will reveal what really went down that precipitated their departure and this the monarchy fears more than anything else. As long as the tabloid media keep braying and vilifying her and Harry, only steels her resolves.

**HRH Prince Archie of Sussex, Harry, Duke of Sussex & Meghan, Duchess of Sussex**

Meghan had to mention that as it was a threat to the family and Sovereign. If HM The Queen were to pass after Charles, which has not transpired, Meghan was making it clear that she fully expected William would never afford her children this honour. Also, should Charles survive his mother, there was no way that he would want the devastation of Meghan going nuclear with her truth and not the lies proffered by the media on the HM The Queen and Cambridges’ behalf. Well, Charles is king and her children are now HRH Prince Archie of Sussex and HRH Princess Lilibet Diana of Sussex, the first royal princess of the UK born in America.

News9 Australia Camilla Tominey Waleses & Sussexes ‘Mind Completely Blown!’

So just as I was wrapping up this blog as it is well into September, the car pulled up at the Cambridge Gates at Windsor Castle and out stepped TRH Prince & Princess of Wales accompanied by TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex. Naturally, Camilla Tominey who broke the story back in November, 2018 of Meghan having made Catherine cry, which began the white-hot opening of Nigger hunting season, was called on by News 9, Australia to comment on the Wales, Sussex Windsor Castle, long walk walkabout.

HM The Queen has died and now a new era, a course correction is begun.

I rather love this commentary by ITV’s Chris Ship and company. They have always been deferential and professional in their coverage of the Sussexes.

At the end of the day, this reunion and public display of entente cordiale could not have occurred whilst HM The Queen lived because she was damn set on avenging herself of Meghan, whom she perceived as truly ungrateful. Meghan took a stance and was right to have done so. There is positively no way that royal householders were not being racially predatory towards Meghan as Princess Blackamoor gave them license to be openly racist towards Meghan. Fact of the matter is, when you have wronged someone, it bears heavily on your conscience and it is never the wronged person who makes an overture seeking resolution and restitution of your integrity, which had been violated. William texted Harry because William and his team fed the Sussexes to the Fleet Street abattoirs to protect the former Cambridges’ marital scandals. It was a betrayal and has mightily upset Harry as much as it has because he was wronged. She is an American. She is Black and they will all of them, household staffers, be rude towards here. Even Angela Kelly was in no way reprimanded by HM The Queen when she did not show for a tiara fitting with Meghan during build-up to royal wedding in May, 2018.

HM The Queen tells off HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, December, 2020

This is HM The Queen rudely dismissing the then Duke & Duchess of Cambridge because she damn well felt like it. Obviously, neither the then, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales could have acted as they wished, along with the then Duke & Duchess of Cambridge, with regards to the Sussexes, as long as The Queen was being punishingly cruel towards the Sussexes. I always thought it odd how, despite outward appearances both Harry & Meghan spoke rather highly of The Queen. Whatever HM The Queen was during her prime, at the time of Meghan’s marriage into the family/firm, The Queen was older, stubborn and likely already sick with bone cancer as has been disclosed on her passing. And please don’t blame Meghan for fuck-all anything. When The Queen turned 90 in 2016, she suddenly developed a large sore on one of her shins; it was a going concern for just about everyone. That clearly was an early sign of her cancer, which was long before Meghan appeared on the scene.

**Queen Elizabeth II Oil on Canvas 9.5 x 6.0 Inc Lucian Freud ©2001**

This Lucian Freud oil on canvas perfectly encapsulates HM The Queen. All the world’s a stage and the longer you stay onstage without properly reading the room, you soon turn Icarus and lose altitude. Soon or later, if you stay too long in any game, you end up looking like Wayne Newton and just as clueless. Old, grasping and cancerous, Elizabeth was less patient to keep up the façade of the sweet, little old lady with the heart of gold – I never bought it. Nonetheless, when you are damn cheap as all hell, look what pittance Diana, Princess of Wales was afforded in her divorce settlement, you are going to be really pissed when you spend £35m on a goddamn bride only to have her runaway within two years. Indeed, you are going to be pretty damn pissed, and feed her to the Fleet Street abattoirs, you damn well will. Truth be told, in the parlance of the deposed, buffoon Semite, Meghan proved the most expensive prize paid for a slave, who then turned around and ran away in under two years. Goddamn it, that kind of money, Elizabeth can justify spending on the gee-gees but damn well not a bloody slave. Meghan was bought to work the Pickaninny circuit of the predominantly Black commonwealth nations – heaven only knows the 9-centric former Cambridges now Waleses were intent on doing no such thing.

**Viscount Severn, The Duke of Sussex, Major Jonathan Thompson, The Duchess of Sussex & The Duke of Gloucester.**

The Queen racked with cancer then showed her hand by having Princess Blackamoor sat close to Charles & Camilla, William & Catherine and ahead of the former Wessexes now Duke & Duchess of Edinburgh. Indeed, there were the Duke & Duchess of Sussex sat directly ahead of Major Jonathan Thompson, The Queen’s equerry as spy or whatever, who temptingly kilted is now HM King Charles’s equerry – oh what savoury tea this. Just look at the racial predatory hyena in the blue pillbox hat, ain’t nothing like the height of Nigger hunting season… vraiment.

**Meghan So Desperately Needed That Hug, Just Look At Her Hands Holding On**

Love Heals All Wounds… Amelka Hugs Meghan, Duchess of Sussex Soothing Her Soul

Not only were the Sussexes booed at St. Paul’s Cathedral in June, 2022 but it was tough watching Meghan being denied by the locals along the long walk at Windsor Castle on September 10, 2022; they refused to either acknowledge her or shake her hand. Then the most incredible thing occurred, Amelka asked Meghan for a hug and stated after to media that she wanted the Duchess to know that she was welcome in the United Kingdom.

Duke of Sussex’s Tribute to HM The Queen at Archewell Website

Duke & Duchess of Sussex’s parting so long to his Commander-in-Chief.

**Lightness of Being Photo Lithography 45.25 x 44.7 Inc ©2007 Chris Levine**

Well Darling Elizabeth, look at that, you proved human after all and crawl into your casket you most damn well have. Well, guess what, you already conceded defeat by the spiteful seating and walk of shame at St. Paul’s Cathedral at the Platinum Jubilee thanksgiving service, which cancer and or cowardice had you miss out on, as Harry and Meghan were sat as they were and that was that… all that over £35m. Of well, guess what, Meghan won and will be sat at Westminster Abbey, on Monday, September 19, 2022, alive and thriving.

Come On Everybody, Time to Shake Your Tuchas!

Queen Elizabeth II Statue Winnipeg Manitoba Canada Day, 2021

Well, you fail to adapt and move with the times and before you know it, audience admiration fast turns to ridicule. No! It was not just a damn brooch, for crying out loud, it was a racist attack. To have done nothing, was to have condoned both Princess Blackamoor’s actions and that of the royal householders. Where was the investigation into racism from minor royals and royal household staffers? As is obvious, Rihanna was not amused by the blackamoor scandal and the way it was unsatisfactorily addressed and just like that, you, Elizabeth were removed as constitutional monarch of Barbados. Indeed, you were not the only Queen.

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Gerald Clayton in Concert July, 2021

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

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Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Tag: #Vancouver

Cicada Principle

An Orgiastic Porcine Feast (Redux)

Changes Afoot…

Bitch! I Don’t Need Fucking Gaydar!

Two of A Kind…

Revisited: Dream of Meghan!

Flying Dream in Lemuria, Twin Earth. (Redux)

Dream of Meghan!

Gaslighting: No. 1 Response to Anti-Black Racism & How the End of A Dynasty Rather Than Monarchy Unfolds.

I Remember… Plus, Dream of Queen’s Passing.