Do It to Me!

Lena!

Horne, Lena 30/6/1917 <O> 9/5/2010 NYC

This fragment was a fifth level mature warrior – 4th life thereat.  Lena was in the power mode with a goal of unmitigated growth.  She was a sceptic who was in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Lena’s primary chief feature was exalted arrogance with a secondary chief feature of stubbornness.

Lena’s casting is in the second position of the second cadence in the seventh greater cadence.  She is a member of entity six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – another entity mate.

Lena’s was a Saturn/Venus body type.

Essence twin for Lena is a warrior and her king task companion did exert some influence.

The three primary needs for Lena were: expression, power and exchange.

There are 10 past-life associations between Lena and Arvin whilst there are 7 past-life associations with Merlin.

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Back in Spring, 1994, I was standing in my West End, Vancouver bedroom getting dressed – after having made dinner for Bower Carlyle-St. Clare and me.  At the time, he was recently full-blown with AIDS but doing well.  As he sat out in the living room in the rocking chair which had been Merlin’s favourite piece of furniture, I was busily getting ready to head off to work on the midnight shift.

Just then Ross Porter, who was gigging on the CBC’s late-night Jazz show, began introducing a recently released album.  I screamed and rushed out to the living room, turned up the sound to full blast and directly stood in the centre of the perfectly placed speakers.

Said Ross Porter, it was a new album by Lena Horne – a cut of which he was nicely setting up.  Since as long as I could remember, this woman’s every performance always made me feel good throughout.  The opening of the song, Do Nothing ‘Till You Hear from Me, began with the bass working its magic.

For the next several minutes, I stood there flying-without-moving.  Admiringly, Bower sat there silently drinking in the visual of me as I stood in black stretch jeans tucked into riding boots and nothing else with hair long and out.

with lids closed, I drank every note of the performance; I was truly besotted.  Then the song got really groovy and at one point, just past the four-minute mark, simultaneous with Lena Horne, I let out the exact same whoop as she did.  Stunned, I placed my hands at my mouth and threw open my eyes.

Bower was convinced that I had heard the recording before.  Soon enough, Lena Horne’s album, We’ll Be Together Again, was blasting my West End apartment on a daily basis.  One day, Bower called up and declared that we were going to New York – he had never been.

To hell with work, he had declared as I tried begging off.  Not having it, Bower shot back that he was taking me to New York City because I knew it and always spoke so fondly of my time there.

Early October rolled around and we held up at the Hotel Chelsea – he had booked the suite as he knew that it was Merlin’s favourite place to stay in New York City.  We went to the show and although, he had been hoping to see Diana Ross – chiefly why he wanted to go to New York City, we ended up having a blast at the performance way up in the balcony.  The next day, I stood around in Times Square and scored us tickets to, Kiss of the Spider Woman, at the Broadhurst Theatre.

A couple of days later and we were returned to Vancouver as giddy as two kids who had just had the wildest adventure.  Sadly, for being full-blown, Bower developed a nagging cough which dragged on for long weeks; nonetheless, it was a magical adventure and I was especially grateful that he had made possible, the trip to see Lena Horne in concert at Carnegie Hall.

As Diana Ross was his favourite performer, every film of hers he had taped.  He understood my love of Lena Horne when finally, he took the time to appreciate her performance in, The Wiz – directed by her partner Sidney Lumet.

Back in 1978, when seeing, The Wiz, on its opening weekend with Owen Hawksmoor – a man of truly equine proportions – This brief appearance and performance by Lena Horne made the film for me; everyone else paled by comparison.

Back in 1969, whilst vacationing in St. Croix, U. S. Virgin Islands, one briny Friday evening the 1943 film, Stormy Weather, was on television.  This was my first introduction to Lena Horne.  I was thoroughly captivated by her.

My response to her has always been visceral; she is energising, captivating – her eyes both raptor-like and thoroughly empowering to lock on to.  If there was no essence bond, it is highly improbable that I would have such an intensely visceral response to her.

I then found it hard to sleep that night after the film.  Not surprisingly, in light of our essence bond as entity mates, I did that night dream of her.  Furthermore, I have noticed that the passing of entity and cadre mates leaves me especially splayed – I don’t feel impending doom, I just feel as though a portal has opened up and I could drift off and find myself on the other side… an astral plane habitué.

I think that because of my casting’s cardinality, I tend to act as a beacon – somehow, I tend to sense when cadre mates are on the cusp of departing.  This used to be fairly frightening when younger; now, I have learnt to simply give of self and realise that someone in the fold is moving on.  

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©2013-2023 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Ugly Beauty.

Album:  Underground (1968)

Label:  Columbia

Piano:  Thelonious Monk

Tenor Saxophone:  Charlie Rouse

Bass:  Larry Gales

Drums:  Ben Riley.

Because every day is a Thelonious Monk day!

This brings back such sweet lazy memories of raining days – more like four days straight – in November in Vancouver!

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©2013-2023 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Natalie Cole 6/2/50_31/12/15

Natalie Cole

Natalie-Cole

natalie cole2

natalie cole3

Cole, Natalie 6/2/1950<O>31/12/2015

Michael: This fragment was a fifth level mature artisan – 3rd life thereat.  Natalie was in the power mode with a goal of growth.  She was a sceptic who was in the moving part of intellectual centre. 

Natalie’s was a Saturn/Mars body type. 

Natalie’s primary chief feature was stubbornness with a strong secondary chief feature of self-destruction which was primarily internally focussed. 

Natalie’s casting is in the fifth position of the fourth cadence in the second greater cadence – she is a cadence mate of Richard E. White (he is in fourth position).  She is a member of entity six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – another entity mate. 

Natalie’s essence twin is a discarnate artisan and her priest task companion was known to her. 

The three primary needs for Natalie were: expression, freedom and power. 

There are 12 past-life associations between Natalie and Arvin whilst there are 16 past-life associations with Merlin.  

natalie cole4

I am so devastated by this loss that I don’t even have the time to do the usual due diligence of listing credits.

So poised, elegant, admirable, fabulous, fantastic… could scat/vocalese just as stratospherically as Ella Fitzgerald.

From seeing her at Ontario Place’s Amphitheatre in the ’70s, whilst she did her funky soul diva incarnation, to the sheer brilliance of her sophisticated Jazz syncopation, there was no one else who could make me feel more fuck-all fabulous pride and take seriously this joint call being Black.

Natalie got to the very essence of who we, a proud noble people, truly are.  Her album: Take A Look (1993) literally afforded me the grace and dignity to get through the most hellish experience of being in a workplace surrounded by people who haven’t a clue that they are crazy – a people who collectively render us as invisible and who relish at every opportunity the racially predatory thrill of talking about us and openly ridiculing us as though we were a weeble-infested bag of flour in the corner.  These marvellous people for whom the gun is g_d incarnate and for whom it has never once occurred that we possibly could perceive them as crazy – crazy as in having invented something as absurd as Apartheid, crazy in openly gunning us down because well… one can, crazy as in busing, crazy as in building latter day landlocked Mayflowers whose hull hold a cargo that staves off the flowering of the next Coltrane, Tatum, Monk, Ellington et al… crazy as in harvesting a most strange fruit from poplar trees whilst crazily dressed up in the coward’s garb from pointy head to toe, crazy as in then having the fuck-all temerity to squat all over the culture and ape, ape, ape like crazy every thing we do culturally, creatively…. alas, who else but the crazy would openly hate you then turn around and ape everything you do from Jazz, to Hip-Hop, to Rap and all the while, like the truly crazy then somehow think that we never notice that they never ever have personal relations with Blacks… la Krall, Bublé and Eminem to name but a few readily come to mind.

Every day in Vancouver, for having survived and gotten one day closer to triumphantly getting through 24 months of workplace probation, it was to my lovely art-filled West End apartment that I retreated where this lovely beauteous-eyed goddess, Natalie Cole, would greet me with a voice that would truly embalm the soul from the bilious dissonance of the racial predator – those who haven’t a fucking clue that they are crazy…  And how the crazy people love to laugh at everything.

Sweet and blissful dreams dear Natalie, you proud noble griot who came to remind us that we are the most beautiful lotus to have flowered from the hellish swamp known as the semi-feral well-armed racial predator’s paradise.  What a positively rich, layered, textured, august life you accomplished…

A better place this world, a more grounded people we are, for you having chosen to be focussed herein at this time, in this place.

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*As I had always planned on doing Natalie Cole’s Michael Overleaves, they had not been done at the time of her passing and my having penned this impassioned tribute.  A couple of weeks later when her overleaves arrived, it was one of the rare times that on receiving someone’s overleaves that I broke down crying.  I always felt strongly connected to this woman – she was family.  Here then, at this juncture, though they have been added previously and subsequent to this original post – it is now December 2016 as I change the copyright time stamp – are Natalie Cole’s rather august Michael Overleaves – Natalie’s overleaves are now listed above.

There are these little things that bind us for being entity and cadre mates… at the end of the video for Route 66 which accompanies this tribute post, Natalie Cole can be heard saying, “Yeah, yeah, yeah!”  This is precisely what fellow artisan and entity mate Attila Isaksen and I would repeat to each other as a greeting or when slipping out of inner musings after long pleasurable sexual play.  END..

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©2013-2023 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

The Racial Predator and A Fistful of Dreams. 2.0!

Toronto

*After having spoken to WordPress, I was assured that they did not delete this blog post of dreams and commentary which was originally posted on February 20, 2015.  Again, if you find anything herein objectionable just move along because, just so you know, apologies and obsequiousness are both foreign to me.  Again, if you follow this blog and believe in an artist’s right to be free from all forms of terror and censor please do reblog this post. END.

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Dreams involving travels in consciousness to anchor point metropolises are always welcome.  These next dreams represent just such travels to far-off distant worlds as transported to via the astral plane and through the expediency of the dreamtime. 

At the time, it was Monday, September 4, 1995 and the dreams were audiocassette-recorded on tape number one hundred and ninety-eight.  As such, they will yet be found in Volume XX of the XXV volumes of dreams.  The Moon then transited both Capricorn and my eighth house. 

As has been previously stated, my Saturn retrograde is posited in the eighth house which, in concert with my Venus/Uranus conjunction in Leo, afford me this commendable facility which I would trade for no amount of platinum on this or any  other world! 

Speaking of worlds far-flung or otherwise, what a maudlin little backwater world of a planet we’ve got here.  This past Tuesday, February 17, 2015, I was well aware that it was an 8 day and with a life path of 8, there are times when on such days it is best to stay indoors and avoid it all.  This past Tuesday was just such a day, nonetheless, I elected to head out into the big bad world. 

As I am never late for any of the three jobs at which I income earn, I had headed out 1.5 hours before start of shift.  Before leaving my Jazz saturated home, I had mapped out how best to do my banking whilst en route to work.  Off I went through the icy streets of Toronto where there a few water main breaks which left spots of the route an icy mess. 

Luckily, I had long weeks earlier switched to my steel-studded winter bike wheels which when partially soft make riding on ice or in snow feel as though riding on sand.  Alas, no need to go slipping and crashing for no good reason.  I rode along the bike lane on Wellesley Street East, hung a left and headed south down Sherbourne Street. 

The major water main break just south of Dundas Street East had me abandon the bike lane for the street where the single southbound lane was an icy slushy mess.  I was rather impressed at how well my steel-studded wheels navigated the thick ice without incident.  The past couple of days have been the coldest, snowiest, iciest and windiest in long memory. 

At Shuter Street, I hung a right and headed westward to Church Street where I made another left and headed south to Queen Street East.  There, at the southwestern corner of Queen Street East and Church Street is a Scotiabank in one of those old buildings which has been around since before the start of the last century; however, this being Toronto, it is highly likely that in 1.5 decades it will have been gutted to form the podium of yet another condensation-prone glass and steel condominium; these gems are readily gobbled up by offshore investors and soon infested with parasitic parvenu dreck that have neither class nor intellect. 

As all the bike stands on Church and Queen Street East close to the bank were buried in at least 1.5 feet of frozen-solid snow to make a path for pedestrians, I ventured into the large-interiored structure which I have always favoured.  A few years back, when I worked in the neighbourhood fundraising for the Royal Ontario Museum where I brought in three times as much money as the second best in sales, I loved frequenting the lovely building to do my banking. 

Having safely left my bike in a corner where I could clearly see it, I progressed south down the length of the narrow bank and waited in line where there were two female clerks attending to the male and female customers.  I smiled and readily turned off the front light on my helmet when the teller on the left whose hair was a hennaed affair, much reminding me of Québec, dramatically frowned and covered her eyes. 

Since I noticed her from time to time looking away from the dumpy Sri Lankan female before her at the counter, I made a point to avoid her and use her blonde coworker when the other customer took his leave.  I had left the light on the back of my helmet on – as for that matter the lights on my bike on, one in back and front. 

Even though this was a less frequented bank, I had a good view of my bike and kept on looking at it.  Back in late 2011, whilst riding westerly along Carlton Street and coming up on Jarvis Street where to the right in the low-rise condo the actor, Gordon Pinsent resides, I had a man in a black Ford F-350 with monstrous tyres open his door without looking whilst talking on his phone. 

I went flying and nimble soul that I am I got from the streetcar track and scurried me and my trusty bike to safety.  I then watched a grown man with the softest blues eyes become a nervous wreck as he cried and profusely apologised for having opened the door on me without first looking.  I had actually clearly seen him in his side view mirror and he honestly hadn’t been paying attention.  Though I had cautiously rung my bell, I was just as surprised as he would be after the fact when he opened his door. 

Since then, I have worn lights on my helmet and kept them on regardless the time of day – you can never be too safe; besides, vehicles sport lights all hours of the day so why not bikes. 

As I can spot a racial predator from here to Times Square in a heartbeat, I elected not to go to the teller on the left as both customers simultaneously took their leave of the tellers on concluding their business.  Approaching, I watched the menopausal woman with a bit of darkened fur on her upper lip leaning to her blonde coworker and say something. 

At the time, the blonde was busy finishing up the paper work from her last customer.  I approached and avoided the faux redhead whose looks were hostile and predatory.  Leaning in, she said something to the blonde who immediately looked up as I approached her.  She was both startled by what the faux redhead said and the sight of me wearing two balaclavas, a toque and earmuffs  beneath my helmet – being in motion on a bike in -37° Celsius. 

As I have several times over the years frequented the bank and in past winters entered said bank in my winter face bike gear, I specifically chose it as branch into which I could slip where it would not be too heavily peopled and therefore would not have to take my balaclavas off and all that head gear – the nylon balaclava is a great fit but it is the most bothering thing to both put on and even harder to take off when sweat sheened. 

Though I had not paid the faux redhead any mind and was now standing before her blonde coworker who fixed me with a cautious smile, old dry-pussied, displaced lazy haus frau just had to prove my instinct for spotting racial predators to be still sharply focussed.  Again, though I was not at her counter – why would I? – she spoke up stating,

“Please remove your mask, we feel threatened by you?” 

Imagine that, the racial predator has now evolved to the point of being telepathic even empathetic… NOT!  Of course, it does go without saying that many of the university-educated other bank employees who were comfortably seated in their offices to my rear had seen me whilst I waited and some I recognised and they too recognised me from my many visits to said branch. 

However, our estrogen-challenged faux redhead just had to go proving that yet again when you assume you make an ass out of you and me.  At no point did the blonde utter a word; frankly, I rather suspect that she was more in shock by having been prompted into fearfulness by her coworker faux redhead than anything else. 

Meanwhile, one of the bank managers, a jovial large-bodied fellow, left his office and walked past me to go and speak to a contractor in blue uniform towards the back behind the tellers.  I had seen this man before on prior visits to the bank and naturally, I should think that if he found my attire threatening, he would have approached me and said something. 

In a cool but civil tone which readily betrayed my loathing for having to deal with bullshit of any kind, I graciously greeted and informed the blonde that I would like to deposit my pay cheque into my account. 

“Remove your mask; we do not have to serve you.  You are threatening us with your mask.” 

My god, what if I were carrying a gun and intent on holding up the bank?  Did this dumbass think that she would be the first to deflect a bullet with her stupid insolence? 

“You have no such right to tell me to remove my balaclavas.  When was the last time you asked a Muslim to remove her burqa because you found it threatening?  That’s right, you don’t find that threatening but strangely enough you find me threatening.” 

She began mouthing off yet again at which point I interjected, “Tell you what, I will just go to the main branch where they know me.  Happy Black history month to you, too!” 

I took my red Scotiabank card and cheque placed them in my red Metro Toronto Convention Centre marvellously waterproof, wind and winter jacket all-in-one and began the long stretch of the bank to my bike.  I was not surprised, on turning back, to see old hirsute-lipped monster come into the aisle to approach me. 

That’s right, the same one who claimed to have been so threatened by me, leaving the safety of her counter to come address me.  She looked down the way at me with that vapid smugness her ilk owns so well when letting me know that she was putting out an alert on me so I would not be served anywhere. 

Regardless of the fact that on the video any Legal, Human Resources, Public Relations professional at Scotiabank would readily conclude that this faux redhead did not provide their customer with good service.  What could possibly have possessed this supposedly threatened woman to come from behind her counter to face down the aisle at me as I got my bike to leave the branch? 

Again, whilst she called out to me that she would alert the other branch, I wished her a happy Black history month to which she callously laughed after replying, “Yeah whatever, same to you!” 

I got from my bike and left the branch, headed down Church Street and made my way westerly along King Street East crossed Yonge Street and headed a block still westerly for the main branch at Scotia Plaza’s gaudy, blood-coagulated-maroon, 68 storey marble edifice.  I got in line as I had many times before in the same winter gear.  This time an Indo-Canadian teller turned around when free and noticed me.  I could not make out if she had gestured for me to join her or not.  As my bike was locked outside, I carried both bright yellow paniers in hand. 

As I watched, I noticed the same teller saying something though she was alone; perhaps she was speaking via intercom to someone.  Again, she gestured, this time her motion was less confusing; she really meant to invite me to join her.  I walked around the circular island and said hello and placed my card in the handset and entered my PIN then signed my cheque whilst sharing that I would like to simply deposit it. 

Whilst finishing my signature, along came another Indo-Canadian female.  The look on her face was rude, ugly and confrontational.  Right away, she launched into her racially predatory assault, “Remove your mask or leave the bank.  We are not serving you until you remove your mask.” 

Again, as elsewhere, I informed the ignorant boor – whose clit failed to have fully descended leaving her, for all intent and purpose, a lifelong-frustrated pussied man – that I had no intentions of inconveniencing myself by removing my balaclavas which were not a mask simply because she said so.  Too, I pointed out that there was no need for me to remove my balaclavas when she would never make any such request of a burqa-wearing Muslim. 

You can bet she was full of more bile as she let me know we were not talking about that but I was being threatening and she would rather I left that bank than not. 

The intense racial animus from this woman was so repulsive that I simply took my card from the machine picked up my paniers off the floor and said, “Hey, Happy Black history month to you, too.” 

I now got from the bank feeling more than a little bit impatient.  I am never late for work… ever.  By now, it was within an hour of the start of my shift which for me is late.  I rode along the sidewalk and turned onto Bay Street heading north for a couple of blocks to the Scotiabank on the west side of Bay Street between Queen Street West and Richmond Street West.  I managed to tie up my bike atop a two-foot frozen bank of snow to a bike rack. 

Once inside, I recalled what inordinate focussed grace I had had to impart when a few weeks earlier I had been to the branch to deposit another cheque and replace my demagnetised bank card.  For more than 40 minutes, I had been asked a million questions and kept waiting again and again.  At the end of it, the beautiful, raven-haired Muslim teller had laughed and said in a lowered tone to me, “You are a very smart man…” 

She, of course, knew that the rest of the tellers – almost exclusively White save a lone Black woman who was segregated to sit by herself at a desk in the middle of the floor where the rest of the public comes and goes – were doing their best to provoke an impatient response out of me. 

To say the least, it was not going to happen and did not.  I got my card replaced that day, though, they made every attempt at having me return to my home branch at Yonge and Wellesley Streets and for no good reason. 

Finally, it was my turn to see a teller.  A tall White male with facial hair likely in corporate security and wearing a tattoo on his right forearm proved the most remarkably human and civilised interaction that I had had that day. 

He very charmingly began by letting me know that he would prefer it if I were to remove my ‘balaclavas’; I replied that though he had been the most civilised customer service representative thus far, he was not within his right to ask me to remove it anymore than he would presume to think that any Muslim woman would remove her burqa when asked. 

More to the point, I asked what kind of society is this when you would never think to make any such demands of burqa-wearing Muslims as you would myself being racially profiled during Black history month. 

As I like giving as good as I get, I charmingly reminded him that in this Black history month, it bears mentioning that Blacks have not flown planes into buildings, shot soldiers in their backs or stormed Parliament et al.  He smiled, my balaclavas remained in tack and when he assured me that if security were to ask me to remove my mask I would have to. 

Cutting to the chase, I assured him that I was well aware that he was corporate security and both he and I knew that he had no legal right to ask me to remove my balaclavas as it was not summer outdoors, it was not a mask and I was protected by Canadian laws against being treated differentially with regards to a burqa-wearing Muslim entering all three branches visited in the last hour whilst trying to make my way to work on time. 

Finally, he conceded and with a smile reminiscent of the raven-haired Muslim teller of a few weeks earlier, asked me to sign the cheque which already had been.  Addressing me as Mr. da Braga, he asked if I would like any cash back or just a straight deposit. 

Of course, I knew he was corporate security as he appeared in the teller area soon after I entered and proceeded to call out that if anyone strictly wished to make a deposit to please see him.  I was the second person so inclined of the six or seven of us in line. 

Damn right, it was high time I got service that I deserved. 

Of course, it goes without saying that a good one-third to forty per cent of women in the workforce are emotionally unfit to be in professional life.  Period.  The only cause for concern either woman at both banks should have articulated is if I had presented in balaclavas whilst it happened to have been 30° Celsius outside in July.   Just so happens that it was -33° Celsius that day.

Naturally, I had switched to Scotiabank close to a decade earlier when on leaving my employ as civil servant after 15 years of what was truly no end of constant workplace harassment and strife, was then made to wait for three-plus hours at the Bank of Montréal’s 72-storeyed headquarter branch at Bay and King Street West.  As part of my separation, there were two settlements one was in a cheque for several tens of thousands of dollars. 

When first presenting the cheque to the teller, the little silly-looking, cumfarting twit took off to go lisp and snicker to his equally otiose coworkers.  Naturally, there was much snickering and giggling as one experiences of Whites when being racially predatory towards Blacks in public.  This is behaviour they exclusively engage in and reserve just for Blacks. 

After 20 minutes, the little cumfart – who would probably suffer a collapsed lung of sneezing and coughing incessantly from the sight and smell of pussy for the first time – approached and thanked me for turning in the cheque and asked where I had found it.  Within a femtosecond the thought of pinning his empty skull beneath my booted foot and fucking his brains silly was soon dashed aside as it would be just what the little manginaed twit would hungrily, noisily crave at any of the few bathhouses left in the city. 

After several hours of being made to wait whilst their ignorant staffers made calls to god-knows-whom and passed off the cheque to several of their colleagues to shuffle about whilst dicking me around, I asked for the cheque went across Bay Street to the Scotiabank headquarters and offered to start an account with them using the cheque; they were only too happy, with one look at the cheque, to have started the account. 

That cheque in 2006 was the result of my travails with the same corporation which made it possible for me to continue my employ whilst living in Vancouver and Montréal.  Of course, on arriving in Vancouver from Toronto, I had finally been made fulltime and sought to buy a first home.  I had been looking at condos and naturally my Bank of Montréal branch on Denman Street had had to be in touch with my employer as I investigated getting a mortgage whilst looking at condos in the West End neighbourhood. 

Just like that, I was thrown out of work and when returned to work five months later did so, on the proviso that at any time whilst on probation for 24 months I could be fired.  Naturally, a stipulation for my return was having to see that little Egyptian Semite who told me on my final visit that Merlin, in fact, never existed that he was all, like my dreams, a figment of my imagination. 

There he sat within mere feet of me pouncing and ridding the planet of him with that little blissfully smug grin on his face known only to the fraudulent few who feel themselves chosen of a fictitious god. 

From arriving to work in February 1994, to being dismissed in November 1994, I was on a daily basis harassed with glaring, alarmingly perverse intensity; I was after all the first fulltime Black male in the workplace in Vancouver.  On four separate occasions, I had my cheque withheld for a day or two. 

This only ever happened when a former police officer who allegedly had been kicked off the force for targeting visible minorities would hand out the cheques and let me know that my cheque had not arrived.  Too, it involved being constantly name-called an ‘anti-man’ – West Indian term for Gays, by a thuggish Indo-Canadian lout from the Southern Caribbean. 

One Saturday morning – November 5, 1994 – whilst I worked overtime in a bid to save towards purchasing a condo, I had the usual onslaught of racial animus as two White female coworkers next to me carped on about both the Susan Smith case and the O. J. Simpson arrest and upcoming criminal trial. 

Whilst I slowly did neck rolls and deep breathe – it was my first autumn in Vancouver and the constant rains were making a mess of my back and neck injuries from a decade earlier when dancing.  One woman said of Susan Smith that she at least had the perfect alibi; it was too bad that she had to be found out.  Meanwhile, the other said of Black men that they were all nothing but trouble and should be all put away. 

Soon, the one who had spoken of Susan Smith’s perfect alibi got up and went to get the Indo-Canadian louse for a supervisor and lied when claiming that I had been sleeping rather than working.  Of course, her shift never got overtime so clearly there was some degree of grudge. 

After being relocated and made to stand, I then had the Trinidadian louse claim to his Japanese-Canadian manager that I had three times been to the bathroom and when told to go home rather than do the overtime was told to fuck off and that I was not going anywhere. 

I stood there not believing what I was hearing.  Though I protested, the Japanese-Canadian manager claimed that being insubordinate was unacceptable and for that reason, he asked that I leave.  Said he, I was free to file a grievance if I felt I ought not to have been sent home.  With that, I returned to my locker, which twice I had had to move – once there was nigger scrawled across one, the other had been smeared with faeces. 

As I came downstairs from the lockers, there was the fat overbred swine cackling his head off with, surprise surprise, the White ex-cop.  To avoid the hideous sight of them, I elected to take an alternate route and returned to the area where I had been initially working to sign out using the electronic system. 

Whilst standing with my back to them at the machine when signing out, the shorter of the two women yelled, “Go home and don’t come back!” 

Turning around, I spat in their direction and told them to fuck off and go to hell.  Quite the little ham, the dwarfish troll screamed out, “Oh my god!  Oh my god, he spit in your face!” 

She immediately began calling for the supervisor who had speciously had me sent home – just like she was speciously alleging I had spat in someone’s face who was more than ten feet away from me. 

As I left the area and exited the building the portly bigoted Indo-Canadian from the southern Caribbean and his equally racially predatory White male ex-cop colleague came chasing after me as I exited the building. 

I got home that Saturday, November 5, 1994 and had a good phone visit with my father who promised to make a gift towards buying my first home; it was also his birthday that day.  The following Monday morning, I received a registered letter informing me that I had been suspended for having physically assaulted a coworker and then leaving work without permission. 

I was dumbfounded.  What proceeded for the next 4.5 months was the most soul-gnawing travel through the six million levels of hell thanks to the venal invidiousness of the union rep who can only be charitably described as a hybrid bipedal bastard of Jabba the Hutt’s. 

That Monday, I met with the porcine fucker at dawn at the union offices where she informed me that since I was a member of two known high risk groups: Blacks and Queers, I needed to immediately go get an AIDS test and let her know the results because my faux accuser, in whose face I had not spat, and her family were hell-bent on pressing charges and they were fearful that I might have infected her with AIDS. 

I assured her that I did not have HIV/AIDS and had no intentions of jumping any hoops of hers by going out and getting tested.  What business was my medical history of hers or the faux accuser?  As agreed, I provided a copy of a letter to the accused wherein I apologised for my inexcusable conduct.  I made it perfectly clear in the letter that in frustration at being sent home, I had lashed out her when being profane but beyond that, I categorically refused to apologised for having spat in her face when I had not. 

A couple of hours later, we met with the employer’s labour relations and human resources personnel plus the very two persons who  had laughed their heads off whilst I made my way from the locker to sign out days earlier that Saturday. 

Both thuggish supervisors sat across the narrow table from me whilst I was flanked by two union reps: Jabba’s offal and another female, also Jewish.  The letter was proffered and though I was made to believe that it sufficed and that it was understood that my actions were isolated, I received another registered letter later that day informing me that I had shown no remorse and was indefinitely suspended. 

For the first time, I truly considered suicide as I crumpled to my bathroom floor and came undone.  Finally, pulling myself together, I decided instead to sacrifice my full mane of thick gorgeous hair and cut it all off.  For the next several months the only thing that saved me was doing volunteer work with persons with AIDS and offering my West End home as a place where PWAs could stay overnight whilst they were in town for a battery of tests and appointments. 

Too, during that time of unemployment, I discovered and became readily devoted to the sexual bacchanal in the deep woods of Stanley Park just a few blocks away. 

For the next several months, Jabba’s Goy-hating offal lied, lied and lied with hungry relish about when I would be returned to work.  Naturally, for being a unionised worker, there was no chance of filing a human rights complaint into the matter.  Eventually, after someone from the union’s regional offices assured me that there was nothing to be done because, ‘let’s face it, she is a Jew and you are Black and she is just not going to be challenged,’ I knew that other avenues had to be explored.  

Finally, when I told the porcine boor that I had been in touch with Labour Relations Board who felt that I definitely had a case, I was hastily offered a meeting with her at the union offices where the fugly scum proceeded to demand that I, in essence, submit the exact same letter of four-plus months earlier to be returned to work. 

I got up and walked out of the union offices got home and proceeded to unload on her by phone the most violent verbal abuse I had to that point articulated.  She had actually had the fuck-all temerity to huff and gag because this is truly how she breathed and talked, “You know, I do think that you are anti-Semitic.” 

The next day, the Ides of March, 1995, I was offered to be returned to employment without a letter of apology as she refused to put in writing her demand that I take an AIDS test. 

Too, before walking out, she had stated that anyone could have typed up a letter and back-dated it, then made a photocopy of it; this said of the photocopy to the original letter of contrition offered in an interview which was all about racial predators having a field day. 

There was I returned to work then having to see a psychiatrist for 24 months whilst on probation for being an out-of-control, violent Black male in the workplace about whom people felt unsafe, unsure and uncomfortable. 

During those 24 months, Jabba’s offal had cunningly provided work for a Jew with whom she was well-acquainted, she had shared in that none-too-charming way she had of name-dropping, when telling me of the terms for returning to employment.  With that, the chance of buying a condo had taken flight. 

Whilst in the workplace, I endured no end of intense harassment whilst the O. J. Simpson trial endured and most definitely thereafter, for such is the power of television to fuck with the sphinctered and well-groomed-into-somnambulance collective psyche. 

This included having my return from breaks, arrival at work changed in the computer to reflect tardiness.  I was spat on… surprise, surprise.  I was pushed, twice got crazy-glued to my combination lock.  Further, I had a rather beguiling-looking Muslim supervisor, who was featured in the corporate magazine as a sign of the company’s diversity – she with the uncanny resemblance to Benazir Bhutto – tell me with lethal calm, “Get out of my sight before I don’t kill you.” 

She was being confronted on yet again having changed my time, though, she and every supervisor swore up and down that there was no way for them to change one’s time in the system.  Of course, a Rhodesian-born Chinese coworker whose husband also happened to have been a supervisor told me that there were at least four plans in the works to have me terminated – one apparently involved me seemingly leap from the company’s rooftop. 

Alas, somehow, I managed to have upped my frequency and spirited my way out of that hellhole.  The day that I had gotten my transfer to Montréal, I took off a few days to pack and it was known that I would be returning to work for half a shift to clean out my locker and say goodbye; I never did go to my locker because who wants to be crazy-glued to a lock for a third time? 

Naturally, as Jewish guilt knows no end, there was phlegmy Jabba’s hybrid offal standing outside the doors to the office on the sidewalk.  She had actually had the guts to air out her bedsores by getting off her fat arse at the union offices to come by the workplace and gawk. 

Naturally, Jabbette was standing there talking to someone or other whilst making sure to lock eyes with me as I exited the building.  Of course, as I never miss a chance to give back, I paused whilst making for the attendant cab and hissed, “Of one thing you and I are both certain, you will rot in hell eating your god, Hitler’s arse.” 

With that, I returned home, took a nap, dreamt my last dreams in Vancouver then made my way to the airport and caught an overnight flight for Montréal.  Just when I thought Vancouver to have been a god-awful work experience, Montréal was hell-bent on giving it a run for its money. 

Boy did Montréal prove a marathon and then some… Stay tuned, for as you shall yet see, until you have lived in Québec, you cannot truly claim to know Canada… 

For now, sweet dreams as ever and may these dreams continue to richly inspire your own spiritual journey.  For your support, I remain ever grateful.  I love you more. 

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A Lagoon Nebula

This was a night-time dream and the first that was set in an amphitheatre.  I had had to step-in for the host who had fallen ill.  The crowd was large and this being at home in St. Kitts, to say the least, they were hostile.

Though nervous, all audaciousness and charm, I stepped up to the mic.  Once centre stage, I began eulogising for Euleka Gumbs; Catherine Angelica Montpelier’s daughter.

Whilst speaking, I did see a woman who reminded me vaguely of her but I was not certain that it was so.  I then went on to thank Juan-Carlos de Madrid for his work as host.

Whilst standing there looking over the crowd, I saw a ball of white light explode.  This was the most glorious sight imaginable.  From it shot the most joyous spray of white light sparks.

This was something that resonated with the soul itself.  This was on the order of the uplifting essence contact experienced in that dream on Tuesday, September 22, 1992 – it is dream blog entry herein entitled A Rose Like No Other.  The same degree of inspiration and sublime beauty was experienced again.

For having experienced this manifestation, there was no way that one could not have had an ecstatic moment of transcendence.  For having overcome my fears, of going out onstage, here was I having the most blissful of experiences.

Funnily enough, no one else here experienced the manifestation.  This was such a thoroughly grounding experience.

Once I was onstage, the audience soon became hushed; they were readily impressed by my eloquence and discernible intellect.  I was really pleased to have seen Euleka Gumbs whom later I would learn was indeed Catherine Angelica Montpelier’s daughter.

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Pericles da Braga and I were together, in this the second dream, and I had to fast take control of the situation.  He began insisting that I was sexually obsessed with him.  Talk about taking oneself way too seriously.

We were face-to-face and, despite there being some serious bones of contention discussed, the energies were rather intimate.  One had a true sense here of Pericles’s true nature.

There was a deep sense that he was fearful of me.  Somehow, it was as though he knew at the level of soul that he had reincarnationally wronged me in past lives.

Thus he has been plagued with a sense of dread and fear of me that, somehow, I would get him.  There has never been any such scheme in my thoughts.  I have been keenly aware of this man’s manipulativeness and have always guarded myself against falling prey to his head-trips.

His eyes here were strong, clear, direct and shamanic.

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A Sting

Sting, the performer, was backstage waiting to go out onstage in this the third dream.  Goodness, this was such a lucid experience.  Sting was very real with a real puckish glint to his playful eyes.

Eventually, I ended up going out and introducing him to the stage.

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A Tupac 2

Here, in this the fourth dream, I progressed up the paved incline into a large schoolyard.  There were lots of Black and Hispanic kids playing here.  A large glass and steel, black tower in the style of Ludwig Mies van der Rohe that was very minimalist in design looked over everything.

Sleek and nondescript it most certainly was.  These were Babel-like buildings in proportion; they stretched on for some six city blocks.  Easily they were, the smallest ones at least, all 100 storeys plus.

They were quite layered affairs with some storeys having an architectural theme.  One to the other, the sections were vastly different.  The school building had a second section that had walls which, rather than vertically, moved outwards from the base.

These sections were each ten or more storeys and maintained a single architectural theme.  Even though it was an overcast day with heavy grey clouds, I could clearly detect klieg lights to the southwest.

I then asked some of the kids for directions but they were non-too-forthcoming with me.  I could immediately sense that there was some danger in their being so guarded with me.

I passingly joked about gangs when next, a dark-haired guy and I were being hotly pursued by Black youths from a gang.  This decidedly was astral plane an experience in its intensity.

We were then cornered on a side street before a large building.  This did not at all feel as though here on Earth.  What with the massiveness of these buildings, it may well have been part of an anchor point metropolis.

The Blacks here were so beauteously dark-complected that I would hazard to guess that not even Nubians closely approximate their purity of melanin intensity.

Just because they were gangsters does not imply that they were African-Americans which they certainly didn’t feel or look like.  These were very strong, proud Black people who had never been enslaved nor were they dredging through life oppressed beneath the weight of that most hideous form of low psychic terror, racism – the racial predator’s birthright.

Soon, their leader stepped forward and there was no mistaking him.  He turned out to have been the Rap star, Tupac Shakur.  Beyond his open black leather vest, I could make out that the pock marks of his bullet wounds had been filled in with solid gold.

Seemingly, this was the fashion statement du jour, here on the astral plane, for gangsta arrivés.  Throwing caution to the wind, I felt like bolting rather than having to face such hostility; I did not care whether or not I would be shot in the process.

Of course, I would not have survived.  After all, this was a dream so it was not as though I would ultimately have died.  I just didn’t care to be caught up in a jam like this… no how.

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A large sprawling apartment at night time, proved the focus of the fifth dream, plus a man with whom I had just become involved was getting moved in.  Trying to figure out how they worked, we were playing around with the curtain rods.

Each was four to six inches thick with vary-sized grooves for different pins.  Just then, Moses Znaimer walked in at which point, I went over and introduced him to my young beauteous friend.

I then asked Moses Znaimer if he knew how the bloody curtain rods worked.  Not remembering his name, I introduced Moses Znaimer as Mr. Hoffmann by which, of course, I implied to my friend that he was Jewish.

Clearly, Moses Znaimer took offense but I could not have cared less anyway.  I had no desire, in the first place, to go sucking up to him.

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Photo: Toronto February 2015, Queen Street East, looking north towards Yonge & Bloor Streets.

Bubble Nebula.

Sting.

Tupac Shakur.

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© 2013-2023 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Sack O’ Woe.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N45hYXNu12o

© 1960 Julian “Cannonball” Adderley – Live performance October 16, 1960 recorded at Lighthouse Club, Hermosa Beach, California.

The Cannonball Adderley Quintet at the Lighthouse

Riverside Records

Alto Saxophone: Cannonball Adderley

Cornet: Nat Adderley

Bass: Sam Jones

Piano: Victor Feldman

Drums: Louis Hayes

This has always been one of my favourite live Jazz recordings.  Back in October 1995, a few days after the verdict in the O. J. Simpson criminal trial, I was walking home after some shopping along the south side of Robson Avenue and back to my West End apartment at 878 Gilford at Haro Streets.

From behind, I heard someone yelling and calling out; the man sounded mad as hell.  Artisan soul to the core, I was lost, deep in thought, of some idea construct or other.

I then felt a hand on my right shoulder that violently turned my body around and, though I dodged quickly enough, I ended up with a fist at the right temple.  I swayed and soon there were other punches as I tried to duck and rush away.  The guy, I recognised straight away; I had met him some weeks earlier.  At the time, he was really keen on letting me know that he was Jewish and had been in Israel.

I hadn’t a clue what he was up to, though on the few occasions that I saw him, he seemed to aimlessly wonder about Stanley Park late at night time while I was off to go get my funk on deep into the woods; he had never once made it to the woods.

Soon enough, there were passers-by who formed a loose circle about the spectacle of me being beaten to within a breath of going unconscious.  Not a soul said or did a thing.  No one came to my aid as he violently punched at me while speciously accusing me of theft.

This was the hunt – the racial predator’s favourite sport of socially, aggressively feeding on Blacks which is always enjoyed with the same semi-feral hyena-like laughter and grinning.

From behind, I then heard a violent shout and soon, I heard the familiar voice of a local shopkeeper as he told the boor to get off me.

Grabbing me about the shoulder, his face warped with rage and pain, Bruce Day took me into his tiny little gem of a store, “The Little Hardware Company” which sat just east of Bidwell Street on Robson Street’s south side.  Months later, the store would relocate around the corner onto Bidwell to make way for Robson’s further development.

I was so glad to have escaped the humiliation when retreating into Bruce’s hardware store; I had always slipped inside while waiting for a bus to get to work or just to buy some item or other.  There, too, I had gone when paint-buying to turn my apartment into the right tones of warm colours to best display my fast burgeoning First Nations art collection.

Of course, he was a big strapping man with a more than passing resemblance to the actor, James Spader.  Bruce also had the most beautifully warm smiling eyes.  Casually, Bruce made conversation as though nothing had happened and as soon as the dark warmth of his tiny shop and his cool spirit had embalmed my very soul, I slipped out onto Robson and headed for home.

My busted lip healed soon enough; however, there was ringing in my right ear for long weeks afterwards.

On retiring to my apartment, this was the music that repaired my humanity – Sack O’ Woe.

Jazz is the music that prevents us from waging war with the racial predator who has yet to acknowledge that there is any such thing as the racial predator and that the racial predator is culpable of sweet dick-all when it comes to predatorily fucking with Blacks.

The Simpson trial was not about Nicole Brown Simpson, it was about the murder of Ron Goldman.  To this day, it has never been satisfactorily explored what this man was doing where he was that fateful night.  Either way, I was made to pay for a jury not having returned the verdict that they damn well ought to have.

Alas, music is the most expedient way to transcend the madness that is the racial predator in all his psychotic, violent manifestations.  What pray tell do they know of Jazz when so consumed are they, the racial predatory, with a need to prey on us?

In having enslaved our ancestors and to this day remained hellbent on denying that insult, what more can be expected of the flawed, fractured and compromised collective psyche of the racial predator?  They haven’t  a damn clue how utterly dissembled their humanity remains.

Indeed, Jazz is not yours deems the racial predator.  Jazz is too damn good for the likes of you; so along came a campaign of heroin et al to hunt down this affront to the racial predator’s sense of one’s place in the order of things and sure enough in little less than a century, there he sits smugly copping attitude when speciously declaring, “Jazz has its roots in Klezmer!”

Of course, the fool gave himself away when using the verb ‘root’ which is synonymous with and was coined by the very people who invented Jazz.  Indeed, the very people for whom Jazz is an uneclipsed affirmation of their humanity and untrammelled nobility of spirit.

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© 2013-2023 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Do Nothing ‘Till You Hear From Me!

© 1994 Lena Horne music by Duke Ellington & Sidney Russell

The first time I heard this music, I was arrested by the opening chords as I stood still in the middle of my living room on the third/top storey of 878 Gilford Street in Vancouver’s West End.  At the end of Lena Horne’s passionate singing, I screamed and laughed uncontrollably with tears running down my face.

I had been standing half naked before getting ready for work and decided that the experience was too great to do something so ridiculously banal as go in to work that day.  Naturally, I had been standing with tape recorder in hand – after having just recorded the dreams dreamt.  Quickly, I grabbed a new cassette and recorded the newly released song from the CBC FM radio station as Ross Porter had waxed on long enough about the new Lena Horne Jazz recording for me to have pounced into action.

I spent the rest of my stay in Vancouver listening to this recording at least four times weekly.

This is the music that let’s you leap off into truly sublime dream experiences.

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© 2013-2023 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.