Like The Blue Skies Above

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Picture: He Only Sang To Her by Gillie And Marc

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He played and barked and played. Nothing else could have pleased the hare more. “Woof, woof, woof,” and he strummed a Gminor, “Woo-oo-oof,” he added dramatically on a Cmajor chord. She squealed and hissed and smiled. The gondoliere, gliding placidly along the canal, was staring at them. But he stared so hard that his gondola boat went crushing against and into a wooden door right above the edge of the water. His body was hurtled inside the aquamarine building, with a fair dose of splinters pierced into his limbs. The young woman in her summer dress, who was reluctantly mopping the floor, screamed. Deprived of breath, he gestured a sort of apology with his hands. She cried even stronger and dashed toward him, brandishing her wet, dirty mop. His eyes, closed fast and sheltered behind splintered hands,  awaited the inevitable. A moment later, he dared to peer beyond his fingers. The woman was paralyzed, gawking at the scene outside the remnanst of her door: “Woof, woo-oo-oof-oof!” She then turned her gaze back to the hapless gondolier as if to ask what’s going on there by the railing, but he just shook his head. The dog kept playing for the hare, unaware, or maybe unconcerned, about the incident on the other side of the canal.

Venice was gleaming on that day of October. A very few tourists around; the locals ambling and going on errands – and of course a dog singing to a hare by the side of the Canal Grande. The woman, after her steam had blown off, helped the gondolier up. She lead him to the kitchen and removed most of the bloody splinters, one by one. After the ordeal, she pointed at the moca – a beloved Italian coffee maker – and the gondolier nodded, his face still petrified in a painful grimace. The smell of home-made coffee matched with the woofing serenade coming through the caved-in door. While sipping their brew, they were suddenly so attentive to the music, they could somehow, somewhat – maybe? – understand the deep meaning of that song. At the climax of their concentration, the music stopped. The sound of a motorboat droned by, a seagull laughed out loud, above the spacious silence of an exceptional Venice. The woman and the gondolier turned their gaze to the kitchen doorstep and, in the blink of an eye, they appeared: “W-hoof.”

So the dog and the hare, politest of all guests, sat with them. The woman made coffee once more and produced a pack of fresh pasticcini. They all enjoyed their pastry: the dog had an egg custard cannoncino, the hare a fresh fruit tart, the woman a dark chocolate-coated bignè, whereas the gondolier delved his fingers in a big, green pistachio bombolone.

Paws washed, the dog picked up his acoustic guitar and barked invitingly to the woman. She pointed her fingers at her own round face, with a big question mark abover her head. The dog barked; the hare squealed and smiled. Choiceless, the venetian girl uttered a comfortable note in her best contralto, yet the note broke down behind a cough. She blushed, and the gondolier gave her a friendly nudge. She tried again, whereas the dog began plucking a soft arpeggio in Amajor. Her opera-style voice fluttered like coloured smoke, as red as her summer dress. The hare and the gondolier could almost see it twirling in the air. Utmost delight. The song terminated on a jazzy Dmajor7, and silence ruled again.

Naturally.

Soft and spacious, like the blue skies above.

 

Herons

A Pirate Named Gianni Cobalto • Part 1

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Picture: At The Piano by Władysław Czachórski

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The sharp saltiness of the ocean flutters in the lazy afternoon breeze. A clavichord is giggling from the inside, beyond the wooden porch. It’s a tune from Scarlatti, the Neapolitan. Gianni is carried away by the melody. His memories at sea are intertwined with his future projections – very likely at sea. The Old World looks so precious now that it’s kept in the gilded casket of the past. But the pirate knows about the illusory nature of such coffer. “Memories are tricks of the little you, designed to hold you back from experiencing the wonders of the larger You,” said the bearded Indian guy in Pulau Ujong. “The little you likes to be right. Rigid in its beliefs, it likes to provide you with a sense of identity.” All these esoteric ideas strangely resonated with Gianni. His Christian upbringing taught him that God was up there, ready to judge you after your final breath. The Indian guy, instead, told him that God is within and is free of judgment.

“What do you like?” asked the man in orange robes.

“I like… What do I like…”

“Yes, is there any form of beauty you can appreciate fully?”

“I like music. In Italy, we have great music. Corelli, Vivaldi, Scarlatti, Pietro Boni, Albinoni… Poi ci sono i Tedeschi,” he inadvertently switched to Italian, his eyes shining, “Bach, Telemann…”

“So. The next time you listen to a beautiful sonata, let it become one with you.”

“How do I do that?”

“Listen to it with your whole body, not with your brain. Don’t listen to your parrot mind, let it fly away. Listen to the music!” he lifted and shook his palms with intensity. “Imagine yourself as a biscuit, soaking in milk.”

The voice of the swami fades away. Gianni is now in the New World, a land of great uncertainty and even greater opportunity. He promptly applies the method suggested by the guru to the playful sonata coming from inside the house. The clavichord melody, note after note, flows through the banks of his awareness like a river. The course of this river is initially twisty and restless. Then he expands his focus on the harmony: left and right hand, white and delicate, dance on the keyboard in the dimly lit room. The river is finally approaching the sea. It surrenders into the infinite waters of the ocean. The pirate has never experienced such a sense of peace. Of fullness and emptiness at the same time.

“Cobalto!” a male voice pops in the background. “Cobalto!” It sounds farther than it really is. He does not react to the desperate vibration of those shouts. The music stops. A gentle drumming of steps follows, out of the porch. A fresh hand touches his neck: he feels the love of a lifetime piercing his skin-shell through those fingers. “Jean…” The female voice chimes in like a timid violin: “The Spaniards…” He lifts up his gaze and her features astound him. She radiates a soft golden light. Her dark hair balances with the pale blue eyes and face. “You have to go, Jean…” He caresses her tender cheek. Thus, he calmly gets up from the creaking chair and inhales the last puff of smoke from his pipe. Gianni turns to the girl and smiles confidently. The green, tall palms behind her idly wave in the maritime breeze throughout the bay. The sun is hiding behind the clouds. The pirate doesn’t know what to do, but he doesn’t mind, as if he were guided by something smarter than himself. Jacmel Bay is as gorgeous as a dream, including the small Spanish frigate at the horizon. He turns to the French angel who had accidentally fallen on his lap. One kiss. He’s swiftly off to the stable, where Troussard and Cantley have been shouting his name. “Hurry up, Venetian!” said his English comrade. They gallop away at once. They cross the forest and villages and face a dilemma.

“Port-au-Prince lies a day away,” says Troussard in his strong french accent.

“Too late to join any ship…” answers Gianni.

“But the filibusters will protect us for the night.” suggested the Briton.

“Of course, Jack, they would, the Spaniards wouldn’t dare lift a finger there.”

“Why you’re so doubtful then?”

“Cause it’s what the Spaniards expect from us. They’re not only coming after us. They’re surely ahead of us.”

“We need an alternative plan, vénitien.” Agrees with him the French pirate.

They’re heading north, towards the coast. Gianni listens to the sound of hoofs knocking on bare soil; the air gets fresher and fresher as they climb up the road through the mountains. The forest is alive. He closes his eyes for an apparently infinite moment. No parrot is chatting in his head. His mind is clear like the water of the Caribbean. He’s listening to everything with his body like the Indian man suggested. He’s a soaked savoiardi biscuit. Suddenly he knows. He knows what? He just knows.

“Are we fucked up, Venetian?” genuinely asks Cantley.

“We could be. But we’re not. The Spanish head-hunters are probably waiting for us at Carrefour. We go straight to Gonâve Island. And leave tomorrow on the first filibuster ship stopping for supplies.”

“How do we reach l’Île de la Gonâve?” asks Troussard.

“Even if we steal or buy a boat on the coast, what makes you think we’ll cross the Canal du Sud alive? That is the most dangerous place in the whole New World for a pirate, now that the French want to kick the filibusters out of Port-au-Prince. Dutch, English, French and Spanish ships swarm in the area – untouched by the retreating pirates.” Cantley emphasizes his words opening his arms wide.

“God will bring us there.”

Gianni’s companions are both silent, in shock, for a minute. “Cobalto, do you suddenly miss catholic school? What the hell. We’re bloody pirates. Murderers and thieves! What makes you think that God would help us?”

Gianni bursts into laughter and the horse responds neighing as if it could get the irony of Cantley’s reaction. Troussard, renowned atheist, does not speak. “You, silly Briton. I’m not talking about the God of the Bible. I was just using a word you could understand. The Divine is not an old bearded man chilling on a cloud. The Divine is all around you and inside of you!”

“You’ve gone insane, Venetian…”

Je lui crois. I trust his plan.” Asserts the French man. “Even though I’m still quite skeptical about the mystical stuff,” he grins through his sharp mustache.

Jack Cantley is stunned on the back of his black horse.

Perfetto.” Gianni turns to the English man. “At worse, we’ll die with the saber in one had the bottle in the other,” he winks, “I have a bottle of cognac from Maxine.”

“Right…” he mumbles, totally spaced out. So he thinks about the half-empty bottle of smoky scotch whisky he’s jealously keeping in his bag for special occasions – to die fighting looks like a special occasion indeed.

The sun suddenly escapes the clouds and the forest radiates all its gorgeous colours. None of them was expecting such a sight on the mountain causeway to Leogâne: a kid, brown like syrup, appears in the middle of the road. Nine years old or something, he holds a weird carved stick on his shoulders; he stoically gazes at the three riders as they approach him on their horses.

 

Herons

Get Off The Train

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Picture by Caleb McGinn

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Suddenly, you find yourself sitting on a train car and you see many things through the dusty windows. How on earth did you get there?

This question takes you back outside; the train has disappeared, you can see the sunrise.

The next moment you’re on another train car, and everybody is talking about the sunrise: “How beautiful is the sunrise.” “Oh the light is too strong!” “I remember once, when I was in France, such a beautiful day, the sunrise…” “Who knows the symbolic meaning of the sunrise? According to the ancient…” “It reminds of…” “One day…”

You start running through the clanking wagons, even in the toilet you find people talking. It’s driving you mad. Wagon after wagon it becomes noisier and noisier; the windows are even dustier. You leap through the people in the corridor, they don’t even notice you: all they do is talking. Finally you find a quiet car, near the locomotive. There’s a lonely guy there. He’s talking by himself – you realize that most people on that crazy train are talking by themselves. But the guy stands up when he sees you, he bows to you, point his finger at the sun outside the window and whispers:

“Oh beautiful, but… maybe, I’m thinking too much about it… maybe I’m losing the real thing…”

In the wink of an eye, you’re outside in the middle of the moorland and you observe the sunrise with all your being, you become one with the sunrise. This time you know that you can get off the train anytime you like. You also know that you can observe the trains passing from a distance, you don’t need to jump up. Even if they look beautiful, with golden framework, red maple walls, handsome men and gorgeous women luring you in with their words. Yes, you can choose to get up, take a look enjoy someone’s company, have a drink, a juicy chat about the old days, fantasize about your plans. Trains take you places, that is also true, and helpful at a certain level. But you know on a deeper level that the beauty of the scenery is incomparable from the outside. Outside there is no comparison at all. There’s only silence, and peace. You’re right where you need to be. No past, no future: only now. Take a deep breath and get off the train of thought. Now you’re one with the beauty of creation.

 

Herons

The Destination

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Picture: Sound of Silence by Milenka Delic

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The rock is standing high in the sky, a massif. You become the rock as you observe it. You’re aware of the gold veins and sand bones inside of you. The wind scratches your green hair. You welcome the birds, they thankfully nest on your shoulders. They respect you as a sacred altar. So they perform their rituals: birth, songs, sex, life, nourishment, death. You welcome it all. Then you become a young seagull. You cry, you laugh with your friends, you witness the shifts of the breeze. You soar joyfully, you reach the coastal cliffs. The salt in the air feels like home, though you’d never dare going too far from the cliffs. So you descend: you become a crab. You feel the water coming and going, refreshing your shell. But, wait a minute, now you’re levitating. No, better, you’re floating, ‘cause at the present, you’re a pollock fish. The sea is so smooth on your scales, you can go anywhere you want. Now, you feel a little bit different; you’re a mackerel surrounded by your family. You all dance in unison, up, down, left, right. Suddenly something rough scratches your belly and you’re violently pulled upwards. It feels dry, you’re knocked out. There’s is too much light. All your brothers and sisters are struggling to regain their personal space. They’re powerless, and so you are. But you migrate somewhere else. The next blink of your eyes you feel the winds carrying you. A new family materializes: you’ve all been traveling for a while and you’re all a little bit weary. But it doesn’t matter, you’re tough and so are the other geese. It gets chilly as you soar upon a huge block of snow peaks and after some time you see little creatures carrying pink salt cubes on their shoulders. However, you descend again, only to find your claws upon the gritty earth. You feel enormous strength in your muscles and suddenly you’re compelled to stalk a deer who’s drinking at a pool. You slip through the plants with precise stealth. Then a jump, and you can taste the soft flesh of your launch drenching blood on your fangs. You eat passionately, your tiger hunger is satisfied. Now silence. No movements. No pulls. Everything is so simple: you drink light from your branches, water from the roots. You’re merged in an unprecedented sense of peace. You witness everything around you, blindly. The years pass, and you just witness. One day, you die. You reach the final destination, a place that, ironically enough, has always been there. It has never been far from you. Even back in the day when you were a human striving for the spotlight, you were never far from the destination. You’ve always been there. Now you know. Now you are.

 

Herons

The Man With The Brown Top Hat

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Picture by Rob Hain

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It’s dark inside, the air is damp, the birch wooden moldings of the room are as dusty as the huge amethyst geode lying upwards on the coffee table like a sacrificial bowl. The guy’s holding a knife towards himself, its sharp point pinching his breastbone.

Suddenly someone breaks in: it’s Coriander. James Coriander looks at the suicidal guy with apprehension. “What on earth are you doing?” James asks quietly but firmly.

“I’m ejecting myself. I’m tired, mate. I’ve chosen to contribute from another dimension, the 3D is exhausting.”

“You’re meant to be with us on Earth, you’ve signed the agreement with me and the others.”

“I know!”

“Sleepy humans have contaminated you, isn’t it? It’s your earthling avatar, the ego software-mind, who wants to eject. Look around you,” he waves his arm across the room, “no wonder.”

“I am bored, mate.”

“Because you’ve lost your connection!”

“Yeah, they cut down the Wi-Fi last month…”

“See?! You’ve swamped yourself in the density of matter.”

“You’re damn right,” he admits.

“Now, you come with me.”

“Where do we go?”

“Here. Sit.”

They sit on the leather couches, facing each other. Coriander dusts off the geode with a rag he’s found on the sofa, then he looks at the guy right in the eyes. “Breathe deeply. Once again. In,” he inhales, “and out,” he exhales. “Now, let’s regain your connection with an IBE.”

“IBE? I knew about OBEs…”

“As far as I can see, you’re having Out of Body Experiences most of the time, with all that thinking.” He giggles. “Let’s have an Inner Body Experience. So you’ll be able to reconnect to the Silence Underneath All Sounds.”

“Ooh- ooh, meditation, this reminds me of my awakening four years ago. I think I’ve grown to like duality, you know.”

“Enough to consider ejection…”

“Mmmh, touché.”

“Feel the energy that sustains your body. The vital vibration inside of you. Let’s bring our awareness to the feet, up to the knees, thighs, pelvis, belly, chest. Let’s climb the spine, up to the neck. Focus on your shoulders, down to the elbows, wrists, palms, and fingers. Feel your awareness lighten up the body. Feel your heart-center. Be present to your neck – enough to shut off the chattering mind. Breathe. Relax your face, deeply. The forehead, and the whole cranium. Now that you’re dwelling in your body, stay there. If the mind starts talking again, gently go back to the activated body.”

“It hurts, man.”

“That’s the Pain Body. No worries, observe it without labels. It’s not positive, nor negative. It’s just residue energy in your avatar structure that the conditioning has trapped in over the years. Observe it as much as you want, cherish it, witness it.”

Time dissolves. Their mind becomes less and less talkative.

“You’ve got to cultivate this space of non-thought to raise your vibe. We need you here, man.” He smiles.

“How did you know my address?”

“Well, simple. An old woman almost fell down the front stairs and dropped her grocery bags. I helped her and seen the painting hanging in the hall – the one with a woman dressed in red dancing flamenco. I got curious and I’ve chosen to step in, helping the old woman carry her bags at her door – she lives on the ground floor.”

“Oh, Mrs. Andersen. And why you came up to the attic?”

“Well, a kitten guided me upstairs with her feline winking. So I found myself on your landing; I smelled methane from your door, a lot of methane – let’s not turn on the lights, please.”

“Actually that was my first suicidal plan,” he sniggers, ”yet I chose to not make a fire parade to get out of here.”

“What’s your current name?”

“You mean the given name? George. But they call me Taro, like the Alt-J song.”

“I’m Coriander.”

Taro and Coriander walk out the door and find themselves in the middle of South Bridge. A smell of noodles hit their nostrils. The two descend towards North Bridge, where the Man with The Brown Top Hat is waiting for them. They can see him in the distance, like a ghost among the stream of people flowing back and forth on the sidewalk. His frozen eyes glow like a portal. The boys keep on walking towards him, without losing his glance-grip. At the same time, they are aware of everything around them and they can slide among the crowd like young salmons. They finally reach him. The electromagnetic field around the three of them becomes almost visible. Some eyes linger on the trio with curiosity. The old man, his silver hair rocking in the wind, lays one hand on Taro’s shoulder, the other on Coriander’s. Most of the people fade along, naturally repulsed by their energy field. Others stop for a split-second and have a momentary glimpse of eternity. The Man with The Brown Top Hat smiles and starts falling to his knees; the two chaps spring to help him up, but his face says no. The old man closes his eyes and the features of his one-day bearded face become more relaxed. His energy dims for a second, then it bursts and overwhelms Coriander and Taro. His apparently material body starts dissolving in the air in multicolour dust, and the seagulls sing aloud. The two feel incredibly energised and start to laugh and shout out loud. The crowd streaming around them looks at them with suspicion, and probably, a pinch of fear. Coriander breathes in the fresh afternoon breeze and watches the historical buildings; then he moves his gaze up to the Castle. Taro follows. Every image is so vivid, every sound so clear, every gust of wind so pure on the skin, every smell so definite; the coffee in their mouth lingers pleasantly. A couple of girls chime in: “Hey, Taro! Who’s your freshly harvested friend here?”

“He’s Coriander, Lindsay.”

“I love it in hot soups,” adds Madeleine with a touch of mischief.

They start walking together back to South Bridge, carrying their symphony of jokes, puns, and giggles, as the sun appears above the old building’s eaves, above the puddles, the trodden sidewalks, and all forms in existence.

 

Herons

Going To The Big Something Out Of Skye

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Picture by Andrew Peutherer Prints

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Sit back, relax. I want you to feel your body, I want you to feel the vital energy that activates your limbs. The energy in your toes, ankles, calves, knees, thighs, pelvis. In your belly, torso – breasts if you happen to have a couple – shoulders. In your fingers, hands, forearms, upper arms. In your neck, feel your neck. Ultimately, the head: full of thoughts, worries, desires, fears, ambitions. Get rid of those, please. It’s easy: just be aware of the electromagnetic energy in your head, and in your whole body. Now feel your chest, feel your heart-center and feel it as the core of your being. Close your eyes for a while. Try to maintain your awareness on that subtle electric sensation in your whole body as long as you can.

Now you’re ready to read this.

James is ready to leave. The bags are packed, the sails are tacked. Tina is waiting outside near the sailboat, she looks astounding in the grey light of the firth. She smiles. She’s looking through the window glass at James who’s making sure everything in the house is turned off. One thing’s already for sure, the vibe is everything except off. They are flowing. Flowing through the game of matter, since they gained access to the fourth dimension. Life is a dream – repeat it a couple of times, life is a dream. They are right where they need to be, which miraculously matches with where they want to be. Or maybe, they finally got it. The two things always match.

Tina stops James’ enthusiastic boarding by clutching the edges of his coat. She looks at him in the eyes and kisses him. “Now, you can go.” He smiles and carries all their luggage below deck. “Wait! The moca coffee pot!” he yells.

“I’ll take it. You set the sails, love.” She jumps off the boat and almost breaks her ankle – she giggles. The wooden cabin still glows with the light of the small portion of existence they shared there. Tina plucks a bunch of buckthorn berries before going, they might come in handy. They cast off. James reaches the elm and adjusts the course. The salt is in the air, the seagulls guard the land – they’ll make sure everything carries on well while they’re away. Tina and James exit the firth and its pines. They sail on to the Isle of Man, then make a stop in Bangor, Ireland. Finally, they reach the Isle of Skye. From there they will cross the ocean. But let’s focus on the now, the only existing moment.

Portree is just gorgeous. They stop and sit in the colourful harbour with their guitars. He repeatedly strums a chord in the gentle breeze: D minor. She starts elaborating an intricate arpeggio in accordance with the gulls’ song. Then they switch abruptly, she picks up the rhythmic role. James’ fingers dance through the scales and bends of his blues-rock solo. The tourists who appear along with the flowers in spring – some of them actually look like bizarre flowers – groove to their random music show, which allows them to enjoy the beauty of the scenery even more. They play Stand By Me by Ben E. King: she sings the background vocals with gut-shaking precision, he lets his voice come out as if it was running water from a mountain spring. Everybody gathers around them; even the bagpipe player from the other side of the wharf decides to come over – perhaps he was a bit tired and needed an excuse to stop. Afterwards, they play the homonymous song by Oasis, Wishman by Trevor Hall, and Ice Cream Man by young Tom Waits.

“We have one last song now, from our friend Herons, it’s called The Valley,” says Tina.

James strums a series of long chords. F minor sharp, D major, A major. Tina decorates the sequence with a drizzle of high guitar notes. So they start singing in unison: “Way down to, way down to the valley… Way down to, way down to the valley…” and James shouts, “One, two, three, four!”

The rock and roll tune echoes all over the bay, fresh and uplifting. And, surprisingly enough, no-one bothers to reach for their smartphones and record it – they’re too absorbed in the present moment. Tina and James thank everybody wholeheartedly. People throw coins and notes in their funky hats. Although paper and metal discs will serve no purpose in the ocean, they opt for spending them for more food supplies and a bottle of gin – you never know.

Dawn bursts purple on the horizon; the seagulls salute them as they, Neptunian acrobats, cross the billows. The show is set. The symphony plays wild. It smells like thunder and lightning, but it doesn’t matter. Death is just like falling overboard and melt in the sea of creation, or at worse, bump on a new boat…

 

Herons

Sweet Salty Lemonade

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Carla brooded, bent over the table. Her chin lied gently on her pale forearm, while the gale raged outside, on the deck.

“Batten down the hatches!”, she heard from above. A sound of drumming steps kept playing like a wet drunken polka. She was thinking of Vienna, of the chandeliers shimmering around her at the ballet. Her pearly leotard still cherished her skin through the vivid memory of Schubert’s Trout. Like a trout, now captured, she was jumping and writhing in a barrell. She reached for the whisky jar in the cupboard above her with a slow, feline movement; suddenly Mike came down cheering her as if he was her owner and she was his wistful kitty lioness in the cage.

“We’re almost there dear!”, he trumpeted.

“I wish I wanted some lemonade. But I think scotch fits me more these days.”

“Whisky is amazing, Carla… if you just didn’t run to it every time you think of the past, of the gala, of champagne and stuff.”

“Humm.”

“Jack and Sara are now able to manage the whole thing by themselves up there. It’s fabulous, isn’t it?”

“Fa-bu-lous.” she spelled it out taking square photographs with her fingers.

“I love you Carla, but you shouldn’t ruin your trip like that.”

“In fact I’m trying to ruin yours my love.”, she blinked and sent a kiss through the damp ether of the hull.

He looked pretty disappointed by her childish drama. Nevertheless he took a long sip of lemonade enjoying every centilitre of it, then breathed out satisfied. She was not entirely an idiot, so she couldn’t help but suffer when she disappointed his more than sensible feedback. Carla knew she was being selfish, but her ego, like an experienced dictator who’s made so many successful golpes, controlled her body and mind – let alone her soul. At least she was aware of it, that’s a good start, Mike said to her once.

 

“I wanna dance.”, she said firmly. Mike stopped his present activity – cutting loads of lemons – and turned. Finally the special stimulus came. Finally she managed to receive it, in order to avoid to screw up the whole trip. Mike was staring at her while she produced her walkman and plugged in the aux cable slithering from the sound system.

“Fuck the ballet! I’m tired of regretting…”, she pressed play and the sharp rattling sound of cymbals faded in. Then a roaring bass solo entered the scene to introduce the kinkiest reggae tune ever. Her oak-brown eyes  dragged him into her pristine rastafari spell.

She was swaying and breathing deeply, rubbing her body against his. Nobody knew Mike was a dancer: as his ice coating melted, his legs were bouncing up and down to the rhythm, to their rhythm. Lemonade, damn cold lemonade, flooded their feet. It was spilling all over the place, but they couldn’t stop; the energy was so strong, the connection so deep. The shamanic ritual went further, they were swimming in a pool of multicoloured lights. The lemonade elixir slowly reached their hips and holy smokes diffused. The music in their heads wouldn’t stop. They were making love as never before, drinking and drinking. Until they reached the mountain top and the sailboat touched the ocean floor in the absolute silence.

Written by Herons