A Pirate Named Gianni Cobalto • Part 1

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Picture by unknown

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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 Domenico, the Neapolitan. Gianni is carried away by the melody. His memories at sea are intertwined with his future – 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 this coffer. “Memories are tricks of the little you, designed to hold you back from experiencing the wonders of the larger You,” said the 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 resonated with Gianni in a strange manner. His Christian upbringing taught him that God was up there, ready to judge you after your final step. The Indian guy, instead, told him that God is within and is free of judgement.

“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?”

“I like music. In Venice, we have great music. Antonio Vivaldi.”

“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.

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 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 approaching the sea. It finally 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 voice pops in the background. “Cobalto!” It sounds farther than it 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 French-coloured 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…” He caresses her tender cheek. Thus, he calmly gets up from the creaking wooden chair. Gianni smiles confidently to her. The green palms 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 was guided by something smarter than him. Jacmel Bay is as gorgeous as a dream, including the small Spanish frigate at the horizon. He turns to the French angel who’d accidentally fallen on his lap. One kiss. He’s swiftly off to the stable, where Troussard and Cantley were 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.

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

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

“Of course 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 hoofs knocking on the 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. 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 to Gonâve Island. And leave tomorrow with 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 the facts opening his arms wide.

“God will bring us there.”

They’re 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, doesn’t 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 hanging around 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 pirate. “Even though I’m still quite sceptical about the mystical stuff,” he grins through his sharp moustache.

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

Perfetto.” Gianni turns to the English man. “At worse, we’ll die blowing some brains… And drinking the good stuff,” he winks, “I have a bottle of cognac from Maxine.”

“Right…” he mumbles, totally spaced out.

 

Herons

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We Are Among You: Episode 2

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Picture: Undercover by Olesya Umantsiva

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The aliens are idly drawing their smoothies through metal straws while waiting for food. It’s a hot spring day, and they simply enjoy the shade of the parasols at the bistro. They’re present to the moment, grounded in their bodies and sensations.

“Oh, I’m receiving something, Juma…” Kimi touches his temple like a radio knob.

“Oh, really? Who is it?”

“You.”

“Ha-ha, fun…” she answers sarcastically. “Is it a pure frequency?”

“Yeah, I’m grounded. Through a human body, this is called intuition. So: I see a golden plate, a historical building, and…”

“Sarah, what are you doing here?!” a startled voice appears behind their backs. “You’ve been missing for three years, the police has stopped searching for you in December.”

“What is this human saying?” asks Kimi.

“Oh, gosh, the bodies we’re using… We picked them from souls who have ejected from Earth. Sarah must be Philanis from Andromeda. Let me manage this…” Juma looks at the man in his fifties straight in the eyes. The man is even more confused. “I don’t know who’s Sarah. And I don’t know you. So, please leave.”

“No, I know you! I’m your husband! I know the smell of my wife…”

“It must be a coincidence,” she produces her documents, “I am…” she blatantly reads the name on them, “Linda Harriesmouth.”

“A false identity… to avoid your family! Have you gone insane?!”

“It’s all about themselves and their family with these humans…” sighs Kimi.

“Yeah, the family is a strong collective ego structure. Let’s try this…” Juma suspends any thought and focuses her gaze on the man’s eyes. “My name is Linda.”

“Well, there’s actually something different in your eyes… I must… I must… be wrong. Sorry to bother you, lady,” he babbles and slowly turns away.

“We must customize these bodies.” Says Juma

“Oh, another download from the Source: my body is from a single man; I can see his house, we go there to change our 3D form.”

The place is a complete mess. The stench of wine and cigarettes is still hanging in the air of the spacious red brick loft. There are clothes and naked people sleeping on the couches. One of them wakes up, a young woman, completely unaware of Kimi and Juma, and reaches for the line of white powder on the coffee table – the effect of the sniffing on the sleepy human is at best similar to coffee. She stands up and, in a mixture of dizziness and anxiety, says: “Oh, Martin, I thought you’d be back tomorrow… I’m gonna clean up, I promise…”

Kimi feels the anger heating up in his body and manages to respond without surrendering to the violent pull. “Alright. Get outta here. All of you. Now.” He shakes the naked people from their hangover slumbers and coaxes the hapless party host out. “Chop-chop.”

The orgy slowly lurches out like a legion of damned from Dante’s Inferno.

“Can I?” asks Juma with a cheeky frown.

“Please.”

Juma stretches her arms out, palms up. The eye-shaped scars on her hands start to glow red, orange and yellow. “And fire will be!” She channels her disgust in the energetic holes and two flames, bright and hot, raise from her palms. Kimi takes a step back; Juma shouts some alien words – probably for fun – and casts fire beams towards the filthy couches, the half-empty liquor bottles and all dirt she can detect in the room.

“Ahh, better…”

Kimi nods at her and moves his hands as if shaping something round. He creates a ball of compressed wind, then extinguishes the fire releasing the sphere in a powerful gust that cracks the glass doors and windows open.

“Awesome. Make-up time?” she hints.

Juma breaks through the locked bedroom by simply pushing and uprooting the door latch from the frame – she didn’t expect all the noise, nor the superstrength.

“Well, I had a key, but…”

“Let’s take those big mirrors and put them in the living room.”

They see their avatar bodies reflected back to them. Thoughts of judgment and unworthiness come to the surface. They gently observe the mental pollution, aware of the fact that it’s just the collective ego-mind software attuned to their individual bodies. Once they’ve gained back a neutral perspective the game can continue.

It’s time for Sarah Macsomething to become Linda Harriesmouth – without getting carried away too much with the new ego, he. Here brown eyes shift to willow leaf green; her eyebrows thicken a bit in a Mediterranean touch; her skin turns paler; her lips swell and turn crimson red; finally her hair darkens from brunette to raven black.

“Wow…” gasps Kimi without mischief. “You’re gorgeous.”

The Eye Of The Beholder

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Picture by anonymous

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See, my brother

See, my sister

See beyond the old mind-filter.

Become the channel,

Let the energy of what you see

Flow through in harmony.

See, my brother

See, my sister

See beyond fear.

Telescope your awareness

Towards what you like,

Towards the bell that rings to your ear.

See, my brother

See, my sister

See beyond detail.

Everything at once,

The wonders of creation

Welcome you to their secret vault.

There, you can see.

 

Herons