Sketches on Treason #1


Time: Somewhere in the 1600s
Scene: A narrow alley in Venice, four young men meet in a constrained space.

Enter from left: Alvise, Marco, Lorenzo.
Enter from right: Embriaco.

E: Make way.

L: You make way, filth!

A: Move aside or we’ll break your legs.

M: Gentlemen, please. This is Venice.

E: Amannaman, Venetians, if only you could, you would.

L: What’s that, lil’ baùco?

A: Signor, it seems to me that you — talk funny.

M: You are not from around here.

L: So, go back to where you came from.

A: Why, do tell, do you talk funny? Are you retarded or something?

E: My name is Embriaco. I was born elsewhere, away from this dump.

L: You can hardly call la Serenissima a dump.

E: There is very little serene about it.

M: That’s because you are not from around here. You cannot appreciate the details. Now, move aside.

(Embriaco moves aside. They squeeze past, glaring at him.)

fiddling while Rome burns #1 – a sea-urge

As the spaceship races faster and faster, struggling to remain in the same spot, the enchanted mind splutters on as if in a sea-wake.

Coming at you, a sea-urge: wave after wave, singing a lullaby of discord and unity in a vertiginous time loop.


York, an autumn season — some years ago.


In a dark moon day,

I swept away a cloud of thoughts

Across high and majestic mountains.


The sky, then not removed by God —

A crystal lake with flames of blue.


Ten thousand white-feathered birds

Swung across and flung the sea-winds back

With sudden turns, fluttering, disappearing.


Beyond a lonely wall,

I met you with no surprise

You were daydreaming with a pinch of salt,

Telling lies on a light and smoky sky,

Clueless and unforgiven,

In constant search of your blacken’d plumage

And your head of dew.


Then having run for miles on hills of ruby,

And having reversed the clock of my slowing time,

I came to a halt for I was cold and my mind was starving.

My heart told hard lies still, and still for once

I came across an eye in meditation, longing far.


It was weeping sad and low

And from a deaden’d night

My father cried from without,

I waited for the stars to call and shriek.


I played the bull and you the horse

And so we fell beneath the soaked turf

While the grey monster of a zombie night

Ate our soul and displaced our solitude.


It is winter again, I rest my shaken hands

On your shoulders, and you dine within my head

As we look on, the night grows high and looming,

The sun of yesterday gives light on our hearts


For as we roll down the hill yet again

We know the light must brighten before tomorrow’s sun

And a long, wide-eyed summer awaits beyond the wall.

the biology and psychology of an extra-terrestrial in its own environment #2

Imagine hearing multiple voices at once.

Not far from the Truth?

Like a cancer, they outgrow reason.

Each voice carries its own narrative, its own consciousness, its own ending.

I am that. I am many, and I am one. I am of a subtle mettle, rolling under the star-sparkle.

Our existence, conscious or unconscious, has many depths and layers, many of which are unknown. Unlike Humans, we Mornings have been engineered from day one. We are the thought child of another sentient species, an ancient by-product of evolution of which we shall not speak here.

First off, in our Morning life, the time streams are both theoretical and empirical.

Cancer is an unpredictable experimental poem. Cancer is many things. Entropy, heterogeneity, complexity. Cancer is having to listen to the grave-digging humans while they ramble on, fuelled by alcohol and pain. Humans are amazing heterotrophic monsters. Your flat and shocking faces are indeed grimly divided from the breast below. Your slow, unwet lives are subject to much wonder over here on our wonderful planet, where we do not have war, or hunger, or climate change induced by stupidity and greed.

For humans (like cancer), desire is the first datum of consciousness. Every juvenile human ape knows how to over-reach – from swaddling band to garden of love to tiger tiger.

Why hallo, human! Old pirate! Are you yet living ?

Even for your falsehood peddling shamans, the power of the Sattwa enslaves the happy.

As you can see, baboon-human with too much greed or make-up on, I am torn between a critique of your abominable species and a description of what a Morning really is.

Can we please start with the latter ? Of late I am so disgusted by my astronomical observation of your endeavours that I am almost running out of music and light.

Now, how do I paint a picture without notes, or sing a song without colour?

What are the extra-terrestrial Morning by Morning features?


You can start by imagining a Hokkaido lake, on your almost-choked-to-death planet.

Can you see marimos there, lulled by the quiet waters into a peaceful existence ?

Imagine a shape-shifting marimo with powers of rhyme and reason. Gently rolling, creating music as its apparent primary occupation beside photosynthesis. Imagine music-forming organs, with many somatic cell types, all devoted to arpeggios, to novel symphony creation, to jazz and joke, to dulcimer and pianos.

Imagine being able to set your own gravitational field, thus being able to fly from lake to star. Imagine no divide between mind and matter. “What is life?” , one of you once asked. Imagine neural boundlessness driven by conscious meditative life, not aided by psychoactive drugs, recreational drugs who may have tricked you into crossing beyond the doors of perception, only to find a kind of madness there.

We Mornings live as all creatures should live – undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. Our lake lives are spent perennially photosynthesising, creating pockets of novel knowledge with our fact-checking and fact-assembling organs, chatting about philosophy in a multi-dimensional scope. We are fully conscious autotrophic organisms with multi-dimensional awareness, where several of our organs are devoted to spiritual tasks: grief to art transitions, pain body-waves to energy – to matter and choice. Our spiritual practice and emotional transfer also happens at quantum level, but not only. I guess “not only” is part of our creed.

As I deconstruct a “Morning”, I venture to ask you humans… ever you ever been to Amherst, and did you ever ask the question: ” Will there ever be a Morning ?”

In this dialogue, going deeper after layer by layer, we might choose to look at energy production, transfer, storage. If we were to choose to deconstruct the ET, we might look at spiritual states, meditation stages, and mind-matter transfers. In the chemical sea-chambers of our consciousness, we might find commonalities between Mornings and Humans. In order to understand what lies beneath, we might look at cancer in autotrophic and heterotrophic organisms.

Yet, while thinking about the extra-terrestrial (for you) life-styles and morphology, we might incidentally stumble upon questions of purpose, redundancy, evolutionary history and of development. As Mornings, we also believe that “those who speak ill of spiritual life, they take breath but they are not alive.”

All sentient beings seek unity in this large consciousness, and if “compulsory separation brings excessive pain to the mind…”, can we find a way to collectively give up voluntarily to infinite peace and happiness ?

Indulge me. If the patriotism of humans is based on vision, (pseudo)ideas and greed, your terrestrial ants, with their lovely antennae base their identity on smell and taste. Now, tell me – how are you different from your terrestrial driver ants?

The ocean is not satisfied with water, nor the fire with wood.

Driver humans’ nomadism and ferocity are based on rather low yahoo instincts. Can you do any better, I wonder ? You are like ants, distinguishing the shape of smell, looking for Godot. Foreign smells and the local odour of patriotism lead humans to intra- and inter-specific competition and warfare. The irony of it, is that you destroy your own ecosystems. For humans today and forever have lived in a “Alice in Wonderland” society, where the size of your monsters is only matched by your fantasy and lack of skills.

Our Morning life has a marimo-like neotenous form of three types:

  1. epilithic
  2. free-floating
  3. lake-ball proper

Our surface area to volume ratio drives our ecological and moral standing.

And then, we fly.

Like for cruel humans, our neotenous features elicit help, but so does our fully formed adulthood. Our bodies have greater synaptic densities when our organs are devoted and tuned in the multivariate melodies of compassion. Our music-making, among other things, is key to the process of sexual selection. We believe that the concern of humans with female attractiveness is rather odd. We have many sexes and genders, and they are all compatible. In our aesthetic, there are multiple versions and kinds of features we might choose to associate ourselves with. Given our perennially evolving and rejuvenating cells, we are not concerned with youthful fecundity as such, but rather choose our partners based on metaphysical issues, such as soul-merging. Our reproductive system merges two Mornings of any gender into a new fully formed and happy organism (without the perils of parenthood).

In our own environment, which is lakes of many types and colour, we gently roll and let ourselves be cradled by the water current, so that our symphonies reach the air and, if by chance a faint night breeze stirs up, heavy with Natural Products from the harbour of our ecological friends, we peacefully roll on under the star-sparkle, and some of us may choose to fly to new mountains, as tall as you can imagine

That’s a place where Mornings lie.

the biology and psychology of an extra-terrestrial in its own environment #1

I have two thousand three hundred and sixty-two different somatic cell types in my body. Unlike that of earthly humans, my body plan has great complexity; somebody actually sat down and engineered the whole thing, not leaving it to chance. Kimura, my ass. Just to clarify for you earthly idiots… I am not, strictly speaking, an after-animal, or μετά ζώα -n. As I said, I am the product of careful planning, I’ve not just exploded multicellularly out of some shady Welsh (Cymru) terrestrial melting pot.

The complexity of a living thing is defined by the size of its minimum description. It would take a while to describe what I am, let alone who I am to a terrestrial audience. I hesitate to even consider beginning. What I would like to say, at the very eve of things, is that I do not much admire your invertebrate achievements. Spineless as you are, I do not hold it against you: you earthlings are the product of accumulated random mistakes. Plus, you’ve never actually sat down and thought anything through. If you saw an opening, you got in there.

Get in there!


It seems pretty obvious that you fucked up. Your psychological, let alone spiritual needs cannot be fulfilled without species and individual independence, without personal responsibility, without aesthetic value and… erhm… even metazoan significance unless you are rooted on your planet, or any other heavenly body in some organic way, in full symbiosis with its biota. Needless to say, humans have completely failed at symbiotic relationships. You’re way too greedy to give anything up, therefore she or he is always going to leave you.

Humans: get a grip, already.

Ok, I shall tell you a bit about me since you still have some time to kill (ho ho, you are good at killing) before your planet melts down.


The End of glass bodies

I climb out of my grave and I stumble across three bodies. Their eyes locked into steely pain. They died suffering, electrecuted. Apparently, to free me. 

I do not have a clear memory of anything. I look at the empty glass coffin, from the side of the room a large window overlooks planetary explosions. Volcanic eruptions of war, I shudder at my newly found world.

My limbs are limp with cathartic pain, my body fragile as crystal. My friends are dead. I recognize the nun, the soldier, the student. Their eyes look at me from beyond. Carefully, I crawl forward, no strength in my flesh. I am the will to exist. One side of the tower overlooks the abyss. Needlessly, I look into it and remember the ocean, and the depths of fear.

Slowly, each feeling is coming back to me like a chain, roaring sea-waves crashing into my numb and stupid self-shore.

The bitch of living. I am utterly alone. I drag my limp carcass down the staircase, one stump at a time. I bleed against the rough surface of the floor. My knotty hands claw my headfirst downfall. I hit my head onto the first bend of the stair. 

I lost consciousness, perhaps hours have gone by. What are a few hours, in the general scheme of my sleeping entombed for years. I refuse to give up. I am so fucking hungry and tired. I hate all this breathing, it is so very, very hard. I wonder for a second if I should crawl back upstairs but there is no way I can turn my body around. I use heavy gravity to come crashing further down. Only one way to go. 

Hours pass. I know that years are yet to come, and decades of more pain lie in wait if I can survive this ordeal. There is only one way forward. There is only one way forward. There is only one way forward. 

I look at the explosions out of my body, the empires at war destroying every living creature. Life in the multiverse stands on the brink of annihilation. The sound of bombs dims my senses. Moulds growing on the staircase smell of rot. My nose sharpens its focus. Somehow, looking at the whimsical nature of these lichens, spreading in all fashions and colours, somehow I am reassured that life will endure.

glass bodies 371 380

in a prison of glass her body had been buried while her mind spun endlessly for years. 

in the same confined space she had lost the sense of self and it had taken over. 

the daemon on one’s shoulder is both gargoyle and shameless sinducer.

Kyniska was me. After gaining a religious faith, she died in a maelstrom of angst. Madness is a mode of being, legs no longer operational, breathing detached from glass body, brittle on the eve of sleep.

Sleep you must, and sleep is taken away from you. Day after day, sleeplessly, you talk to it, and talks to you. Sometimes it shouts, sometimes you whisper. Sometimes the messaiah is coming, and sometimes it’s just you and it. Watching the circle, as no season exists in this prison. There are no flowers, no harvest, no sunshine. Pain does not end, it revolves, profoundly.

One hour you dig deep into the sinew of your gut, one minute lasts an eternity. There is no sleep in this darkness, only a thousand voices shouting in unison. 

Then the tomb opens, and I finally look down the side of the building, emerging chrysalis, down to the abyss. It is not even that deep, or long. The much desired death is within reach, the end of suffering.

I hesitate. There is an absolute stillness to this instant, and the heat of the tower shields us from the cosmic freeze. This is Earth. This is Rex Nebular, this is Enceladus and a thousand million other places merging into one. Time takes survey of all and comes to a halt. 

In this gap, the wave extended leaves no mark on the mind. I am conscious, again. For a moment, pain is no longer an absolute necessity. 

I climb out of my grave. 

glass bodies 361 370

Angel at the gate

“The night is darkest when you do not know who you are.

I have been a slave, a private, a capitalist, a rebel, a captain, a commander. Of all my memories, none is dearer to me than that of running around in circles, dodging duty and observing birds being torn apart by cats. 

Rebels, former companions. I am glad to have had half of you blasted to smithereens, and the other half thrown in prison. There is nothing quite like cathartic betrayal.

My loyalty is not with the Eastern Empire, though I am double-aging for them now. Before being a Western slave, I was an Eastern child, bound to poverty and subdued by the higher powers of colonization. How lucky I was to be carried off world to be a slave builder of multiversal screens.

I despise everything you three represent. 

A former nun, lying about faith.

A former student, lying about knowledge.

A former soldier, lying about right action.

You have come to the gate of Enceladus castle to subvert the Truth of the Western Empire. And for that, you are welcome. I embrace your cause insomuch as it advances my cause. And my cause is with the Eastern Empire now. 

I remember as a child, before falling down into slavery, I lived in a room on the first floor of an empty building. That place was haunted by an eerie silence, and at night all I could hear was the sound of hexapods creeping in. Surrounded by disease, blighted by flying bugs, barricaded in a room with a wooden bed, a net and a table. At night a light would flash from the window and create patterns of shadow on the wall. The devil dancing on that wall was my sole companion through those dark days. And when the rain would fall, I would be untouchable. Looking down to the yard, a cemetery of statues looking up to my solitude.

As a commander I open this door to you, that you may walk through these corridors and seek your buried friend. 

I died a long time ago, a small child looking at father breathing in poisonous gas. I have carried on as dead ever since. My sole ambition is to make money. 

Go to your friend now, little rebels. Our paths may cross again.”