Friday, January 5, 2018

Main Theme From Jurassic Park HD has meaning to the Vampires 1/4/18

Annie went missing. That's why posts have been few and far between. She just dissolved into the crowd waiting to see Santa Claus one night at the King of Prussia Mall. Sarah took her. She wanted to go. So they dressed her up as a normal little Caucasian mortal child. They put her in jeans and sneakers, a turtle neck and sweatshirt. They brushed her fine, soft, sandy-blond hair, anointed her with a powdery scent meant for little girls and that was it.... Annie loves mortal rituals. She joins in and sings 'Happy Birthday' every time the wait staff brings a little, sparkler-topped cake to some smiling simple soul at the Princess Diner they take her to for chicken soup on cold winter nights. Annie never eats the noodles, or the little carrots that swim around in it. She pushes them aside and gently drinks the rest with an oversized tablespoon. Vampires can ingest mostly clear liquids. Broth is OK.

Everyone looked for her. Jonathon went to all the dim sub-basement specimen storage warrens beneath all her favorite museums. He questioned all the dusty mummies. Many vampires instinctively comprehend dead languages. But the desiccated, old North African aristocrats didn't know anything, nor did the immense groupers
 (who could conceivably swallow a deep diving, female pearl fisher) moving through the shadowy depths of their large commodious home, in the aquarium 'cross the river....Same with the elferinas and elferinos. Same with all the night-folk. Annie was just gone. One moment she was explaining to the Mrs. Claus woman why she was wearing the wrong bra and the next she went bye-bye....

They asked 'Papa' her well formed twenty eight thousand year old progenitor, if he could detect anything.... He broke off his mid-space stare, momentarily making eye contact, before clicking on Will & Grace and settling in for his favorite show. 'Life Eaters' (the politically correct term for vampires) are such a strange breed. And the townhouse is such a strange place.

Edith, the witchy-woman housekeeper, offered to throw a hoo-doo. Jonathon told her he'd think about it... She went back to her seek and find puzzles, but proceeded to doodle old New Jersey Pine Barrens magic symbols all around the border of page sixty nine in her latest puzzle book... with a pen she took from the Citizens Bank. I think she hummed an obscure Piney reel, but I'm not sure. She might have just belched or wheezed or something....

This is where I have to supply a little background. You see, Vampire Wonderland has a minor alien problem. Once, some all powerful, off-Earth race decided to get funny with our oceans and Earth woke up surrounded by a two miles thick concentric roiling solid shell of salt water about sixty miles overhead. Not much light came through, so it was hard to see all the stranded ships and submarines and whales and fish and squid and seaweed and all just laying there upon the abysmal plane. Folks on cruise ships were real pissed, because the bottom of the sea wasn't perfectly flat and a lot of those top heavy luxury boats keeled right over, resulting in a whole mess of people who were gonna be dead before they got to the all you can eat buffet. True, there were some disoriented survivors stumbling around on the damp dark sand. Considering the horror of it all, they thought they were dead. People prayed. They called out for loved ones. You know families with little children take cruises too and Bic lighters only last so long. Biologists among you might know that certain marine crabs can survive for quite a while on dry land. Pickings were usually slim down there, but now, especially 'round the tipped over cruise ships (some naval and commercial vessels too, I guess) meat was all over. Close your eyes and think. You can imagine the rest....

Now Annie was snatched by some aliens, but not the ocean-moving ones. Ocean-moving ones are real bastards. And Earth did manage to reverse that strange interlude via hidden extraterrestrial info. World leaders thought it best we all forgot about it real fast. As you know, world leaders can do anything, because you all didn't know about it and that's proof.... Annie's aliens were from a more mellow, meditative race... like Mortimer Snerds with octopus tentacles instead of what we got. They had a different take on physical pain too.

So when they sent her back with a big old, multi-colored, swirly all day sucker, but minus one arm torn out from the socket, they had no idea what her (or anyone else's) reaction would be....

<more next time... and since this is a new year and 2018 and all, our aim is to make those 'next times' happen a lot more often>

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Tuesday, December 19, 2017

WITCHES ARE A KIND OF CHIMERA 12/19/17 Exotic & Mysterious Spanish Guitar Music: CHIMERA - Al Marconi


Many of our posts speak of vampires. We mention other forms of biologic rarities in passing. Tonight we highlight witches... born witches. These are not successful students of the arcane. Their efforts have no real part in it. Such human confections are simply born that way. In most instances, the trait comes down from one parent. Statistically it can devolve from both, but, existing cases are very, very few in number. Please understand that there was no way to positively identify a 'born witch,' at least there was no scientifically recognized method. With the advent of genetic testing, the same mail-away, cheek swab, or spit-in-a-vial investigative procedure can reveal 'magic blood.'

Everything we are starts with our genes. Think of them as hard wired 'spells.' Genes control our physical form, our abilities, or lack of abilities in all spheres of life. Most humans possess the usual combination... an equal distribution of tiny chemical cocktails from each parent. But sometimes an interloper comes into the mix. Such complications happen very early in a pregnancy when two zygotes (potential fetuses) develop. Normally, they'd continue to grow as twins, either identical or fraternal. Under certain conditions the twins unite, continuing development, but as one organism, resulting in one person with more than the normal allotment of genes. Few such people are handicapped by this outcome. Most live average lives. But some are not average. We don't yet understand how extra genetic stores actually 'change' an organism, yet clearly various things can result.

Some tests indicate that various 'talents' we call 'magic' are just enhanced electrical  emanations . The magic happens when we're sensitive to those forces, or able to control them.
Controlled forces can manifest as the ability to move or alter matter. Heightened sensitivity can enable the bearer to 'read' minds. Certain very powerful adepts can control their own atoms to such a thorough degree they can change shape, or transport themselves from one physical location to another . Some are so attuned to the emanations of  others they can discern thoughts regardless of distance... and they can send thoughts too. A very few are able to control atoms with such precision they can conjure objects out of the ether.

One such unusual example was Abner of  Crete, an eighth century physician and alchemist who according to many unrelated accounts had the ability draw the blood out of a living body through the pores and capillaries. Victims were covered by countless tiny, thin arcs of red liquid bursting forth from every part of their bodies, even the corneas of their eyes. It's said that same Abner was able to transport the heads and necks of unfortunate subjects up from their shoulders and to his presence with a clean cut precision not seen till the advent of the guillotine one thousand years later.

A daring woman, the Dowager WarWife of  Loch Negan used to denude a whole great hall of drunken guests with an arthritic clap of her old, liver spotted hands. Needless to say, she caused many clan wars and illegitimate births among the chieftans and land lords of the Highlands. After a while, her visitors had to know what they were getting into. Maybe that was the attraction? Bards of the day sang songs for years.

The practitioner known as Ubis of Ebis (gender unknown) tuned into the Papal Confessional in Rome via remote viewing, thus privy to every foible of every pope during the reigns of all the Frankish Pippins, till eventually being caught and forced to take a molten lead bath in a large vat of what was essentially a nine hundred degree cauldron of viscous heavy mud. Attendants forced the unhappy bather down into the hellish porridge with long, sharp poles most often used to impale the juvenile dependents of heretics and other non conformist types.

Some born witches use magic for good. Some do not.
 Oh, one more thing... What does 'chimera' mean?... It means two differing animals in one body. For instance griffins are chimeras, as are merfolk and squid-puppies.

Utilization of 'the craft' can be a very nasty business...

But look, don't let that stop you. Take one of those tests. Find out. You might be one of the good ones...

<till next time>

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Sunday, December 17, 2017

Our Vampire Jonathon loves this song-LeAnn Rimes - Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel) - Billy Joel cover


The nearly immortal being known as 'Jonathon speaks -

I've done this every year at this time for centuries. I hope you are a regular visitor. Then you'll know. The house is locked up. Sarah is in her cubicle. Annie sleeps. Conrad, Edith, all of them are snug in their places. I sit in the 'little' library. The draperies are drawn. By the low warm light of a small, Chinese, porcelain lamp I count out coins, large, heavy, yellow, golden coins, Venetian ducats.... a 'vampire' tradition. I measure them out upon a lap desk... five to a sack...(sighs)... A 'familiar' (mortal helper) makes them up for me... small, dark blue velvet, drawstring sacks trimmed with thin golden rope around the top. In other lands, at other times, others made them, but the form has not changed in more than three hundred and fifty years... I'm told, in this time and in this city a gold, Venetian ducat brings more than two thousand American dollars. What's that come to, twelve thousand for each sack...

When ten are filled, I shall go out on the streets and in the wee hours before the light, I shall distribute them where they will accomplish good things...  Our little boy ghost watches me. He came with the house. We've only been here for a few years. Oh, there were other townhouses and a manor up in Chestnut Hill once or twice, but the poor, tiny, polio victim has been here since the nineteen thirties. He likes the 'little' library too. Plays with a set of old, painted, pot metal soldiers on the rug, a hand drawn deck of Hungarian cards and an etched brass top . Sometimes he manipulates them quite well. Death cured his polio, thank God. Other nights he just looks at them. Abilities are not always constant in the supernatural world, especially during the first few decades. Powers lapse, tea cups break. Parakeets talk Romanian. Old Ladies whistle the Barcarole. You know how it is.

Now I am off... a thousand year old soul (well, a thousand years old on Earth) with a young man's body. Most take me for anywhere from eighteen to twenty eight, depending on how they view things. There's a two nights' old icy glaze on the streets. I dress warm and go out, the gold coins, in their velvet sacks, snug in the deep, zippered pockets of my black puffy coat... A vampire with a black, zip-up, puffy coat. They'd drum me out of the union..... Ah, the songs I hear in my head... The Tales Of Hoffman... Rhymes of a Quayside Bawd. Bet you don't know that one... from Paris in the 14 30's.

(he leaves, locks the door behind him and silently hops down the steps... a gray, tiger stripped tabby falls in behind. they turn the corned and are off)

Mortals fear these long nights. It's instinctive and stamped upon the breed. Imagine how dark it was before all the tick-tock niceties we have now. Utter blackness. Maybe moonlit nights were a bit different, but then you'd see the shadows. Then you'd know what was out there... not exactly what it is, but you'd know it was coming.... That's why we have festivals now, parties to lure back the sun and then celebrate when it returns. No more slow, creeping death, but new birth and ever increasing life.

Soon I will slip 'life' into the pockets of desperate people. There's a handwritten note tucked into each drawstring sack --- Please contact Leverett & Reed for instructions and advice in the redemption of these coins..... I've dealt with them since seventeen fifty one, a most reputable counting house. Now they call themselves 'investment counselors.' There's an old gentleman who handles antiques. In the New World, Philadelphia is the mother lode. I'm sure they'll do well. That twelve thousand dollars per sack mentioned earlier was just gold value. Genuine Venetian ducats are highly collectible. Ask the Buccaneers of Hispanola ...

Now please forgive me. I have lives to change and people to see. Well, most of them will be sleeping. That makes it more special. I know some of you heard about the night that started all this... I trot it out every year 'round this time.

Google  --- Indulge me a bit... Vampire Wonderland... it'll be there...

To think if I went up in flames right now, my tale... all, well, by now close to one million words of it would go on for centuries, suspended in this ether they call 'the cloud.'...

That, my friends, is immortality too...

<hasta la proxima>

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Sunday, December 10, 2017

Vampires LOVE it When there's a Blizzard in Philadelphia (4k) 12/10/17


Vampires love the winter. They love the dark and the cold. Sarah, Jonathon's understanding consort, walks the streets for hours all bundled up in her black puffy coat and thick (also black) wool hat. She stops and gives homeless people gift cards to fast food places. Sure the food's not the healthiest, but other places chase them. In a fast food joint they can, at least, duck into the toilet for a fast fix up and eat their meal in peace. There's always a corner somewhere... maybe a discarded newspaper or magazine. The heat feels good. They can decompress a little. And you know she loads the cards up to about two hundred and fifty dollars. Figures that'll last them between ten days and two weeks. Sometimes she gives out six packs of tightie-whities and t-shirts too... sometimes six packs of white gym socks. It makes a difference. She used to give out jeans and sweat shirts too and enough money so they could slip into a Laundromat and wash their stuff every once in a while. But few had the will power for that. They'd buy alcohol.

Carries a big plastic shopping bag from Target. She doesn't do this every night, but often enough. Look, she knows a few of them sell the gift cards for maybe a few bucks (how much can another homeless guy have?). But at least second guy keeps it and WANTS the food.

One guy, Jim had cancer. Lost a whole lot of weight. Looked like that deep gravelly voiced singer who sings about life on the street. Told her his name was 'Bob.' Sarah got friendly with Bob. Gave him money. Gave him a lot of stuff. Arranged for a room in a clean but plain hotel twice a week, so he could get cleaned up and sleep and all. She would have arranged for the place full time. Bob didn't want that..... Tom Waite! That's the name. The singer is Tom Waite. They'd talk over coffee or tea. Sit there for hours. The waitresses never said anything. Who else was gonna come in that late... even in the city.

Sarah never said she was a vampire, but he knew. He never said anything, never had to. Neither did she. One night she passed him a vial of her blood. She said - Here, drink this... What's it gonna do? - he asked... Sarah said - Just drink it. You want to be well, don't you?... Bob just looked at her. She nodded... He took it. He drank it.... A few nights later he was all better. Then he disappeared. Not right in front of her or anything. It wasn't like that. He just stopped showing up at that hotel. No one saw him on the street. He just left. She kept thinking about him though. If she was a vampire before Jonathon, if he didn't bring her over, she might have started something with Bob... Maybe he could have been her consort? Sarah never found out why he was on the streets... His crowd (homeless types often have a small group, maybe three or four) never knew. That's how it was.

Winter nights were like that. People talked more. Maybe the dark made them seek each other out?

So she wandered the streets and did her thing.... 'culled' the wicked... saved the worthy. Never made a big thing out of it. Most never knew she was there. Just sublimated into some high rise bedroom and did it. Jonathon liked his little confrontations. He liked his passion plays. Not Sarah. She liked the cold. She liked the snow. She liked the dark. Look, they all like winter... the vampires, I mean. But she had a deep appreciation for it... a reverence. Odd, considering Jonathon was the spiritual one. Even for a vampire he was spiritual. No two were alike.... 'alone in the dark' they called it.

Before she went back to the townhouse, Sarah went into a CVS store and bought a couple magazines... all kinds... Jonathon liked magazines... He bought them too. But most nights he stayed out till the last minute and had to rush back before the dawn, so he never had time.... Sarah was responsible. She had time.

I guess she's the Wendy to his Peter Pan.

Look, no one ever bothers vampires when they roam the city late at night. It's like a 'thing' they have, an aura.

But if you have a couple friends, go out some time, in the wee hours before dawn. Be quiet. Be discreet. Look around...

It's a whole other world and most people never even realize it's there.

<more next time>

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Sunday, November 26, 2017

Jonathon's Vampire Holiday --- The Rolling Stones - You Can't Always Get What You Want (Rock & Roll Ci...


I need no one. 'Papa' tells me that. He says it all the time. I can sublimate. I can transcend time. I am a nearly immortal being, should I chose to go that way. So far, I've made that choice every night.... So far.... I leave the townhouse and walk. Maybe it's because I was not much older than the elferinos when I came over, but I understand them. I can live like them, camping out in unused tombs, catacombs and mausoleums.. Though their lairs are not bare, but rather thick with the toys and gadgets of every generation. Marianne (the elferina) and Roland, her male counterpart, even share a blog. 'Night Tales' they call it. It's posted in an old Walloon dialect, but similar enough to French. People translate it. Are there mistakes? Of course. Who cares? It's all in the sound. It's all in the rhythm.

I have come to hate people... which does not mean I don't also love them. I see their potential. They just fall so short. I patrol the city. Vampires, at least the decent ones, are night watchmen. We 'clean up' and leave the place secure. People purposely stuff the toilets in fast food joints. I stop in for hot tea. I know. I see. They laugh. They cackle. They think it's funny. Some commit acts of petty vandalism all over town. Well, I commit acts of petty vandalism on them. Do I kill them? No, not the vandals. They are too petty for that. But a 'fuck' finger bent backwards and broken over the back of a hand provides a certain lesson. Sometimes I do both 'fuck' fingers. They shriek and scream like children. I go - OK, ok, here is five thousand dollars. Go have it fixed. But I make sure to smile, show the sharp, little cunning fangs and take a tiny drink. That scares them even more. Their friends tear down the street, knees and elbows flying, as soon as I show up. All for one and one for all doesn't hold up much in the real world...

Ah, the streets are rich with prey. The holidays brings them out. I wonder if some of them are even aware the whole thing has a spiritual component.  Actually, I do not wonder. I know.

I stroll down to South Street, block after block of restaurants, trendy bars, boutiques, dance clubs and (how you say it?) ha - ha places... clubs where they make funny. All with 'bee lights'... tiny 'bee lights'.... a symbol of the holiday season in this era. I wait on a little bench hidden in the shadows of a tiny, park-like space. Twenty and thirty-somethings race by, laughing with their friends. All a bit tipsy. Three 'toughs' loiter in the recessed doorway of a house ware shop across the street, watching with hungry, envious eyes. Like wolves they are, searching for one a bit less 'masculine,' or how they perceive that quality. A singular victim is best, especially when there are three of them. I quickly pass through their minds. Such basic, violent things. One sucks a beer... Ah, but they are friends of The Lord. Their religious jewelry attests to that. They blinded a young man in one eye and he still has trouble speaking due to a cerebral injury. I find the memory of it within the skull of the wiry one to the right. They play. They simply play too much. That is all it is.... So say their friends and cousins.... But, you see, they also play too much....An addiction to 'play' is endemic in certain districts. A few are serving time for it.

Let me see how playful they can be.... I stand up, leave the shadows, cross over and make eye contact with the leader, always with the leader. Then I feign interest in his form... a glance here... a glance there. He remains motionless, but does not look away. I answer with a barely perceptible nod, sniff and make my way down a narrow, little side street. The old parts of Philadelphia have no shortage of such thoroughfares. The 'Sharks' rise up and follow. I hear the beer bottle smash upon the pavement... I turn. There's not much light here, but more than enough for me. They stand there. I hear mumbled insults. It's like a script... Well, I know my part... How easy it is to fake fear... The leader hauls back and lands one right on the jaw... A lesser 'mark' would have crumpled right then and there, but I don't move. It takes a lot to best a vampire.... I smile. They see the fangs. I don't know if there was enough light for that, or if I radiate it. Some things are still a mystery, but flashing the fangs... ooh, it's so much fun! Do I do it too much?

He flinched. Before he could turn and run, I was off and in less than a heartbeat had 'sublimated' right through his body. When I pass through solid walls... bricks or stone... it doesn't matter, I come out the other side, yet the wall remains. Living flesh, including the skeleton, is something else. The energized atoms and molecules of my body shred the living tissue like a knife. But you know that. It's a 'thing' with us.. A moment later the erstwhile 'Riff' rained down on the asphalt like warm, fatty soup... even the bones and eyeballs. Before the other two could disappear back to their grandmoms' basements (they all live in their grandmoms' basements) one lost two thirds of a leg  and the other an arm and a little bit of a shoulder... All clothing made from natural materials shreds to fibers and blows away. Synthetic fabrics remain whole and intact, though completely gummed up with the resulting viscous residue. Blends are just a holy mess. Imagine explaining that scene to the cops. Metal survives, but melts...Ooh, rats swarmed out to finish the other two. Oozing human fluids are quite the rodent attractant. Mixed with the right poisons it will (someday) make somebody rich.... that is if they arrange for a good supply of human body fluids. Planning is everything.

Ah, The Holidays.... Fun and games for all... Santa may or may not know if you've been good or bad... but I do...

Now let me get my tea....

(With that our trim, dapper vampirino walks off. After a few steps we see a pulse move through his body vaporizing any bits of filth. His wavy black hair is clean and glossy. His black jeans and black fitted leather jacket are too. And the trim black leather bootkins?... Really, do you have to ask?)

<hasta la proxima, as our scion of Old Al Andalus would say>

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Monday, November 20, 2017

THE VAMPIRE JONATHON SPEAKS ON SOCIETY -The Trial / Le proc├Ęs: Franz Kafka (Orson Welles / 1962) HD


Jonathon speaks ~

Vampires remember so much. I saw barges filled with screaming and praying French Protestants towed out to the center of the Seine and purposely sunk. Few knew how to swim in those days. Boys might splash around near the river banks, but they sometimes drowned too. Families cried, but that was it. Eight children per hovel was the norm. They'd soon be replaced. What you call cruel, history calls normal. Such was life five hundred years ago. The Reformation changed nothing.

And you are still like that today. Everyone cries - FREEDOM! JUSTICE! EQUALITY!... but ask for some and see what you get. I watch the scandals on TV. This one abused that one. So and so attacks children. That one is a boor. It's all of a piece. Society does not care. And 'society' is you.

We endure something similar here at the townhouse. Billy worries about this blog. He used to post almost every day and a few weeks ago expected to go back to that pattern. But the rules of the game are hard and unjust. Not that we don't have many views. We do. Yet without some small favors from exalted individuals the real door remains closed.

Quiet, polite souls wait for chances and chances never come.  In many instances they are not earned. They are dispensed. Every industry is guilty. Favors are saved for 'important people,' or the off spring of important people... or their human sex toys. I see it on the television. Hopeful young talents meekly tap on the door, begging to be seen... And they are told - We will toss a few coins your way... in return for some diversion. You know, tits for tat... Some give in and sneak inside. Others play along and are ruined. A few run and are ignored.

Billy asks for microscopic little nods from names you all see on line. Maybe just a retweet, or a mention, but they never come... even from they who beg such as him for retweets and mentions for their projects. No, wait. They do not beg. They announce. Their name is enough. The support is automatic. I feel bad for him. Billy, I mean.  He thinks we night-folk hunger for fame, but he does. I could walk into ANY media outlet and they'd put me on the air right away. Perhaps they'd shoot some video first, but I'd be seen. Remember the success Marianne, our own special elferina had with her subscription series? My God, every Society Hill dowager with her flat, Ana Wintour hair cut, coughed up ten thousand dollars so that they and their liver spotted husbands might plant themselves on early twentieth century Queen Anne reproductions in Mrs. Gottrocks salon and hear her tale.... Google Marianne In Britches by Billy Kravitz (we let him take credit for everything, another Shakespeare, so to speak) if you're unfamiliar with that. You'll find a way in..... Everybody wats to find a way in. Such is life... or such it will be, until you all change it.

Kafka got it right.... The universe does not care. God might, but everything else doesn't.

Now permit me to take my leave. The dawn comes up and I must retire. Billy will stop typing and fall asleep. He knows not it is I who manipulate his hands.... The epistle will go forth... I hope you read it and maybe pass it on.

signed ~

Tomas de Macabea, or Jonathon ben Macabi.....

What do I care?

<endure your day... more to come>

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Thursday, November 9, 2017

This is where the Elferinos often shelter 11/8/17 - -Old Laurel Hill Cemetery in Philadelphia- Haunted ????!!!


The vampirino known as Jonathon speaks ~

Many think ghosts frequent graveyards. Well, they don't. Oh, a few come by every now and then to inhale the perfume of their spiritual remains. But the flesh goes quick and the bones not long after. It's true. I've watched from the midnight shadows as bodies were exhumed. Families move graves for various reasons. Maybe they want all the aunts and uncles to be together. There are many circumstances. Sometimes strangers dig up old forgotten resting places to make way for buildings. But when they get down to the proper depth there's often nothing there. If they sift through the soil there might  be a small, shard of bone, or perhaps a tooth, but maybe not. After forty years little is left. Wooden caskets go fast. Even metal ones rust and crumble. It's not that the bodies and their shelters are destroyed. They are just taken back and repurposed.

This 'raising of the dead' happens at night, lest some quiet, somber visitor might see it. So what they do when there's nothing left is careful lift out a measure of soil equal to the dimensions of a coffin, from the place where that coffin would have been. Then they pack in into a box and take it to the new 'eternal' resting spot for reburial. They fill in the dirt and great grand  uncle moves in among the rest of the family, at least in a more or less physical form. Spirits never come back to see that. You see, our spiritual essence, our soul, does not see itself as a nebulous, bodiless thing. They have a new body. They have a spirit body and they're already united with more people than you can imagine.

But I came to the old lanes of Laurel Hill that night to be with the elferinos and elferinas, the young pubescent humans brought over into our world when they were just a few years younger than I was when it happened to me. In case you don't know, or have forgotten, I was eighteen. These enchanted beings were maybe twelve, or thirteen, or fourteen... a few might have been fourteen, or fifteen, or sixteen, but not this group.

I need their company from time to time. They have so much energy and so much enthusiasm. Such wide eyed gamin creatures they are..... Marianne, Roland, Albion and Celeste.... They rest in many places, but a certain neo-classical private mausoleum on a narrow winding footpath, deep within the trees is their favorite place. The heavy, old, verdigris door never opens. They just sublimate through the concrete, faux stone walls.... And everything runs on batteries... the small, hand held video games, their old cell phones (there's a pile of them), plus an assortment of other gadgets too. When night-folk sublimate we can take inanimate and animate (like mortals) things through with us, if our auras are strong enough and if we hold them tight against our bodies. I think their auras enable the digital devices to pick up signals through the thick walls. God knows if Laurel Hill has WiFi. Perhaps visitors stay on their devices when communing with Great Grandmother Helene, or Uncle Gus? Maybe they all expect calls?

I sit there, leaning against the wall. Blankets and quilts are all about... weak gray-white light from camp lanterns made to look like small lamps banish a bit of darkness. They communicate telepathically. The small space fairly hums. They lie on the quilts, knees bent, legs crossed in the air, rapidly talking to digital friends who are completely oblivious to their true natures... Look, do you know who you talk to, especially during the wee hours?... Even I once spent night after night debating philosophy with a gentleman who turned out to be a successful hit man.. How'd I find out?... I had a 'vision' (you know that's how my type of vampire identify our victims) and when I got there, the voice and the speech rhythms gave him away. I never spoke. He never knew. His thirty four thousand dollar watch and equally price man's diamond ring went right into our coffers. Oh, there was four thousand dollars in his wallet. We got that two. Needless to say, responsible, long established vampires rarely fall short of funds. But my 'familiars' in finance take care of that. And long time friends know how often we recycle. Many a struggling soul desperate for help gets it from us.

Before dawn I'll zip across the rooftops with my eternally juvenile friends... And when I'm with them, I feel that way too. I need that. It's time for a new adventure and they energize me....

Jonathon ben Macabi a.k.a. Tomas de Macabea , or visa versa, is back..... And I am not old... Eighteen years forever... Who wouldn't want that?

<more next time and hopefully back to our very frequent postings>

click MIDNIGHT CAFE ... to browse many episodes of Vampire Wonderland.
click WHO'S THAT CALLING? ... to join me on Twitter.

please comment?
thank you.