Tuesday, December 11, 2018

THE HARMONICS of HEAVEN shaped the Earth ..Epic Chinese Battle Music - Sun Tzu





This one has no knowledge of those times, or even if time, itself, had any meaning then. This one only brings you the words of Immortal Entities I assume to be Gods... Their names are my inventions. The First One, I call 'Hero' for he ( I also assume their gender) speaks with assurance and authority. I feel deep vibrations when he talks. I see all manner of illuminations. The microbial souls of worthy mortals, both dead and not yet born, flow through the ether like impatient floaters in the eyes of aged scribes.



And when Hero first spoke those long ago words the harmonics of Heaven  reverberated against the heavy 'nothingness' of the void creating solid matter. It that way everything came to be. He was not the only one to speak, thus we have all manner of things... water... air.... bones... sand... fire...the seas within the womb and the seas without.... plus very many varieties of precious jade. This one could go on, but shall refrain from doing so.



After a random number of aeons Earth came to be. Initially the land was home to very many surprising and colorful beasts, the seas even more so... all ruled by clans and tribes of  powerful, intelligent dragons.... After time beyond measure the dragon-folk gathered wealth that was also beyond measure and wearied from life on the surface of the Earth-Orb preferring to fly off to other orbs for in these early ages air filled the firmament out to the utmost frontiers of the empire of your Sun-Star...

When the Dragon-folk left the remaining surprising and colorful beasts were perplexed. Who would eat their excess children, or trample noise makers? Who would maintain the invisible barriers? Who would reward collaborators and pluck the brains from colorful beasts too smart for their own good? Chaos can be frightening. Potatoes must be mashed after all. Then the beasts known as humans stepped forth saying --- Behold our nimble fingers. Listen to our glittering speech. Allow us to help you....... And the bewildered creatures agreed..

Thus the age of Man was born, incorporating all manner of Dragon things as well as other additional measures. The nimble fingers fashioned weapons. The cunning minds made rules. Some of the other surprising and colorful beasts attempted to fly off to other worlds, but the ether had changed. The air so very necessary to life no longer filled the space between them. Each orb hung suspended in it's own thin veneer of gaseous protection. A Heavenly Vibration swept the rest away. The worlds became discreet and separate places so that none might infect others with sickness of the spirit in addition  to sickness of the flesh... Soon after Man invented war. Hate came next. Oh, it was always there in the shadows, but now it was self-proud and dressed for battle.

Hero (the First One) said - Let us cull the ranks of men, removing every blighted soul.... and the human mutation you call 'vampires' or night-folk appeared.. .. For a time all went well. Evil strong men were no more. War and hate and capricious death became rare. But Man and especially the Rulers of Men will not be denied. Their spies stole night-folk secrets and turned weak vessels to their own devices... Princes flattered, or threatened, vampires. They studied their ways and wrote the information down. Early versions of the venerable tome those of you who regularly visit this site know as La Ciencia Vampirismo appeared.

Were there still 'noble' night-folk who attempted to cull the wicked?.... Yes, but they became a remnant. ... Warlords kept powerful 'noxious' types as cosseted pets and discovered many enchanted secrets, like how to 'breed' refined examples of life-eaters and fashion special weapons for particular deeds.

Browse through the 'One Million Words,' for that's how much they share here. I'm sure the 'Billy' person who helps facilitate this miraculous souffle will include a key, or 'link' down below.

Please permit this coherent entity, none but a disembodied spirit, time to rest and float through worlds no mortal can know,

Tomorrow we explore how elferinos and elferinas came to be... Join us and 'know.'
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Tuesday, November 20, 2018

♥ Rachmaninoff's "Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini" a Vampire Remembers Nazis and Stuff 11/19/18



There was a special concert on a cold night in December, in the year most people call 1934. Rachmaninoff played his own miraculous score on the piano, accompanied by the legendary Philadelphia Orchestra, led by that most esteemed conductor, Leopold Stokowski. I occupied my usual spot. Noble vampires need music. I myself play the oud, a classical grandfather to the Spanish Guitar. Not that I like to brag, but a certain composition of mine, penned when I was fifteen years old and a favorite in the Court of Baghdad... well, but that happened approximately two hundred and fifty years after my so called mortal 'death.'

I remember the dark red upholstery of the box... more like a maroon, actually, trimmed in gilt... the velvet draperies... the tiny sconces made to resemble gas light... a sumptuous jewel box filled with three thousand souls. Your enchanted friend was alone then. Your Jonathon also known as Tomas had not yet found his Sarah. She wasn't even born in nineteen thirty four. Remember, that was seventy six years before I'd even discovered her. So I put on my white tie and tails, called for my car and went. Sometimes I invited guests to joint me, a trusted 'familiar' (human assistants and helpers) and his partner perhaps, however that night, I was alone. It was my time to feed. Guests only complicate things.

After the rare and singular performance I retrieved my coat and scarf, put on my top hat, my white kid gloves and strolled out from Philadelphia's grand Academy of Music onto the wide Avenue of the Arts... Most would have assumed I was going to a post concert supper at the nearby Bellevue Stratford Hotel... the usual oysters, champagne, lobster Newburg kind of thing. Even a clandestine vampire can drink iced vodka and socialize... Clandestine vampires can do many things.... I pass the august hostlery and turn down a narrow cobbled street, of which Philadelphia has many. Such byways used to be for stables and servants' quarters. In the nineteen thirties they featured little bars, tailor shops, reweaving establishments, working class cafes. For twelve months, since the National Socialists were democratically voted into office in Germany, a few American sympathizers had started banding together in certain bars. They wore brown shirts, just like over there. They drank boch beer and sang songs. Some were plain old American patriotic songs, others were in German. Not everyone understood the language, but they followed along phonetically. Speakers would get up and talk about stripping the Jews of all they had, down to the last penny. The listeners would nod. They talked about making it illegal for Jews to work, or run small businesses in America, kicking their children out of American schools, denying them treatment in American hospitals and rooting out the Jewish graves in 'good American soil. Then a 'plant' in the crowd would yell --- And what else?!..... The speaker would mime sticking his head in a noose and hanging himself.... Men banged their heavy, glass mugs on the tables.

How do I know? Well, let's just say vampire hearing is a wonderful thing. I first noticed all this one night while passing a sour smelling gin joint on Pig Alley... a tiny place with a glossy black door and one, blacked out multi paned window. Nothing identified it as a bar. There was a little wooden sign hanging out from the old bricks, just a plain panel, also black and glossy, save for a carefully painted, yellow line representation of a Celtic Cross. The place near the Academy had a similar identification.... I waited for the speech to end and watched from the shadows as the patrons left. Then the speaker came out, belched loudly, hitched up his trousers, sighed and headed left... No one else was around. The street was dark. I could have confronted him, made him talk, drawn him out... but I just lacked patience that night... So I fell in behind, slipped my left arm 'round his chest. My right, kid gloved hand went to his windpipe. In a heartbeat he was mine. He tried to yell, but a strong, sharp pinch to the throat stopped that. Then he tried to kick. So I sublimated up from the sidewalk and tilted forward. His legs hung straight down. I was safe and continued my rise. His heart pounded. He began to spit up warm, putrid beer. He mumbled -- No. No. What the hell are you?... I whispered--- Judgement. ... The eighteen sixties loft buildings on that street were seven stories tall, so I rose up to the ramparts and froze. We could see the fat round moon low over the rooftops through a break in the taller surrounding towers. The hate monger gasped... his last vision of the natural world. Then I just let go..... How his arms and legs windmilled till his skull exploded on the cold cobbles below..

Then I returned to the Earth and went on to my vampire meal.

That tale comes later....

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Monday, October 22, 2018

They were Both Children in the Tents of Abraham

Before I forget, please allow me to share these dreamlike memories of my mortal life.... It is I, Jonathon ben Macabi. Some know me as Tomas de Macabea. I grew up in a storied place. They write tales about it to this day.... A land of sophisticated cities with fountain cooled air and souks filled with the treasures of far off lands. Domesticated elephants from distant Hind led every procession and the leader, the old matriarch, born in Mumbai, gave rides to the children in the outer courts of our esteemed ruler. Sages from the academies of Sura and Pumphidepha taught sons of the faithful under the loggia of Toledo. Honeyed dates were as peanuts. Sweet songbirds serenaded all from fanciful cages hung by doorways and balconies. The perfume of aromatic coffee was everywhere, a brand new novelty from The Yemen and a most welcome intoxicant in a culture that forbade alcohol.

In a sense, this was a respite.... especially for Jews, who had less restrictions than resident Christians, for both we and the Muslims were children in the Tents of Abraham and both proclaimed 'The Unity.' Though perfect it was not. All 'infidels,' those with revealed nonconforming holy books where dhimmis, protected souls 'in error.' We paid extra taxes, could be rebuked and reviled in the streets and theoretically barred from certain exalted positions, or providing legal testimony. The thing was, most princes ignored those possibilities most of the time... or at least much of the time, for they recognised our talents and used Jews and Christians (who might not have theoretically shared the Tents of Abraham, but did share more than three quarters of The Bible) to relieve them of the more tedious chores of governance. An uncle was vizier to a Taifa lord up north. My father owned ships that made the run to Fostat twice a year and although he never let on, one secret trip out beyond the Pillars of Hercules to legendary islands filled with dogs in the endless Ocean-Sea, from whence came the spice chocolatl, brought to that place by shipwrecked mariners from the west. Perhaps they hailed from Atlantis?

I think of those times.... I do... And please don't laugh, but I often dream of using my special abilities to help bring peace to the Middle East. A vampire can do many things behind the scenes.... Hidden things... and with a much lighter touch than those graceless fools sent out by the House of Saud (so they say)... My way doesn't even leave a body. Regular readers know why...

Oh, why, oh why did I oh,

Oh, why did I leave Toe-LAY-do?

Anyone get the musical reference???.... Living in Philadelphia for over three hundred and thirty years one sees ALL the shows.

Forgive me this digression. But I'm sitting in the little library downstairs. The townhouse is quiet and rather dark. Edith (our housekeeper) occupies her perch by the the granite counter in the kitchen doing seek and find puzzles. Everyone else is out. It's just me and the little ghost of the boy who died in the cellar about sixty seven years ago. He likes this room too... Plays war games with the onyx chess set. I love that kid...

Now let me get out on the streets and 'cull' somebody....

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Buenos noches.


Tuesday, October 16, 2018

the music of Tom Odell woke our vampires up 10/15/18

No more lies. Not that's it all been lies, but for seven years I've sometimes pandered to what I imagined you'd want to hear. But that was a mistake. I am not a juvenile. I am not made for teen aged vampire angst. Jonathon (yo-na-TAHN) ben Macabi (ma-KAH-bi) is not fiction. Do you know that? Can you accept that?... 'Reality'... my friends, can be quite intoxicating...

For approximately one thousand years, I have sheltered in this 'eighteen' year old body, the pampered scion of an old Spanish family going back to The Caliphate of Cordoba. But those as yet unfamiliar with my 'nativity' can always click on http://feedreader.com/observe/vampirewonderland.blogspot.com ... scroll back to the beginning (August 9th, 2010... I think it was) when one of my esteemed 'familiars' started to transcribe this wandering account right here...

Autumn is a special season for 'life eaters.' Our humors quicken. The chill suits us, for it matches the extreme coolness of our skin... and the increased darkness... well, what's not to like about that?... Life, for those you call 'vampires' slows down. Can you imagine what high summer is like for us? Only eight hours of true darkness and the heat rising from the streets... from the buildings... from the cities... Granted, mortal odors entice us, but the unending, animal stink sickens all but the most feral of our breed. I can tell you what it was like in the past, but you wouldn't believe me. Fecal contamination was everywhere. Bathing, among certain faith communities was seen as a heretical conceit. Please know I speak of more remote (to you, anyway) eras, yet even the nineteenth century and a good bit of the twentieth, if we're going to be truthful. left a lot to be desired.... The twenty-first (stares into camera)... permit me to demure...

So I array myself in my 'uniform.' ... the black jeans, trim leather bootkins, black dress shirt and close fitting quilted leather jacket.... all available at MACY'S, by the way. I get a cut. Not that I need the money... not after centuries of quietly snatching rings and purses from my unsavory victims, along with collectible knick knacks and all... but I do crave the notoriety. Look, by this point I imagined at least an edgy cable series based on my life. But it's all who you know and who does a finely drawn, well put together, Spanish-Sephardic aristocrat with dramatic wavy hair know in L.A.?... If they only knew what they've ignored.

I retell much of this every two years, for new comers basically. There's supposed to be a 'page two' on this blog. I don't know what's on it... even Billy's forgotten.... Memo to self ---- Put a basic synopsis and Vampire Wonderland facts sheet on page two... Till then, if anyone has any questions, please contact Billy on Twitter. That's where he sits. Click Questions For Billy ... He'll be so pleased....

With that, the vampire known as Jonathon ben Macabi finger combs his romantic locks, checks his image in the mirror above the long commode table in the townhouse's  black and white marble floored entrance hall, steps out onto the Society Hill street and disappears into the night...

And check out Tom Odell's evocative music that got through to Jonathon in the first place on Youtube...

Thank you.

Tuesday, September 18, 2018

A Vampire Under The Blood Lust ... 9/18/18

Baylah sent people to look for me. Edith, my housekeeper, called her. She left her mortal 'boyfriend' and sublimated in from the seashore... That's how important she thought this was.... That one likes human comfort. A ride in the plush, leather womb of a Bentley is more her style. Indeed, we called her apartment atop that piano bar of hers 'the jewel box.'... Sarah, my oh so independent consort, loves that place. She goes there. They talk... But that was before. Now my heart races and I don't care what they talk about. Words mean nothing to me. Time means nothing... Present tense, past tense... It's all an illusion. Night-folk know that. Some pretend. They fit in. Some know they're pretending. Others don't. Now I know how 'Papa' feels. Age renders everything pointless. It's not as if we face death. There are no deadlines in our world. That is where I am now. I kill mortals because they are mortal. How short their lives are. What difference does it make when they die?... I pass an old 'trinity' row house on a narrow street. They're called 'trinities' since they have one room per floor... a kitchen of sorts... a sitting room and a bedroom. The good ones had a hand pump in the kitchen. The bad ones had a four handled community pump in the alley.... A family named Glaston lived there. This was after The War of 1812. I 'culled' the father. He was a rough sort. Part of a gang. A cutthroat. Used an old straight razor. All they had back then. Some used knives. He didn't. Those familiar with my life know I almost always 'culled' only the wicked. ... Not now. Believe me it's hard to control my passions and talk to you. The blood lust is unimaginable. Don't ask me how I get these words out. Just know young people with cunning little laptop-like tablets are plentiful, in coffee shops, I mean... I go in. I nod. Sit down. We talk. I beguile them. They follow me and I use them. My current 'typist' is a grad student who shall never graduate. His eyes are blank. His jaw hangs slack. We're in an old small, private mausoleum in Laurel Hill, the dark, leafy, mossy necropolis northwest of Center City. The elferinos and elferinas know I'm here. They give me wide berth. Opening the heavy bronze door is beyond what mortals can do. But a vampire applies constant steady pressure. Our bodies rarely tire. The effort never stops till the task is done. Thus the door gives way. We enter. He retches. I kick the moldering ancient coffins and the dried husks within off to the side. Moonlight through a mausoleum door can be so atmospheric. I have a small packet... a tiny envelope... some cheap street nostrum the cattle use to dull the pain of being cattle. I open it, lick two fingers and dip them inside. Then I grab the young man, force my fingers through his teeth and whisper 'swallow.'... He does. I say record my words. He sits down among the dust and dry brittle bone bits, opens his device and makes ready. I turn on a few battery powered candles. I keep them in my usual haunts. The stink of real flames in confined spaces offends me. I put two down by his small keyboard. The screen gives off its own ghostly light. I close the door. I speak. He begins to tap the tough sensitive keys.

What was I telling you?... Oh, yes... how I killed the senior Glaston bastard. He patrolled the border regions south of Chester. Not all the time, but perhaps five nights each month, around the new moon, when slaves tried to reach the north. Trussed them up like pigs, he did, when he caught them. He and his gang, I mean. Then he transported  the sad cargo to the nearest southern town. Sheriff only too glad to lock them up. Slavers only too glad to buy them. Made no difference if the real master got them back. Somebody'd get them... and they'd go right on slaving.  This was before telegraph lines and all that. Communication was difficult.  How I relished his death... A generation later I took another Glaston, a son or nephew. Who cares? They were all shit. Human generations fly by so fast. Maybe not to you, but vampires think so.

Now I'm going to kill the typist..... (he stops momentarily... I chuckle and muss his hair.... he exhales and resumes tapping away... but I kill him, just the same...)

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Thursday, September 13, 2018

THE VAMPIRE JONATHON STUDIES HIS REFLECTION FOR HOURS 9/13/18

THE VAMPIRE JONATHON SPEAKS ---

It's like a drug. I have no control over things.  Once, I was about to kill some nameless girl behind a dumpster on Sansom Street, a narrow, old street in Center City. She seemed cheap and flaccid and hopeless. Now I tell myself they're all cheap and flaccid and hopeless... the males... the females... What difference does it make. But she started to scream a lot and her teeth were so yellow and grungy, I just had to stop it... so I grabbed her skull between my hands, like Rhett did to Scarlet in that movie and crushed it. Three heartbeats and she was gone... just like a pinata. Her mouth looked like it was trying to chew. But everything above the upper teeth was destroyed.... I wiped the brains off my hands on her skirt.... Soon the vermin found her. I suppose she was better than what was in that dumpster. Then I sublimated into a first floor apartment to clean up. Somebody was sleeping in the bed, or pretending to sleep. I know they heard me running the water in the bathroom. I know they heard me moving around. The place was all dark. I don't need any light. Everything I've described so far happened in the dark... Well, dark to you... Whoever was in that bed was terrified. That, I could sense. They wanted to run, but couldn't. Trembling so hard the headboard vibrated against the wall.... I went into the bedroom, spread myself over them and drank. The blood was so hot, almost effervescent. God knows what they thought. I left before the body began to ignite.... It was odd. Usually I absorb so much about my victims, but that night nothing.... Just a fast, hot meal. I hate nights like that.

Then I walked through the predawn city to a little hidey hole I had in an old stone cellar beneath a shuttered loft building. I suppose the developers hadn't gotten around to it yet. Feral cats shared the space.  They watched from a distance, as I locked myself into a World War One era toilet and curled up on the cold floor. I like cats. They understand the dark. Most dawns I drift off right away. But that time I just lay there, studying my reflection in the cracked, narrow full length mirror on the door.... A few of the more confident cats came close and sniffed the other side of the door.

That's how I hid from the sun. I never slept. Not anymore. Don't ask what changed me. I could tell you stories, but I don't really know. At first I wanted to go back to the townhouse. Life was civilized there. Then I didn't care about civilization... and the townhouse plus the souls in it drifted farther and farther away.

Even the ghouls despised me.

I was numb, addicted to the blood... like an animal...

<more tomorrow>

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Tuesday, September 11, 2018

Jonathon Goes Rogue ... exploration of a Netflix series #vampirewonderland 'episode' 9/11/18

OK, here's the image... a long dark, narrow dormitory lined with cramped metal cots.... maybe six to a side.... What's left of the dingy crumpled blankets on each (and whoever was in them) burns with discrete blue flames..... Someone stands in the far doorway.... It's me, Jonathon... I just 'evicted' a dozen, old homeless bastards from the third floor room of The Arch Street Shelter, Philadelphia's oldest house of succor and refuge... After the third one, I really couldn't ingest all the blood, but I drained them anyway. The red elixir ran down my chin and lacquered the old wood floor.... But they were dead, thus the 'cold' blue fire..... I'm quiet. They slept right through it..... The staff will go berserk. Twelve cases of 'spontaneous human combustion' in one night has got to arouse suspicion....  What can I say?..... Whoops.

Fallen vampires fall hard.... and I still haven't hit the ground.

The others scattered. They want no parts of me. Our band was 'noble,' culling the wicked... preserving the worthy and all that... Eh... What can I say?... Things change... You know how it is.... One night I just snapped.... Some poor, hard working woman in a bus shelter eyed the emerald, art deco dinner ring I'd just slipped on her hand. She quietly asked - For me?... I nodded.... She stared at the glittering stone. as if hypnotised.... I said - You can sell it. It's worth a hundred and thirty five thousand... She gazed some more, then sighed and said - You couldn't have given me cash??? .... So I killed her, then carefully retrieved the Cartier bauble from the greasy residue ... Who the hell was she to lecture me?... That's how it started...

Edith, my Jersey Pines witchy-woman housekeeper, sensed something later that night when I returned.... She said - Where's my Seek and Find word puzzle book?... Still on the magazine display at CVS, you poxy cow! - I snapped... But she just gave me a strange, hurt look as I retreated up to my snug, dark, sleeping cabinet.... My consort, Sarah, sniffed as I settled into the umpteen thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and rose petals (specially sent out to us by 'familiars' in certain remote Balkan valleys).. Did she smell all the blood on me?.... O course.... But that one is a subtle vampirina and we'd talk later...

The indiscriminate slaughter continued. Local 'familiars' embedded in various civic bureaus and organizations (such as the police force), who ran interference for us, began to tentatively question me.... so I dismembered one and distributed his body parts to the others (via Fed X, I think). So much for the questions..... Financial familiars stopped embezzling too (most vampires let them get a little taste) but that was only an ancillary effect.

Those in Philadelphia who knew the truth about our town's night-folk presence shored up their defenses. Many built lead lined sleeping chambers. Vampires can't sublimate through lead..... but we can sublimate through inlaid, walnut, hardwood floors... It's amazing how many influential burghers forgot about that..... Whoo! I'd spiral up at the foot of the bed, make Marley's Ghost noises and finish them off while they were still pissing the mattress.

Lately, my favorite thing is plucking wee hour solitary subway riders from amongst the living, as that loud, rumbling and screeching conveyance rattles obliviously along... How threatening I look in the flickering, dead gray light.

Do I sleep 'home' most days?.... No.... I attend to security too and have 'dead boxes' in dark hidden corners.... Sarah, Conrad, little Annie, sometimes Baylah and even 'Papa' still gather in the townhouse inhaling the aroma of their much loved scented candles..... I don't molest them.... That's how I am.... After all, I still believe in God... And that makes it all so very painful......

But I can handle that.....

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