Tuesday, October 23, 2012


Sometimes I wake during the day and write in my journal. I back into one of the corners of our cellar crypt, snap on a little nine volt, L.E.D. flashlight and scribble away. Sarah still slumbers, curled among the rose petals. 

My words go into a simple black and white, cardboard covered 'composition' book. Edith gets them from the dollar store. My best words are transcribed onto the vellum pages of the leather bound volumes I get from an artisan in Valencia. He, or rather his family, has supplied me for centuries.

Can you imagine what that is like?.... 'Centuries.'....... Everything comes in waves. Few things truly change. We confront those who would destroy us. We triumph, or perish. Thanks be to God that I and the others are still here.

I have heard of life-eaters who volunteer their services to colleges and universities.... A 'living' collection of documents and records. Such individuals dictate countless hours of stories and recollections..... History made tangible. 

They want me to do that at PENN. You know of my familiars who oversee the vast museum there? They ask me. They tempt me. La Familia ben Macabi Collection...... That's what they would call it. Few scholars would ever see or hear the actual recordings. They'd have access to the written transcripts. And even those would be altered. No first person accounts by an unnatural survivor. Magic is not for the masses.

Well, I'm considering it. People should know what it was like. They must remember the brutality, as well as the beauty. Do you realize many who were beheaded actually had the offending noggin lopped off with clubs? Execution axes were purposely kept dull to heighten the horror. Took seven or eight strikes  to finish most of them. Arms would fly out. Legs would twitch and kick. Shit all over the place. What does 'nature' think? If I make them crap, they'll live?

Speaking of 'crap,' I do miss horses. I miss the smell, the leather, the strength, the heat. We had a fine stable in Granada, from the same bloodlines as those of the Caliph, himself. Like Pegasus, they were. Do you know what it's like to race down a dry wadi on a deep, orange, Spanish afternoon? Please, no wonder they call motor cycles 'hogs.' 

I contemplate purchasing a horse farm in New Jersey. Do not believe the facile jokes told by shrill, limited comedians. Except for the region immediately adjacent to the city of New York, New Jersey is a beautiful place. Edith knows. That's why she runs back there so often. At one time the English made the same jokes about Shorditch. People are so like cattle...... Now I was long out of Spain before the rise of classical bull fighting. True, lithe, young dare-devils practiced a kind of bull-jumping, but the animal never died. And since most arena del toro  open only in the day, attendance by my breed is difficult, to say the least. As an ever-so-slightly lapsed believer, I am bound to tell you it's wrong. Mankind has dominion over the beasts in order to protect them... But tell that to the chicken who gives you 'nuggets' as well as eggs.

I like the chill of this hard, stone wall against my back. It relaxes me. Soon I will snuggle back into the rose petals and embrace my beloved. For although I take 'pleasure' in foreign orchards, the peaches of my beloved are sweetest by far...

(he takes the tiny, battery powered torch from between his teeth, snaps it off and stretches out..... we hear his beloved purr as he wraps her in his arms...)


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