Sunday, May 5, 2013


This time, you hear from me. I am back. wilkravitz is unable to function tonight, so I will tell the tale. These words come from Jonathon ben Macabi, also known to you as Tomas de Macabea. The old man is dead. Right now,top executives have already begun maneuvering just like Alexander's generals. Just like they did when Howard Hughes died. But I don't care. 

It's quiet now. The other night-folk are already cloistered within their chambers. Dawn comes early this time of year. I don't like that. Next month will be even worse. Annie isn't sleeping. I can hear her. She's watching television... an old, black and white version of Little Shop of Horrors.... the story of a nagging, blood drinking plant. Vampire vegetables... imagine that.... The rest of them are quiet. I'll go in and join Sarah soon too. I suppose most of you know we do not, nor have we ever, slept in coffins, just small, cozy, easily sealed off bedrooms. Though I have used excavated cavelets in cellars from time to time, but only when they had earthen floors. Even then, I slumbered on a thick 'mattress' of rose petals. Loyal 'familiars' made sure they were fresh. Sarah knows.

Edith will be up soon. She's on day-watch. I don't know when she sleeps. She naps a lot. I know that. Soon she'll go back to her home in the Jersey, Pine Barrens. Odd to think such dense woods exist so close to Philadelphia and New York, but they do.Jersey Devil run through the trees as I speak. Actually, they're really quite docile... a little skittish, but that's the equine blood. 

Tomorrow night I'll go back to that place under the big bank building on The Avenue of The Arts. I'll contact some of my devotees telepathically. They're mortals, but they understand. 

The candle smells good. Not green apple. I think this one's different. Wait a minute, let me look under the base. 'Ocean Breeze,' it's called. I must tell Edith to get more. I hate when she visits her people. I understand it, but I don't like it. Sometimes we hide in the pines too. Peaceful... I like the 'Pineys.'I like the old songs...the pow-wow magic... and the ghosts. The magic doesn't come from the Indians, well, not all of it anyway. That's just a term they use.

You know. I may not be able to change the world. I don't know. There will always be men and women like Tobias Maxwell.... and creatures like Johnny Jump Up. But that doesn't mean I won't try. It's four o'clock. The sky is black, but birds already sing. Don't they like the night? 

I know songs...old madrigals, from my early days in Al-Andaluz. Some nights I play my guitar. Used to have an oud, but that was long ago.

Look at 'Papa.' Right back into that catatonic state. What does he see in there? I try to penetrate. sometimes I manage to break through. But only sometimes. Soon he'll shuffle off to his room, if he doesn't silently sublimate through the ceiling.

The world is more aware of us now. I suppose that's my doing. There've been articles and little shows on You Tube. There's always been 'little stories.' The government, or certain secretive puppet masters, say it's a hoax, or mass hysteria.. But what would you expect. 

Now, let me close up and go to sleep...
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