Saturday, December 31, 2016

The ice dance *Edward Scissorhands* Inspires Vampire Wonderland .. 12/30/16

There's an old shuttered fast-food place on a little highway, a few miles west of the north-east extension of the Pennsylvania Turnpike. People used to take it to the Poconos, but no more. That's why the burger joint is a relic. Weeds and vines slowly devour the old, asphalt parking lot... Deer come by to nibble them. Sometimes errant Jersey Devils fly over, on their way to the even vaster forests of the Alleghenies. The site looks dead and it mostly is dead, except for a trickling bit of energy from a forgotten buried power line that quickens an ancient, walk-in freezer in the back. They say there're lots of ghost lines like that, especially since the advent of computers. They send out the bills, after all. Maybe they want it this way?

Sometimes I watch the place at night. I see things step out from the woods. Do they see me? I don't know. I am a ghost. I'm still me, just minus my body. Will I always be here? Can't tell. I guess when you're one with eternity a few decades spent in among the trees isn't so bad. I can talk to them, you know. They have souls. What you see as one tree is only a part. Think of each tree as a footstep... each seed-line as a being. All the oaks in a grove might be one soul. Two or three souls might be intertwined. And the souls themselves evolve, as they absorb genetic material from others. Life is everywhere, both physical and otherwise.

There are bodies in that freezer... a few whole ones... a few carefully butchered parts. The bodies are in more or less fetal positions... arms hugging knees... ankles tied... wrists tied... all shaved and exfoliated... eyeballs cleanly scooped out of the sockets. Whether that happened before or after death I don't know. Couldn't 'taste' any souls around them. Maybe they didn't want me to.

People fall into tight fetal positions when they freeze to death, especially when they're shaved, blind and naked. Hell, every middle school kid knows that. Well they dooo.... Oh, and the bodies were encased in a thick 'shell' of smooth ice. In some places it was clear. In other places it was cloudy. The butchered parts were in heavyweight plastic bags twisted shut with big, thick rubber bands. A lot of the hand and forearm combinations were manicured. I mean lady manicured, with fancy nail polish and all. No rings. Somebody must have swiped the rings, because, you know, these days they all got rings. One bag has a credit card and a toenail clipper. I can tell what they are, 'cause they're right up against the plastic. Please know that it's dark in there. No lights in the freezer. I sense all this with spirit vision. If I concentrate on a thing it becomes vivid, like shining a little l.e.d. flashlight from the dollar store. I know what those things are, because I've wandered through the turnpike rest stop on the big highway smelling egg and sausage patty sandwiches and pink, sugary bubblegum.

I asked the tree-souls if they saw who did the killing and in some cases butchering. They said they didn't know. I don't think they were interested. But they could go on for hours about who cut down the trees up on the hillsides and what different varieties of bird shit smell like.... squirrel shit and bug shit too.

The other human ghosts around here I can talk to. There's a dead carnie woman who got her throat slit by another carnie back in the nineteen forties. She's OK. And I know a camper who was mauled to death by a bear and some other guy who just died, 'cause he messed up on his meds, or something like that and a few others. You know how it is. We meet up every once in a while... float around a little... Passing through each other is a real intimacy. Not a sex thing. Just an intimacy. One likes ice cream, so we pass through this premium ice cream plant up north of here. You may have eaten some flavors we've swam through. I'm told my 'essence' ethereal as it is, leaves a trace of Cantonese ginger. Although I myself have no idea what that fragrance is like.

Most days and nights the old burger joint sits quiet and forgotten. Orange, autumn sunlight filters through the trees.... Moonlight gilds the snow. A rabbit pads by.... a coywolf. There's little, if any, automobile traffic. Some places simply 'disappear.' But one soul knows it's here. The thing that brings the bodies knows.

He shambles through the brush. Does he carry them for miles?... How could we ever tell? The tree-souls might be willfully oblivious. Let them ruminate on bird shit and the scent of carbon-dioxide in the air. I think they're a bunch of communists.

But I saw him. I saw the beast, hunched like an ape, silently making his way one midnight, or perhaps it was three or four hours passed that time. He had a companion, a bound and gagged individual, thrown over his shoulder like a slaughtered, or about to be slaughtered animal. The eyes were opened wide, the head already shaved and naked in the weak, silvery darkness. How hopeless and forlorn.... Did I just say 'forlorn?' It's just that I can't help it. The magic of my 'situation' seeps in and takes me to another place. Soon I'll forget my mortal life and drift through shadows like a wraith. Believe me, I don't look forward to it. Maybe I'll pass to a loftier plane long before?

The fiend had a key. He put his trembling burden down in the dirt and fiddled with the corroded lock on a metal door covered in chipped gray paint. The victim moaned. He impatiently turned, delivering a most unsympathetic kick to its stomach. I think it cried, lying there on the damp earth, wrapped in a worn painter's cloth, facing death, or something worse. Then the beast went back to his task. He opened the door and dragged the baggage in. Then he closed it... soundlessly and quick.

I passed through two layers of plywood and a plate glass window to join them.

The demon rummaged through the pockets of his loose, dusty coat... more a cloak than a fitted garment. He took out a short, fat candle and lit it, powdering all with a feeble glow.
Then he grinned, exposing a mouth filled with sharp, broken teeth, the rest of his face veiled by lank, filthy hair. The still living body on the floor did nothing.... Then, perhaps five heartbeats later the grin disappeared, as with a smooth, practiced flourish, the ghoulish figure snapped the old painter's cloth off the victim, revealing a form so emaciated, gender was irrelevant. The thing on the floor mewed like a kitten, as the refugee from a penny dreadful unsheathed an old straightedge razor, got down on the cold surface and proceeded to make quick, whip-like hash marks all over the meager flesh on its body. Blood oozed up till the red glazed sacrifice looked like nothing so much as a honey roasted Chinese suckling pig.

After wheezing with glee the fiend rose to its feet before the victim died and tarried by the door watching the rats stream out from an assortment of hidey-holes to start their candlelit feast.

<more next time>


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Sunday, December 25, 2016


Jonathon speaks -

On this night of spiritual power I just wanted to say some things. Is this the first time I've said them? No, but these things are fundamental to my nature and I think most readers ignore them.

I am a life-eater and I have never been an instrument of evil. Those I take, those I 'cull,' are marked for 'the taking.' I simply provide a means for them to exit this plane of existence and sin no more. Their blood does not sustain me. It is the faithful execution of my duties that sustains me. It is the taking of the unworthy life.

And I did not chose this burden, though I bear it in dignity. It is not my faith, but the test of my faith...In the past people seemed to understand this. 'Vampires' as many insist in calling us, were valued allies. In many instances, the wicked knew we were coming for them. They made choices. Many preferred 'le bon mort' to all other deaths. They wept. They prayed. I prayed with them and remember almost all of them.  They'd say - Take  my soul back with a kiss, Lord... believing themselves in some way patched onto Moses the Redeemer .... But they're not him and I'm not God.... Not the Shepherd, but the sheepdog.... That's what we say.

In later times, Europeans made a temporal, earthly kingdom out of faith. Every special thing, whether thought, or recorded scripture became a threat. Trembling boys from the universities were boiled alive in vats of pitch and sulfur for expressing views that have since become the hallmarks of humanity. So we were enemies, diabolical creatures meant to be crushed. I am not that and neither were my brethren.

Tonight, at this time of year, I walk the streets saving the despondent. Many are alone. Many are in pain. I do not kill. I preserve. A young mother and child, with none beside them, has an 'angelic' visitor. If that helps her accept the gift, so be it. They receive my kiss and the merest droplets of my blood saves them. Earthly ills vanish. Are they vampires? Of course not. Do you think I would do that? Before parting, I leave gifts... rare diamonds of great worth, plus the names of honest, reverent brokers who will buy them. It's easier than cash, although sometimes I give that as well. The quiet homeless man knows me... The hardworking soul trudging back from endless toil knows me.  Children in foster care know me. I especially like helping those nearing eighteen years of age. They feel so scared... so abandoned. Well, I let them know they are not.

Be 'the good friend.' You have the power. .... That's a redundant phrase. Everyone knows that. The thing is to act on it. We're all taught worthy things. Muslims hear their words. Christians hear theirs. Jews do too. Remember your 'words.' Let them become deeds.

We are all clean potential vessels for The Holy Presence. Let your souls ring like bells.

Look, I am Jonathon ben Macabi, also called Tomas de Macabea. I heard these words... the ones Moses said to the faithful after The Revelation at Sinai ... 'I have given you this day the Good Doctrine. Chose 'life' and live. Go and do Good Things'

Well, life is all about us.

Remember your 'words.' Go and make them live.

And one other thing before I take my leave. If, at times this tale dispenses blood and gore, please know that happens because many of you prefer it.
Strange as it may seem, I and those like me have learned to read 'stats.' We know what draws eyes and what doesn't.

Do I enjoy such episodes?... What do you think?

But I hope they keep you coming back to see such truths as this.

A joyous and meaningful Season of Miracles to us all.

And a heartwarming and spiritual Feast of The Nativity to everyone.

God is a verb...

<PEACE of the Season, till next time>


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Thursday, December 22, 2016

LONG NIGHT - A VAMPIRE CELEBRATION - 12/22/16 Full Song from A Funny Thing Happened: Comedy Tonight

And now, I tell you about Long Night, quite possibly the oldest, continuously celebrated 'holiday' in the world.... or in our part of the world. I'm sure denizens of the Night Wood in Patagonia, the Antipodes, or the old lands of The Zulu Empire, possibly the Maoris too dance a mean Stampanada on June twenty first. Our globe is but an exercise in opposites. One end 'north,' another 'south.' One side light, the other dark.

Well, this is our dark time. How the very physical particles of our bodies revel in it. I am Tomas de Macabeus, also known as Jonathon ben Macabi and I know. We all do. Little Annie capers about like a giggly, stringy haired spider, scampering up walls and skittering across ceilings. The wan, pubescent elferinas and elferinos drift through the streets and walls and mausoleums too.

I find others, vagabonds, from different shadows. They don't threaten us. It's Long Night, after all, a time for freedom and pixilated wonder. The bright, white heat of summer will be here soon enough.

The glass-like, icy cold, how it calms me. No garment sheathes my body, nor the bodies of any other Life-Eater. Our vampire flesh delights in each freezing caress. We resonate with a frequency undetectable to mortal eyes. We pass unseen among you, stopping only to cull the wicked as they sleep... a bad dream... a hungry incubus... a parched, dry succubus. How they purr as we lap them up... an easy death and quite undeserved. But their wickedness is gone. When they die, hallelujah, bye and bye, they'll fly away. Where to, is not our problem. Therein lies our purpose.

At other times, we dine but once each moon. On this night, rules are few.

We do mischief, flitting by those not foul enough for death, yet deserving of some troubling penalty. Snatch a heavy, golden wristlet. Pluck a diamond ear-bob, a fat wallet, or precision trophy watch. After centuries of such harvesting our casks are full. It's not leprechauns who have treasure. It's us.

The feast goes on... madmen and monsters... fools and mountebanks... heartless courtesans... poisoners and liars. Something for everyone. Such comedy tonight. Not all things 'funny' are clear and bright.

Little Annie, our sly child vampire, returns with an old Flintstones jelly glass filled with toes. She bites them off just before the 'finality'... just before death comes and spits them out, gristle, fat, moldy nails and all... There are dozens of such glasses on a little shelf in the cellar...all closed tight and sealed with wax. I suppose they are her treasures.

Now, please know that some 'cullings' are effortless. The bad folk slide into wherever it is they slide into. But every so often one fights. We're forced to persuade them. Ripping out livers works for me. You should see how surprised they look. Sometimes plucking an eyeball works. Sometimes it doesn't. You know how that is.

Then, with bellies filled we reconnoiter atop an urban tower, or in some small, unseen clearing in the park, to dance the Stampanada and howl. None can see. We're still invisible. Some mortals pick up the sound. They talk. They tell people. The press blames ghosts. Let them blame ghosts. Ghosts don't care.

But I  do care for our ghost. I do care for the nice, little boy, the polio victim in the townhouse. We all do...

Now excuse me. I have an appointment to eviscerate and destroy a rather evil, toothsome loan shark in the Northern Liberties ( a nineteenth century district hiding narrow, cobbled streets on the northern ramparts of Center City). He doesn't know, but I do.... Vampires are privy to so many things...

And I want to dance the Stampanada once more 'fore the dawn...

<more 'Long Night' accounts next time>


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God bless us EVERY one.


Monday, December 19, 2016

HOW JONATHON SAVED JEANETTE Simon & Garfunkel - Bridge Over Troubled Water (Audio)

Jonathon still speaks to us directly~

I might tell you of the minutiae ... of each little thing that happened. Vampires are like that. We have so much time to study and think. I know. They who follow this account understand. They've read the words and imagined these things. They've 'seen' me sit before paintings in dimly lit museums. They've seen me trace each brush stroke with my eyes and count dust motes on crisp, dry mummy skin. Some mummies 'talk.' I hear their words... the tiny scratching of scarabs upon the sand.

And now, of Jeanette...

She traveled with her newfound companion till they reached the hamlet where I found her. They spoke. He told her of his life in the south. That part of France is foreign territory to people in the north. French holdings along the Mediterranean are more akin to Italy's Piedmont and Spain's Catalonia than Picardy or Champagne or even Burgundy. Kings grab what they can. Culture means little. It always has. And the Jew she met lived not in those sun kissed lands but up by the Channel. Still, people value their memories, whether true or not..

Jeanette became Hannah, his kinswoman. He taught her a few Hebrew liturgical terms... the names of holidays... a prayer or too. Women, in the general population, were never expected to know as much as men. Jewish women were taught enough 'prayer book' Hebrew to follow the service. Maybe the head of a convent might be literate. Maybe not. Some dictated daily records to a male clerk sent over from their brother monastery, who in all likelihood tailored her words to suit his lord and father abbot. Too much distaff knowledge hinted at witchcraft. Everyone knew that.

Her benefactor, the money lender Avigdor, meant to find her a place with a group traveling south toward Paris. She could find work there at a market stall and maybe put enough by to start a stall of her own. Any place else, her best hope would be a drudge for some well-off burgers wife, or dying young....

'Dying young' was a glamorous resolution back then.

And it was dangerous for Avigdor to help her, for Jeanette was a Christian. Anything he did would be twisted the wrong way. Besides, the lord of that place owed him five pounds of English silver...

Now every year just after the final harvest, when root vegetables were dug up and the soil had its rest, they made a count. All souls were listed in a book. The church kept count for Trinatarians. Jews in the district were not permitted their own official record, but one of their number was charged with that duty. The tally was passed to the local landowner. But, please know, all Jews existed for the benefit of the crown, or some other august member of the royal family. Lesser nobles served merely as stewards. They may skim off some of the take from the peasants and serfs, but all tax moneys owed by Jews went directly to the king. Woe to the baron with an inaccurate tally.

In this woodsy holding north of Paris but south of the channel things were coming to a head. The lord had sticky fingers. The tally was due. Taxes must be paid. He'd find a way to make things right. So what if others 'suffered?'... So what... So what, indeed.

When the clerk came to count souls all were gathered in a little clearing... Christians to one side... Jews (when there were any) toward the other.... Avigdor prayed. He'd planned for Jeanette to be in Paris by then. He thought she'd be long gone. But she was still there, seated in the dirt, amongst the Jewish women, demure in her simple tunic and robe...

This holding was a small one... a few semi-free peasant families... eighty male serfs and their households... seventeen 'benighted' (as they were always termed) Jews and their dependents...That was it... And then the clerk came to the Jewish women.... Each gave her name, her age, her marital status, whether or not she had reached childbearing age, was in childbearing age, or had passed childbearing age. Things moved at a pace... till he came to the former Jeanette, now known as Hannah.

Avigdor tried to hear, but he sat too far away. Jeanette's back was to him, though he could see the clerk's eyes. The sly, little man took down everything. Then he gave poor Jeanette an incredulous look. She trembled. Avigdor saw her shoulders shake.

Three nights later he was dead, bludgeoned and burned, along with all others in his household... but Jeanette, or Hannah (whatever name the clerk put down) wasn't among them. They slaughtered the entire community. No Jews were left. All debts owed Avigdor or certain lesser personages were cancelled as were the lives of even the little children thrown down the well.

The lord was pleased. He kept his five pounds of silver. Look, not only were all debts cancelled, all records were destroyed. Plus the land formerly occupied by the Jews was now free for crops... Later on, when things settled down, he could lure in other Jews. How would they know about the massacre? Just let the king have one of his fits and (temporarily) banish them from Paris. They'd be begging for any putrid, mud hole they could find. That's the beauty about 'milking' Jews. What other choice do they have?

But Avigdor was the ranking money lender in these parts. He didn't live in a cottage. He had the 'Jew's House,' a stout, stone edifice with thick walls, no first floor windows and only small slit openings upstairs... a secure place to keep precious metals.  At one time that was the fortress around here, till they put up the castle and that was still a work in progress.

Now they dug there day and night. All that silver had to be somewhere. They didn't throw it in the well with the babies, after all...

Were they afraid Jeanette would run off? Well, she'd done it once before. That came out real fast. Sometimes all that's necessary is to show the intended victim the instruments of torture. Show and tell. Show and tell. You show. They tell.

Know how they kept her from running? Made her wear a chastity belt... a heavy duty, tortuous  chastity belt. Even a blacksmith would have trouble cutting through such tempered steel. Plus there was an engraving along the waistband ---- Kindly return the loathsome device and wearer to the castle in question and collect twenty silver pennies. Nobody wants to die locked in like that.

So she stumbled through the night, never going far, mumbling to herself and visiting the blessed innocents in the well.

That's how I, Jonathon, found her. All it took was a little drink and her thoughts were my thoughts. That's how I'm able to tell you this.

I HAD to save her. A reverent life-eater has no choice...

Would I be compelled to leave that cave? Would I have to cease being the 'Hermit?'... Of course...

But I'd be true to my 'call'.....

Cull the wicked... Save the worthy.

That's what we do...

<more next time>


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Thursday, December 15, 2016

Vampire, Jonathon Continues Recollection of Jeanette 12/15/16 &Hallelujah, Amen (from "Judas Maccabaeus") - Mars Hill Festival Choir 20...

It is I, Jonathon, who lived this , but Billy types it out. Sometimes he misses a word or doesn't hear it all. A phrase might get changed. But memory does that too. Life itself edits what was and transforms it into what is. I've lived a long time. I know that very well. And I really did not think of Jeanette for decades, though memories rise up from depths on their own. Now please let me continue.

She told me how she left her village and started walking. Women never traveled alone and 'declasse' types without any social standing, never left their assigned places at all. They couldn't. Would a grate leave it's place in the hearth? What difference could her hopes, or aspirations make? She was a serf, a human tool and nothing more. Only fortune prevented her from falling into the hands of a whore-trapper. They loved runaways... completely defenseless and all that. Sold them to the licensed brothel keepers of Paris. 'Licensed'... that's a misleading term. They paid protection money to some lord who ran a few 'dove cotes' on back streets here and there. And the lord passed some up to his betters too. Aristocracy has its prerogatives, don't you know. But, the whore-trappers didn't get her. She never wore the 'ankle bracelet' .... a shackle meant to link up to a stout chain. Some 'Paris Doves' never left their bedchamber. ... The slop woman came round and fed them like pigs. A 'wash hag' bathed them with a shallow bowl of greasy water, a none to clean sponge and something like soap when the stink grew too strong. Bedding was burned every three months. That was considered a Paris affectation. New pillows, blankets, sweet straw mattress and perhaps a sheet cost money. The 'doves' were kept naked. More efficient that way. Those who sickened, or showed signs of 'the taint' were discretely poisoned. New hatchlings were easy to find.

I wander like this so I do not forget. So many memories. So many caves to explore. I'm sorry. Please, let me return to Jeanette.

She met a man. He rode a mule. Two retainers walked with him. A man of wealth he was. Not a land owner. They had assets, but he had cash. He spoke to her, not in the language of those parts... not in the manner of the Isle de France as men spoke alone the River Seine. But in the older, more Latinate tongue of the south, as heard in Provence.

His name was Avigdor, a man of finance and he was a Jew. Was she frightened? A little, for she'd never met a Jew before. One or two passed through her master's house, but she never spoke to them. Few serfs ever laid eyes on actual coinage... not silver. Maybe a copper here and there. This was a man of wealth, yet he made his way with but two retainers for he carried no coin. His business relied on notes of promise warranted by the ducal seal. None would harm him.

He offered her wine, not to beguile her, for Avigdor was a devout soul, with a wife and children. It was only refreshment and Jeanette took it. Then he told him her story. She told him of her violent defilement by a boorish nobleman. He nodded. Avigdor knew their ways well. In the south, his people were vintners with hillsides of grapes going down toward the sea. They could own land and that was a very important thing. But where they were now, money lending at all levels was all they could do. Great lords used Jews to concentrate actual coinage, which the nobles in turn squeezed out of them. They traveled this way for a while. At night, the retainers prepared two small lean-tos, one for the Jew and themselves on the left side of the horse and one for Jeanette on the right side. They ate salt cod, carrots and hard bread. They drank wine, or fresh water from the many streams. Others on the road did more or less the same, though most ate salt pork and the way was quiet. Bandits had bigger fish to fry.

In this way they progressed to the place where I found her..

But so much happened before that....

<more next time, hopefully real soon>


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Tuesday, December 6, 2016

The Vampire Jonathon and Jeanette Meet a Second Time.. 12/6/16

~~ a continuation of the post when Jonathon met Jeanette, from two or three nights ago~~

Jonathon ben Macabi speaks --

I went back to the place. I went back to the well. Perhaps two or three nights had passed. Sometimes ghosts hover near their former flesh, but none were there. The souls of innocent martyrs tarry not with our blighted world, but rise to a blessed plane. And the little children tortured here were in that better place.

But someone had come out to treat their remains. They threw lye onto the bodies and other things to hasten decomposition and hold down the smell. They'll do the deeds. They'll commit the crimes, but they don't like to be reminded of it. After all... they're such good people. Look, the 'baron' probably sent them out. Odds are he owed a debt to one of the Jews. That's how the system worked. According to Scripture, Christians cannot lend at interest to other Christians and Jews, since that Scripture is also theirs, cannot do the same to their brethren in the faith. But the lords denied Jews almost every other means of livelihood. Money lending, or reselling worn, used clothing and other items was it. Then, when the debt grew too high, a convenient massacre solved everything... Fun for the whole family. That's how it was. What else did the serfs have? They called them 'serfs' but slaves would have been more accurate. Jews were a handy, 'God given' release. Primitive times... What else can I say? Unappreciated 'extra' heirs were regularly bricked up into walls, or thrown down their own, more private, wells.

Excuse my editorializing, but... well, just excuse me. Look, I was there. I managed to survive it and I mean before I became a vampire. Did you ever see the old video game, FROGGER? That was it. That was life.... WHACK-A-MOLE, but we were all moles, though some got whacked much harder than others.

In a fortnight the little dead bodies in the well would be gone. Serfs would be sent out to fill in the shaft, cart away the stones and that would be it. They'd dig a new well.

But I remembered what happened and so did the young woman named Jeanette. I saw her step out of the shadows and approach the well. Her hood was up. I couldn't see her face. I didn't have to. Vampires possess a keen sense of smell. That's why we light aroma candles, to mask all the background scents, otherwise we'd never be able to relax.

She knelt in prayer. I waited for her to finish, then quietly approached... She said - You came back too?.... I nodded, then asked - How are you connected to those little ones?... She hesitated, afraid to tell me... I said - No, please, you can tell me....

That's how I learned... She was from a place in Brittany, a tiny hamlet belonging to a prosperous knight, no great lord, with a white washed oratory that served as their church. The castle was little more than a well set up country manor with a stable wing, a few out buildings and a stout, log defensive wall.

Her people were serfs, but serfs of a different sort. The men in her line assisted the armorer and toiled not in the fields. They had neat, thatched cottages with thick, whitewashed walls. And the women of the family served the chatelaine, embroidering runners and linens and whatever else the lady of the manor got it into her head to decorate. They called her mother 'goodwife.' Her father was 'goodman.' Small courtesies, but in a place like that small courtesies mean a lot. What else could they hope for?

The knight had a daughter. Dame Eloise they called her. Pretty, in an obvious way. Sometimes great magnates would stop to spend the night whilst traveling. Her mother positively festooned the place with all manner of needlework when that happened. She had goblets, just plain pot metal, but pot metal can pass for old silver if you shine it right.

If the great magnate had a son in tow they did up poor Eloise like a dog's dinner. But first sons never saw her as anything more than a diversion. Even second sons became bishops. Though this time there was a third son... a real nice lad. Who knew what prospects he might have? Families know other families. He'd still be a knight, but a knight related to real aristocrats... people with castles... people who know Paris... people with fine tapestries and polished tables from Italy... people who mattered... Even the serfs could sympathize.

Now the way the world worked, that third son was already declared for somebody else's third daughter and she had aristocratic cousins too. It all came out over dinner. Mead will do that. Jeanette heard. She served. They made her serve. How could she not hear? Eloise went numb. How many times could they trot her out like that? For her mother it was even worse. She looked at Jeanette. So fresh. So sweet. So young. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. Her husband, the knight, agreed. But you know how men are... more stoic... more purposeful.... He whispered to his wife. She whispered to Jeanette. Told her to spend the night in the manor so she'd be there first thing to help with breakfast.... Jeanette nodded and curtsied. She had no say.

A few hours later, when everything was quiet, the knight of the manor discretely unlocked the wench chamber, where female servants slept (it locked from the outside) and let the powerful magnate enter... not the third son, but the father. His prey pulled thin blankets tight 'round their bodies.

By sun up he'd had Jeanette twice and beaten a mute thirteen year old to death.... Eloise's father refused the traditional forty silver pennies 'fine' in cases like this. The dead girl had but an old grandmother, who'd probably cross over soon after. No use wasting an opportunity to forge an alliance....

When she returned to her family no       one said a word. The 'goodwife' and 'goodman' could lose that designation real fast. And Jeanette was unharmed. What could come of it? Later that morning the knight sent over five copper pennies. Jeanette just sat there, but her father picked them up and put them away.

The day progressed and she went about her duties in silence. At sundown, Jeanette wrapped herself in a hooded cloak and started walking.

Later that night, on a trail to the north bordering the forest, she met a man on a mule....

<more next time>

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Thursday, December 1, 2016


This is Billy. I'm not just channeling or typing these words. They're mine. I don't have much time. Please excuse any mistakes or typos. I want to share something with you.

Jonathon showed me some books. One was his centuries old manuscript of La Ciencia Vampirismo. I've seen that before. He's not so secretive about it (among 'us' at least), because the text is in Old Vahmperigo and we really don't understand it. The relationship to medieval Castilian and Catalan is close. Yet there are differences, plus vocabulary that comes from some other mysterious languages. I thought they might be Basque, but Googling proved that isn't so.

Then there's the part about 'the sentence.'.... more like three phrases actually. I'm talking about - Scottosh beedosh... Beedosh bopost... Bopost skeedosht.... NONE of us knows what it means. Even Jonathon ben Macabi, also known as Tomas de Macabea only has a slight idea.

Doctor Franklin thinks it might be from an early European tongue spoken by the first 'modern' humans to inhabit the landmass after the ice age. Jonathon thinks it might might be Old Scythian. Still, that language is related to Sanskrit? Nobody sees much of a relationship between the two.

He showed me a book, or to be truthful, accidentally let me see, another ancient hand written tome in the same language as LA CIENCIA VAMPIRISMO. It happened in the little library. One of the pieces in the wood paneling opened up... and there it was...wrapped in old linen, ostensibly from Ancient Sumer. But I have no idea if linen can last that long. The book itself isn't that old. Jonathon said it dates from the same era as 'VAMPIRISMO.'

I don't know why he let me see it... or remember that I'd seen it. You know how they can 'obfuscate?' Vampires can make us lose memory. I'll bet some of YOU have had run ins or dealings with 'life-eaters' and don't know it. They might even be 'messing' with you right now... not this instant... but on-going... Some might have a feeling. Some might have an intuition. But most would not even suspect a thing.

You see all the part about subsisting on living blood and 'culling' the wicked is only a small piece of it. I've just learned that. That's why I'm typing as fast as I can. I want to get this down before he 'dries' my memory, as he calls it.

Even if he has a 'familiar' erase this, some of you (hopefully) will have passed it on. People might 'save' it somehow. I don't know how these things are done. My digital knowledge is very limited. Regulars among you know that. Will it even make a difference if I get this down? I hope.

The title of that other book, or what they call it (I don't know if it's the actual title) is LA CIENCIA DE LAS ALMAS HUMANOS.... The Science of Human Souls.... That's where the lines - Everything is everywhere. What choices do you make?... come from. I know that now. I remember.

Everything is about 'pathways.' Everything depends on 'maps'... 'soul maps.'.... I asked Edith about it. She said she didn't know... Papa's not around. I'd be too scared to ask him if he was. And I don't get any 'alone' time with Doctor Franklin, so he's out.

When I ask little Annie (our wild child, toe eater vampire) she just grins and makes 'crazy eyes.'

I don't know what to do. Last night (sometimes I sleep nights... sometimes days) I woke up to use the bathroom. It was close to dawn. The vampires were already 'sleeping.' All was in darkness. I proceeded down the hall to the toilet. But my feet felt numb... not really numb, just funny. I couldn't feel the floor. I couldn't feel the runner in the hallway. I couldn't feel the tiles in the bathroom. There was a penny on the floor. I probably dropped it earlier. Yet when I passed my foot over it, I couldn't feel it... like it was never the grout lines between the tiles weren't there. I sat down on the lid to think. I got up again. The penny was still there. But I still couldn't move it or feel it... not with my feet.... I could stand. I could walk. But there was no contact with the floor. The skin of my soles flattened out on an unseen surface just above it. And someone, or some thing was rapping on the other side of that surface... not on the other side of the floor... on the other side of that unseen barrier... That, I know. Don't ask me how. But that I know. 

I left the bathroom... the light was still on... but then it 'disappeared'... Who knows how... But I still heard that rapping noise... I burrowed under the covers. I had an old Hebrew Bible Jonathon once gave me. It was in my night table. I got it out. The noises stopped. And I fell into a fitful sleep with it open across my chest.

Even the hidden night-folk world has secrets. Some vampires know and some vampires don't.

That's the honest truth. My God, don't believe what you read in novels. Don't believe what you see in cable network crap shows.... What are you, a thirteen year old girl?

Look, this is all presented as fiction because that's how we agreed it'd be done.

Let me go to sleep now. Let me try and go to sleep. I was supposed to 'channel' more about Jonathon's time with Jeanette (see last post) but obviously I never got to that.

But PLEASE, if you can, put this post somewhere. Don't let him erase it. Don't let him 'dry' my brain.... That, he might do anyway. Though if this post goes on somewhere else, the story goes on too.

And all I can think of are those lines - Everything is everywhere. What choices do you make?

But REALLY... what choices DO you make?

<more next time>


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Monday, November 28, 2016

Our Vampire, Jonathon Remembers The Past . 11/27/16♥ Rachmaninoff's "Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini"

Before the coming of Sarah there were other consorts and I remember each and every one. Night-folk rarely forget. We sometimes pretend to forget, or attempt to hypnotize ourselves, but it does not work.

I am one with Old Muscovy and ashrams along the Western Ghats. I have prayed with friends and strangers everywhere. Vampires, especially long-lived ones are history books. We carry the truth within, like an eternal tattoo etched deep in every cell... I speak of my time in Restoration England only because I 'lived' there before coming here. Yet before London I knew other homes... You who are faithful to this record know that. I've shared secrets of Old Byzantium and the vampire academies of the Ottomans. I've known Hapsburgs since before they got into the king business. My likeness graces tapestries in ancient French chateaus. I saw little children snatched from their beds and thrown headfirst into wells till the cold, stone tubes were packed with the flesh of the innocents and the earth could take no more. We were brothers in The Faith, yet I did nothing.

Night-folk must be subtle. Loudmouths rarely thrive. But I prayed for their expedient entry into The World To Come. After all, what sins did they have?

And there was a woman, a young woman who silently approached the well. She knelt down in the mud, put her hands on the stones and whispered a prayer. I recognized the words. They matched my own petition, though I prayed in Hebrew-Aramaic and she beseeched God in the vernacular, a rustic strain of Norman French known to all on both sides of The Channel.

When she was done I spoke. I said - Did you lose a wee one tonight?... She was frightened. I could see her fear, but she shook her head and whispered - No, not in that way... Then why are you here? - I asked..... How could I not be? - she said.... I helped her get up... She looked at me and asked if I was the 'one' from the hermitage... I nodded. She nodded back. ... The 'hermitage' was a deep winding cave, often frequented by holy men. I, but the latest occupant. ... She whispered - Their mothers and fathers are dead, slain where they slept. None still live.... Then she ran away, back into the pre dawn shadows..... I stayed there for perhaps four score heartbeats. Did I say new prayers?... I suppose. You know me. That's how I am.

When the sun  came up, he who held the castle in those parts sent out serfs and villains  to burn the houses and the dead within. But first they took the currency. They always take the coins. That's how it's done. That's the reason why.

I slept little during the light-time, but I put it all down... a few pages... a chapter... the record of a massacre. It's in my journal... an old, vellum, heavy book. I still have it. How would I not?

And the night I met Jeanette bleeds from the lambskin page.

<the vampire, Jonathon, shares more next time>


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Friday, November 25, 2016

Arlo Guthrie - City of New Orleans and a Vampire Wonderland post too.. 11/24/16


Before I start, you know I'm real supportive on Twitter, so here goes---> click ... He's the long time busker (subway singer) who did Unchained Melody on ... I just saw it on Thanksgiving Night... You may have seen it the first time. I think it might be a rerun... I don't know. was a rerun, so I guess this is too.

I hate talk show reruns. Bring back guest hosts. That's what I say. Like I think should be permanent guest host for .... Maybe get Letterman to come back once in a while... Arsenio... Don't even call it 'guest host' night. Call it 'retro' night. I'm just sayin'.

I had a few paragraphs on here explaining why I put that Arlo Guthrie song up top, but the laptop 'lost' connection to the little wifi thing I have and they just (sigh) disappeared. Thought I saved it all. Boost 'portable' wifi stinks. It's frustrating. They rarely provide a strong signal. The people you get on the phone are from somewhere out in the Asteroid Belt. They promise EVERYTHING. They do nothing.

At least I'm watching FARGO on TV. All the gray cold and snow calms me down... like GROUNDHOG DAY, but not so cute and cozy and with more dead bodies. If this picture is at all based on real conditions, everyone in Minnesota and North Dakota must be snow blind. They go through life without a friggin' horizon line.

I like the accent, though. It's different.... Real homey... Like the Berenstine Bears must talk that way, or they should if that cartoon company had any sense. But you know how cartoon companies are. All they want is the money and the tie-ins. Half the characters are on crack... cartoon crack, but still...

The movie's over. Now the TV says we can all get rid of unwanted body hair right now, over the phone... No, wait. I must have heard wrong.

I like the music and the sound and the aura of FARGO... Coen Bros. must have been channeling Ingmar Bergman via Woody Allen in his CRIMES AND MISDEMEANORS phase.

I hope President Elect Trump supports N.A.S.A., because I want to know what's out there..

OK, not I have to go to sleep, 'cause the vampires are starting to come home and when they sleep, we all have to sleep. You know how it is. They got real sharp hearing.

Good night.

<more next time>


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Saturday, November 19, 2016

No NIGHT But Tonight... Our Vampires' Favorite --"Finale B" (from RENT) performed by Broadway Inspirational Voices

Everything posted here for the last month or two was a delusion. Night -folk are very prone to dream. Some sit quietly staring at a light bulb for evenings on end. Others feign divinity to balm their own fears. That's just how it is. We search and look and find nothing. Oh, there are bits and pieces gleaned from ancient tomes, but antiquity doesn't equal truth.

I speak to you tonight as myself. I am Tomas de Macabea, also known as Jonathon ben Macabi. Billy doesn't type this. I do.... I'll get to why the delusions. I will. But, as you know, vampires rarely think in linear fashion. The magic fluctuates within us. It swirls like cream in coffee. It floats like the mist. Still magic is dead magic. It is the blood that courses through creation. It fills the space between atomic and subatomic particles. Some search for 'dark matter,' but we night-folk know better. Some of you do too. Not enough, but some.

And before I forget, let me clear up something. Permit me to explain a mistake mortals often make. You occasionally see narratives claiming to be about vampires, but they're not about vampires. Witnesses and writers are not always well versed in our world. They hear bits of disjointed local lore... peasants tales... grandmothers' stories and half truths. This has always been a problem in isolated parts of Eastern Europe. Different exotic specimens are lumped together and tarred with the same brush. Non-decomposing 'zombies' are termed 'vampires.' They look like vampires. They rise from the grave, like local vampires do. And they dine on the living. But non-decomposing zombies are not the same as true night-folk. They devour flesh and blood indiscriminately, bone, organs and gristle too. They're seen by daylight, not often, though it happens. True, they don't rot away like their less fortunate brethren. Small 'blemishes' and unsightly areas quickly regenerate after good feedings. In a sense, what ails them is more organic and less a matter of enchantment. Is there a magical component? Of course, however of a base frequency, similar to the universal echoes of the Big Bang. It's just 'there.' No one really directs, or controls it. For that reason, many true night-folk hate them. Interlopers, masqueraders, liars - that's what they call them. Some call them 'maggots' too. I stay above all that. Please don't laugh at me, but I and those like me, aspire to sainthood. You know how I am.

I sit with Edith (our witchy-woman friend and housekeeper) at our kitchen table filling little, midnight blue, velvet, drawstring pouches with shiny silver dollars. These are genuine silver coins, big ones. Each is valued at about twenty five dollars. Every pouch gets five. I give out a lot of pouches. Been doing it for centuries. They're 'Gelt Sacks.' Little children get them during The Festival of The Re-Dedication, but not with silver dollars. And the custom comes not from my own background, but from Central Europe. I picked it up in my travels. These days, most beneficiaries are homeless folk. There's a little note inside each sack directing them to an honest precious metals buyer. Brings a little brightness into their lives. You know, I'll tell you when I picked it up. Some have read my old Hanukah tale. Well, it's a true story. It really happened. I think if you search 'Indulge me... Hanukah tale... Billy Kravitz' it comes up. And with very slight alterations, it makes a nice Christmas tale too. I know. I've used both versions at times. Funny kind of vampire. I know. Homeless souls are a 'thing' with me. They are so vulnerable. Each is an opportunity for a good deed. Look, I kill, at times, yet I'm not a monster. Few of us are. Well, maybe to our victims, but the hell with them.... They ARE monsters. I live on monsters. That's what I do.

Now why the delusions - Night-folk are a vain lot. We dress to enhance our bodies... finely cut attire... subtle shades. Fashion is for giggly cheap little things. We don't do that. But our kind craves attention. Perhaps it comes from living in shadows, or seeming too. You don't know what a sensation Doctor Polidori was when it came out. Dracula wasn't the first. Doctor Polidori was. Everybody read that book when it first appeared. Eighteen seventeen, I think it was. The era of romantic poetry... Keats.... Shelley... and that other one who never used his actual name, but signed himself 'Lord' Byron. Such an old lady, garden party nicety. I'm glad he overdosed... or they overdosed him.... But back to the 'delusions.' When we got our first computer, we didn't know what to do with it. I took it from a victim... a loan shark. Kept his records on it. A real 'creep,' as they say. You should have heard him plead. You should have heard him offer me money. I killed him and took the money anyway.... Came in a nice, leather briefcase too. Edith, our housekeeper, you've already met, knew how to 'google' things on it. We found out how to make Peking Duck... what a whole bunch of naked people look like and how to dicker for a cheaper boob job. We got free WiFi from someplace. Bob knew how to get it. He was a vampire who lived with us back then. Somebody caught him on tape... put it on You Tube. Bob found out. Thought he was a star. Stared at himself for hours. Got loads of views. No one thought it was real. Figured it was a hoax... One night we stumbled onto some blogs. I didn't say anything, but how I wanted one. So naïve. I truly thought .... Well, you know what I thought. We beg for readers all the time. Some of you do too....

We wanted gimmicks. We wanted readers. So Doctor Franklin became a vampire. We had big, secret meetings with night-folk from all over. Wanted to 'fix' the election. Wanted to control the world, but in a nice way. Wanted to do a lot of things.

Trouble was, none of you read it. So now we're not lying anymore. Just the truth. Just how we really live. I think some of the episodes were real. What went on at the seashore in Baylah's boyfriend's house was mostly real.

Please understand all of those lies were my fault.

Don't blame Billy. He wanted to write about settlers on Mars and an alternate American history where fascists really do take over. So don't blame him...

That's all.

Now allow me to venture out before the sun comes back and distribute some of these small, velvet pouches.

It's what I do...

<more next time>


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Tuesday, November 15, 2016

In my mind the theme song for DARK HEART WHITE HOUSE -Jay & the Americans - Only in America - Feb. 2, 1965 Hulabaloo.flv

What if, one day, America does suffer a 'polite' coup? What if, one day, the end does justify the means and you and your children are not as welcome here anymore? And What if everyone else just puts their heads down and joins the herd.

Sometimes the devil wins and no one even cares.

(cue the video up above)

In my dream of an edgy cable series, that's how it all begins. The camera pans through rough, hardscrabble areas of D.C. as the theme plays...

Welcome to - Dark Heart White House ...

We focus on The Presidential Mansion.... Inside, a man and a large, German Shepherd dog occupy a sitting room. The man's trying to teach the dog a new thing. Her name is Blondi, but he wants her to answer to Brandi. He sits her down. He offers treats. If she responds to 'Brandi' she gets a small cube of ham. If she insists on 'Blondi' he turns his back...

An aide comes in - How's it going, sir?

The President - Not so good. Can you imagine if word gets out that I have a German Shepherd named Blondi? We're not ready for that. Not yet.. no, no, no, no, no. But that's not why you're here. Speak!

Aide - The banker... the financier, Isaacson, is on his way back from that meeting in Russia...

The President - And?

Aide - They've lost contact with the plane. It's missing... A regularly scheduled flight. Not private. Not air force. Two hundred and six passengers... the usual cross section, business travelers, tourists, a few families...

The President nods - Where'd it happen?

Aide - Somewhere over the Arctic Ocean.

The President - At night?

Aide - Yep.

The President - Who knows?

Aide - Just 'friends.' The C.E.O. of the airline is a friend. He's doing his best to keep things quiet... well, as quiet as possible.

The President - And the families of the victims? You KNOW how THEY get.

Aide - We'll offer to fly them to Seattle. They can wait it out there. Of course we'll feed them packaged information. I believe Mr. Larsen's already filled you in?

The President nods and sits back on the sofa. Blondi rests her head on his lap. He pets her and says - You tell me. Tell me everything. I want to make sure it jibes.

Aide - A bomb will go off... a big bomb. The hotel in Seattle will be destroyed. We'll blame the 'terrorists,' some Jewish Defense League type thing dissatisfied with our handling of the Oklahoma Pogroms. We already have the 'guilty parties' in custody. They'll be displayed to the media. Believe me. These are not sympathetic characters. They serve a purpose and they serve it well.

The President nods.

Aide - Of course we stage a few more 'spontaneous' pogroms. We'll make an attempt to control things. The operative word is 'attempt.'... Then we'll quietly 'liberate' the assets of some very rich and potentially troublesome members of 'that' community. We won't say a word. No one takes credit, but one day soon, the money will be gone. Any real estate they own will suddenly be mired in debt. You know how they always 'over estimate' what they have anyway. Believe me, they'll be selling their leftover diamonds, desperate to get out.

The President - And when some asshole investigative reporters start doing their crap? We haven't 'schooled' ALL of them yet.

Aide - Who's going to print it? We've 'schooled' enough. The masses, not little groups of bastards here and there, but the 'herd' if you will, wants to believe us. They need to believe us. What choice do they have? After all, they're 'on top.'.... People just want to live. And they'll bow and scrape and shake your hand, even when they know there's a knife in the other one, because they don't want to see the knife. And the fiction goes on. Who cares how rough it gets? Who cares who disappears? Just so the acid gets thrown in somebody else's face. Believe me, once they realize that the blissfully blind lead happy lives, blind is the thing to be.... The beauty part is we can milk this deal over and over again with all those God damned bastards out there.... Just like magic. Bam, bam, bam. NEXT!

The President hears, but doesn't respond. The dog whines ...

Aide - And one more thing, sir.

The President looks up. The aide continues - Mr. Lucas, from the kennels says if she doesn't respond,  oh, he's gonna work with her too, but if she doesn't, they'll put her down and go to with the other bitch. That one already answers to 'Brandi.'

The President sighs and kisses the dog on her head.... The aide quietly exits...

The President stares out at the beautifully manicured grounds, as the daylight begins to fade....

He says 'Brandi' one more time...

But the dog doesn't respond....

<more next time>


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One more thing.. This is the first installment of a DARK HEART WHITE HOUSE story arc I might run with. It's just fiction. It has nothing to do with the recent election, but all the stories flying 'round made me think.