Tuesday, July 18, 2017

Vampire Comedy Web Series Seed&Spark Crowdfunding Our Jonathon stumbled upon it .. 7/19/17

 

Jonathon ben Macabi a.k.a. Tomas de Macabea speaks --- I enjoy satire. Indeed, the very idea that vampires actually exist is a grand satire.... We magnify and focus every fault and strength of humanity. The very drama of our lives echoes the truth of yours.

But sometimes I like to laugh. This blend of comedy and satire lets me do that. Oh, I know we have Little Bastid Annie and Pin Head Mel and Horsey Skezzix ( did I spell it right? strange, after centuries the English language still trips me up... you know how much it relaxes me to fall into the old Mozarabic , Spanish - Arabic salsa of Al Andalus). Though the focus of this tale is me and I am not Pagliacci .....

Laughter amidst pathos is a very special thing. The vampirino known as 'Seymour' is an intriguing specimen. Where I have a 'family' of sorts... my beloved consort, Sarah, the , well, if I have to describe her, I'd say 'Beyoncé-like' Baylah.... Billy, our scrivener, 'Papa,'.... and the one who comes and goes, the vampirino who likes Dockers pants... O Jalla! I forget his name. But you know all the rest.

It seems Seymour has a circle of nearest and dearest too. He relies on them for support... a fish out of water... just like White Boy Rick.. I do so savor unusual situations. What night-folk wouldn't ?...

Perhaps we of El Mundo Vampirido can learn from this newborn life-eater?... I suspect he is real, even if they claim he is not.

Many vampires crave attention, yet maintain that their truth is fiction.... Makes things oh so simple.... Like real magicians who claim to be merely illusionists. Mortals like it like that.

Now, permit me my pre-dawn ramble. I do so hate these short summer nights. Still, the air is hot and sultry. Stinks and scents and perfumes rise like mist.... a buffet, of sorts, arranged in the shadows of wee-hour Philadelphia... I sport trim, black jeans, a well tailored tee shirt (also black) and my signature (ditto the color) soft, leather bootkins. It's a good hair night too.  I'm a vampire. It's always a good hair night. My long, dark, wavy tresses subtly dance in the breeze.

How I enjoy these Center City streets. The 'downtown' neighborhoods of Philadelphia are second in size and population only to Manhattan, but with a history, grace and attitude all our own. How glad I am The Lord Protector (William Penn) brought me here.

I whistle my song... The Teddy Bears' Picnic... When you go out on the streets tonight, you're in for a big surprise...

So happy I am to have discovered 'Seymour' and his 'familiars.'

Please click on the video up above and discover him too. Then tell your friends...

Hasta la proxima.....

<more of our usual tale next time>

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Saturday, July 15, 2017

Old Vampires Like Jonathon Love To Do This... 7/15/17... Jethro Tull - Living In The Past 1969

 

The vampirino known as either Tomas de Macabea or Jonathon ben Macabi speaks ---

What shall I speak of? You know that Lawrence Edgerton saga (or the beginning of it) detailing Illuminati life in Regency England, was my idea. Billy had nothing to do with that one. I spoke. He typed. And all of it was true, yet it didn't pull you in. Still have hopes for that one. I will revisit it one night.  Perhaps you will indulge me.

Night-folk love to revisit the past, especially moderately long lived specimens, like me. While I possess not the multi-millennia of  'Papa,' a thousand years still makes a fine collection. My favorite era, as regulars know, is Restoration London. To my way of thinking, that was the first, purely 'modern' time in the world. The son of a former (beheaded) king reclaimed the throne and if that piece of furniture was a bit truncated by an ever more democratic populace, life within the royal circle was never merrier. We had monkeys in London. For the first time, they were all the rage. Small, quicksilver, chattering things dressed up like Tudor gentlemen. Each trained to doff his cap to a lady. I think all the semi-exposed bosoms tipped them off. They doffed their little caps with such rapidity during the candlelit balls at St. James, it was almost like an early form of air conditioning.

I was Don Tomas de Macabea, grandee of Spain. That, as old friends know is my Catholic name. Jonathon ben Macabi is my Hebrew appellation. Vampires at the various European courts needed to pass as members of the majority faith. Muslim night-folk adopted patents of Sicilian nobility. Christians of Eastern Rites feigned Western orientation. Protestants passed as Catholic and those loyal to Rome played the part of Lutherans. That's how it was.

The freest court was The Purple Throne of the Emperor-Sultan of the Ottomans, the New Byzantium and the Third Incarnation of Imperial Rome. Some of you via your explorations of this site know of the venerable palace school, where likely young vampires were trained to be functionaries and assassins to the royal house. Ah, Topkapi was quite the place, Muslim in faith, but as I see it now, largely western in the superficialities. All roads led to Istanbul. Dissenters were welcome there. Indeed, the House of Osman championed the Protestant and even the Jewish cause, seeing them as more attuned to their own Sunni denomination. Look, you've seen the Renaissance and Baroque paintings. Granted, the rulers wore turbans. But consider the paintings of western gentlemen. Many of them wore turbans, or turban-like head gear too. Such was the age. It stood for opulence. It stood for wealth. But if I told you the portraits of the Osman royals were renderings of English, or Holy Roman or French royals you'd believe me. The doublets were the same, as were the pantaloons, hose and foot gear.

Henry the Eighth and his red headed daughter, what's her name, were pen pals with The Purple Throne, addressing each other as 'brother king' and 'sister queen' and all that. It's why they had so many coffee houses in Europe during those times. The Arabs discovered the drink in the Horn of Africa and brought it back to their territories. Turkish beys and pashas learned about it and soon there were coffee houses throughout Anatolia and the Balkans. Thus the world changes. Thus cultures grow. And I have seen a lot of adaptation.

I had a little monkey, Jacque.... The English always gave their monkeys French names. The French gave theirs English names. We fed them exotic vegetables from the Isles of Scilly off the tip of Cornwall, Britain's only semi-tropical territory. Jacque drank wine, when I'd let him and even rode 'horseback' on a King Charles Cavalier Spaniel. Everyone at court loved him.

That's how I fell in with the Brigands, a group of fellows addicted to fine Aztec tobaccos and aromatic Turkish hashish. They also experimented with Tibetan magic of the tantric variety. Did they know I was a vampire? Not at first. But I was curious to see what this tantric knowledge might achieve, so I accompanied them on their evening sessions with a being as foreign to seventeenth century London, as denizens of Andromeda might be in my current city, Philadelphia, today. He was a Nepalese monk, studying at a Mumbai ashram when some British traders met him and he was just as curious about Europeans, as they were of him. So he agreed to sail with them, thus he reached England, where he quickly acquired a late night salon dedicated to the pursuit of all things arcane and mysterious.

That was where I saw my first mortal sublimate...
But Billy's tired and wants to go to sleep and I find typing quite tedious, So permit me to retire to my sleeping cabinet before the sun gets me..

Hasta la proxima y buenas dias.

<more next time>

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Friday, July 14, 2017

How Vampires Rescue Folks from Southern Chain Gangs... 7/14/17

Jonathon speaks -

I enjoyed saving those two young men last time. Such acts enrich me. I feel it's why I came to be.  And I've done similar things before and I remember them all. There was a time almost one hundred years ago, I visited a prison camp in Mississippi, a miserable collection of ticky tacky worn plank barracks and heavy, iron chains. The souls were shackled together at the ankle. They slept that way, every one on their back in hard, mean, little coffin-like beds, bitten by all manner of loathsome insects... greasy, unwashed faces in the night .... attached to a big chain running through each filthy nest... broken bulbs on a long line of Christmas lights.  A 'trustee' sat on an old cane back chair, making sure nobody got 'antsy.' He didn't have a gun, being a prisoner himself and all, but they gave him a starter pistol. Somebody commence to dance around too much he just squeeze off a shot and guards come running. Trustees work two hour shifts. They sleep in the trustees' bunk. No ankle chains. They're like slaves to the guards, though. Some say chains would be better.

You see, I like variety. Certain nights I just sublimate up into the air and see where it takes me. The ether moves faster than the actual air molecules you are used to. One night I went to Bermuda. Trips down south are easy. Got to hole up somewhere during the day, because I can't go there and back in one night. But vampires have a talent for finding hidey-holes. Every town has an old, boarded up 'haunted' house. Some days the place really is haunted... by me.... But this stories about that night at the prison camp.

I'd pass through the flimsy walls just above bunk height. They call them 'bunks,' but there's only one level. Then I'd slide over my intended subject. I can tell who needs saving, always could. Don't make no noise. Prisoners sleep through anything. Road work tires them out real good. In the middle of the night the trustee rings a little bell and whispers - Piss pot. Piss pot. Who gotta use the piss pot? He has a hurricane lamp screwed into the wall right by his chair. Gives off a little light. Them what gotta pass water raise their hand. Trustee take 'em one or two at a time down the other end to use the piss pot. Got a rule ... if you twin-pissin' you keep your head down and follow your own stream. Nobody want the trustee to call the guards. Guards allowed to kill a prisoner. It say so in the book. They got a little instruction book. On page seven it say --- Y'all can kill a fella what get hisself all worked up. 'cause sometime that the only thing what work...... But you gotta have a good reason  to write down in the 'reason' ledger, or Old Mister Big Man, the warden gonna fart in your face. That's what they call it --- fart in your face. ... Means he gonna do something to you, like fire your brother-in-law. Next time it happen, he fire you. Everybody got family 'round here.

So I slide over fella I'm gonna help, put my arms around him, like we gonna dance and sublimate out through the wall. Them what's close to me gets carried along in my aura. Pass through anything what ain't lead.... When we outside, I do like I did with them two kids last night. I set 'em down out back of a nice shuttered general store and pass inside for some proper clothes. They tend to be awake by then and start asking questions. I motion for them to be quiet, 'cause I'm a guardian angel and The Lord don't want no trouble. Most cooperate, 'cause they like that bein' free part. Sometimes I bring out a soaking wet towel so they can clean up a little. Then, when they all dressed in new dungarees and work shirts, I slip off a ring, or something and say -- Here, you can pawn this.... They don't ask no questions. Figure we got lots a rings in Heaven.

I can't tell you who I saved that night, 'cause he has children and grandchildren and they're real high level these days. Go to The Kentucky Derby and everything. Have a house in Dustin, Florida. Don't want no convict pop-pop, so I oblige them.

Look how easy I slip into this Southern Talk. That's a vampire talent too.

You see, we fit in real good.....

<more next time>

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Monday, July 10, 2017

JONATHON GOT A BIG PIMPIN' PAPA - Meat Loaf - You Took The Word's Right Out Of My Mouth (Hot Summer Night)

 

(click OLDER POST and then click OLDER POST at the bottom of what comes up to see the last episode in this thread... The night-folk I blog for claim its worth it...)

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Jonathon speaks -

The manipulation of reality can be a very iffy thing. Some adepts are, in a sense, natural illusionists. You might live in a crystal palace and spend your days amidst cool, bubbling fountains, surrounded by a lush, fragrant garden. Winged nymphs might flit through the air and the kitchens give forth the most succulent and savory delights. Celebrities and aristocrats glide through the pool like dolphins, as dead rock legends serenade. Yet after a time that varies with the practitioner it all begins to fade.... The film people disappear from 'round the pool... The savory delights seem markedly less succulent... And there's a nebulous cloud where the Louis XV salon used to be, that sometimes smells from rancid tuna fish.... Nebulous clouds become the norm. They fill the void. They fade away and there you are, just as you were before it all started.

That's what Pow Wow magic is like. Oh, a few of them can do better, but most conjure things of a transient nature, sometimes for a year and a day, sometimes for a flickering instant. Believe me. I'm familiar with all types of enchantment. Yes, I did panic when the Talks-To-God man first ensnared me. The initial sense of floating in nothingness was terrifying. 'Papa,' my creator, the one who brought me over and made me a vampirino is a virtuoso of nothingness conjuring. His favorite is an endless, perfectly flat and featureless, completely dark metallic plain... no sound... no light... no sensory input of any kind. The victim walks and walks and walks ... hoping for a change... praying for a change... but it never happens. They lie down. It's difficult to lie down and get comfortable on a hard, metallic plain with absolutely no 'give.' It's even more difficult to get up. Knee bones grind against bare metal.

'Papa's' magic never fades away. You see, he doesn't just manipulate perceptions of matter. He changes the basic truth of it. Sometimes he has pity and makes it stop. Other times he forgets. A few unfortunate victims have been suffering for millennia, unless they find a way to shatter their skulls against that hard eternal surface.

Though the Talks-To-God man was not that powerful. So, I pulled myself together (vampires can focus and more or less 'tighten' the atoms of our bodies) and saw through the illusion to the reality of his dimly lit cave. My eyes cleared. He noticed. I could see the surprise in his eyes. Then I wiggled my toes. He knew I no longer thought they were held fast in the clay floor. He knew I was free. I smiled and gestured for him to lean in. Talks-To-God was scared, but he did. I pulled him toward me and bit a nice, little schnitzel out of his right cheek. He screamed. How the blood poured. His molars were exposed. I spit the flesh into the small fire. Vampires only take 'live' circulating blood. He held his face and watched it sizzle.... Then I stepped passed him and slid down that narrow greasy tunnel into the death pit, splat, right into the mud. The two condemned young men shrieked and pressed back against the inward sloping walls. I dropped down from a hole up above. Place was shaped like a big, hollow, chocolate kiss. They couldn't tell what happened. The darkness down there was no illusion. It was real. Everything wet and warm... all clay and mud and big, slimy slugs. They didn't know what I was. Now I went into the Pines to rescue one of the young men.... 'Young men'..... Everybody says 'young men.' They were boys. I hate when the army calls some poor eighteen or nineteen year old kid, even the one's in their twenties 'men.' They're dead. They were kids and they're not supposed to be dead..... I clicked on this little ninety nine cent l.e.d. flashlight from the dollar store... They both shrieked again.... I said - Who's Fred?.... One said - Me. I'm Fred. I am.... He trembled. It was too warm down there to shiver.... I said - Your dad sent me to get you..... Take me too? - went the other one.... I go - All right. Get up. Stand up... No way I was going to leave him. I grab one in each arm, say - Close your eyes and hold on tight... Then I vaulted up and sublimated through the mud and rocks and dirt to the surface. When vampires sublimate the aura radiates out from our bodies. The boys would be safe. If I solidified in a grove of trees, they'd be dead. But I knew there was a clearing by the entrance... all pounded down dirt where Pineys and Red Paint People dance sometimes, so I angled up that way. Once our atoms all settled down the boys coughed and wheezed a bit, but that didn't last too long.... The one called Fred asked if I was a vampire. His dad was a 'familiar' of mine... handled money, investments and finances. Maybe his son heard something? I don't know.... I smiled and said - What do you think?..... He saw the fangs, but then he was OK. The other one never said a word... I went - Look, I'm going to sublimate again..... What's 'sublimate?' - asked Fred..... What we just did. Are you two all right with that?.....They nodded..... So WHOOSH, we were off again. I can sublimate through air molecules. It's like flying.... Took them to the roof of a Target store on the Black Horse Pike closed for the night. Told them to wait here, as if they were going to go somewhere. Then I sublimated through the roof and came back with a bag full of fresh clothes and underwear... even a pair of  'Chuckies' for each. I'm a good judge of shoe size. You know how particular I am about my trim leather bootkins?.... Gave them each a few twenties and called for an Uber to pick them up and take them back to Philadelphia. Guy met them at a little diner. Most cell phones get all screwed up after a couple sublimations, but Samsung, I think it is, makes a special one for the vampire trade. Works great.

It felt good to use my powers. I haven't really let go in a long time.....

Hey, I'm not 'Papa's' son for nothing.

Jonathon ben Macabi a.k.a. Tomas de Macabea says goodnight.....

<more to come>

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Friday, June 30, 2017

THE RED ROOM... SLAVERY IN THE USA .. 6/30/17

What if we still had elections and kids still went to schools with crossing guards? But what if every school was a charter and all the children were segregated by faith, race and income? What if everyone knew the elections were arranged, gerrymandered affairs, but no one dared say a word?

How bout if the food available in supermarkets was keyed to neighborhood income and the government put tracking and surveillance chips in every car?... What if the government went 'melting pot' with a vengeance, only there were a few pots and if you didn't fit their idea of what your reality should be they simply made you disappear. No one notified your family. No one listened to their concerns. No one cared.

did they kill the non conformists?... No, they enslaved them.

The North American plains contain huge slave farms. Agribusiness thrives. Fossil fuel thrives too. Safety features are non existent. You fall in the fire... you die.... You lose your balance and slide into the processing machine... you die. The cheap, common grade 'food' has a little more bone meal and protein, that's all.

Should an innocent 'subject' wander into the vicinity and see the ''farms,' they vanish too. If a citizen gets a peak, nothing happens. Who cares about the helots?

Obviously, no 'subject' gets a car. Some are covertly 'treated' with fertility drugs. After all, the nation needs workers. Merit means nothing. Your whelps do what you do. Look, there are enough well connected, plugged in citizens and they have a whole lot of sons, daughters, nieces and nephews. What do they need your crap for?

You know who the worst are?... the first level, front line white collar, clerical types. After all, they take lunch in Arby's. Subjects eat at the trough.... You make a face. You disappear. You fail to smile and cheer when they want you to smile and cheer, you go bye bye.

Subjects take vacations at sex camps in the country. Got to keep up the herd.

And then there's THE RED ROOM a place where slaves fight to the death for big wigs in luxury boxes... a place where drug companies choose test specimens and surgeons and biologists pick 'lab rats' so they can play Mister Potato Head with men, women and children to their hearts' delight.

Well fixed citizens have domestics. Never human servants. That would be too dangerous. They might steal weapons, or escape, or learn things. Android home aides are the norm.

You know The Stepford Wives?.... Well, everyone's a 'Wife.' Even rich folks know not to see, or think too much. Those that do, for social crusaders crop up from time to time, suddenly lose their sight, or maybe a limb. They never wind up on the farms. Slaves might learn something.

And the population of the nation?... a nice comfortable sixty five million..

Everything's quiet. Silent, self driving electric cars ply the cantonments where the citizens live. Subjects crowd into non airconditioned, or heated buses. Don't want to encourage too much mobility.

No one votes. The Party controls everything. No one knows who's in The Party. No one knows if newcomers are ever recruited. Rulers remain anonymous. Things seem to happen in and of themselves.

That's how it is.

Legions pray for salvation...

But it's hard to hope too much, when no one knows who even 'winds' the machinery.

THE RED ROOM ... on (one day, I hope) NETFLIX.

<back to Jonathon's Tale next time, unless you want more of THE RED ROOM?>

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Monday, June 26, 2017

Jonathon In the Cave.. and World's Oldest Motion Picture (1865) and Oldest Sound Recording (1857)

 

As a vampire, I am usually immune to mortal magic, but the Talk-To-God man had me. He was adept at some sort of matter-temporal manipulation, or alteration, which is even more difficult to achieve. I was locked in place, my feet secure within the beaten clay floor of his cave, as if held in cement. Nothing moved. The small, reddish flame between us hung quiet and still, illuminating the evil smile on the face of my adversary... a tableau vivant in Le Grand Guignol ...

If you too are caught out of time. If you've missed our last get together, kindly click on OLDER POST at the bottom of this offering to see what previously transpired. Sound seemed frozen too. The crackle of the fire... the low, resonant echo of the shaman's voice... my own basically useless breath (vampires need no oxygen, but breathe out of habit) all ran together in a sort of 'hum.'

I came to The Pines to do a good deed, but fell into this nightmare instead. Let me see. How can I explain it?... Do you know those dreams mortals have? You're walking down a dark, street... maybe even your own street. No one else is around. There are no automobiles. No one comes and goes. Front doors are locked. Maybe the leaves on the trees produce a low, menacing hiss. But you keep going... Then you hear, or barely hear a mumble behind you. Somehow you manage to summon up a bit of courage and turn around. There in the even deeper shadows under a tree you pick out a shape. Someone stands there. Someone faces you. They don't move. You don't move. The dark shape takes a step. You turn  and do the same. The thing is, your body slows down. Every particle of your being seems heavier. Forward momentum is almost impossible. The foot steps behind you keep coming. You want to run, but you can't run. You try to scream. You can't scream. The footsteps get closer.... There's your house, just up ahead. There's your walkway. You turn. The footsteps stop. You fumble for your keys. The thing behind you just stands there, maybe thirty feet away, watching. You fumble some more and manage to get the key into the lock, but it sticks. It won't turn. The thing comes closer. Still no face. Just a thing... You and 'the thing' and the hissing of the leaves... The key turns. The door opens. You rush inside. No lights! No lights! The timer didn't work! You slam the door. You turn the deadbolt. But then, in the dark, the shape from the street begins to descend the stairs.

When 'magic' has you, magic has you. Nothing means anything. Either you find a way to fight it, or you're gone.

Then ever so slowly, almost imperceptibly, the Talks-To-God man raised his hand and blew a gritty powder in my face. Each tiny particle danced through the light, as a wraith-like shape moved forth from a black, side passage, (the cave had many) stopped by the man and whispered in his ear.

I couldn't hear a word... but the message was very clear...

I was to be locked in time... like a fly in amber... No hope of escape... No hope at all...

Do you realize the man in that impossibly ancient 'video' up above was born during The War of 1812?... and what are the garbled 'words' on that even older recording?

<more to come>

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Wednesday, June 21, 2017

James Carr - The dark end of the street..Our Vampire, Jonathon, Loves this song.. 6/20/17



Jonathon speaks ~

I need this song. Every so often I listen to it. It soothes me. Night-folk spend a lot of time in the dark. And I mean to make no moral judgments. 'Dark' is an ambiguous thing.... basically just an empty void. It takes all comers. It hides everything. Some are eventually discovered. Others never are.... Darkness is magic.

The storms were severe. Four houses were struck by lightning. One home in the Delaware countryside suffered tornado damage. Vampires fear lightning. We seem to attract it. The most famished life-eater will not go out when it's near. A mortal might, under certain circumstances, survive a hit. Vampires never do. We explode. Suicidal vampires run screaming and laughing maniacally into the tempest searching for the final cataclysm. I am not suicidal. Suicide is a sin.....

So I waited till it was over, went out into the dark, raised my arms and ascended into the cloudy night sky. Sublimation calms me. Some vampires fear it, but 'Papa's' blood is almost without equal. I revel in it. I move through the air and the air moves through me. I like that... and headed for a secret place, deep within the New Jersey Pine Barrens.

Ah, The Pines... one of the largest, old growth, original forests east of the Mississippi and right in the middle of Philadelphia and New York City.... Some folks don't even know it's there... but night-folk know... and 'witchy' folk and Red Paint People and strange, mysterious species of human-ish beings know too. ... Secrets live along its dark streams. Orange eyes peer out from black shadows..... Careless people have been devoured by the huge snapping turtles and certain spider bites can take an eye out.

There's an ivy shrouded cave deep in a dense stand of tall, Southern Pines. South Jersey is the last stand of them what thrives in the South.... Got muskrats and bobcats and coy-wolves... a cougar or two... and that's just the documented varieties.... It's the undocumented specimens I mush up with.

Came down and condensed right outside that cave. Two, little dead-fish-white imp things tittered and scurried out of my way. I stood there, barely discernible in the weak moonlight dripping down through the trees and listened to what was going on in that cave.... Talks-To-God man lives in it. He's a shaman... a non-denominational shaman. Line started with the Red Paint People more than eight thousand years ago, but he does hoo-doo's for everybody now. Acts as court of last resort too. Real bad types get dragged in there. Then he shoves them down a near endless, round, narrow tunnel... more like a chute, sliding into the dirt, gravel and mud... a one way ride you don't want to take. Some folks try to straighten their legs and wedge them against the opposite side. That works for a bit, but sooner or later they get a cramp, or get tired and the race is on... sliding and careening down that greasy tunnel till they pop out the end, fifteen feet above an oozing, muddy, clay-like floor of a Hershey's Kiss shaped chamber...

I can hear them moaning.....

If they break a few bones, they break a few bones. It's not like anyone comes back up.

I step into the cave and quietly make my way 'round a bend, toward a low burnished glow about sixty feet up ahead... a four hundred pound black bear snorts and wakes up to check me out. Animals don't bother night-folk. He just sniffs and goes back to sleep.... Then the Talks-To-God-Man speaks. He says - His eyes are my eyes. Why are you hear, vampirino?.... I enter the small, round room where he sits staring into a compact, reddish fire. It's hard to tell where his shaggy hair and beard leaves off and his tattered, shredded up animal skin cloak begins. I sit down, nod... he talks again - Can you hear them moaning? There's two of them down there. One's got a broken shoulder and a broken leg. The other's got a shattered femur. Razor sharp piece jammed up into his bladder. He might have a few more fractures too, but that's the big one. They don't die right away. Water seeps up through the clay. Got fat slugs crawlin' around down there. Live off the mold. When them two get hungry enough, fat mold eatin' slugs gonna be like candy. Last bastard what rode the chute lived nine months. Well, existed nine months. When he dies, slugs ate him. They got a slime turns bone into soft, rubbery gristle. Slugs got rough tongues. They like gristle. They like everything. Mold just for tough times. Now, why you here, life-eater?

No reason for me to tell him. He knows. Talks-To-God-Men have their ways. I want to rescue one. You see, Edith, my housekeeper is a Piney-Witchy-Woman. She picks up things, even forty or fifty miles away in Philadelphia and one of them poor bastards is like a nephew to her.

Did he do anything horrible?

Don't ask me that. It's not what you do. It's all who you know... I say - I want one of them back.....

He laughs and says - Which one?

I say - The one with the punctured bladder. You know who that is. I'm thinking the slugs are your eyes too.

He nods and says something in Red Paint People talk. Then adds - Do your best, vampirino...

I attempt to get up, but my legs are all sucked into the damp, clay floor and no matter how I try, nothing changes. Even with all my abilities, I'm not going anywhere.

And the two, poor souls, three hundred feet into the earth begin to scream...

<more next time>

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Friday, June 16, 2017

Our Reverent Vampire, Jonathon , shares his thoughts as he watches this filmBaraka (1992) . 6/15/17 - fast... and slow

 

I have kept my own counsel as of late and in a sense I have retired from you. Others, both mortal and night-folk have filled my place, but I have always been here... thinking, experiencing and asking. Perhaps, I'm beginning to taste what 'life' is like for the one we all know as "Papa?'

But I am Jonathon ben Macabi, equally known as Tomas de Macabea and I have something to share.

Our world, our planet, our place in the universe is in a state of unbalance. A tribe of philosopher shepherds in the semi arid lands of what now calls itself 'America' has a name for it.. they call it 'Koyaanisqatsi.'... The Hopi knew and subsequent generations of humanity continue to know. We can't pretend any longer.

We are here to help complete and perfect Creation, or at least our part of it... and is not every place we touch our part? Our hands are God's Hands. That is the potential. The actuality of that truth is up to us.

Go out and work toward the perfect completion of Creation. There is an old Hebrew - Aramaic term, 'Tikkun Olam.' It means 'repair the universe' and the Children of Abraham are charged with nothing less..

Think not that the duty skips you. Think not that you hail from a 'different' tribe. We are all intermeshed.

If the nations had not been so intolerant toward the Exiled of Israel for the better part of two millennia the ten million souls existing at the time of Constantine would, through natural growth, be five hundred million souls today. In a sense, due to brutal forced 'assimilation' that number still rings true. The 'blood' is spread among all. The 'genes' shine forth in many bodies... These days, in this scientific age you can have the test. You can know.

Would that certainty entail a change of belief?... No, what we believe is up to each and every one of us.

These days politicians in the great New World empire of America view mankind as so many crabs in a basket, each responsible for its own place in the pile.. They tell us to work for the betterment of ourselves and be loyal to those who give us work. Well, that is true, up to a point, but it's only the beginning.

You are more than cogs in a machine. I'm sure, 'intuitively' we all know that, just as we know the ideal of 'righteous charity' so often falls so short of the mark....If it did not, physical want and injustice would be gone from the places they call 'red states.' Sadly, that's not true... far from it.

We are our brothers' keepers. There are no 'strangers.' We are all neighbors... It's obvious... Why is such a pure and simple thing resented by so many?

What choices do you make?

Those of you who visit this place with any regularity know me. Tomas de Macabea, or Jonathon ben Macabi (I am both) is a reverent soul, a believing 'vampire,' or at least, most nights, I am.

That's all

Have a nice weekend and if it is within your power to help others have a nice weekend, do that too.

It's a start.

<more to come>

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Monday, June 12, 2017

Meet the Baron Sareki... inspired by the music of the great Brandon Fiechter.. #vampirewonderland 6/11/17

 

Think of me as an Austro-Hungarian raconteur. I've graced the legendary coffee houses of Vienna and Budapest and Prague. I've danced at Schonbrun Palace and tasted the blood of Hapsburg royals. Some say I invented the czardas, or that it was invented for me. I have a lock of Cissie's hair... more than a lock... live strands complete with waxy roots and all. Some day we'll grow her back. I'm told the roots hold volumes on each and every one of us. Who has your hair?

Don't ask my age, or the place of my nativity. Who cares for such arbitrary details? But know me as Baron Sareki. That role defines me. Am I vahmpir?... Yes I am vahmpir ... and I am showman, impresario, rememberer of things past and so much more... I am orchestrating a 'come back,' though I have never gone anywhere.

It was so much easier being vahmpir in the old days. Private things were private things. People believed what you told them to believe. Brash, showy but eccentric Mittl-Europan 'aristocrats' were two for a pfennig . And the occasional missing 'ladies of the Ring Strasse' meant nothing. Members of the Gendarmerie barely noticed. Men of a certain sort were worth even less.

Unlike your Jonathon, I took no vows. Once I heard an advocate (lawyer) say most murders are aberrations. People snap. The right stimulus at the right time can cause that. Murder happens. Someone dies and then it's over. Skies clear. Birds sing. Peace reigns and the killer never does that thing again. Murder addicts, what you now call serial killers are rare. I think night-folk commit the same aberrant act over and over again. The trigger... the visceral blood lust... But in our case the circumstance, or the trigger, or the tension never disappears... Who knows? Perhaps we are serial killers. I mean do you think the Menendez Brothers will kill again?... The whole issue puzzles me. Are we battered individuals? Was the vampire who brought us over, in effect, out batterer? Is the only cure peasants with pitchforks, or some such variation?

Our individual conditions... yours... mine.. everyone's are so muddled. That's just how life is...

But the 'wine' flows... and we of the vampire persuasion possess near immortality, so tonight I dance. Tonight I feast. If I happen to drain you, or some other human you're attached to, hate me not. The act is not 'personal,' but an automatic reaction to a trigger far beyond my control.

Such savory little treats you all are... like sweet and sour meatballs drenched in gravy.

Ah, wunderbar.

(clicks heels) Baron Sareki is pleased to taste... no, forget I said that... Baron Sareki is pleased to meet you...

<Baron Sareki's tale will continue>

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Friday, June 9, 2017

Vampires hate the Summertime .. 6/9/17

They once sealed a vampire into a heavy, thirteenth century iron maiden made of lead. When it was shut and locked they wielded the seam with more lead. For the unfortunate life-eater sealed within there was no way out. Vampires cannot sublimate through that dense metallic substance. He sat there, forgotten, in the burial crypt of a semi ruined Austrian castle. Snow melt filtered down through the stones. He felt the cold. Thus he marked the seasons. Sometimes he dreamed. sometimes he didn't. The world turned 'round without him.

He's still there. The 'magic' rests differently on everyone. Some would dry and shrivel. But only some. I am Jonathon and I know many things. I feel them. I smell them. I taste them. And I sit here in our Philadelphia townhouse contemplating what I should share with you. There's so much... But let me just say this --- Truth usually comes at the beginning. So pay attention to our early writings. First utterances are the most accurate. All the really good words get used up. What comes after that rings hollow. It's like that with musicians... with poets and artists. The initial torrent runs clean and fresh. Subsequent trickles bear pebbles and sand.. Do you understand?

I've been practicing my 'expansions.' It's like sublimating. But when we sublimate the atoms of our beings  diffuse only enough to allow us to pass through solid matter. Expansions are different. We grow like clouds. Each particle moves away from its neighbors like stars in the firmament. Of course you understand the universe is expanding too? Maybe that's just how it is? 'Entropy' and all. I rise up above the atmosphere unto the very portals of space and I expand till my outstretched arms reach Heaven's Door... figuratively speaking.... I rest like that, drifting toward the Moon.... an invisible human shaped thing perhaps twelve thousand miles long. The silvery orb a basketball . My fingers rake the dust.... Then I contract and come back home.

'Papa' says I may not feel compelled to feed much longer. though I'll still possess that ability. Am I afraid?... Of course. But life goes on. What comes next is also a new beginning.... Will I still be here? Certainly... Things take time. Ux Mal wasn't built in a day. Sarah, my consort, watches me.. Now please know she has abilities far in advance of most other six year old vampirinas. I created her. My blood is her blood. But I've witnessed more than a thousand years... Well, maybe not. But close to it.

She sits there, in her comfortable club chair doing needle point.... petit point, actually. Her eyesight is superb. With concentration, she can see microscopic creatures cavorting through a glass of tap water. I can see souls rise up from corpses. I can hear the shrieks and cries of those buried alive. That doesn't happen so much anymore, not in 'developed' western cultures. But when it does, I can hear them.

Edith, our 'witchy woman' housekeeper, hands me an 'old fashion' glass of chilled vodka... more than chilled, icy cold actually. I enjoy the sensation... Cold is good. Vampires love cold. Winter is our time.... long starry nights.

The summer solstice approaches. They say in the misty time of first beginnings, early vampires truly feared that event. What if the days continued to get longer and longer till nighttime was no more? They gathered for prayers and for what some might call 'feeding frenzies.' But that was far, far in advance of my time... Papa's time too... even the Lady Renate knew not those things, though we all heard stories.

I suppose 'Mr. Old Bones,' the only extant Neanderthal vampire I've ever encountered might know the truth?
___________________

With that, the life-eater known as Jonathon ben Macabi, or Tomas de Macabea (both are equally valid) puts down his glass, exits the 'den,' proceeds through the entrance hall and leaves the house.

Sarah, his consort, waits for the door to click shut. It locks automatically. Vampire doors are always locked.

She exhales and returns to her craft.

<next time - magic even you can do>

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...

Monday, June 5, 2017

Our Vampire, Jonathon ben Macabi likes this ..David Bowie - Cat People (Putting Out Fire) Music Video HQ

 

Your vampire friend, Jonathon ben Macabi, like this. He listen to it all the time. He think and he listen. Tried to get rid a y'all for a while. Had Billy throw that Illuminati tale at you. True stuff too. Got it from an old journal. Lawrence Edgerton was real. A lot of what we tell you is real. Thing is... y'all don't know which parts.

But nobody read it, or not 'nuff nobody. Y'all want blood. Gets like that in the summertime. Folks get hot. Get itchy. Get buggy. I Mister Never You Mind. Y'all know me. Just a disembodied spirit of a man what got throwed in acid 'bout ninety five years ago somewhere in Le Vieux Carre. Dat de Frenchie part a New Orleans. I was a Creole gentleman, or at least I dress like one. Had dem white suits and nice cool Panama hats. You know them hats not come from Panama? Get 'em little way passed Panama, down Ecuador way. I used to go down there for de white powder... de cocaine. Folks in Quito, dat de capital, like doing business wit America people, 'specially us Creole folk, 'cause we sorta speak they talk. Most Creole be a mash-up a Spanish an' Frenchie. Talk both ways. But I digress.

Jonathon tired. Night-folk (vampires) get dat way come June. Nights too short. Blood too hot. Dey like it hot, but not dat hot. He once make a gal take a cold bath 'fore he kill her. She say - What for I got take a cold bath?.... He say - 'Cause I say so.... She go - Humph.... He say - You take dat cold bath, I give you gold bracelet.... She say 'humph' again, but she take dat bath an' he give her dat bracelet. She wear it when he kill her. But then he take it back. What for she need gold bracelet when she dead? Not like she know what comin'. Ain't nobody know dat. I once knew a fellah walkin' by de boneyard get killed by a beer bottle from the sky. Aviator guy toss it out. Diss right after de Great War. Dem bastids think they hot shit. He got gal up dere wit him. She say - Whoopee! How 'bout you an' me get drunk, big boy?...... So they do. She get herself little bit knock up, but dat wit 'nother big boy.

Dey send me out here to talk to you first. Night-folk, I mean. Jonathon gone break some bastid's knuckles wit a hammer 'fore he kill him tomorrow.  You know ev'ry finger got three knuckles... the big one what meet the hand and two little ones. Gone be lot a bone crackin'. Punishment fit de crime. Dat how it is... He got this thing he do, vampire fellah, I mean. Stand behind a guy. Put his right hand over guy's forehead, so head can't move. Then he hook his left hand over fellah's jaw an' rip it right off. Tongue too, most a the time. Dat for like a real big crime.

Vampire got they ways. You don't wanna cross 'em. They tear you right up. Not like gettin' throwed in no vat a acid, but still....

It gone be a long hot summer... an' if y'all want vampires, you gonna get 'em.

<more to come>

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Sunday, June 4, 2017

Welcome to The Wonderland and possibly, Fame - I Sing The Body Electric

 

This is Jonathon ben Macabi speaking, or Tomas de Macabea. Both truths are equally valid. I am the vampire 'star' of this site and in a sense its mascot. We've been here, on line, for six and a half years, detailing all types of fiction and fantastical escapes (well, at least we 'say' it's fiction) And we will continue to do so, but it's time to grow. That's where you come in...

Everything is everywhere... We believe that. In this digital plane of existence location is not a bar to anything. Light shines through every screen... hopefully some of it bounces off you. So join us. Pick a niche and write, or report, or interpret and tack your words up here. We already enjoy a somewhat respectable level of traffic. As of tonight, we're closing in on 400,000 hits. Considering most came in the last two years or less that's pretty good.

It's time for you to stake out a platform and fully inhabit your space. We're adding writer-reporters to our authorized contributor list. I think we're allowed one hundred.. A few we've already nominated. Many will nominate themselves. If videos are your thing, post videos... Cover food, or style, or cinema, or politics, or culture, or humor. Interview people. Share your links and any other sites you might have... Cover music. Post your own material... Discuss creativity with other creative people.

Switch niches whenever you want, just preface every post with --- KEYWORD MUSIC ... or KEYWORD POLITICS ... or KEYWORD CINEMA ... You get the picture. Make's it easy for browsers to search topics... example --- vampirewonderland.blogspot.com music.... All written posts should be at least 500 words. That's not our rule. Blogging experts say readers prefer 500 words or more. If you post video or audio material, you're the director. You pick the length... You decide how your by-line looks.. Does it come up top right after the keyword, or at the bottom? If you have a Twitter of FaceBook page, or any other social site add those links too. You can make them clickable. You'll see 'Link' on a bar at the top of the page when you write. Click on it. Very easy to figure out.

If you'd like to do this, click Billy's Twitter link just below all this and he'll set it all up.... Uh, I'm not 'Billy.' I'm Jonathon... remember?... OK.

There's a 'share' bar at bottom of each blog page. I'll get into how to use it later... but USE it... It works.

Till next time.....

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click BILLY ON TWITTER ... to join me and talk about your ideas..... Everything is everywhere... What choices do you make?... You want inspiration?... Listen to the great video from the movie FAME up at the top... Saw it on You Tube and had to share it. It's sooo good.

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

There was one special day when ROLLING STONE was born, so maybe we all got a shot too? .. 6/1/17

We've been experimenting and considering new things. Story arcs will still be a part of it, but so will a lot of other things.... non fiction... 'newsy' things.... critiques... opinions...interviews.... Still feeling our way around... Will be sending invitations to writers soon... Manhattan's Ron Woodard might be the first (his invite already went out).. If you're a regular reader or TWITTER inter actor<---- click here to communicate with me (us?) about this via Twitter.... Morphing (maybe, I hope) into #vampirewonderland (clickable) an Urbane 'Evening' Newspaper... as we always say ---- 'everything is everywhere'..... what do you want to say, or highlight, or share?.. What's YOUR niche?

We already have 'some' name recognition... Might as well stretch and grow...

Also note ---- you can cover goings on in ANY city on Earth.... arts.... politics.... film.... pop culture..... how to get a break... how not to get a break.....Everything is everywhere.... borders are merely an illusion....

Please think about this... If you like, go watch ALMOST FAMOUS for inspiration...

That's it.... PLEASE communicate.

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Monday, May 22, 2017

Ape Tears Human Asunder 5/22/17 . Matthias Loibner hurdy gurdy master



Lawrence Edgerton, in spirit form, shares more from his early years with the Illuminati-----

Besides Hefton, I made three other friends that night. They were all a bit older than I and called me 'little brother.' One was a 'lord,' since his father was an earl and, as elder son, he carried the secondary title. The other two were brothers hailing from an amazingly rich gentry clan. Now gentry families are a whole other thing. They bear no titles, but not due to any social deficiency. I suppose, they just don't need them. Everyone knows who they are. And not being peers allows them to pull strings in the commons, where it really counts. Besides, they often hold vaunted county seats, such as sheriff and that provides real power too. Tarlton, they were called. Twins, though not identical, if I recall correctly.

Why do I dwell on this?.... Well, that's due to what happened next. They took me to a secret establishment. London was filled with secret establishments, from hidden gambling dens to a variety of gimmicky whore houses and occult cellars where they (at least according to whispers) sewed live humans into the carcasses of gigantic Nile crocodiles, which were then slow roasted in a long narrow bed of red hot coals. They say a certain Upper Egyptian river deity appreciated the gesture and dispensed eternal largesse to all committed supplicants. Why they didn't just write him a nice fat check, I'll never know.

We went to a rare and new display, deep beneath the second cellar of an old country house (or what was once a country house) a bit to the west of Vaux Hall, a once esteemed pleasure garden with wine dispensaries, live music and lovely little boats for hire, as well as a festively decorated merry-go-round and other such fun-fair devices.
The place sat off beyond a dark, secluded copse patrolled by armed guards. Some said a Scots Laird paid them, others a gentleman close to the throne. Wise men said nothing, as it was their place to know nothing.

That night we travelled incognito, in a nondescript hired coach, devoid of ostentatious trim. The coachmen was a mute illiterate. Any secrets he might know were sealed within his bones. The two bodyguards, brought up from Palermo and blood members of The Black Hand were the best that money could buy.. So we rode through the gardens and passed through the trees, till we came to the house (still a large commodious affair) and entered through a discreet, little kitchen door 'round the back...... A quick race down two or three turns of an ancient, spiral stair delivered us to the spot.... How many similar places hid among the rabbit warrens of London, I do not know. In that age they were numerous and well frequented.... You might call them 'television' and 'internet.' So feign not exalted honor at our expense. You do the like, though from a proper distance.

None were witness, save myself, my four companions and a master of ceremonies done up like a cruel, dandy clown. The walls, thick, white washed, rough hewn stone. In the center of the chamber was a large, black, cast iron cage with a small narrow passage going off to the right and a matching one going off to the left. They floor was strewn with straw. A miserly bit of dull, orange light fell down from lanterns widely placed about the space. The cruel clown whistled. A door opened and a whimpering naked wretch crawled forth from the sinister side out into the round cage.... No one made a sound.... The wretch, in a barely audible voice, whispered - Please..... but in vain. No rescue there that night.... The clown sighed and the remaining door burst open, releasing a bristling, bounding ape, brought hence from the banks of a river deep within the fetid depths of an equatorial jungle... How it shrieked and rattled the bars.... The victim curled up like a nut and tried to disappear, but the keen eyed beast already knew his scent and studied him . It hissed. The man screamed. The carnage was on.

First they go for the scrotum (true). Do you know how easy it is for a one hundred and eighty pound thing with two and a half inch canines to do that? The immediate and prodigious fountain of red is absolutely amazing. One can see the heartbeat in each and every pulse. Very often other sex parts come off with it. Death, due to exsanguination is a given. The straw was completely blood soaked. The ape's head resembled nothing so much as a crazed, candied apple. One or two of my companions downed swigs from cunning, little flasks.... Then the ruined fetal human babbled in an unknown language, reigniting the ire of the troglodyte, which grabbed the doomed meat sludge by its ankles and swung him around in complete circles, like a frightful ballerino committed to smashing as much bone as possible against the bars. Finally, the dizzy, stumbling ape settled down and proceeded to strip the flesh from the skull. We heard weak, little moans as it sucked out the eyes. Hard to stomach the fact that any measure of consciousness still remained.

The small door at the end of the passage to the right scraped open. The ape grabbed his dead 'toy' by the mandible and quickly disappeared back to its den.

No one moved...

After a heartbeat the cruel, dandy clown clapped his hands and giggled with delight.... We freshened ourselves at the kitchen pump (fortunately no one was splattered... they obviously had this show down to a science) and left.

The cool, night air through the slightly opened coach windows felt good.

And the sound of lurid hurdy gurdy music (a Vaux Hall staple) played us down the lane and out to the streets.

Tomorrow, or some day soon after, I'd see the Tarltons about an investment. My Illuminati mentors need their money to proceed.

And I think I know how to approach them..

That's how it was... Witness a murder, make a friend....

'Society' in the capital, circa 1830's......

<more next time>

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Friday, May 19, 2017

Prologue - Any Dream Will Do ..Edgerton learns Illuminati Symbolism 5/18/17

 

I hope the great and talented creator of musical culture responsible for this inspiring material begrudges us not for highlighting it here. But this disembodied spirit narrator burdened with the telling of the tale (for it is his tale) wafts through productions of the great composer's work all the time and wants you, oh best belov-eds, to think upon it.

Though that comes later...

Now we must return to Lawrence Edgerton (please know that the spirit was Edgerton) and what happened to him after the 'pleasurable' dinner and card came at Mivart's Hotel (the egg that grew into Claridge's) last time we met..... David Hefton (known as the 'second Beau Brummel') dropped him at the London townhouse he shared with his ersatz 'aunt' and left.

Inside, the selfsame lady sat in the main salon entertaining a late night visitor.... the man with the long, salt and pepper hair, indeed the gentleman who first brought young Edgerton 'out from the darkness' (an Illuminati term) a few weeks ago. They shared an aromatic Turkish hookah, as a large, wind-up music box played Gypsy folksongs in the corner. London culture in the 1830's still had a very 'romantic' bent. A soft glow from a pair of milk glass whale oil lamps bathed all in a most flattering way.

Edgerton nodded to the seated pair and joined them... The dapper, gentleman guest said - What's that smell? And I don't mean the ambergris scent from the lamps. It's something else.... The ersatz 'aunt,' herself a valued Illuminati 'light,' blushed and smiled, as the man went on... Is that some sort of perfume, or eau de cologne? And I don't mean that concoction  the 'Little Corporal' favored, 4711, or whatever it was........ Edgerton didn't say a word.... I believe it is a perfume. Chantilly water if I'm not mistaken - whispered the 'aunt.'....... The visitor thought for a moment, smiled knowingly and chuckled.... Please forgive us, young sir. We're quite familiar with current practice. We know what goes on at those 'gentlemen's evenings' - said the guest..... Speak not for me - went the aunt. I am a lady..... But she ever so slightly rolled her eyes.....

The salt and pepper haired man reminded Edgerton that although true Illuminati plans and purposes were in no way evil or sinister, the world was not an innocent place. 'Lights' (members) sometimes stepped down from the high ground for the greater good. Then he referenced the Biblical story of Joseph, a well known Illuminati symbol of one who did just that.... a reverent Son of Jacob, who made his way in a scandalous, foreign society, thus saving his brethren from certain starvation, as well as saving the Egyptians too..... We are all Josephs - said the man.... And Josephinas - added the lady..... We do what we can, where we can and when we can to move the herd along. Some may hate us. Some may love us. But all need us - he added.

So Lawrence Edgerton went up to bed. His employer, Sir Charles de Castor expected him to be at his tasks by eight 0'clock and his Illuminati brothers and sisters expected him to learn the ways of 'the street' (financial district), as well as the habits of the powerful men who made their mark there.

The music box went quiet. The house was dark.

Before drifting off, young Lawrence could not help but think about the 'private girl' he'd met just a few hours earlier.

And that was it.

Let the game begin...

<more to come>

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Wednesday, May 17, 2017

The Chainsmokers... Uno Illuminato said to post this.. 5/17/17. - Closer (Lyric) ft. Halsey




Hotels are a new thing... urban 'manor houses' for those with a bit of social distinction, or the money to create the illusion of social distinction. They set up 'house' for a few evenings or a week, perhaps a month, if funds allow, and live a life of luxury. Mivart's is such a place. London's first major hostelry. Quite a step up from the plain, though comfortable Georgian inns, although some of them still enjoy a devoted clientele. Indeed, so discrete was the neo-classical façade that most actually took it for the city home of an aristocratic, well-off person of distinction.

My entre, my voucher, David Hefton, led the way. We ascended the grand staircase and proceeded down a wide, cream paneled hallway, lit by tall candles in crystal sconces, each surrounded by a sizeable cream framed mirror.... Why do I dwell so on such superficialities? I suppose I want the age to come alive for you. Mirrors were necessities back then, needed to reflect and multiply the illumination. Every floor had its 'sand boy,' even private homes, always at the ready to smother flames with a large, heavy pail-full of white Dover granules. For flames above the floor, such as those caused by mischievous sconces, there was a water boy... same job... different bucket. Should a ceiling alight, those that could escaped to the streets. Those that couldn't ran toward the windows and prayed.

Our era was tinged by the Enlightenment, though not by much. Urban poor often lived on pigeons or worse and prostitution was (no matter what churchmen said) better than starvation.

Now, let me get back on track.... I can use that term. Investment in railroads was beginning. The Illuminati promoted it. What better way to knit humanity together?

Hefton stopped before a pair of doors... cream colored, as usual. Oh, there was a bit of gold leaf applied here and there. 'Eggshell' does get tedious , thus the gory over reaction of the Victorian age yet to come.... Then he quietly knocked. A footman soundlessly let us in. The room, somewhat dim compared to the rest of the establishment was set up as a card room... five tables of gentlemen carelessly placing bets on the turn of a stiffened piece of thick, glossy paper..... I whispered to Hefton - How much is the buy-in? ... That term, I knew. Even country boys gambled. And I did have funds supplied by the 'beacon' (an organized 'chapter' of Illuminati).... Hefton (called 'the second Beau Brummel') smiled and said - Just sit down. Everything's been arranged.... So we took seats at a table occupied by four gentlemen recently graduated from university. Hefton made the necessary introductions. Another footmen gave us each our buy-ins and that was it. Not much different than the last time we spoke. Society was like that. One met a group... sized everyone up and was sized up in return.

Those in attendance were men of wealth, either their own, or some senior relation's... But the important thing is they could get it... should the right organization apply the proper amount of pressure.

So I played cards that night... I ate delicious cold, rare roast beef served Bavarian style with horseradish and pickled slaw..... I drank chilled Rhine wines. In the 1830's chilled wine was a true luxury and quite a delight.

Before play resumed, 'private girls,' as they were called, dressed in corsets and scanties, took their place under each table, surprising every guest in turn. Some closed their eyes. Some giggled. Others just stared into space and gasped for air.... How did I react?... With dignity and aplomb, I must say. I do remember that 'our' private girl was a quite striking Amazon named Charlotte... I did not know that then, but I learned soon enough...

'Dame' Charlotte, as she was called, proved a true friend... and a genuine virtuoso (is there a feminine suffix for that word?) in the persuasive arts.

Now, please let me streak about the universe, as disembodied spirits do. I have an appointment west of The Pleiades.

Edgerton out...

<more tomorrow>
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