Monday, October 22, 2018

They were Both Children in the Tents of Abraham

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

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

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

Oh, why, oh why did I oh,

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

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

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

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

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Buenos noches.


Tuesday, October 16, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you.

Tuesday, September 18, 2018

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

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

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

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

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Thursday, September 13, 2018

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

THE VAMPIRE JONATHON SPEAKS ---

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

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

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

Even the ghouls despised me.

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

<more tomorrow>

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Tuesday, September 11, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I can handle that.....

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Wednesday, July 11, 2018

THE VAMPIRE JONATHON SPEAKS Renaissance Music in a Castle. Ancient Music in the Loire Valley.



I had a refuge in the north of Italy. Please ask me not its exact location, for the descendants of my familiars then still inhabit the place and shun such notoriety. It was actually a castillo, a house built in the waning years of the fourteenth century. The medieval mind set was beginning to lose hold among the higher levels of society, thus the structure was as much palazzo as fortress. We had glass in the windows and an interior room for bathing. There were marble hearths and polished, stone floors warmed by Persian carpets. Some such residences still used rushes... but not mine. And the dogs about the place where greyhounds or whippets, no gross mastiffs or rough coated wolfhounds. Indeed, we had four designated 'shit boys,' whose job it was to whisk away errant turds and mop up, or scrub out the pee. Don't ask me their names. No one ever bothered with names. We yelled - 'Shit boy!'... and one was there. Most times even that was unnecessary, for they hovered behind the dogs like acolytes and they did their job very well.

I went abroad in daylight then too. Of course it was an illusion accomplished via a double. They found him among a group of mummers performing at a fair. Money changed hands and he was mine. We dressed him like me... exercised him till he had my form.. styled his hair like my long, dark wavy locks and that was it... Being a mummer, he learned my speech patterns very quickly. His cooperation was assured via tiny but regular infusions of my blood. Not enough to make him as I, but enough to keep him in a state of permanent enchantment.  No one suspected a thing. Granted, attendants followed him everywhere, though considering the rough nature of the times, bodyguards were a regular accessory. All the best people had them. His carried small vials of my blood, lest he was killed, or struck dead before the eyes of others. They knew how to quickly revive him and carry him to safety. Thus I appeared to attend daylight masses and hunt with the other young bloods. Was I the first vampire to create a daylight double? No, of course not. Though I share more night-folk truths than most.

Do you know why I haven't communicated in anything like a regular basis recently? I am plagued by doubt. The current political atmosphere depresses me. I mean the things you mortals (or the less enlightened ones) grapple with! Look, let me ask you a question. What STOPS you from living as conservative a life as you please?... The government is in no way bound to force others along the same path. I can see demanding a fiscally careful regime. Fine, do that... But all the rest? Don't compel society to sanction your biases. Forget this reborn Bonfire of The Vanities so many lust after. These things never end well. So I sit in my chair every night silently absorbing vintage films and rehabbed lofts... when I'm not out patrolling the midnight streets, that is. I 'cull' my monthly blighted soul and play with Sylvia and Aura in their long forgotten realm under the city. A vampire abides.

But I meant to share my most favored years in Italy with you. Permit me to regain my composure. (bows his head and squeezes the bridge of his nose)..... (sniffs).... I kept a pleasure barge on the river... and when we were sufficiently downstream, beyond the town, my liveried oarsmen would dowse the torches so I might enjoy myself in total darkness. Please know that by the standards of the time, my 'subjects' were far from abused. Each went home  with a polished opal or two, plus my sincerest compliments.

Vampire 'personalities' change over the years.... and that identity beckons me.... boy, does it ever.... (cue the recorders and lutes... as he grins mischievously and offers a curt, little salute toward the camera)

The naughty Jonathon is back.....

< more tomorrow... I promise>

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there was supposed to be an atmospheric video of Renaissance music at the top of all this but somehow it got dropped... sorry.

Sunday, June 17, 2018

Mike Oldfield - Music of the Spheres - Aurora be inspired by its resonance and behold THE BOOK OF ALL THINGS... the 'b.o.a.t.'



All who see this are already connected. We are united by an energy as old as Creation and as new as the devices that bind us. And these 'things' are more than weekly 'specials' vended in 'big box' stores. They are, when wielded properly. portals transmitting thoughts, truths and possibilities. Use them not simply for games, or to silently ingest the art of others. Give birth to your own digital nuggets and send them flying through space and time, beyond the here and now... and out into forever.

That bit of electro - magnetic entertainment you hold has been called a computer, but to the truly prescient,  it is so much more than that. It is an ever growing collection... a book of all things... a b.o.a.t. ... and we are all helmsman. Choose your course and steer wisely. Waste not your time... explore... produce and shape the world to your end.

We had inklings of this far back at the beginning, in the early days of Vampire Wonderland, when it was called The Book Of All Things New. The vampires graciously lent their reality to the furtherance of this message. The noble members of that long misunderstood breed always see light in the darkness. Indiscriminate killers they are not.

But they were just the lure. Night-folk tales were popular back then and many read their words. Years passed and the universe changed. Will the night-folk vanish? No. How can they do that? They are real. But you are real too... and many souls wait for what you have to say.

Say it.....

Take off the gag and speak.

I am not 'Billy' who lives in the townhouse with the night-folk. I am not one of the disembodied spirit narrators. I am the same as you... and we deserve to be heard.

If you want to be heard, but find it hard to start, follow Billy's site on Twitter. click on THIS .... Start small. Share insights, or retweet.... whatever.... Just do not go silent into that good night.

Tell us something...

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there was supposed to be a video too, Mike Oldfield's  Music of The Spheres... but our enemies toy with us and it never posted... that's alright... search it on Youtube... You'll see... thanks

Friday, June 1, 2018

THE VAMPIRES HAVE A PLAN TO SAVE THE ROSEANNE SHOW ... 6/1/18

It's been a long quiet spring here at the townhouse. Everybody just minds their own business and keeps to themself. Edith runs back and forth to The Jersey Pines. Seems they got two or three new little Jersey Devil foals and you know how she dotes on children. Sarah loses herself in the bookshop. They redecorated PHILADELPHIA AFTER DARK. Still looks all snug and old timey with them wing chairs and pin-up lamps scattered 'round for reading.... the narrow aisles... the collection of tick-tock clocks and 'small game' taxidermy specimens posed on little shelves behind the old (and discreetly, newly refinished) seventeenth century work table-counter. Folks take pictures of the mullioned windows and the dark green wood trimmed facade with the gold lettering all the time. Say it looks real Harry Potterish. Damn, lot a little streets in Society Hill look that way and always have.... brick sidewalks.... scaled down trees. Ghosts love the place. It is a regular ghost resort. They don't have to blind themselves to the future, 'cause it ain't there, 'cept for the cars and narrow streets don't see many a them. Folks walkin' through got that 'modern' look. Guess you can't have everything, 'specially being basically dead and all... But are ghosts really dead? They run around without no fleshy bodies 'cause them fleshy bodies wears out. Yet they still the same as they always was. And a old place, like Philadelphia, got whole bunch a ghosts. Folks who say - nah, we ain't got no ghosts... ain't got no idea. Not every ghost is a show-off. Most just were not brought up that way....

I forget I'm a ghost. I recognise folks know me as Mister Never You Mind, an old Creole gentleman from the French Quarter. But I forget about the 'dying' in a vat of acid, or burnt up tied to a chair and doused with gasoline, 'cause that recollection is just a who mess a unnecessary pain. so I simply let it go.

Jonathon, the main vamperino in this tale (well, at least he thinks he is) still do his nightly rounds, walkin' all over the place. Vampires think like big jungle cats and Center City is his territory. Oh, he fine with another vamperino or two, just so they know he 'alpha.'

Doctor Franklin gettin' active again. They up to somethin' at his scientific installation under the Navy Yard. He not a vampire. He just a scientifically preserved, three hundred and twelve year old, self centered founding father. I don't mess with him much. He got this device that detects us spirit folk and I like to be discrete, bein' a true Southern gentleman and all...

Jonathon got an idea for that Roseanne fiasco. He says they should get Bette Midler ('cause she can be loud and brassy too, you know) to play long lost Aunt Toots.... name's really Aunt Betty, but she always been called Toots... She got some money too... Used to front for a Bette Midler tribute group.... One dark and stormy night when the rest a the Conners is sittin' around talkin' 'bout how could Roseanne be so dumb to let herself get snatched by 'the Gypsies?' (that is somethin' the real Roseanne might say) the front door at 714 Delaware Street SLAMS open and a drenched Aunt Toots (really Bette Midler) holding two stuffed trash bags yells - Well?! Which a you fat asses is gonna help me with my luggage?!.... Thus the show goes on.....

Jonathon wants to get one of his 'familiars' (mortal helpers) with Hollywood connections to call somebody...

Vampires are always thinkin' stuff up.
Night-folk are actually very creative....

<more next time>


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Friday, April 27, 2018

The VAMPIRES Binge watch The Outer Limits in their sleeping cubicles.. Season 1 Opening and Closing Credits and Theme Song

 

How can paranormal beings not love these tales? Please remember that few are born paranormal... maybe some 'born witches' and in their own ancient, quiet way the Red Paint People. But vampires and lycanthropes start out as mortals... regular human mortals. As such they are quite aware of the magic and transcendence of it all. What must it be like to become a life-eater.... or a human  who sometimes escapes into a feral world of moonlight and luscious flesh?

Everything is everywhere. Perhaps 'reality' is just the part timid sorts are willing to see?.... an idiot's delight of the safe and mundane..... Artists know that. Surrealists let themselves 'see' what's out there. Some of those we call 'insane' are merely just aware....

What do you see?

What holds the meat to your bones? Why does it not slide down and pool at your feet, contained like vomit in your bloated skin? And why does that skin not tear and rip at the crown of your skull and roll down from the bones, leaving them bare and naked... A slug has no bones. yet it lives. What locks your soul to your body? Does it fly free at night exploring Creation via dreams? Is magic a fundamental violation of nature, or merely a scientific reassembly and repositioning of what is just there waiting for direction? Is it proper for us to play 'conductor?'.... How about 'director?'... What separates the priest from the wizard? What is fitting and what is not?

Every instant of creation finds us at a fork in the road. Every instant of creation offers us the 'right' or the 'wrong.' The clock never stops till the end. We can't turn away from the game. Play, but play carefully...

Shhhh.... the clock is ticking.....

A shepherd's daughter watched from the bushes, as the king's daughter went by, raised up on a fine liter and resplendent in costly linen with sandals of softest deerskin. But the simple girl's eyes saw the golden diadem upon her brow and thought --- If I only had that selfsame shining circlet  for my own. Soon after a ram began to speak. Now please know this was in the early times when such things occasionally happened. The shaggy beast said - If it is your true heart's desire, it shall be yours...... The girl asked --- How?..... But the creature just smiled in an alarmingly human fashion, revealing fine, cat-like teeth. A certain power emanating from the ram's eyes made the girl forget his words. A few heartbeats later, she fell asleep embraced by the soft mossy earth, between the roots of an old oak tree,  surrounded by her slumbering flock. Though the ram was not among them.... Those nocturnal life forms with eyes and minds capable of understanding saw him staring at the moon... just staring .... frozen like a statue mounted on a small hillock .....

The girl woke with the faint, misty light of dawn. She gasped to find the circlet resting firm on her brow and ran to see her reflection in a small, still pond.... There it was, the exact diadem .... the princess's gold circlet.

She scrambled to her feet and shook the water from her clothes.... A large fat white salamander with red eyes and gill frills 'round it's head finished swallowing a naked little pixie (head first) with dragonfly wings, licked its chops, spit up a bit of blood and something else and said --- It suits you.... But she wasn't listening. Her image was too alluring..... Even the sheep seemed to notice. And the small, biting flies so common during that time of year left her alone and made do with the still living mutton.

Now the flock hated her. She killed their children and sold their little lifeless bodies on market day. Some stout burgher-wives liked lamb slaughtering and preferred to do it themselves. Others were cognizant of the fact that live lambs come with a fleece. Look, everyone has their reasons.

That evening, after her prisoners were adequately watered and quietly resigned to the tragedy of their lives, she sat under her favorite tree, preparing to rest. She took off her shoes and rolled the stockings from her feet. When she lifted the gold circlet from her brow it did not come easy, leaving an exact indentation of itself upon her soft, clear skin... But she could not see that. Oh, the pond was still there, though in the darkness it only reflected the moon...

The shepherdess wrapped the diadem in her shawl, placed it in a small hollow (just a slit in the tree-bark) quite safe from prying eyes and readied herself for sleep..... In all her hours of sweet slumber the exact indentation of the gold circlet refused to disappear...

I guess it had its reasons too....

<more to come... hopefully tomorrow>

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Monday, April 16, 2018

STRANGE PEOPLE ... 4/16/18

There's no featured video tonight and no apropos music. The vampires and other night-folk I blog for are not into it. Sometimes it happens that way. They go into a stupor. Usually it starts with one of the old ones. In our case, that would be Jonathon ben Macabi, or Tomas de Macabea. He's known by both names. A long life will do that. 'Papa' doesn't count. He's so incredibly ancient. Different laws apply.

Little Bastid Annie, our twelve year old vampirina in six a year old body, plays Barbie's Dungeon for hours and hours. I think it started as a nice, doll house castle, but she got bored with it and painted in all black and gray... the floors... everything. Then she found a place on line that sold genuine hand forged scale model torture devices. They were already made for eleven inch fashion dolls and twelve inch army-guy figures, so she bought the whole sixteen piece, Ivan the Terrible deluxe set.... with pieces of coordinating dark, heavy medieval looking furniture to go along with it. Edith, the Jersey Pines, witchy-woman housekeeper let her put in on one of the household credit cards. Old established vampire households have lots of cards. Nobody cares. Now half of her sleeping cubicle is taken over by the five and a half foot tall 'castle of death.' That's what she calls it. The dolls all have these goth outfits. Actually, they're the Maleficent Line from Disney. The army-guy dolls are the 'torture guys,' another Annie term and she dresses them in Thor outfits, only they don't have Thor hair... She pretends it got cut off in a war... Annie sets up these elaborate tableaux spanning four stories of the castle. Then she sits there and stares at it by the light of a dollar l.e.d. flashlight Edith got from Boscov's. The rest of her sleeping cubicle is dark. Edith gets her lots of batteries too.

But Tomas doesn't say much. He still goes out roaming the city every night... Just walks... in his black jeans, white shirt and leather coat. He has all kinds of leather coats and jackets... big warm ones... trim quilted 'space cadet' types... scarves... knit hats. He has all that. The cold can't hurt him. He just likes to feel warm and secure.

Edith says all 'hoo-doo' types get like this. 'Hoo-doo' is a Piney term. It means them what's tetched by magic. Not just vampires. They got a whole menagerie. Tends to manifest when seasons change. Been going on a long time already here, 'cause seasons don't know which way they want to go. Sometimes he'll sit in an all-night coffee shop nursing a hot tea, pretending to read one of those free Center City papers they have by the register. Waitresses all know him. They come over and say - Yo, are you all right?... He don't even pick his head up. Just flips them a twenty, or like a couple of twenties if there's two of them. In waitress-land, when you give out a twenty or two, that means you're all right, so they top off his hot water and give him another tea bag and leave him alone..... He rides around in taxis too. Has a few regular drivers. Knows their numbers. Flags them down. Gets in the back. Pulls his knit cap down low over his eyes. Rests his head on the top of the seat and just stares out the window. When he's had enough an hour or two later, he says - Stop here... Pays and gets out. Drivers think he's a nut. Oh, some people around town know he's a vampire, but not everybody.

Once spring really hits they'll all snap out of it. Leo just sits there looking at the TV and chuckling like a maniac. Doesn't make a difference what the screen shows. He's not 'seeing' that anyway. Just laughs and shakes his knee up and down a mile a minute. Looks like that actor Sam Rockwell does when he plays mental cases....

And that's it... Sarah does her thing. Baylah mostly stays down the shore and Conrad just acts like a regular, pudgy school teacher guy who happens to be a vampire. Wears Docker pants and everything.

Real cold and dark and rainy out there tonight.... Two guys found a severed head under a bench in Fittler Square, but it was still talkin' so they left it alone. Scrunched a newspaper around it to keep it warm, but that was it.

Drunk guy says - Don't you say 'thank you?'..... Head says - Go to hell.....

<more tomorrow>

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Friday, March 30, 2018

The Honeycombs-Have I The Right (Shindig) 1964 inspire a new cable vampire series



OK, OK.... here it is.... The early 1960's.... a grungy pub somewhere in Manchester... a cross section of working class youth downs pints and socializes. The place goes dark.. BOOM! The lights snap back... and in that instant an intriguing rock quartet appears on the little stage, tearing into the song featured above.... Guys feign disinterest. Girls watch mesmerized, stomping their feet to the beat.

Meet THE SPIDERS, Britain's newest sensation... Peter, Tom, Luke and Billy (I always put a 'Billy' in my stories)... four slick dudes, just a little bit too irresistible and a little too bit self-assured.

After the set, the guys do nothing.  The girls scream, rake their fingers through their hair and jump around like ... well, the local press calls it 'the Manchester Mania.'

One bush league Judy Geeson   climbs over the bouncers and fights her way onto stage... The girls go absolutely wild. Frontman, Peter, grabs her, leans over and plants a deep hard kiss right on her neck. She swoons... The windows rattle from the pandemonium.

Two bouncers take her limp body and carry her away.... The guys are having none of it... I suppose, as this is Britain, they're actually 'the blokes,' but this is just a quick visualization.

Out on the sidewalk, cops fight to keep a sea of TO SIR WITH LOVE extras rejects from stampeding into the already packed establishment...

More screaming... More window rattling.... Every light bulb in the place shatters throwing all into blackness....

Then an instant later the garish security lights take over. The stage is empty. The Spiders are gone...

Off to the side and wedged into a tiny booth, the Judy Geeson reject fights to breathe, as a girlfriend mops perspiration from her face, throat and arms, plus a little bit of blood from her neck.


THE SPIDERS..... Britain's first mega boy band.... and how they conquered the entertainment world... and how a globe spanning industry kept 'the vampire part' secret

Besides that 'vampire' part, everything else is played straight... battles with managers.... groupies.... record companies... all of it.... A high quality reproduction of the early '60's... the clothes... the cars... the glossy fun house crass of it all...

and the foot stomping, ground shaking beat goes on...

In a sense, the story of every group that shoulda woulda coulda been The Beatles, but was a little too 'bad boy' for the times....

<got to work on this one>

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Thursday, March 22, 2018

Our Vampire JONATHON loves this music -- Erich Wolfgang Korngold - Kings Row (1941): Suite of 1968

 

In the later part of the 1800's, I'd climb into a crawl space up above the ceiling of The Academy of Music and stare down at the audience, while losing myself in the wondrous sounds, through the intricate open naturalistic design surrounding the huge, magnificent chandelier. The small, swirly holes were designed into the motif so workmen could see down into the orchestra seats when they lowered the elegant crystal structure. The lights were originally candles. Later they went to gas. The chandelier didn't move then, but the crawl space was still there.

I'd gaze down at the formally attired patrons... ladies in off the shoulder gowns... gentleman in white tie and tails. When they lowered the lights (to my vampire eyes) the dazzling collars and shirt fronts seemed to glow.... so did the ladies... at least the parts that showed. Sometimes I'd pick a couple. I'd lock on.... Night-folk can do that. Everyone has a vibration. Each is unique and coupled with their scent, very easy to remember.

When the music stopped and the applause was over, I exited that crawl space and climbed down. Those in the know instructed their coachmen to drive around all night and return at the proper time. Can you imagine how long it takes carriages to exit a livery stable? And before you feel bad for the coachmen condemned to wander icy streets on cold winter evenings, please know that most left their conveyance in an alley somewhere behind their favorite taproom, while they sought shelter, plus beer and oysters, inside....

Then I tracked my special couple to their home. Some lived in the newly popular Rittenhouse district to the west. Others in the huge brownstones flanking North Broad Street, or the environs of Washington Square.... You know I like Washington Square. The streets and houses are thick with ghosts.... Maybe for some paranormal reason they're just easier to detect. Adepts claim underground granite 'shelves' reflect ectoplasmic emanations. One such 'shelf' runs under that part of the city. Who knows? But I ran through the shadows of the city, keeping up with their closed brougham, and saw the couple as they ascended the steps and entered a new (for those times) brownstone on a street just south of Rittenhouse Square... A few heartbeats later I sublimated through a cellar window and waited for the house to grow quiet.... Just me and a dressmaker's dummy with a painted on face and a wide brimmed bonnet, plus a neat, little bullet hole just to the inside of her left breast... right where a heart would be...

OH! Did I ever tell you I never ate chocolate?... Not once... by the time they brought it back from the Aztec Empire, I'd already been night-folk for like five hundred years.... So that's another experience down the drain. I did once get a victim all liquored up on some kind of chocolate cordial drink before I had her... Sort of got the essence of it, but it's not the same thing. Funny what pops into my brain.... If I still have a brain. Do I need one, or does my spirit simply keep everything going... (sinks into a silent trance)

(sighs and wakes up) Forty minutes later the house was quiet. She had a mild laudanum concoction He had a big glass of madeira. The new maid girl turned down the lights, pilfered a few bits of truffle from the kitchen and settled in for the night in her maid-bed. I slipped her three ounces of twenty four carat gold. I always give the most put upon servant something. Just how I am.

The husband was who I wanted. His people had rice plantations in the low country (coastal South Carolinas). Kept them after The War too. Ran them on a share-cropping system. Slaves kept right on going... Same cabins. They filled in the chinks, hung little curtains... patched most of the leaks.... put in a few outhouses instead of just a latrine ditch... And nobody made enough to get out of there, or get themselves doctored up when the yellow fever comes through. But the big house folks got theirs... And Mister Upstairs with his madeira got this brand new Townhouse on Rittenhouse Square in Old Philadelphia plus a whole drawer full of equities in northern plains railroads and a seaside 'cottage' mansion on Belleview Avenue in Newport. Please know, he was only the second son. Used to pester all the field girls when he was a young buck. Still does all the housemaids now that his daddy got him all set up as a 'gentleman' lawyer in the city. Folks still dying from Yellow Fever back home. Big Daddy  says it gets rid of the trouble makers... 'Cept some of those trouble makers only nine years old. And nobody even thinks about it.

I went upstairs, silently passing through errant moonbeams sneaking in through slits in the draperies. Vampires dance so quickly upon the stairs. Dancers in the dark, we are. A small Pomeranian dog woke from its slumber and saw me on a landing.. I went 'shhh.' The dog just stared. Animals know magic when they see it.

The mister and missus had separate rooms. Many did in those times. Besides, dalliances with servants felt so much naughtier. His door was locked. The custom was for ladies to have double doors. Gentlemen made do with one. But I tracked by scent and vibrations and sublimated into the right chamber regardless of the doors.

Shall I tell you about jaws ripped off, eyes sucked out, or hands stripped of flesh? These things and worse are common. Some gnaw through the belly, bite through the diaphragm and drain the beating heart. Such pure indulgence. Nothing richer. Stuffed with oxygen and nutrients. Tapping the jugular is nothing compared to that. Just know that I am quite the gourmet.... and the 'meat' certainly deserves it. Do they scream?... No... They tremble and twitch. The eyes open wide. Sweat pours from every surface. When it's done. When they die. The 'cool' blue fire ignites till all is consumed and only the ashes, plus perhaps a grease slick remains.... When I pull out my hair, my face, my ears, neck, my shoulders are slick with blood. That's when I fly away and hide, waiting for the blood to dry. After it does (and that happens rather quickly) a vigorous shake (like dogs do) sends thousands of scab-like particles flying everywhere, till my hair, my skin and clothing are completely clean... Then, I might continue the evening or return to my domicile. That's how it happened one night during the pentultimate decade of the nineteenth century..

Strange, but I was listening to a favorite piece of music. The one featured at the top of this tale... and I wanted you all to know... I've experienced many things, though the flavor and texture of chocolate is not one of them...

<more to come>

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Thursday, March 8, 2018

VAMPIRES REMEMBER SO MANY THINGS 2/26/18

I, Jonathon speak these things -

We who you call 'vampires' witness so much. Long lives allow us to absorb all manner of things. Some dissolve into welcome memories. Others are as undigested pits and bones. And it's odd, but they rise up to confront us when we least expect it.... I walk the streets at night. You know that, for I share so much. God bless you all for being there. No other life-eater has, or ever had such sympathetic friends. No real life eaters anyway.

I saw THE BLACK PANTHER and I liked it. ... possibilities made real. That which we imagine can be achieved. All that's required is sincere dedication. I also saw a group of young people exit the theatre giddy and transfixed by the magic of it all. They laughed and danced about reliving scenes as they rapidly traded dreams. Few on the street noticed, but I did. Mortal emotion means so much to me. I saw the car round the corner and run right through them. It kept going, as if the city and all the people in it were invisible. One young man died instantly, crushed against the curb. I snatched another and sublimated up to the rooftops, so he might live. Did I transform him?... No, but I gave him a few drops and he lived... I redeemed him. His surviving friends from that night never realised what happened. But he went home healed and a week later, recieved an official document from a bank notifying him of a one hundred thousand dollar account, set up, tax free,  in his name. He and his family were quite pleased.  I, even more so...

This season does that to me. Friends of my tale know this. Few life-eaters, what most call 'vampires' forget their mortal faith. Indeed, we hold it all the more dear. For what else gives reason to this?... After all... we are only human... but (quietly) more than mortal.... So I do my job. I guard the sheep and tend the flock... Not the shepherd, but the sheepdog. That's why The Passover is so important to me... And I know there are people who 'tune out' when I don't give them recollections of bloody vampiric gore, or ancient, fiendish tortures. I have to accept that. Yet if people think vampire existence is all lurid killing and smoldering stares, they are wrong. In these postings I tell things how they are. I hope you all believe that. Those familiar with La Ciencia Vampirismo, the centuries old tome of vampire 'magic' and lore know the truth. God knows, I've referenced it here many times. Just go and do 'good things.'....

When vampires sleep during the light-time, we have visions... not dreams, as you do, but something much more precise and immediate. You see, it's even wrong for me to call it 'sleep,' for we are not just slumbering in our shelters. We are, in the spirit sense, somewhere else. You will know, when you die. In that state we see the face and feel the essence of the soul to be culled.... Who picks them? Well, one more spiritually adept than us. We behold the voice of angels... and they hear someone else. I believe that. All 'noble' vampires do. Thankfully, most are 'noble.'

So, once a month, I have my pre-ordained meal... I cull the soul and it sustains me. Those who don't know claim it's the blood. Granted, that fluid provides a certain heft, mouth sense and satisfaction, but the job well done gives even more.
and on those other nights, the nights when I don't feed, I save people, as I saved the boy, Michael, (that is his name) at the beginning of this episode. Or I gift my blood in subtle, quiet ways too. Sometimes I provide containers of hot coffee to homeless souls on the street, but I spike it first with you know what and they live. Most also find a banded 'flat' of hundred dollar bills in their pocket. Fifty to a stack. Five thousand dollars in all, with a note that says - take this to ( such and such) bank and deposit it... I give them one hundred dollar bills because I know few places will take them. The bank, a small private affair, belongs to a 'familiar' of mine. It's all arranged... They get a debit card  with a fifty dollar a day limit... and another note that says - To get off the street contact (another familiar). Let me just say that my success rate is higher than most other programs in the city. True, fifty dollars a day can buy quite a bender. But after a few days most learn. Oh, and if I didn't tell you, my blood can cure alcohol toxicity too.

I remember, as a newly made vampire, experimenting. I tried healing sick stray dogs... It worked... Alley cats mangled in fights were restored too... A near dead, juvenile Barbary Ape torn and dropped by a hawk was made whole. It seems the 'magic' works on all warm blooded creatures.... And in the candlelit gloom of medieval cellars I healed children from charnel houses, snatched just north of death and they came back too. We had to be careful to place them with families a few villages away, lest they'd be recognized and thrown down a well due to 'witchcraft.' Sadly, death cured everything in that culture and those days.... Death, death, death, death, death... They couldn't get enough of it, while I, as a vampire (0ther than my monthly 'meal') fought against it....

I've been in Philadelphia since its inception, coming over with The Lord Protector himself in the good ship Welcome. Notice I say 'in' and not 'on.' They had me locked in a large wooden chest down in the hold... I don't think they knew what I was... But the land was not empty. Native settlements were everywhere...There were Dutch and Swedish towns in the area too. And in three hundred and thirty six years I have saved tens of thousands... maybe more. I don't keep track... Counting natural increase via descendants and all only God knows how many.....

At this special time of the spiritual year, holy for Trinitarians and Unitarians both, I go out among the living and do my best to keep them that way... I protect the sheep. It's what I do...

Please know that decent people never have to fear us... Well, rarely have to fear us... Some night-folk do have strange spells every few centuries or so. But for the most part, you're all right.

Now permit me to continue my rounds....

(our hero, Jonathon ben Macabi, also known as Tomas de Macabea, silently walks off, disappearing into the wee hour shadows of the city.... an 'eighteen' year old youth on the town.... I'm sure you locals have seen him from time to time... or, who knows?... maybe he's seen you?)

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Tuesday, February 13, 2018

OUR VAMPIRE AGREES WITH THE GREAT, BERNIE TAUPIN 2/13/18 Mona Lisas & Mad Hatters - Elton John (Honky Chateau 9 of 10)


 

All vampires are rock stars. We whisper things and people see them. We touch deeper than a simple mortal can... and what's worse, we all believe our ramblings too.... as only twisted magic things can do... and it's cold in Philadelphia, like only Tuesday nights in February are.... not a weekend... not a Friday, or a Wednesday, which is hump night... It's a night to dine on tuna from the can and if you don't have what to drink, it's sour water from the sink. Gotta go make due with what's at hand... The streets are mostly quiet, save for souls who go to movies, 'cause it's easier to watch than just to think.... The movies in your mind, they might be true... but only if some name believes in you...

I talk to ladies on the subway, chipping polish from their nails and laughing 'bout some empty love affair that's through. They take my kisses as I tell them to be careful and look both ways. But you know them and that's not what they will do.... It's much less work to die than try, or almost die and not know why. Don't worry 'bout no body else but you.

And I've seen life play out in Istanbul. I've seen them fall in Rome and off the platform in a subway station too. I've tasted years with those well born, while other nights I felt their scorn, 'cause all they do is laugh and drive away.... You know them what has the money never pays.

Steam rises from the sewer like a ghost... a rat runs off with wet burnt toast.

The bag lady has got an egg and screams about the chick she's gonna hatch... She sits on it and cackles, as she waves to passing taxis that splash gutter water on her crusty pants...

Welcome to the February dance.

I tell my tale to everyone... from birth till mortal life was done. You'd know it all, if you would take a look. A vampire with morals is my hook... Some night they're gonna put it in a book.

And the clocks up in their towers, tell the time and toll the hours, as moms boost jars of Gerber's for their kids.

Shame there ain't no magic beans, to rectify these cold hard scenes... We kill them 'fore the stalks can even grow.

And all the world can do is mutter - So?

What paintings will we leave here when we go?

They say we're gonna reap just what we sew.

(with that Tomas de Macabea, also known as Jonathon ben Macabi disappears into the fog and steals away.... tomorrow's gonna be another day)

[ the purpose of life is opportunity...]

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Saturday, February 10, 2018

HEINOUS TORTURES AND OTHER DISCOURSE 2/10/18

There's no music this time. Few people listen to it. I've just gotten up. It's raining . A winter rain is a sad, sad thing. The street glistens. Few souls are out. Our street is quiet to begin with. If I cant my head a certain way, I can see the wider street we feed into. Cars go by bearing they who labor on Saturday home, or bringing others into the city for an early dinner before a show. I will, perhaps, drink a hot vodka-tea before going out. Edith brews it for me. I think I'll haunt the museums tonight. I do so like my 'culture.' Will I feed? Well, it's my time to feed. I'll have my monthly meal and savor it. I am Jonathon... also known as Tomas... You know me.

Sarah, my consort stays in tonight. She paints miniatures now, tiny vaguely Persian things. They sell them in her bookshop. Philadelphia After Dark has a little display hung among the ticking assortment of vintage clocks mounted behind the oaken counter. I like that place... the cramped, narrow aisles.. the creaking wooden floors... the small, silk shaded pin-up lamps and sconces (some attached to the actual shelving) providing just enough light to facilitate browsing, while maintaining a proper atmosphere. The girl at the register (an old embossed, bronze affair from an 1890's occult apothecary down seven ancient steps on Sansom Street, a hidden byway set between the lofty towers) is a witch. Not a born-witch, but a witchy-woman, like our housekeeper, Edith. She came to town a few years ago, during an earlier paranormal dust up and stayed. We call her 'Morticia.' She lives in the back, passed a half-height door, in a small cozy studio. How would she escape in case of fire? Well, in the mundane world she wouldn't... but our world is far from mundane. I'll nod to her, through the partially opened curtains of the mullioned windows, as I pass by.

The museums are especially enticing. I like the dim, marble galleries. Sometimes I hear whispers coming from the still, white lips of polished effigies stretched upon their one time tombs. Is the spirit still in there, or do I hear but an echo? A tiny shadow scurries by, not a mouse, or a rat, for what would they eat in here? The galleries are so cold and organically empty. They might gnaw the backings of paintings, but how would they scale the stone veneered walls? Watchmen fall dead at their posts much to infrequently.... The tiny things are mere spiritual wisps.... particles of beings long gone. They say a few errant Van Gogh nightmares shelter here. They say a lot of things.

I am no longer in our townhouse. I am dressed in my usual trim black attire, save for the starched white shirt. My long dark hair flows poetically about my face.... ah, the bone structure... I have it in spades. I sublimate through the city till I reach this vast jewel box of ages past. The cellars are the real prize. Mussolini's tongue in an old green-glass bottle, floating in pungent alcohol..... preserved cadavers from the charnel houses of Parma, some in attitudes of prayer, others sealed in silent screams..... Vagabonds from the streets sneak in for the warmth, such as it is. They snuggle amongst the crates. Some stay but a night and leave. Others never leave and go mad. I pray for them, as they rake the skin from their flesh with long black nails. How they shrink from the Noggins (old, animated, yellowed skulls) that prowl the maze-like passageways and roll over the floors looking for food.... Yet, comes the daylight and everything shimmers back to 'normalcy,'... or so they tell me.

Tonight I search for a thief... Museums hold treasures, you know. There's a painting, a certain late medieval representation of Ezekiel Ascendant... the prophet translated to the heavenly state. I saw it displayed in Florence seven hundred years ago. A merchant of extreme wealth and renown, newly raised to the minor nobility, featured it at a reception. It was the birth of the Renaissance and Giotto was all the rage. We did not know it was the birth of the Renaissance. We knew it only as Thursday evening, even the vampires.... And now it's here in Philadelphia and this mortal means to take it... He's a contracted thief... bound to a certain old world potentate. A similar piece, The Torment of Saint Rusticus, went for eighty five million. This one should bring even more. I'm going to kill this thief. Please know he's more than a thief. He's killed too. Blew up a pleasure yacht just to get a certain hated 'enemy' on board, along with his wife, and three little children... plus the crew and a nineteen year old au pair too.... I'll tap on his shoulder just as he takes his prize. He'll flinch. It'll be quick. I'll drain him. He'll ignite with a 'cold' blue flame and disappear. Nothing else will burn. In the morning they'll find a greasy slick where that soul used to be and it will be done. Screw that 'old world potentate.

Now, let me tell you just how Saint Rusticus met his end. You see, he travelled toward the east to preach to the Tartars. At first the great chieftan found him to be a harmless dreamer, but when the holy man told him unless he bowed before the foreign god, his wives, his daughters, not to mention his sons and himself would burn in hell for all eternity, since they were all there for the banquet and heard the presentation. Now the great chieftan loved his sons and even a few of his wives and daughters. And his morals were of the first rank. Why when he sacked the City of The Silver Bells only every other soul was put to the sword. The rest were sold to a consortium of eastern slave jobbers and wholesaled to merchants from Novgorod to Tash Kent, even the young ones, who were used for archery practice. But that wasn't his fault. Such were the 'times.' Needless to say, the pronouncement of his western visitor hurt him greatly, torture being his only recourse. So they severed a horn from a certain breed of cattle known for straight, true, pointed head gear, hollowed it out, rubbed it with butter and unguents and inserted it into the body of the not yet saint Rusticus, via his anus, till the tip reached far into his innards... a quite troubling sensation, though not yet particularly tortuous (considering the age) nor  one hundred percent fatal. Then they trussed him up on a high, wooden armature so all in attendance could see. How he whimpered and prayed, as a cold wind tore passed his exposed body. The august assemblage, wrapped in quilted brocades and furs waited for what was to come, as blacksmiths carefully inserted a long, wrought iron pole (perhaps as wide as two fingers of a full grown warrior) up into the severed bull horn that occupied his innards.  The other end went into a specially made furnace ceremoniously assembled under the martyr's body. Once lit, it would reach temperatures more than twice that necessary to melt lead.... The honored invitees dined on snow goose and roasted yak and downed flagon after flagon of fermented mare's milk, as they waited for the heat to rise. Then, like a modern day thermometer, the pole began to glow red, even in the cold, raw wind.... When it approached the foreigner's fundament he gasped. All heard. Not an eye looked away. He trembled against his bonds. Steaming urine poured from his body. He went limp and whispered prayers, till he was cooked and seared from the inside out.

The banquet when on for a bit. Then they left him there for the ravens. His bones were carefully wrapped and sent back with a ceremonial guard, for he died bravely. Orthodox priests near Rostov were the first to hear his tale. They sent a missive to western Catholics in Hungary, who dispatched people to claim his bones. Thus was Saint Rusticus born.

Come back. I have so many stories.

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Saturday, January 27, 2018

The Vampire entity Known as 'Papa' loves this song 1/10/18The Beatles - Flying (The FH Edit)

 

The incredibly enduring, vampire personage, known as 'Papa' sits in a club chair... A slowly spinning ice cube hangs suspended in space, perhaps two or three feet beyond his eyes. He focuses on it. It stops. Then, four or five heartbeats later a solitary drop of water hangs from the side before impacting the hardwood floor below. Its small splash pattern instantly congeals into a daisy. 'Papa' exhales. We watch the eddies, swirls and flow of his breath move out to surround the ice cube, which softly vaporizes and disappears.

He makes eye contact with us, nods slightly.. smiles, then gazes down upon the white and yellow daisy head on the floor. The yellow center rises slightly. The white petals draw in around it, as the little blossom reconfigures into a tiny, white, hairless, 'human' thing with bright yellow eyeballs. It titters nervously. 'Papa' raises a well shod foot and crushes it. Then he meets our gaze and smiles, revealing his fine, sharp, small, white fangs.

He says - Life is a mystery...... Then the entity that looks like a thirty two or thirty three year old Richard Gere (sporting a trim, charcoal suit and black, buttoned up, collarless shirt) gets up, walks 'through' us and exits.

The low lit, townhouse den is empty....

Strange things happen on Earth all the time. Unusual animals, some of them human appear out of nowhere . The differences are not always great. Perhaps they have the ability to see in the dark, or to think about two subjects at the same time. Certain strains breathe the rarified air of the heights. Others taste metals through their skin. You might have that power. Take out your keys. Close your eyes. Examine each one with your fingers. Do the 'brass' colored ones 'taste' different than the silvery ones? Can you hear footsteps approaching your door before the dog does? Do streetlights go dark when you pass by? 'Magic' or something very like it happens all the time. Sometimes it's pleasant. Sometimes it isn't.

(and this is still 'Papa' speaking) Tell me, what is it you think I have not seen?....My 'vampire' descendants are many, as are their various philosophies. But you know that, for no longer record of night-folk life exists on line. [ click wander through the wonderland ... and hit SUBSCRIBE when you get there to access it all]... Though more brutality drips from the fangs of men than comes from us. It never stops. Shocking head-severings pepper the web like sprinkles on ice cream. Atrocities get attention and if the holy innocents are little children, even more so..

Have you ever seen living souls lowered into a noxious, fermenting brew of blood, bone meal, suet, offal and flesh eating bacteria? There is no fire, yet it bubbles and steams with foul intent.. The doomed flail about, trying to keep their mouths above the caustic, hellish stew. After a bit they grow tired. By then, the flesh eating microbes have already turned much of their muscle mass into a translucent, fishy mess. No one survives. Trucks pull up to these remote 'treatment plants' 'round the clock... Look for gray, stone 'castles' off in the distance, upon a snow covered plain, or underground installations beneath teeming city streets.

They say, some spray the bacteria from the sky via contrails. Whole regions of Eurasia have been 'subdued.'... For what reason?.... Can't you guess?.... Inconvenient populations always have to go....

And they call us ghouls...

Pay attention to your skin...

<more to come>

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