Our Vampire, Jonathon, really likes this - Ennchanted Forest - Magical Orchestral Music (Jon Brooks Music)

They told me it snowed this afternoon in Philadelphia. I, of course was snug in my dark sleeping chamber drifting through dreams of another age. That's what vampires do.... Old houses... Old scents... Old friends...  I've seen operas sung entirely by castrati.... and listened to harp songs played by the fingers of a headless, animated corpse arrayed in the garb of a thirteenth century queen.... Please know that the neck wound was not open and gory, but neatly stitched like the pipping 'round a little throw cushion.



It's cold now. I like that. The night air feels like glass. My vision. always keen, is especially sharp on winter nights. Granted, November is not true winter, but just the appetizer for what's to come. Sunday evenings are a bit quieter in the city. Automated, carefully designed Christmas window displays dance for ghosts. Most people are safe in their warm and comfortable apartments, or townhouses. Most people with money, for this is Center City and although accommodations are not quite as dear as what you'd find in Manhattan, they're dear enough... I feed on persons of wealth. They commit the most delicious crimes, not always 'illegal' in a statutory way, yet cruel and hateful just the same.



Tonight I took out a lawyer who nickled and dimed the accounts of lonely old ladies to death til it all vanished and they wound up in sour, urine stained nursing homes. But who cares about him. Slept through the whole thing. I just wanted that insect gone. In the morning, when his housekeeper gets there, she'll find nothing amiss. Probably think he's at work till she wheels her little supply cart into his room. .. Usually cleans the hardwoods first. Next comes dusting. Who knows? I'm speculating here. But when she goes over to strip the bed she'll see something... a thick, viscous, greasy mess... all that's left when the bodies 'burn.'  We use that word, though the 'cold' blue flame that follows vampiric exanguination is more like a rapid oxidation... related to true flame, but a little different. The press always calls it 'spontaneous human combustion.' I'm cool with that. Most vampires are cool with that. Makes things so convenient.



I saw something on the street tonight, after l left the lawyer's place. You see, I wander... mostly on the tiny narrow side streets... hidden arteries no snow plough clould ever clear. Cars get iced in all winter, immobile lumps til spring ... But this is four nights before Thanksgiving, not January. The sidewalk was clear. This afternoon's flurries were nothing. The thin, little rowhouses were dark. Maybe a bit of flickering TV illumination peeked out from draperies or shades here and there. City people are night owls, reticent night owls to be sure, locked inside their wired for security domiciles. You can see the little alarm company stickers on every front room window, as well as the small glowing street camera circles 'round every keyhole. No one could slip inside.. well no mortal anyway.



But this thing was different, for there coming toward me through the shadows was a man... a strange man dressed in the high neck linen and tall top hat of the early nineteenth century. He seemed solid, flesh and blood and all that, yet appeared to be walking on his knees, or the joints right beneath his knees. His gait seemed normal. His eyes were lucid. His bearing erect. Were his legs severed just below the knees?... No, his lower extremities were still there, walking along on the pavement as it was two hundred years ago. Ghosts never change. They remain as they were at death, mored in a world long gone. Street levels were lower in his day, thus the distortion... and he kept coming till he passed as if my body was not there. Did his image appear on any of those keyhole cameras?... I don't know .. 

But I'm sure they picked up my image... a rather spruce young man, all in black, wearing a trim zippered leather hip coat who reflexively shuddered in fear as the spiritual thing went through him...



Vampires aren't supposed to do that...



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Our Vampire Hero, Tomas de Macabea, also known as Jonathon ben Macabi, loves this - Mindbenders - A Groovy Kind Of Love

It is the first night of autmn, in the year known as 2019 and I stroll the old streets of Philadelphia, as I have done for the last three hundred and thirty seven years. You know my name. At least some of you do. I am Jonathon ben Macabi, also known as Tomas de Macabea. I love this place. I love the old, narrow, cobbled streets. I love the endless museums, each more intricately starange than the rest. I am like that. Most night-folk are. The nights are longer than the days now. Welcome to Vampire Time. Darkness is good. It hides all the warts and blemishes and corruption. Cooler temperatures hide things too, but we haven't had any yet. It's still hot and I do so love the cold. Winter is sublime. Steam rises from the old small vents in the pavement. The pipes are still underground, remnants of a network that once powered early industry. A tiny few still use it. Its like that here. Amidst the second largest urban core after Manhattan the past abides... and I have seen it all. Sometimes it makes me cry. Other times I laugh like a mad man.

Please forgive me this sudden appearance after a long absence, but time means nothing to me. There are nights when I stand in some shadowy doorway staring at a street light, hour after hour, as if looking at the blessed face of God. Such things calm me. At times I hear angels sing. How do I know that's what it is?... I know. Let's leave it at that.

I was on my way to study with the great Rashi at his academy in the Ocitane, a region in the fragrant south of France when the night time found me... meant to become a minister of the faith, a rabbi... but life taught me other things....

Will I end a life tonight? Its the first night of autumn. What do you think? But to be truthful, none can end a life. We can end a body, but the life goes on upon another plain.... How do I know? I told you. I know.... for vampires like me are dead. The thing is... we never reach that other plain... our souls still wed to bodies perfectly preserved and animated by some miraculous force... I can chew my hand off, yet bind it back with duct tape and a few hours hence peel off the tape revealing an arm and wrist and hand as pure and whole as on Creation's morn.... Have I ever tried?... Do you even have to ask?

Look for me by night. I must leave you now. But look for me. We'll sit on a bench, in some city square, among the autumn leaves and talk... in low soft tones so none might overhear.

With that, the 'eighteen year old' being walks away. Black leather bootkins... slim black jeans... white tee shirt... long dark wavy hair... When it gets cooler, he'll add a trim black leather jacket... but not tonight...

Then he rounds the corner and goes on toward his meal.

Oh, one more thing... of course you know we must pretend that all of this is fiction?... As it was on our first night nine years ago, so it remains today.

Good night.

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This Post Explains Some Real Life Health Issues the Vampire wonderland Way

It is I Jonathon and tonight I'd like to explain why you haven't seen me much these last few moons... maybe it's been more like years? Who knows? Night-folk don't count days. We count heartbeats and raindrops and moonbeams. We count clouds sailing 'cross the stars and solitary souls crying in the night. I sit in the 'little library,' my favorite room, and I think. I think abut the small ghost boy who used to keep me company... the little polio victim. But he's moved on and our townhouse is poorer for it.. I think about all of them, mortal and night-folk. They're not so different. Each is a soul destined to glide 'round this Earth for a time and then pass on to somewhere else. For some the passing is peaceful. They drift off in bed surrounded by their loved ones. Others die alone in dark cold shadows chilled by the rain, but secure in God's love. I talk a lot about God. I'm sure there are those who think that's odd for a vampire. To that, I must answer - They don't know vampires.... We are not all the same, just as mortals are not all the same... Please permit me to let it go at that.


It's dark but I can see between the the deep green, velvet draperies that blanket the bay window. There's a streetlight a little way down the square. I say 'square' instead of 'block,'.... an affectation of the seventeenth and eighteenth century... from Penn's time... and a lifetime or two later, Franklin's. A thin, pure, narrow, pearly blade of light cuts into the room., slicing through the mullioned panes, on through the upholstered window seat and through the old rich hardwood.  It bisects the dense, wool 'Turkey' rug, the tip of my fine, black, leather bootkin, my left leg, including the like portion of my torso, shoulder and arm... And I sit and I contemplate...


Billy, the mortal who coordinates this tale for us, had a health scare. Not his soul. His soul was never threatened, just his body. He hates seeing physicians, but I make him. I insist. Oh, I could cure any earthly malady with a few drops of my blood... but he wouldn't have it. Nothing against night-folk. I realize that. It's simply his way... Thus the doctors... I made the necessary appointments, or rather a trusted 'familiar' (devoted mortal assistant) did and he went.... They took blood, in a far less subtle way than I ever would. They poked and prodded and made enlightened observations, or rather a certain singular 'general practitioner' did... The others came later, as did a whole subsequent series of blood tests, urine samples, cardiograms and sonic images of strategic internal organs... Then, after almost microscopic snippets of livery prostate tissue, plus a quick little bladder scan guaranteed to cause blood tinged orange-red urine for at least seventy two hours (Billy slept through the tissue harvesting and bladder scoping) they pronounced him 'fine.' or the closest they ever come to saying fine. As his 'guardian vampire' (well, what else am I?) I am exceedingly grateful to  relieved.


I love mortals... and not just as a food source. For I help many more than I cull... Edith, our mortal 'witchy woman' housekeeper says I see them as my own special ant colony. When she shares that I give her a bemused look and add - But I and the ants are different species. Mortal, I am not, but 'human' I am. Observe my body and the form of my being. A sea slug I am not.


--- Then he lapses into silence.... a homeless gentleman who does his best to hide that fact walks down the street, head down and lost in thought... sniff sniff sniff.... our vampire friend, Jonathon, picks up his scent... He sublimates his hand through the mullioned panes and carefully places a stack of five vintage silver dollars (each worth about forty times their face value) on the external brick sill... a magical bit of streetlamp illumination makes them glisten just so. The pathetically self conscious 'little tramp' allows his gaze to rise and sees them. He silently approaches pockets the treasure and continues... Jonathon watches through the slit between the draperies and smiles. It's a thing he does, placing stacks of sparkling, mint condition, antique silver dollars where the 'little tramp' will find them. He does the like for others too. Once in a while he slips in a truly valuable fifteenth century golden Venetian ducat. Through discreet mental imagery, each recipient knows the address of a fine, old basement level coin brokerage on Samson Street, in a way, Philadelphia's answer to Diagon Alley. The lucre is redeemed for a very fair price and a little bit of goodness seeps out into the world...

Our vampire, Jonathon, falls back onto the music, quietly playing on an small turntable in the darkness.... He mouths the words and sighs.... Billy has a good friend indeed...

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Vampires LOVE Broadway --Anton Zetterholm - ONE LAST PRAYER (Kerrigan-Lowdermilk)

The vampire Jonathon, also known as Tomas speaks -

I took three lives tonight. Each in their own way most deserving of death. But that doesn't mean I enjoyed doing it. The 'Burden' is like that. We do it because we have to. The blood does supply a certain energy. When that kicks in it all seems worth it and I want to do it again... but then I remember that means taking a life... the most final act in creation... and I hesitate. How much easier it would be if I did not. I think too much. That's what it is. The problem is, thinking and vampirism do not mix. Ours, on the outside at least, seems to be a 'life' of passion and sensation and abandonment. Some experience that, yet not as many as you'd imagine.


I think about their children. I think about the spouse and all the little family things spread about the house. Who will walk the puppy? And who will lock the door? For once I dim the house lights, it is forever more..... the first few bars of a power ballad there... But this isn't Broadway. This is real life.


You know, there's not much in the way of a final confrontation. I slip in while they sleep. Vampires make no sound. Bed partners slumber on. Perhaps a dog might raise its head, yet they soon grasp the inevitability of the situation and go back to sleep. If little children happen to pad in, I sooth them and send them back to sleep as only night-folk can... They know I mean them no harm. My victims are almost always people of exceptional means. At least the ones with families are... big prescription drug barons... 'black widow' second wives... The young ones are usually well taken care of should mama or papa go 'whoops.'... Replacement parents are everywhere and sometimes they get a pony... one of those super expensive Hungarian varieties with the long flowing manes and feathered fetlocks... Is 'fetlocks' the right word? English equine terms still elude me. The Arabic, or Andalucian comes more natural. My mortal years in the Caliphate of Cordoba and all. Rite of Spain Jews, such as my people, used Arabic too for all save liturgical terms. for that we used a Hebrew - Aramaic patois.


Serial killers aren't rich, but we kill them anyway...


Tonight, from a big lawyer adept at milking the estates of wealthy, old widows, I got an antique emerald dinner ring surrounded by ten point diamonds. He filched it from the somewhat demented dowager a day or two before. Found it on the sink in her powder room, next to her teeth. Not the 'good' set, the casual ones.


The husband of the next one woke up, switched on a small lamp and said -- Did you just do some kind of voo-doo crap to my wife?.... I nodded... He nodded back.. We watched her ignite into the cold blue flame and disappear. Her two little yappy dogs jumped into the bed to lick up the grease.. After perhaps five or six heartbeats I said -- And now permit me to take my leave... He got out of bed, naked, save for a big Rolex, and mumbled -- Wait. Wait. Wait. I want you to have this.... and gave me a beautiful, framed seventeenth century Persian miniature right off the wall..... I sublimated up through the ceiling, onto the townhouse roof and 'flew' away. The aura around our bodies when we sublimate infuses our clothing and anything we hold close, thus the valuable painting was unharmed..... God knows if he got back into the greasy bed or not, although his side was still quite clean.


Then I sublimated into a small chapel to pray, as I usually do after my kills. Save for the Eternal Light it was dark. I prayed for the souls of all humanity. Yet should that prayer be answered, what purpose would I have?


I went back to our townhouse... All was quiet. The ghost of the little polio victim was gone.... Edith and everyone else, even all the night-folk were already in their places, for first light was near.


I put out the lights (not too many... just enough to cut the gloom) and retired to my place.


Sleep well, oh best beloveds...


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THE 'VAMPIRE' Jonathon talks --#OutOfOz: "For Good" Performed by Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel | W...

Jonathon, our reluctant thousand year old vampire, sits in his favorite wing chair and speaks to us from his special place, the 'little' octagon shaped library, by the light of a small, porcelain, Chinese lamp....



The Vampire --- I've neglected my duties. It used to be we communicated almost every night. I told you about myself. I shared old memories and all manner of exotic, spiritual journeys. We poked about below The Temple Mount in Jerusalem and swam with merfolk beneath the sea. You met Sarah and Annie and Conrad and 'Papa'... mortals and night-folk, elferinas and elferinos.... Edith, our Jersey Pine Barrens 'witchy woman' housekeeper and our nextdoor neighbor from Chestnut Hill who fed her kid shitty pizza. Even the three hundred and ten year old Doctor Benjamin Franklin, preserved by harmonics. We've run ghastly experiments in his amazing lair under the Philadelphia Navy Yard and whispered with ancient mummies hidden away in forgotten storerooms deep down below the vast, marble paved public rooms of great museums... Odd how their 'ka' stays so close to the physical remains, when they could fly away to God knows where. Annie (our sometimes strange, little child vampire) would lay down next to a bundle of desiccated, parchment-like remains know as Hec Tan Ti Ti and listen as the bitter 'queen' (well, so said she) recounted an endless litany of slights hurled her way by plotting priests and priestesses, as well as haughty retainers, for even well places slaves gathered power in the 'old days.'



I like the spirit-form people you call 'ghosts.' The nice little boy in our townhouse was my favorite. He died from polio sometime around 1950. The family had money and the basement level was finished off and fitted out like a personal hospital. His iron lung, a rather monstrous device resembling a large, horizontal, bed sized tin can for weak, stricken bodies (the heads stuck out a hole, supported by a small padded shelf) rusted in a corner for the longest time. When we bought this particular townhouse a few years ago, it was removed to make way for night-folk, daytime sleeping amenities. Please don't think we sleep in coffins. That theatrical affectation is known mostly among isolated  cretins in remote, Balkan valleys. We rest in snug cubicles, more like those Japanese mini hotels one reads about... though ours have a more traditional look with fine paneling, sumptuous bedding and all... There's electricity for televisions and personal devices. The pervasive culture dribbles into our realities as well.



Sometimes too much...



As I said, the little polio victim was my favorite. He'd sit with me, here in this little library, watching almost 90 year old, black and white movies on a small flat screen device resting among the books, on a dark, mahogany shelf. Thank God his malady could not survive death, for he was happy and free. The Wizard of Oz was a particular favorite. He'd watch transfixed. We bought him beautiful toys, the kind sold in fine specialty shops... collections of napoleonic soldiers.... Lincoln Logs... Tinker Toys... many different things...



Please remember, for at least sixty years, he lived there all alone. Oh, there were mortals in the house, but they weren't the type that accepts 'ghosts,' so he kept to himself. Ghosts can sit, isolated in thought, for the longest time. You have no idea. A houseful of spiritually adept night-folk and even the mortals among us, was a godsend to him... and he was a godsend to me.



But there came a night when things changed. It happened less than two months ago. The city had already taken on a holiday air. He liked peeking out at the lights through the draperies. There were traditional (though electric) brass candle sticks in our windows... a full fragrant wreath on the door... Sarah and Edith organized a nine foot, lavishly decorated tree in the den, plus a smaller, five foot edition in the cozy 'morning room' off the kitchen. I took out my collection of antique Hanukiahs ( the actual word 'menorahs' just means regular candleholders). The centerpiece, a three foot tall, silver wonder from medieval Narbonne (just about the only place in Europe with a reigning Jewish feudal court). The little ghost boy watched silently as I lit all eight of them, arranged like a glittering mountain of light on the stone island in the kitchen... On that night when things changed, he looked at me and said --- I have a family..... I knew what he meant and nodded.... Sometimes, when the moment's right, 'ghosts' realize it's time to move on... They feel that 'other place' and are drawn to it.... I told him that I loved him. We all did. He said he knew that and told us he loved us too.

I hugged him. The way night-folk hug 'ghosts' is to assume the rather nebulous form we take to pass through walls and other barriers. Then we blend. The others with that ability hugged him too... A few moments later, he smiled and disappeared, just like the last wisp of smoke rising from the last glowing ember.... We cried, even though he was in a better place.



That's primarily why I haven't shared much with you for two months.



We needed him... and he needed us...



When it happened, I thought about destroying myself too. Vampires can do that, not with fire. Few take that route. Most 'sublimate' up into the cold, dark winter sky. We find a remote place and we do it. After a bit the particles of our being are too diffuse to come together and we are gone, like a huge misty cloud in the void.... Who knows if there is consciousness after that? Who knows if it is our final death?... Who knows?



Yet as you see, I go on, touched by all that came before and by one little 'ghost' boy in particular...



All I can tell you is remember..... Be aware of all you have known and all who have known you...



The universe needs fixing and God has sent each and every one of us to fix it....



Let us all go and do good things....



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feels good to have our 'vampire' back and to be transcribing this blog for him again.