The Book of All Things New

Now... one night has gone by and here is where we are vis-a-vis our 'heavenly' messengers. This morning's services were a bit more well attended at the North Broad Street Synagogue. No, wait. It is actually not a synagogue. Rodeph Shalom is a Reformed congregation (a dead former member set me straight) and termed a 'temple,' and not a synagogue. Picky. Me (Zebulon) in my time, we called them Beit K'nesset (bate keh nessette) , which means 'meeting house' or 'house of assembly,' much as the Trinitarian group known as 'Friends' does today. But I must say, I caught a few episodes of their presentation in the magic mirror-television thing and I could not understand it. But I believe they promote the consumption of healthful breakfast cereals (oatmeal, I'm told it is called) and that in itself is a good thing. Where was I? Oh, yes,....'Temple Rodeph Shalom'..... One could not obtain a spot to tie up one's vehicle for a good two leagues in all directions. Indeed, little Robbie Leiberman (the leader of some sort of annual youth service) had more people in the seats than Justin Bieber when he played Toronto (the first time, not the second). And it was like this everywhere. The basilicas of the Ornate Trinitarians were packed. The less elabotate structures of the Plain Trinitarians were packed. The prayer houses of The children of Ishmael (very similar to what we had in Babylon, I must say) were packed too. And what is more important, all those 'food drive' bins found in marketplaces were brimming with donated, metallic cylinders containing all sorts of high sodium delicacies. A painted up smiley, happy girl in the magic mirror, claimed that six hundred and thirteen hand guns ( a sum equal to the number of blessings in the first five books of the Unitarian Scriptures, I might add) were turned in to the municipal security forces. So I guess the number of 'caps busted into people' will go down accordingly. Another suddenly spiritually inspired group distributed coupons good for two free 'buffet' dinners at The Showboat Hotel Casino in Atlantic City. And while I do not know what manner of animal a 'buffet' is, the mere mention of its name seems to drive  people into states of delerium. Granted, a certain number of inndividuals planning to dine on these mysterious delights turned out to be homeless and lacked the means to attend this glorious repast. They cried forth from magic mirrors everywhere, explaining to a different smiley lady that they 'ain't got no ride, Jesus Christ!' I presume their prayers worked, for I heard that fifteen busses, complete with drivers, were quickly forthcoming.........And the mortals infected with these strange, worms of the spirit likewise began to heal. I suppose it is like the part where Tinkerbell gets sick . You know, in Peter Pan. What with all the elves and cherubs, we  of the Fairmount Park redout are thoroughly familiar with that, since they play the disc constantly. So it is like that. It is as they say - 'You gotta believe. You gotta believe. You gotta believe.'....... Well, maybe it was a certain much beloved 'relief pitcher' known as 'Tug' MacGraw who said that..... But you get the idea................................... Oh, as hinted earlier, the being responsible for the creation of Tomas/Jonathon  wants 'out.' His captors find it increasingly difficult to contain him. The ghost of Leonardo Da Vinci (also ensnared in the same ancient web) tries to console him, but to no avail. And his handlers, hidden deep within the maze of Vatican  hierarchies (and unknown to others of the religious community) fear the worst. They fear an escape...... If it happens, I presume one of the smiley, magic mirror faces (male or feamale) will tell us all about it.

The Book of All things New

They had to banish the 'sickness.' They had to cure it. Jonathon, after discussing theories and observances with the others, said - We need an event, or a stunt, as they say in these times. Something to bring out the hidden goodness and the longing for spiritual closeness in the people. But something big. Something real, or at least something that seems real......... Albion, who had been watching television with some of the other 'young' ones heard and he came over. I could try to get us the talking Oprah woman from the magic mirror. That might help. - he said...... Jonathon hugged him and answered - Maybe it would...... Sarah luaghed - Can you imagine what that show would be like? YOU get a blessing! And YOU get a blessing! And YOU get a blessing! Along with the keys to brand new Volkswagon Jettas! She'd have Rabbi Shmuley up there and Marianne Williamson and a gospel choir and.... Edith chimes in - Ooh, I'd like to see that. Don't go disrespecting the 'O' lady........ Baylah says - Yeah, she's big, but she ain't the only one....... They all turn to her, expecting further explanation....... Sarah says - Why? What are you going to do?..... But Baylah only chuckles and says - Don't worry. It won't be the first time....................... Now the restaurants are crowded this time of year. Families draw together during the holidays. They have reunions. They have renewals. They have fights. They crave fellowship. And the crowds were particularly stiff at a certain Italian style place. I believe it is known as The Olive Garden. The flat, black, cinder-tar exterior plain adjacent to the inn-like structure was covered with all manner of mechanical conveyance. A long line of hungering humanity patiently waited for room at the tables. Baylah was also there. She was all alone and dressed in a long white, woolen gown. Over that, she  wore a pure blue, flowing, hooded mantle. Her dark, wavy hair spread softly down the front of her attire. She watched from a stand of shrubbery, initially meant to hide some of the air cooling mechanisms. Now the sun had already set, so she was safe, even though the sky was still violet and tinged with orange in a Maxfield Parrish kind of way. That's when she did it. That is when she made her 'miracle' happen. Baylah lowered her gaze. Her arms went up and her hands reached out as her feet left the ground and she sublimated up through the air, up through the molecules of nitrogen and oxygen, to a place where all could see her. And all of the people did see her. They gasped. Assorted bickerings stopped in mid bicker. Parents grabbed children. Grannies broke out in prayer....... And Baylah said five words. She said - Your hands are the hands of God....... She repeated it two or three more times maybe. Then she rose up to a great height and vanished. But what she actually did was sublimate through the air at great speed, so it only appeared as if she had vanished. Almost everyone on the ground came equipped with various forms of electrical communication devices. And the miraculous occurance was enscribed on countless image catchers and little talking things. The 'Word' was out and the media soon started screaming about 'Our Lady of the Olive Garden' and 'The Black Madonna.' By next morning, fifteen thousand people showed up. The place never took in so much money or sold so many bottles of wine. True, the toilets in the men's room and the ladies' room did overflow a few times, but when heaven speaks you have to expect things like that............. And for good measure, just a few leagues away, just as evening services were starting in the huge sanctuary of the great, Byzantine-Moorish, Rodeph Shalom Synagogue on North Broad Street,  at the precise instant the rabbi opened the Ark and prepared to take up the Torah scroll (the symbolic presence of God), a shimmering shaft of illumination pierced through an already darkening, ornate, stained glass window and came down to bathe him in its light. And that wasn't all. Jonathon sublimated through the translucent mosaic too, dressed in a suitably, scriptural  costume. He stopped. His feet dangled five cubits over the dumbstruck rabbi's head. He turned to face the silent, astonished congregants, threw out his arms and in his best Ancient Aramaic (almost an exact match for Liturgical Hebrew), said the same five words as Baylah - Your hands are God's hands. Then he continued to sublimate down through the bimah (altar-table), down through an opened Bible, continuing all the way to the basement, where he ran up some stairs and disappeared into the night.................. Up above, about four or five  piously devout Comcast executives (headquartered in Center City Philadelphia) were there to see it all. And four hours later, there was already a quickly prepared special on basic cable. That was it. The fire was lit. A miracle had happened. The people bore witness. And humanity (at least for the time being, was 'changed')............

The Book of All Things New

Zebulon again. Was trying to float through some of the Red Paint Folks, in an effort to learn about them, but discovered something else. Great pulses of mind energy expanding out into Creation. Seems to be originating in Rome, from the new Trinitarian Temple complex, known as The Vatican. Jonathon appears to be hearing something too, but he's attempting to hide it. He's nervous. I can tell. Baylah seems to be picking up on it too. Sarah busies herself with the 'children.' A regular Maria Von Trapp that one is. But she loves them and they are intrigued with her. I suppose they love her in their own way. Jonathon's eye is twitching. He's thinking. He remembers something. Humans still sick. It's bad here.....

The Book of All Things New

Please accept my apology. I was not able to communicate with you for what I think, in your world, translates into a three day period. I became entangled in another reality. That happens to spiritual beings from time to time. Did I enjot that other place? Yes, I did. Not that I enjoy all places. Especially not the ones where say, Nazi Germany won the war, or your nation never won the revolution, or the Inquisition is still in play, or miniature French Poodles can talk (such self centered, judgemental little beasts!). But that place was all right. They had the most friendly, intelligent praying mantis individuals. Quite well educated and creators of a hauntingly beautiful poetry. The marriage rites were a bit over the top for my taste. Everyone clicks their front claws for good luck when the bride chews through the neck of the groom and severs his insipidly smiling head. The ceremony, obviously takes place after the actual union. And there were other peculiarities. But at least the food was interesting (not that spirits get to partake of any), an assortment of live (though drugged) honey coated bumblebees, accompanied by other crunchy tidbits. Tell you more latter. Now back to our little dramatic episode. Christmas was uneventful. Sarah managed to make it nice for the eternal children. The two park workers got a load of those heavy, well made xylaphones they use in grade schools. You know, the ones with the white notes and the black notes on a piano-like keyboard. I don't know how they came across them. City employees seem to have their own sort of magic, if you know what I mean. The younger elves and the older cherubs greatly appreciated this gift. They took to them immediately. You should hear them. Within five minutes, they had mastered the Gould Variations and were hard at work on some variations of their own. They also got a flat screen TV and some DVD's. One was a new copy of an old favorite of theirs...the Mary Martin version of Peter Pan. Did that ever make them happy. They had their 'There Is a Land where Dreams are Born' song back. I think it is like a prayer to them. Speaking of payers, the humans could use some, because they are still all sick. The Old Woman, Edith, wilkravitz, some of the Pineys and Annie. Not Morticia so much. I suppose it is because she only visits, but does not actually reside here. I don't think the Red Paints are sick. Maybe they do not get sick. I'll have to remember to float through their bodies and see what I can find out. I did think a few of them were sick at first. But not now. I think all they had was the diarrhea. Albion insisted on making crab cakes and the Old Woman thought it was all just a big joke. Think I'll hide her false teeth and see how much she likes that, the cackling old fool! It is strange. The Shaky Hand Man is not here anymore. But he really is. The sickness comes from him. I don't know. Did we manage to over power him or didn't we? And what is he? Is he the source of all that negativity, or just another vehicle, the same as Annie? Jonathon, his consort Sarah and Baylah have been 'culling' on a regular basis. I think it agrees with them. Their eyes appear brighter. Their features more finely drawn. Their humor a bit more biting. And they all sport these trimly tailored, stylish new outfits from the huate chi-chi establishments on South Street. Sarah even got some new bedding for the bottom of that French wardrobe thing they snuggle in. I think she used a coupon from The Bed Bath and Beyond. Boy, if the salesclerk only knew how beyond. But the sickness really does worry them. Blood gifts do not help. I don't know what will happen. They'll have to try something.....

A Slight Midwinter's Digression

Jonathon has memories. He picutres scenes long gone, from places far away. There was an inn on the way to the manor of the great Rashi. They camped not far off and were able to witness the comings and goings . The building was contructed of stout, Catalonian gray stones. Long timbers spanned the heights,  providing support to the peaked, tiled roof. Pigeons, or some other similar breed, made their nests under the eaves and they fluttered 'round the structure like mustering angels. A thin, long tracing of fragrant smoke danced up from the chimeny (quite the modern marvel at the time) and disappeared into the watery, white, featureless sky. The traveling band of devout Jews (Jonathon, his father, other kin and retainers) did not enter the fine building for two reasons. Crusaders were abroad in the region and it was not in the least illegal (or immoral) to slaughter non Trinatarians. And if times were different and the souls 'round about a bit more congenial, the fare offered within would still not conform to the diet of righteousness. So they took their ease within a stand of trees, ate their cold repast (a fire would attract too much attention) and nervously  observed the personages entering and leaving the worthy establishment. There was an hidalgo (nobleman) and his entourage. Two nuns accompanied by some sort of  Christian religious, probably a deacon, went in. The usual compliment of merchants off to some trade fair or another. And then there came the woman. Now we all know hos unseemly it was for women to go traveling without some sort of male guardianship. But this woman was alone. She  stopped outside and looked down the coarse, primitive road  to the Israelite encampment. Ans she seemed to see them clearly through the trees. She could have sounded the alarm. She could have yelled -- Jews! Jews! There are Christ Killers abroad among us!! She could have thrown up her arms and run around screaming like a crazy person. But she did not. She just looked (actually locking eyes with Jonathon), smiled and nodded. Jonathon nodded back. She turned and proceeded in through the heavy, wooden door. A moment later a damp, chill breeze came through, stirring the leaves and scattering the dust. The Israelites retreated to their tents. When it was past and they came out, a light, lacy, wafer-like substance clung to the trees. Jonathon took a piece and tasted it. Then he took some to his father and the others and they tasted it too. A particular retainer who had been born and raised up in the Holy Land said that it was manna. And the others agreed. They ate and were nousished. The episode was over. But  Jonathon recalled the face of the woman. And she looked just like a medieval version of Peekaboo Street.

The Book of All Things New

Sarah and the Pineys took care of everything. The 'little ones' had a jolly holiday. The cherubs got mounds and mounds of fleecy stuffed toys and talking dolls. The elves got video games and CD players and CD's. They would have gotten iPods, but the universal mind-reading network (the internet, I think they call  it) doesn't reach this far. Sarah says they never had it hooked up and probably will not be able to. How would we ever explain this domestic arrangement to any cable guy they'd send out? So they make due with the magic singing discs and are very happy. Edith claims she can get us a wireless hook up, but that has yet to be seen. Jonathon (the vampire formerly known as Tomas) made up his annual load of 'bum bags.' He distributes them to homeless men huddling on steam vents and curled in doorways. Each large shopping bag has a blanket, gloves, scarves, a pillow, a few fifty dollar gift cards to various fast food establishments, a solar powered radio and a couple of bottles of something called Old Grand Dad. He's been at it for the last couple of nights, making trip, after trip, after trip. Baylah helps to. She's known as 'the shining angel' in the West African immigrant community, bountifully giving out handfuls of heavy, old, silver dollars to needy newsomers. Some of the little ones, the older ones primarily, the elves, also do what they have always done. They deliver tiny vials of magical restorative blood to struggling, weakened souls throughout the city. The Red Paint folks call this their 'season of prophecy.' Each sits at a table before a stack of clean, heavy weight, ivory paper. Each holds an old fashioned fountain pen. And they talk. And they whisper. And they write down everything that comes out of their mouths. Let me share one of their predictions with you. A kernel of peace will take root in the Holy Land. An era of great reconcilliation will commence. A leader will emerge among the people presently known as Palestinians. He will originate something new (and also very old). He will call his people The Ishmaelis - The Sons of Ishmael. And an agreement will be forged between the Sons of Abraham. There will be Two Sees, The See (state) of Israel and The See (state) of Ishmael. Both will prosper. Each will be brother to the other. And the Israelis and the Ishmaelis will live in peace. Palestinian was never a proper label anyway. It was a name revived by the Romans, showing disrespect for the original inhabitants of the region and calling to mind the ancient Phillistines, a quasi-Hellenistic group, who came in to occupy the land..... Who knows? Maybe the Red Paints are right? They're also calling for an Eagles Super Bowl Win and another Phillies World Series first place finish too. But they said nothing concerning the sports teams in Jerusalem or Babylon (my cities, the cities of Zebulon), so I am still waiting. Jonathon has started giving the Old Woman her blood gifts once again. She gurgles with delight and slurps it right up. You'd think it was maple syrup. Annie grows lethargic. I think it is due to the tiny spirit worms colonizing her tissues. wilkravitz suffers from the same malady. Some of the other humans do too. I am  going to have to see what I can do. Perhaps I will trickle through the ether and see what I can discover. Other spirits know other things.  Oh, Sarah gave Morticia ten thousand dollars in cash. That was a big hit. A few dozen fivehundred dollar Target gift cards were carefully slipped into the pockets of hardworking people on the subway. Some critically ill hospital patients made completely unexpected recoveries. Yes, via tiny gifts of the blood. The Season of Miracles goes on. Look, I know I've said this before, but please do not believe the lies you've heard about 'life eaters' or vampires. They're not like that. At least the 'nobel' ones are not. And to all who occupy tents in the vast Abrahamic Caravan.... enjoy the season..... and enjoy each other.....

The Book of All Things New

I want to tell you more about Annie. I was playing the role of Christmas Angel to some old people in a home (and quite enjoyed it), but this is important. The evil. little grains in her body are spontaneously generating into tiny, almost microscopic worms. They are in her saliva and also in the saliva (and bodies) of other mortals as well. wilkravitz has them and so does anybody else she spit on or sneezed on or coughed on. Spitting in someone else's food or drink counts too. She is one regular Typhoid Annie. Now if the contagion gets bad, if it gets life threatening or soul threatening, the only way (I know of) to combat it is with another kiss... a vampire's kiss. But that would mean the number of life eaters in Philadelphia would increase  to dangerous levels. That's no good. That's when more or less 'nobel' vampires go over to the shadow world and develope into what they call 'noxious' specimens. True, some of the noxious ones are born that way, but that's another story. Can you imagine two or three dozen hungry vampires slurpping up folks left and right? It would be 'hells-a-poppin'' all up and down Broad Street. Contracrors would go around selling folks 'vampire shelters.' The television news ladies would give the nightly vampire report. Preachers would commence to speechifying. The 'amens' would fly. And before you could say Count Chocula, they'd be burning folks on Market Street. . The real vampires would probably sublimate out of town to try their luck on the road. The burnt up ones would likely be poor, pathetic goth kids or anybody else with a case of the snake eye. We (well, the vampires and their friends, actually) must get controll of this situation before it spreads. And we also have to worry about putting together some sort of Christmas for the elves and cherubs. They have seen much sadness in their distorted lives. They deserve it. So far all we have are a few cartons of Britta water filtration pitchers, a mess of hyjacked tazor guns (don't ask) and a few dozen pairs of Payless high heeled shoes. Albion was doing the 'shopping' and you know how senseless that 'boy' can be. Sarah is going to run out and do  a T+T (Target + Toys R Us) marathon later on. She'll get it right. A few of the Piney's will help carry the packages. Oh, I just floated into this information. Baylah did a lot to spread around that 'collective good' currently observed in most parts of this city. She had a spirit deam a few nights before all that Eclipse/Solstice hoo-haa. It was her mother. She told her to swim through the hearts of humanity, to spread her loving essence among them. So Baylah walked all alone through that pre-Solstice night. All through Center City. All through the many marble-stepped, row house neighborhoods. She came to the great, vast holding pools of the reservoir. She stripped in the darkness and sublimated through an electric, security fence. The watchful computer did notice an ever so slight irregularity in the circuitry. And it dickered in its silicon heart with whether or not to sound the alarm. But then it decided not to. For even artificial intelligences hate to be thought insane. So Baylah got in. She stood on the cold, frost bitten, winter-dead grass and looked out over the glassy surface of the frigid, starlit pool. Then she used her nails to rake her skin. And when the blood began to bead up and flow, she dove in, swimming with great, sweeping strokes. Never once breaking the surface, leaving 'contrails' of diluted blood in her wake. Her enchanted molecules danced out, a horde of infinitely tiny, tadpoles. She was one with the water. And one with any human who would eventually drink it. Less than a day or two later, almost half the people in the city (not to mention temporary sojourners---I think they call them commuters) had been effected. Our world became a better place. And the mother of Baylah smiled.

The Book of All Things New

No one died last night. In all the city no one died. Oh, I know the victims of Jonathon and Sarah and Baylah died. But they were anonymous, evil souls. They contributed nothing.. Baylah calls them smoke people, good for starting fires and nothing else. But of the rest? No one. Death took a holiday. None of the desperately ill. None of the helpless victims of carelessly spread hospital infections. No domestic abuse victims. No wives. No husbands. No children. No grannies. And no misscarriages too. No one died in prison fights, or in car accidents , or out on the street. They talked about it on television. It was a first. Nothing like it had ever happened before. Why? Edith and her Pineys said nothing. The Red Paint folk, the Captain Jean
Luc Picard and Peekaboo Street look-a-likes said nothing. But they knew. Even Morticia and her couple of friends knew. They had pizza, all the mortals I mean. The two park service employees brought it in. We moved all the playthings of the elves and cherubs over to the side and opened up a great space. And they ate. And they talked. And they discussed things. They talked about how everybody expected a change last night. How everybody experienced an evening of mystery. They all wanted something. They all needed something. They all dreamed dreams. Maybe it was the force of a collective will that brought this all about? Maybe the magic was real? Maybe the collective will was the magic? But the Shaky Hand Man was not there. He was not among them. Yet he was still present. And he was angry. Now there were humans not in the city, but under it. And he set his sight upon them and stalked them like prey. The mole people, always keepers of their own counsel, stand seperate from the other living flesh and know little of events on the surface. But the Shaky Hand Man heard their hearts beating and he went down to them. He whispered in ears. He tormented them with hives and tickling, little itches. Words were spoken. Curses flew. Fights errupted and violence ruptured out from the void and into the hearts and fists and fingernails of the people. And the evil noise was great. But when the sun rose up above, when the surface world was bathed in light, it was over and the evil noise stopped. The mole people will never forget that night. They cried. They prayed. They promised it would never happen again. And Annie? How was she effected by all this? Well, as far as I, Zebulon, can tell, not at all. The Old Woman (that raw  boned, virago) kept vigil over her. They drew pictures with black crayons and bit the heads off three dozen Christmas, gingerbread man cookies. They spit in a bottle of apple juice and put it back into the refrigerator. The Shaky Hand Man left something inside of her, some minute vestige of his perfect corruption. A grain. A shard. A malignant particle broken off from the whole. It's lodged within her heart. Deep, deep, deep into the muscle, where it may grow, as she grows. Or then again, maybe it will not.

The Book of All Things New

There was a total lunar eclipse over Philadelphia last night. It was also the night of the Winter Solstice. The sky bled red. It would have bled even redder, but a volcano somewhere farted so much dusty gas up into the atmosphere that the spectacle was dulled a bit. But symbolically it bled red. That's what is important. I'll go for symbolism over truth anytime. Seems a lot of other people feel the same way. All the pseudo goths, all the internet Wiccans, you know, people more or less like that Morticia girl and her friends, all the enchanted wannabes in town due to the magical You Tube postings (remember Bob ripping off Barbra's head? remember the naked, litle cherubs frolicing up among the rafters at that basketball fiasco?) gathered in the squares and parks and all the other public places. Ground zero was the large, inlaid, bronze 'X marks the spot' compass rose in the middle of the medieval looking City Hall Courtyard (the old municipal hanging site) where they scrailed and howled like wolves. Well not as strong and full-throated as wolves, actually, more like skinny, litle coyotes. But you get the idea. Gave the cops the heebie-jeebies. But a lot of things give them the heebie-jeebies. Were there any real werewolves in the crowd? Not that I know of. Were there vampires there? Do you even have to ask? Come on, what's the name of this joint? Was any of the magic real? Well, Edith was there. So were some of the other Pineys. So were some of the Red Paint folks. So yes, some of the magic was real. Strange times these are. Did you see the athletic confrontation between the Eagles and the Giants? Did you see the Eagles triumph? According to the akoshic records, that outcome was one in a million. True. And the ancient Hellenes viewed athletic outcomes as harbingers of future events. So who knows? Who knows what will be? Sarah and Jonathon were out there. They went out into the streets, out into the new year of the pagans. Did they believe it all? No, they did not. Especially not Jonathon. But the air was cold and crackling with static. Unexplanable occurances peppered the night. The lights went on in the Bram Stoker room of The Rosenbach Museum (a former nineteenth century, townhouse mansion), the very place where the author penned Dracula during an 1890's sojourn in this city. And they refused to go off. The guards tried everything. They unplugged the lamps. They unscrewed the bulbs. But the room still glowed with a pale, watery light. And certain semi-reliable goth kids claim they saw a pregnant unicorn cantering off down the length of the Ben Franklin Parkway. I used to know what that one foretold, but I forget........... Jonathon and Sarah sublimated through the walls of a narrow brick row house in Fishtown. They silently drifted through the small siting room, through the cramped dining room and down the rickety kitchen stairs. Four men were blending poisonous, pleasure potions in the cellar. Shiny, little capsules, like exotic, colorful, tasty beetles meant to be savored by clueless juveniles clammoring to surrender their currency near corner stores and trash-strewn playgrounds. Heads jerked up. Mouths gaped open. Hands snapped toward guns. But it did not matter. Jonathon simply laughed. Bullets were little more than hailstones to him. Sarah screamed. She still remembered her human limitations. But she was all right, though the clandestine, basement alchemists were not. Neck bones cracked like walnuts. Watery feces slicked the floor. But the blood was good. A diet rich in sodium heavy, dollar menu french fries will do that. And the grease in their systems meant they burned real nice too. Bright blue and fast. Their satchell full of twenties and fifties didn't go to waste either. Jonathon took that. Bought a pair of genuine 'Lucky' jeans for himself from a twenty-four hour, Christmastime boutique. Sarah got some 'must have' handbag, a sixhundred dollar 'Coach,' I think it was. And some short of funds Solstice revelers found themselves richer by thousands. Even the Old Woman got a few much needed, clean, brand new, never worn bras. The rest of the crew made due with cash. Oh, and that wilkravitz got a new lap-top, tapping, keyboard device. It did cheer him up a bit. But he is still markedly ill. I mean he wasn't even nibbling at the dried up p'sketees anymore. Let me undulate through the psyche of Edith and her cohorts. I'll find out what this all means.....

The Book of All Things New

So maybe The Shaky Hand Man does not need Annie now. But it is clear that he did something to her. He smeared some vestige of his presence all over her. She is bad. But was she always like that? And how long will it last? The Old Woman has an agenda of her own. Come on, you all know that. She hated Sarah. And she still hates Sarah. She got the vampire jones real bad. Not just to be around them. She wants to be one. She wants to live as one. And she wants her sweetie. She wants Tomas. I know. I know. I know. He wants to be called Jonathon now. OK, OK, OK, I will call him Jonathon..... Jonathon. Jonathon. Jonathon. There, I remember. But what do they (if they are a 'they') have against that wilkravitz? Edith tried to help him. She wants him to see a doctor. Jonathon does have a familiar, a lawyer, with a brother in the exploitation of misery business, so that part would be easy. They could set something up. Maybe he would (dare I say it?) actually benifit from the ministrations. I feel so sorry for him. Christ, what does that Annie girl have in that saliva of hers? He doesn't even play that video game anymore. Just stares at The View, blows kisses to Barbra Walters and eats cold, dried-up p'skettees (did I say it right? I pay so little attention to the vernacular of  any given time). And that Old Woman bitch just looks at him. She doesn't care. I cannot stand her. A real creep. And you want to know what else? Her brassiers (spelled it right) are all dirty. I mean like you could make soup out of 'em......Let's see, what else? Well, people are still dying in shall we say exotic manners. Actually, some of the scariest ones were not so exotic. He likes to push people down onto the subway tracks. He likes to hear the wheels screech. He likes to hear the screams. He likes to taste the slick, salty bodily fluids pressed out along the glistening rails. And being an invisible force, he tends to get away with it. The victims? Good guys. Always good guys. But something interesting did happen the other night.
Three of the Red Paint people, a fat one, a skinny one and a woman, went into a Christmastime dinner buffet in some Center City hotel. They liked the overloaded troughs of food. And they ate a lot. But on the way in they stopped to talk to one of those salvation warriors who ring the big bells and stuff money in little red pots. One of the Red Paint men says - How's business? The Red Pot Woman says - Eh, not so good. Only about half what I usually get. So there's gonna be a lot more hungry drunks and toyless, little snot-noses this year. Shame...... The Red Paint Guy stuffs a King Abraham commemorative etching into her pot. Then he goes in and tanks up. But during their feeding they begin to talk. You know, they do have a certain facile magic. And you know they do like their rituals. So they did this thing. They held hands over their second servings of strawberry cheese cake. They said a prayer. Not one that I'd ever heard, but reverent and Godly in its own way never-the-less. Then they pricked their fingers on a sharp, piece of shell left over from the king crab legs and squeezed out the blood into a greasy, little empty butter ramikin. The lady Red Paint person casually takes it up to the buffet and without even a how do you do, she dribbles it into the soup. Manhattan clam chowder, I think it was. Then she goes back and joins the other 'Reddies.' They have coffee. They have some miniature danish. And they leave. When they get out on the street, one of the Red Paint guys winks at the Red Pot woman. He slips her another King Abraham comemorative etching. She rings the bell and gives him a big thank you. The next day he happens to see her doing her thing on another corner and he asks her what the take was like last night. She brightens up, flashes a semi-toothless smile and says - Better than I expected. Things kinda picked up later on...... Who knows? Maybe it was the blood? Maybe it was the magic? But something happened. I gotta remember that.... Zebulon, signing off.

The Book of All Things New

Look, I don't have to identify myself everytime. You know it's me, Zeb. Now, where do I start? Well, Annie moved her bed. She sleeps with the little cherubs now. They huddle together in warm, cozy nests. Really just mounds of blankets and faux fur throws from Marshalls, piled in dark, tiny storerooms opening onto the dim cellar. But they are snug, like dog dens for the ever so slightly more than canine set. And they accept her. They like Annie. She tickles them and hums little songs. She tells them stories. I don't know if they understand or comprehend. But they listen. And they gurgle. And they smile their baby smiles. Some of the toddlers respond in piping little one word sentences. They chortle - Yes! Yes! Yes! or No! No! No! or Mine! Mine! Mine! You get the idea. And they burrow in all around her. If Sarah fills the role of mother, Annie plays the part of the envied, older cousin. They adore her. And it's odd, since she isn't really even a vampire. But she does have her own form of intoxicating magic. I am not even sure she is aware of it. Maybe it's all just natural to her. Maybe she can't help it. Look at them sleeping, like a litter of soft, little, chubby, furry puppies, quietly breathing and dreaming dreams. Sometimes they take little tastes of Annie in their sleep. Sharp, tiny, pointed tongues dart out, pierce her skin and snap back into plump, little, pouty mouths. It is how they become accustomed to her. It is how they know her. And she likes it. See, she giggles in her sleep. At least I think she's sleeping..... Let me tell you something about magic, real magic. It does not require trinkets, no tiny, human bones, no gold what-nots. No pseudo Shakespearean, slightly biblical pronouncements. None of that pre-teen, girls-at-a-slumber-party-with-flashlights crap. Yes, I know the Red Paint folks are partial to their mumbo jumbo. But they don't really need it. The magic, the knowledge, the power is already there. It is all just a question of mind over matter..... of dreams made manifest. It's a force. And it waxes and wanes like a flame in the wind. It does not know from good or evil, if it even knows anything at all. But we can tap into it. We can harness it. We can bend it to our will. Like a sister to electricity, though much more primal. When good people band together and dip into it, good things happen. When bad people do the same, bad things happen. The choice is yours, oh living humans. But you always knew that...... Tomas/Jonathon and Sarah are growing stronger. I can see them in their bed. I can see them in that French wardrobe they have. They share secrets and intimacies. How quiet they can be. Must not wake the children. It is rare for vampires to bond in that way. It happens, but only occassionally. Angels crave only the warm, loving light of The Lord. Except when they crave other things. And this does not make them bad, or even naughty. No, it tends to make them strong. And Baylah? She is off to the zoo, sleeping with the hibernating polar bears, deep within their authentic, fiberglass caves. The keepers have been taken care of. They can't even see her. Not with their eyes. Not with the monitors. Look at the pale, red stains upon their snowy, white fleece. But do not worry. She will not kill them. She is only nursing..... And The Shaky Hand Man? He does what he does. He continues to knock the good guys off the chessboard of life. No more big theatrical stunts. He does not need them. Just kill the good and preserve the bad. It's obvious he does not need that little, skinny female child anymore.

The Book of All Things New

Now you may have noticed that this is not coming to you channeled through that wilkravitz person like it often did. True, he is now usually tied up minding the elves and cherubs. But Annie spit in his food a few days ago. Since then he has not been able to focus. And he spends most of his time sitting in a chair playing with a cheap, little, battery powered, hand held video game. What's worse, he rarely wins. So that's why it is I, Zeb, bringing you this episode. By now you're probably used to my 'voice,' but I like to announce myself just the same. What did I want to tell you? Oh, yes. Since all the 'magic' started, since all that stuff at the basketball game and the T.J. Maxx store, the government's Anti Bewitchment Agency has been activated. Bet you never knew you had one, but you do. Ben Franklin started it right at the time of The Revolution. The agents are kind of like the men in black, but a little less so far to the right. And they've put up screens around the president, the cabinet, the legislators and a whole bunch of other stuff too. Some disgruntled types claim they're trying to influence the Golden Globe Awards and the Oscars. Not true. They have other guys in the press secretary's office who do that. Getting back to Annie, she now sleeps when the 'blood folk' sleep. Her schedule is tied to theirs. She beds down with them too. Not with Albion and Marianne or the older ones. No, she takes her rest (if she does rest) with the younger elves. The cherubs mostly keep to themselves. I'm on the look out for the Shaky Hand Man, but he does not seem to be frequenting our environs. But that does not mean that he is not still out there. Edith and the Red Paint People can pick him up. They form a grid with their minds, like a net. And it covers the city plus most of the close-in suburbs. So they know he's still playing around. He pulled out a few really important plugs in an assortment of area hospitals. Not only  will this mischief result in the deathes of  some good, undeserving souls (his favorite prey), but also in the filing of unfounded, though profitable law suits. He likes a certain type of sticky lawyer, so the suits should make him  happy. At least the families of the innocent victims should benefit.  Our guys, namely Baylah, Tomas/Jonathon and Sarah have been out hunting too. They've gone out culling victims every night. Not once a month, like they used to do when they relied on those visions. Now they rely on themselves like the Red Paints told them to. True, they have been discreet. A mercenary doctor here and there. A politician on the take. The usual array of  shyster attorneys. Gangsters. Evil step parents. Bad Santas. Bad bosses. Take your pick. And the chosen individuals always go poof in a flash of cold, blue flame, leaving little, if any evidence. Yes, they still grab all the wallets and jewelry, so their treasure cache has grown quite a bit. In fact, Sarah and Baylah make it a point to redistribute some of the loot. Look around the next time you ride the Frankford El, or any of the other working class lines. A few of the people holding on to those silvery poles have been seen sporting diamond stud earrings, not to mention the occasional premiun wristwatch. Hope they don't get robbed. But seeing as our immortal threesome has been culling the criminal element as well, maybe that won't happen.

The Book of All Things New

Zebulon reporting... Now morbid acts continued to occur. And since Annie was now secure within our sheltering busom (did I spell it right? I know how funny mortals are about words pertaining to the female breast) we could not rightly blame them on her, or on the use of her physical body. That meant the Shaky Hand Man was doing it alone. He had achieved physicality. He could move things and influence matter on his own. Quite the trick actually. Want to see how special it is? Take something light, like a ping-pong ball. Put it down upon the center of a level table in a spot free of drafts. Pull up a chair and sit down. Turn off the television. You can watch The Price is Right some other time. Besides, they ain't playing Plinko today. There, you heard it.... a peek into the future. And I don't lie. Now try to make that ping-pong ball move. And don't breathe on it. That's cheating! You're doing it! You're doing it! And a certain kid in Chicago better stop it before I give him a greasy nose zit like he'll never forget!! Well, now do you know how hard it is? Two college girls in Pennsylvania seem to have it. I'll have to keep an eye on them. But the Shaky Hand Man is really good at it. He can like move a piano, or send electricity juicin' up into all the asses planted in all the seats of The Radio City Music Hall. Thats not what he did though. Two guys were out shopping in T.J. Maxx. They were looking for bargains. I guess they blew their loads buying gifts for everybody else. And it is not often you find ski boots hiding out in the shoe department of T.J. Maxx. So they each grabbed a pair of some shiny, black plastic, James Bond looking numbers and jammed their feet right into them. Stomped around a little to see if they fit. You know how it is. And everything was copasetic. Everything was good. Case closed. Sale made. But when they tried to take those suckers off, everything was not so good. Those bastids would not budge. And what was worse, they were getting tighter and tighter and tighter. Folks were gathering around. Everybody had  a plan. Stick their feet in a freezer, which turned out to be extremely difficult, since there ain't no freezers in a T.J. Maxx store and it would be pretty hard to jamm that mother shut what with their legs being attached and all. One old fart wanted the manager to rub butter all over their feet. And they did find some butter, or actually a candy with a lot of butter fat in it over in the gourmet food department. But that only made a mess, not to mention it poisoned some bitch's little chihuahua which she had stashed in the bottom of her satchell. And all the time those boots are getting tighter. The two guys are screaming! Blood is dripping out from the top. A kid who was tryin' to boost a couple video games claimed he could hear bones cracking. The manager finally calls 911. And by the time they get there, the guys are passed out. People are screaming. Folks are running out into the street. And them boots just keep shrinking and shrinking and shrinking. Like little kiddie boots they were. No, like doll boots. Like something Ken would wear when he takes Barbie to their cozy, little, three-sided, cardboard and pink plastic ski lodge. And then the two guys were dead. Everybody got real quiet. Turned out they was workers for a group dedicated to supplying warm winter shoes for poor kids. Some shrill, blond haired girl from the TV news wanted to splash this interesting event all over everything. But a guy from the government, sort of like them men in black, took her aside and told her to shut her bleached teeth, lipstick smeared, fast-talking mouth if she didn't want to end up accidentally on purpose mostly dead or something. So she packed up her crew real fast and they executed a smart turkey trot over to cover the folks waiting in line to see Santa Claus (who himself was suffering from a near terminal attack of flatulence) in The Gallery. And T.J. Maxx got rid of all them wide-eyed, Lookie-Lou's by giving them each a hundred dollar gift card. The guys from the government told them Obama'd pay for it, so that made it all right. Only it wasn't all right, for I could hear the spirit laugh of that Shaky Hand Son of a Bitch for a long, long, long, long time......

The Boob of All things New

Tomas/Jonathon prepares to sleep. Sarah joins him. They share a big, oak, Louis XV, free standing wardrobe. It is at least as large as a double overnight berth on a train. The bottom is covered with a nest of thick, down comforters. They disrobe, get in, close the double doors and snuggle into the welcome darkness. The windowless basement provides respite for the others as well. Each has their own refuge. Each keeps their own counsel. Their 'familiars' via the two park employees have furnished the place well. But Tomas/Jonathon cannot relax. Sarah lays still, her mind racing to decipher the enigma that is Annie. Tomas/Jonathon speaks - I look in the mirror and see myself. I see the way I look. I am eighteen years old. I could front for the Jonas Brothers for God's sake. And I take it all for granted. Then I look at the Old Woman. It's crazy, but that is what I call her now. And for me, 'now' means the last fifty years. But she was young once. She had dreams. She wanted more. She got on that floating death trap and went down into the reeking, mildew hold with the rats, so she could come to America, so she could come to Philadelphia and find a better life. But then I found her. True, she would have died of consumption. What do they call it now? Sarah responds - Tuberculousis, T.B.. Tomas/Jonathon - Yes, T.B.. And I 'helped' her. I preserved her life. But at what cost? Granted, I did not make her into a vampire. She does not bear that burden. She does not fight our fight, worthy though it may be. But I did make her into 'something else.' She is over one hundred and sixty years old. And I think she has been aging quicker since she's been on her own, because she has not had any little blood gifts. I know it's not my fault. I know how she can be. I know it was her decision to leave, but I still feel guilty about it..... Sarah - Well, you know, she still hates me. I know you can see that.... Tomas/Jonathon - I think it's just a defense. I think she seems that way because she is scared. She felt rejected when you came. She knew of our connection..... Sarah - I know. And she loved you. She probably still loves you. I don't trust her. And how can we let that 'Annie' thing stay? She's not just a pathetic, little girl anymore, sad as that might be. She's more than that. She's something else. It scares me. We're all down here sleeping and she's up there with wilkravitz and Edith and your Old Woman and God knows what she's thinking. Is she still possessed? Is it a constant thing with her? Is the Shaky Hand Man still there? Is he always there? How strong is he? What is he? And what is she?..... Tomas/Jonathon - She's a six year old girl...... Sarah - Yes, and you're just an eighteen year old boy......... Meanwhile, upstairs, the mortals share a morning meal. The Old Woman has cooked up a big pot of oatmeal. She spoons it out into heavy, ceramic bowls. She tops it with cream and honey. One for Annie. One for wilkravitz. One for Edith. And one for her. Ah, such a nice, bright homey scene. But when wilkravitz turns his head to focus on a segment of the Today Show,  Annie spits into his bowl. Edith didn't see it. She was in the toilet.

The Book of All Things New

Tomas' former housekeeper, the Old Woman has returned to us. And she has brought us the girl called Annie. Our juvenile, immortal chorus gathers 'round her. They sniff her and taste her warily, much as snakes examine anything organic. She laughs a little girl's laugh. It tickles. The Old Woman speaks. She says - I know you probably don't want much to do with me, but this one might be of interest. Tomas speaks - How did you get her? The Old Woman - Well, I wander the streets. I shelter where I can. So does she. So does this one. It was only a matter of time, maybe two million heart beats at the most till we laid eyes on each other. She needed a 'granny' and I was sorry, so sorry for any harm I caused when I turned my back on you and your... concubine. Tomas responds - She is not my concubine, you ruined, old hag. Leave the girl. Leave her. We will decipher her truth on our own. We will determine if she is an innocent blessing or a plaugue among us.... He beckons to the girl and she goes to him... Tomas - Now go. Just go. Give her some food and send her out. The 'children' have been cooking. I hope you like steamed chicken nuggets and toasted marshmallow shish kebabs?...An adorable, tiny, elf girl steps forward and hopefully offers her one. The Old Woman takes it, nods and eagerly begins to eat it.... Tomas - Now go.... But she looks up at him and he remembers her from former days. He remembers when he rescued her from the bowels of an Irish 'coffin' ship. She sees his reaction and says - Please, I come bearing gifts, or more rightly, restoring them... She takes a cloth bag out from under her woolen cloak and offers it to him. He passes Annie off to Sarah and takes it. He opens it, carefully examining the contents. It's his old, worn prayer book and his hand written vellum journal. He tenderly holds them close and breaks down into tears. I cry too. Zebulon is always a softy for scenes like this. But you must have sensed that by now. The Old Woman whispers - It's all right. I've done what I set out to do. I will go now.... She turns to depart. But Tomas clears his throat and says - You can stay..... The Old Woman silently mouths her thanks. Marianne (the eldest elf girl) reaches out for her cloak. The Old Woman gives it to her. They find her a seat by the heater and offer her a hot drink. She gratefully accepts. Sarah and Edith usher Annie into another room, where they help her clean up and change into some warm, dry clothes.. They brush her fine, though beautiful hair. Sarah whispers to Edith - I can't help it. I want to know who she really is inside.... Annie sneezes. Edith says - God bless you. Soon the vampires begin to settle down. Dawn approaches. Annie silently sits watching television with Edith, the Old Woman, and wilkravitz. She laughs at a cartoon.

The Book of All Things New

Zeb speaking. Now I know they've done some shall we say, unsaintly things in the past. Sarah took delight in the pain of her victims once or twice. Maybe Baylah did that too. though I am not sure about Tomas. I do know that in his heart he wants to hear his birth name, his true name, his 'faith' name. He wants to be called Jonathon, or at least Jon. I know it is pronounced more like Yahn. I still know my Hebrew, for we spoke it, or a dialect like it, when I was in the flesh. Jonathon... It means 'Gift of God,' in the Holy Tongue. And I think he attempts to live up to that. In his own way and reguardless of the various burdens he has had to carry over the centuries, he has always struggled to make the world a better place.... At least from his vantage point. Domestic vampires? Who would ever imagine such a thing. Morticia, Sarah's goth-girl friend calls once in a while. The vamps are big on those no contract-throw-away cell phones. Edith rarely uses them. She says they dull her telepathic capabilities. Morticia says that a lot more of the magic-goth-fantasy-face pierced-I hate my stepmother types have descended on the city. They saw that You Tube posting of the sports arena melt down. And it was quite clear that there were a few nearly naked little babies zipping around  up among the rafters. The big web debate is photo shopped or not photo shopped? Right now the 'not photo shopped' party is winning. Morticia says that if some sort of open spiritual warfare breaks out, the pseudo-enchanted will most likely fall into our camp. But the operative words are 'most likely.' Albion brought back some type of video game system for the little ones. He claims he bought it. But considering his grasp on reality, he probably paid with Monopoly money and Cracker Jack gem stones. I don't care. This season is too commercialized anyway. It reminds me of the Passovers we used to have in Babylon. All the dining rooms were done up in these huge, colorful silk pillows. Everyone sported tunics and over-wraps fashioned from the same fabrics. And if you ask me, the proscribed bill of fare was a bit too heavy on the shell fish for what was supposed to be a reverent, kosher repast. But the wine was good. We used to get these wonderful vintages from the Medes up by the Caspian Sea. Oh, how I still remember them. And it was a rare Cup of Elijah that made it to the end of the dinner/service without some sneaky, little cousin downing the contents for himself. Ah, but where am I? Oh yes, in the middle of the vast Fairmount Park woodlands in The City of Brotherly Love. How nice things look, what with the light dusting of snow and all. Our snug, brick compound is quite cozy. I think I can see Sarah's hand in things. Marianne's  too. Albion 'bought' lots of decorations for the junior vampire set. wilkravitz plays games with them. And Edith makes her predictions. She feels there will not be any great spiritual war. For the Shaky Hand Man does not have to do that. He merely has to snuff out a few pivotal individuals or groups and the balance will  tilt. The veneer of humanity tends to run thin. And he knows just the right way to sand it off.......Now someone trudges through the hard packed snow. Someone progresses through the woodlands. It is a woman, an old woman. I seem to remember her from some time or place. I cannot recall her name, so I will refer to her as the Old Woman (familiar in some way). And she leads a child, a little child, a girl. I think she is crying. Look, Edith senses their approach. I can see it in her face.....

The Book of All Things New

I am happy with the elves and cherubs. Some of them call me 'mother' and that comforts me. I love them. They are pure souls wrapped up in a reality they do not understand. We play games, Candy Land, Monopoly (with the older ones). I braid and style the girls' hair and judge the outcome of elfin wrestling matches, which often occupy all three dimensions. Albion and Marrianne (the eldest girl) bring back things from the market and we prepare meals for our human room mates. I hope they like them. I still remember human food, but the little ones find it puzzling and confounding. I do my best to keep things on a even keel. We're not trying to make anyone sick here. But the enchanted children view these comestibles as ingredients for mud pies and tend to create offerings based on color and shape rather that taste or nutrition. Our wilkravitz tries to be a good sport about it all. It seems he was never much of a cook himself. Yet I can't help but notice his dissappointment when confronted with yet another platter of jellied, boiled chicken in peanut sause, or liquified tuna fish (we have a blender) and cold, peppered dough balls. Sometimes Marrianne brings back a frozen pizza. Thank God for that. Things are fairly quiet and snug in our woodland/park retreat. Two gentleman from the park service discovered our presence, but a quick and timely gift of two or three blood vials (guaranteed to cure what ails you) did the trick. Now they are among our most devoted protectors. Tomas, Baylah and Edith are trying to learn more about our enemy. We really don't know his strength. Is he a universal entity capable of destroying great swathes of creation, or is he merely some disgruntled soul out to vandalize a few celestial mailboxes so to speak. And Tomas' neck itches. He says that's a sign that the Old Woman is near. God knows what that could mean. Annie still acts the part of a demonic Gilly (you know, that bad, little girl on Satuday Night Live). The press never covers her handiwork. Who would believe it? It would be tantamount to professing belief in alien encounters, another thing the bovine masses are wont to admit. Edith takes part in thought nets with the other Piney's and Red Paint types. They've spread out over the whole area. They pick up everything. The C.I.A. should be half as good. We've all been sneaking out to do a little culling. The police are beginning to detect a marked decrease in crime. Even the hospitals have noticed a drop in the death rate (those blood vials and blood kisses). Too bad they're still stealing all the credit and sending out those extortionist bills. Oh god, I have to go. I have to go scrape some diced turkey franks cooked in apple sause off the walls. Lovely. Then maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll be able to relax with a good, old, black and white movie on AMC or something.

The Book of All things New

Edith is a lifeline. She can hear things. She tells us what is happening in the camp of our enemy. The young one, Annie, seems to be losing importance. The spirit riding her has increased in strength. The one known as The Shaky Hand Man is becoming physically able. That is not good. No, that is worse than not good. It is a catastrophy. How can I explain it to you? Picture it this way. Imagine the regimes of Nazi Germany, or Stalin's Soviet Union, or the Realm of Ghengis Kahn. Contemplate the abominations committed by evil minions, willing human minions. Then add in the possibility of natural catastrophies of shall we say Biblical proportions. And the Shaky Hand Man is smart. He knows where to get the most bang for his buck. We all have a feeling, not just Edith, that his dream is to be able to weaken the very foundations of a great mountain, a volcano, in the isles off the north west coast of Africa. I believe it is known as Cubierta en Palmas. If the great peak explodes a landslide such as the world has never seen can give birth to monstrous tidal waves rising to the height of four hundred cubits, excuse me, six hundred feet. Mankind has not suffered the like since the last days of King Midas on the island of Crete. The east coast of the New World and the west coast of the Old World will become naught but memory. America will no longer be the Rome or Persian Empire of our age. The modern day descendants of Charlemagne's Western Empire will all die, as will the children of King Arthur. And new lords, brutal lords will march across the globe. Excuse my poetic tone. But a one thousand year old Andalusian grown up in the Caliphate of Cordoba  has his ways. I am Tomas. And I cannot help that. Now all this is just conjecture. All this may never occur. The Shaky Hand Man can be beaten. Is there a way to do it? Of course there is. Though we are not quite privy to it yet. Sarah retreats to her 'children' the elves and cherubs. She hugs them. She kisses them. She tells them stories. She tucks them in each dawn and in all ways has become the perfect mother. They taste her blood and she tastes theirs. And Baylah has become reunited with her own mother, at least in the spiritual form. The old queen sings to her. She guides her. And Baylah has made a few fortuitous kills in the last few nights. Yes, she does venture out. Yes, she has been taking a victim every night. No, she does not rely on visions, but rather on her own heart beating in her own breast. And the level of evil has diminished in the world, or our part of it. Sarah and I were instructed to do the same. That was the message of the Red Paint Man. Some of his brethren, along with a few of the Piney's have trickled into the city. Edith acts as our 'telephone operator.' She uses her abilities to keep open the lines of communication. We must discover a way to weaken our adversary. It was done in the past. It must be accomplished here. Remember, we are only 'pretending' that this is all fiction. Do your part. All of you. Do you have a part? Of course you do. Remember the words of Edmund Burke -- All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing...... I really do not like to go all scriptural on you, but I feel that I must. Remember the words of Moses our Redeemer, who said, "I have given you this day The Good Doctrine. Chose life and live. Go and do good things.'......... Well, what are you waiting for?

The Book of All Things New

The elves and cherubs flit about the city. They witness everything. A few of the smallest cherubs happened to be swooping and diving through the heights of the Wells Fargo Center just as the lights went out? What were they doing there? Well, they can sense the presence of evil and being such innocent souls they do their best to thwart it. The death toll would have been much higher. But quick, unseen, timely, little blood kisses planted on the lips of the injured did the trick. And some families will have their nearest and dearest with them this Yuletide who otherwise would not. I predict that these tiny wonders will be invaluable and a great help in the 'righting' of our corner of the universe....... I would so like to tell you more. But a trojan microbe or a bewitchment of some sort has insinuated itself into this machine. It seems the enemy is everywhere. So the voice of Zeb (me) must be silent for a bit. Perhaps I can go buzz.. buzz..buzz into that wilkravitz person's ear and have him take this enchanted box to some powerful geek (like wizards) who can banish these tiny demons and make the ether safe for decent folk once more.....;

The Book of All Things New

I'll have to do most of the talking. wilkravitz is busy babysitting the 'little ones' and the others are busy girding their loins (so to speak) for battle. Yes, you have it right. It's me, the former disembodied spirit. But since I've 'found' my etherial identification card, just call me Zeb. Now, the three vamps are up. It's dark, Tomas found his shoe. And if you're a regular, you know how he is with his clothes. He's upstairs, sitting in the 'playroom.' Lord... can you imagine, vampires with a playroom? Anyway, Baylah has the floor. Boy, is she asking a lot of questions. She always asks a lot of questions. And Sarah just sits theere thinking. No, I take it back. She's not just thinking. She's also sorting out a pile of mismatched Barbie outfits for the little girl vampires. You know, the elves. Shhhh, be quiet. Baylah's talking. Here's what she's saying -----What? So 'they' want us to banish evil and destroy all evil forces? What the hell is this, a comic book? Well I sure as hell ain't gonna put on one of them 'V' masks. If you ask me, he ain't nothing but a girlie lookin' Zorro.....(others do not respond...... she looks around) Look at all this Chuckie Cheese crap. I miss my piano bar. I miss the Mutter Museum. That was a good place for vampires to talk..... All them disgusting, medical oddities and all.... (Sarah reflexively nods. She liked it too) ... You know how much I liked that pickled baby collection. I was kinda attached to one particular little pickled, two-headed, white baby. You know the one I mean? He was in the third big jar on the second shelf. Hey, Albion, you think when you go out, you could bring back that pickled white baby? ..... (But before he can respond, Edith puts down her copy of In Touch Magazine and speaks)......Edith ---- They're coming.......Tomas----- What, here?........ Edith---- No....... Tomas ------ That is a relief.......Edith----- They're coming everywhere.........(the talking is over. it is Zeb again).....Tomas' knee started to twitch. Baylah just mouthed the word shit. A suddenly concerned Sarah absentmindedly put a piece of Barbie cruise wear into an old Ken case. They just sat. And they thought. Vampires are good at that. But they were girding their loins.They were spiritually preparing themselves for the test, because they knew. They all knew. They could feel it too..........OK, now we have to cut to 'Jock City,' the sports complex down in South Philadelphia, the Wells Fargo Center. The joint is jumpin'  to the rhythm of a tight, back and forth, sweaty, round ball contest ( a comparative rarity in this town). A fight breaks out down by courtside. Some insipid (though well connected) Center City professional type spills a little bit of his, lava hot, double mocha onto the Banana Republic clad thigh of an insecure, celebrity restauranteur. The food maven jumps up and sends his pencil necked attacker flying. Chairs arc in all directions. A whiney, little white girl in the second or third row (the kind that Sir Charles just loved to spit on) starts bellowing and crying. Her 'Real Housewives of the Mainline' wannabe moma slaps the big, dumb goof next to her. Security guards come running. The game is interrupted. Scattered  posses of Joe Six Packs campin' up in the cheap seats start yellin' encouragement and attacking their neighbors just for the  hell of it. Kids run down onto the court and start doin' hootchie dances. Then they get tired of that and run out into the 'mall' area where they loot some t-shirt concession and make off with half the freshly baked stock of a nearby Cinabon. What can I tell you? Sports fans are passionate around here....But then the lights up high in the rafters begin to explode and go out. Look, I can't lie. The Shaky Hand Man is behind that. Up till then it was all just a lot of fun. But now the panic sets in. And off by a darkened entrance, Annie holds a door open so forty or so of her wild, snarling canine friends can race into this churning mass of humanity and take their pick from among the desperately fleeing asses, or if they so desire, from some terrified, vulnerable throat. And the whole thing is recorded on dozens of cell phones streaming directly onto You Tube. Look, if you want to see more, stay up tonight. The whole thing is gonna be on Nightline....... Fiftysix people died that night. Thirtytwo of them were people who'd received free tickets as a reward for charitable acts......Score one for the other side.....

The Book of All things New

Zebulon speaks. And our three life-eaters slumbered. Evening would fall soon enough. But in the remaining moments the essence of the Red Paint Man tickled its way into every particle of their bodies and into their souls as well. They knew what he knew. And his knowledge was great. It may seem odd to you that vampires gain magic from a mortal. Yet  it is not odd. Enchantment is everywhere, if only your eyes are willing to see. The elves and cherubs are sleeping too. Each in his dark spot. Each in his refuge. The wilkravitz person busys himself straightening up the place. Eternal children can make quite a mess. And it's a constant battle  to keep them away from his exquisitely detailed lego creations. Albion is getting a bit better when it comes to doing the marketing. Last night wilkravitz dined on three cinnamon raisin bagels, a can of Campbell's Chunky New England Clam Chowder, two dried up clementines and a box of baking soda. Well, he did not actually consume the baking soda, but you get the point. Oh! Before I forget. The Shaky Hand Man is getting stronger too. It is like that with him. His energy tends to rise and fall with the passage of the centuries. But for now, he is on an upswing. His spirit mind is gaining volume. And he's starting to be able to manipulate the physical realm as well. Spiritual beings rarely develope this type of material force. But it does happen. Look, some people, both living and post-living, claim that a two years dead Marilyn Monroe in fact , shot John Kennedy. Why she had to do it in Dallas, Texas I don't know. She had friends who would have been happy to see her in L.A. and in D.C. even. But Dallas? I don't understand that. Maybe she was looking to boost some soft and slinkies at Neiman-Marcus or  something? But those in the know swear that the sixth floor of The Texas School Book Suppository smells like Chanel #5 to this very day. So basically all I am trying to tell you is the S.H.M. is getting 'jacked' as the modern day urchins are wont to say. He can, or will be able to move things. No more whispering in ears. No more verbal prodding and poking. No more hissing - Kick him in the ass...into some poor schmuck's ear and then hoping that the poor schmuck will do it. Soon he will be able to kick asses with the best of them. I suppose that should be quite liberating....... What's that?....Does he still use Annie?...It seems so. He must be used to her. But she is getting to be superfluous. And the poor, little girl doesn't know how much danger she's in. The last time he tired of a human conduit, he fed him to a giant squid. The abandoned chap slid right off the deck of a heaving sailing ship and straight into the churning sea, where he was drawn into the gaping beak of a stupendous mollusk. The repulsive invertebrate reflexively swallowed. And the screaming and scratching cuss slipped all the way down the slick, sticky craw. Can you imagine the absolute horror of it all? Be glad if you cannot. For he survived a full seven minutes before death finally took him. Shhhh, our downstairs neighbors are beginning to stir. The sun has left the sky. Tomas is muttering to himself in Spanish, or is it Arabic? I think he lost a shoe. Oh, the 'undead' can be such slobs at times. I pray they are fit for the fight...

The Book of All Things New

We are back. Did we sublimate through the ether? No. Did we scurry back through the shadows? Not quite. We simply bought tickets on NJT (New Jersey Transit) and rode back on a crowded, sticky, urine tinged bus like everyone else. I like nighttime bus rides. I enjoy the rhythmic hum of the engine, the passing lights through black, mirror-like windows and  the soft snoring percolating up from the distended abdomens of my sleeping neighbors. Tomas read a book. Some moldy, dog-eared paperback he picked up from one of the Pineys. Baylah worked on her crocheting. Edith just closed her eyes and hummed old songs. It was all very peaceful. Some of the other Pineys and a few of the Red Paint types were heading for Philadelphia too. But they were filtering in at their own pace, sharing rides in old trucks, hitching, whatever. I sat quietly and heard voices. One voice actually. It even told me its name --- Zebulon. I did not have to tell him my name. He already knew I was Sarah. At first I thought he was just a damp, greasy spot in my own imagination. But he knew things that I did not know. At least he did if he was telling the truth and I think he was telling the truth. He, it, the voice, seemed to offer a running commentary on our lives. If we were characters in a book, he would have been the narrator. And he repeated the same thing over and over and over. He said ---- Follow what you know is true... Follow what you know is true. It was almost like a mantra, like a meditation tool. But it calmed me. When we disembarked at the station, Tomas' 'familiar' wilkravitz was there to pick us up. I don't know how he arranged that, but he did. We piled into a huge, Ford SUV and rode back to his refuge among the elves and cherubs, deep in the bare, December woodlands of Fairmount Park. Our friends on the dark side wouldn't bother us here. I think it's because they couldn't figure out the elves and all. Or maybe they just didn't care about us anymore. Edith, whose powers were all juiced up after our recent meetings with the 'Reddies' said that Annie and her 'handler' had been busy. And she could visualize a lot of tortured, dead bodies to testify to that fact. The victims seemed an indiscriminate bunch. They didn't appear to have any particular political agenda. The 'baddies' were killing because they enjoyed it. Who knows? Perhaps they would refocus now that we were back. And what would we do? Confront them. Defeat them. Kill them. What else? We heard what that 'Reddie' guy, that Captain Jean Luc Pecard guy said. And we beleived him. No more waiting. No more relying on visions. We knew what to do. We always did. But now we had the courage to act. Our little Peter Pan-like buddies helped us settle down for the day in a neatly swept, cozy, windowless cellar. I tried to make the best of it, bundled in a fresh, new pile of Dora the Explorer quilts. The others were similarly cocooned. Tomas sported the Run Diego Run collection. Baylah burrowed into an equally commodious Princess Jasmine set. And we slept. Dusk would come soon enough. Let the battle begin.

The Book of All Things New

I am back. Let me wipe the cobwebs from my spiritual eyes. I am a young man in the City of Babel. The intoxicating aromas of the great commercial thoroughfares entices  me to spend. I buy a new horse, just like the ones we used to have in Jerusalem. I name him Nebo, for our blessed mountain to the north and ride him proudly through the streets of the city. All is well with us. Exile has its advantages. Imagine the government of your political entity telling a man he must move from a quite respectable city along some serviceable interior river to a glittering capital along the coast. That is how it was with us. Were we slaves? No. Were we persecuted? No? Did we practice our faith? Yes. The only major change was that we were now cosmopolitan businessmen, where before we were primarily simple, God-fearing farmers and tradesmen. And I would meet people from the far reaches of God's earthly table. One intriguing gentleman was a learned holy man from the land of Hind. He knew much about the ways of heaven, though little about the person of The Lord. His ethical polytheism scared me, but his philosophy appealed to me. And I asked my father if I might study with him. My father said no. Then I asked my father if I might accompany him back to his native land, so that I might investigate the commercial opportunities of the place. I told him we would be traveling with a group including many pious men from out homeland. My father said yes. So I went and soon found myself a spot in an ashram (religious retreat/accademy) lead by the uncle of my Hindi friend. And there I learned many things. Some things I am just beginning to understand. I am preserved unto this time. I am in the place I am meant to be. I am made advisor to Tomas and to Sarah and to the African Princess Baylah as well. What is it I must tell them? I do not know. But I am sure that I will know it when the time is right.

The Book of All Things New

I am more than semi-remembered. I now know my name and it is Zebulon (they called me Zeb for short). My father was a great man at the court of Zedekiah. He was granted the privilege of 'the white horse' and his steeds were among the snowiest. Our fields were rich in corn (what you call wheat) and the income from our many retainers (peasants) provided a lifestyle unparalleled along the shores of The Levant. We marched in the forefront of the great Temple processions. Our menagerie featured little-known and exotic specimens from the far corners of creation. Elephants? Giraffes? We had those. But my favorite was a 'forest gnome,' what you now call a bonobo and the chimpanzee-like ape was a special friend to me. When the Great Rebellion failed and we were carried off to live amongst the pagans by the shores of the Rivers of Babylon, my special friend escaped. He eluded the soldiers and ran off to live a bandit's life in the forests that grow around The Sea of Harps (what you call the Galilee). But then my mother fell victim to a strange water borne malady from the wells of Babel and I was left in the care of a nurse, another foreign sojourner in the land, the third daughter of a lesser Bactrian nobleman. How she got to the Mesopotamian capital I  do not know. But my father became 'involved' with her and after a time, she filled the role of a second mother. Did she know our ways? Not really. But the sophisticated life of The Great City had changed us. Such things did not feel inappropriate. And my father married her. And she taught me many wondrous and mystical things. Let me collect my thoughts. Soon I will tell you more.

The Book of SarahGOOGLE

It is I, the semi-remembered disembodied spirit. That wilkravitz 'familiar' works so hard. And those elves and cherubs are driving him crazy. Do you recall KINDERGARTEN COP? Well, picture that. He would so like to know how many individuals read his offerings. But the blog carrier does not currently offer such services. If you visit this magical site (which I too help to create) please contact us via wilkravitz on twitter. your response will be forever inscribed in the akoshic record. And a joyous Season of Miracles to us all. Si tu quieres leer un poco mas, tu tienes esperar para solomente un poco tiempo. Nuestros vampiros no son disponsible. Lo siento............ google ....wilkravitz on twitter.......Muchas, muchas gracias.

The Book of Sarah

And in the morning with the sunrise the people awakened and they knew. Smash the bull. Smash the bull.Smash the bull. It was on everyone's lips. And they rose up and fell upon it, chipping it away with rocky shards. They shattered it with stones. The people labored all through the day. And with the early, cold, December sunset, their work was over. The bull was gone. A warm breeze moved through the pines. The Red Paint Man, the very one who bore witness to Captain Jean Luc Picard of the starship Enterprise, sat up in his wing-backed chair. He opened his eyes and said - Bring me the 'blood' woman. Sarah was sent for and she went to him..He gestured. She came forward and knelt down at his feet. At first she was afraid. At first she did not speak. She turned and looked questioningly at the Peekaboo Street woman, who only smiled and nodded. Sarah turned back to the strange man and said - Yes, teacher? (Why did she address him so? Who can say?)She said - What is is you want me to know?...... He stroked her hair and spoke - Your children wait for you. They need their mother. Go to them. Return to the city and feed your family. Tomas and Baylah watched from the background. The spiritual Andalusian said - What about me? What should I do? The 'Reddie' whispered - What would Rashi have taught you all those centuries ago? Tomas said - You know about Rashi? The 'Man' nodded and said that he knew of many things. Tomas teared up and said - He would have taught me to love mercy. He would have taught me to seek righteousness and to walk in the path of The Lord....... The seated man responded - Then seek not the truth in visions. For the knowledge is already in you. And Baylah, Baylah..... (she was shocked that he knew her) Trust your heart. Doubt not the still, small voice that guides you. It is the voice of the mother who lost you, but never let you go..... Baylah said - You know my mother? What was her name?  He bekoned her  to come closer. She did and kneeled down. He leaned forward and whispered in her ear and she cried. Tears ran down her cheeks. She said - Thank you. The Peekaboo Street woman said - The life is beginning to leave him. He is near his end. None present knew what to do. She comforted him and told the others - Don't be afraid. He did his part and soon he will be free. But take his blood. Take it while the spark of life still warms him. Take it and pass it on to others. So the three blood folk caressed him and drew in his essence. The Peekaboo woman watched and said - To everything there is a season and a time for every purpose under Heaven......

The Book of Sarah

What language are they speaking? - asked Sarah. An old one. I think the Cro Magnons started it. Why? - said Edith. No - whispered Sarah - but how will the message get out? Do you all speak it? Do all the 'Reddies' speak it? Hell no. They don't even talk English right. They sound like a bunch of Jerry Springer people. They ain't never  been to school.- snorted the Pow Wow Woman. And then we just stood there watching the show. Soon there was nothing left inside the crystaline bull but a pile of gummy bones sloshing around in a pink-red, bubbly broth. Someone screwed out an unseen quartz peg corresponding to the navel of the beast, and released the sickening contents into a copper caldron. Two dwarfs were lowered into the death chamber through the saddle opening. They collected the bones in burlap sacks. Then a few of the young men helped them clamber out..They dumped the bones at the feet of the blind shaman. The pile was quite large. Some woman came over and carried the bones to a small spring flowing out of a crack hidden in the shadows, where the reverently washed them. Then they carried the bones back to the blind shaman and dumped them down onto the stone floor. He screamed. That was all. He just screamed. And everyone there  rushed forward. I hadn't noticed, but they were all clutching rocks, which they used to smash the ivory-like remains to bits. Shards flew all about us. People were injured. Smashed fingers were quite common. One young woman lost the sight in her left eye. And then they were through. Acolytes swept the sharp bits into piles, which they scooped up and deposited in a series of small, oaken casks. Everyone appeared to relax. I asked Edith what it all meant? What would be done with the remains? She said that the 'blessed' bones would be used to fashion magical spear points and arrow heads for use in the coming battle.. I said - You mean that Red Paint man was serious? There really is going to be a battle? And it's going to be in Philadelphia? She just cackled and nodded. Sarah, Baylah and I just looked at each other. And then all the people tore off their clothes and had an orgy. But not the children. Not the little ones. Some old folks shepherded them into an adjoining chamber where they sang songs and ate popcorn. I think they drank a little cider too. But it might have been something else....... Supposedly, everyone will 'know' the meaning of the sacred ramblings when they regain consciousness in the morning. I wonder what they're going to do with that oilly, gummy mess in the copper caldron.

The Book of Sarah

It is I, Tomas... And Sarah too. They're having a 'throwin''... That's a term they use now, but it originally stems from an ancient Red Paint dialect. It sounded something like this---- A trovin ova bon, and even the surviving 'Reddies' (a nickname) don't know what it means. About twohundred and fifty of us are winding our way through the pines. Each holds a small, flickering candle. Not more than twentyfive or thirty are true R.P.'s by blood. The rest are Piney neighbors who have lived right by them too long and absorbed a lot of Red Paint ways. Edith says they got 'a taint o the paint.' It's cold. The humans are wrapped in well-worn woolen layers. The Reddies too. They are, after all still human. We 'blood folk' as they call us are similarly attired. It is not that we have anything to fear from old Jack Frost. But rather a desire to fit in. And I have to agree, it is comfortable. Sarah looks like a fetching, turn of the twentieth century immigrant. Baylah has her head wrapped Erika Badu style. I look like a cold-campus college kid straight out of Penn State or Michigan  or some place like that. Our feet crunch on a thin layer of snow and ice. Some of the others softly chant an old song. And some do not. We approach the partially hidden entrance to a cavern. There are not many such places in the Jersey flatlands, but apparently they have found one. And from what I am told, have been using it for centuries. We file insside. Orange candlelight dances around the rocky outcrops. The passage is narrow. It snakes down into the earth. No one sings anymore. A ghostly scattering of gruesome pictographs decorate the cold, hard walls. Ours is not the greatest colony of Reddies. Most are found far to the north along the Canadian, Newfoundland coast. That is where the first migrants apparently  made land fall all those milleniuum ago. But ours maintain a strict orthodoxy. And it seems they have attracted a certain number of converts from among the ranks of the Pineys. Edith whispers to me -----Tomas? You seen a few of those human bonfires they used to light up back in the day, right?..... I assume she means Inquisitional Spain and answer in the affirmative,..... Well, this is gonna be a little bit like that, but with a taste of say a rustic Mardi Gras and a reality TV show thrown in to spark things up a little....We hear an angry 'shush' from up ahead. Everyone files into a large-ish, roughly circular chamber. Some of the Leaders use their candles to light torches affixed to the walls. Various gradations of shadows dance all about us. And in the center rests one of the most unusual objects that I have ever seen. It is large, at least as large as a small bus. Like the ten passenger jitney buses they use to ferry people around airports or along Pacific Avenue in Atlantic City. But this thing has a threatening ancient menace. It is a coarse rendering of a huge bull, almost prehistoric, probably an aurochs. It stands twelve feet tall and measures about twenty feet long. But it is not solid. The monstrous carving (probably from a single quartz boulder) is hollow. A matching 'saddle' seals a small opening along the back. A stone fire pit occupies the ground between its legs. The congregants (for that is what we are) move about, forming a circle around this centerpiece. Drums sound. A shuffling dance begins to wind counter-clockwise 'round the idol. A 'Caller' takes his place under the head of the beast. He is blind. A white haze covers his useless corneas. He begins a chant and rhythmically shifts his weight from foot to foot. Every so often his claw of a hand shoots out and he grabs someone. Those chosen join him under the bovine head. And then the dancing stops. Each of the 'grabbed ones' is given a razor sharp, silver knife, which they use to silently saw off a little finger. No one says a word. A woman gathers the severed digits in a metal bowl and drowns them in what appears to be a strong acid. The contents fizz. A froth is formed. She pours everything onto the stone floor. The blind one gets down on his hands and knees and examines the bones. The newly mutilated are given draughts of something to numb their pain and rags to staunch the blood. And then the blind one begins to call out names... four names... two men and two women. Those called step forward. Two young men wrestle the cloudy, crystaline saddle from its resting place. The bull is opened. The four 'Ridders' remove their clothing and climb inside. They tenderly assist each other. We can see them through the foggy, semi-precious surface. The interior chamber is small. They can move around, but just a little. A few buckets of water are thrown in with them. The saddle is jammed back into place. The bull is closed. Some of the people have been carrying kindling. Others retrieve armloads of wood from alcoves. They deposit their flamable burdens into the pit and return to their places in the circle. Another woman comes forward. She ignites the crisp, dry fuel. It begins to burn. The smoke is drawn up and disappears through cracks and fissures of the arching roof. The rest of the celebrants fall back.  They reverently watch their encapsulated brethren contort and writhe, as they futily attempt to escape the searing heat. And we witness the spectacle of human  beings roasting and boiling and charring in their own juice. No one so much as coughs. The screams of the victims issued forth through small openings drilled into the nostrils, mouth, ears and rectum of the beast, blending into a hellish song. Shamans quickly called out interpreting the 'music..'  Baylah and Sarah and I stood close together with our arms about each other, waiting for it to end. And the 'singing' went on for a very long time..........

The Book of Sarah

I am beginning to recall the events of my past. I think this has happened to me before. I remember things for a time and then I lose them. Maybe I want to lose them. I do not know. Am I simply a disembodied spirit, or am I the remnant of lifetimes gone before? Once I told you that I remembered the orange-gold reflection of sunlight upon the sacred Ganges. I remember the ghats. I remember the families releasing beloved corpses into the current. I can smell the colors and see the aromas meandering through the air.I can see the river. I can see the flow of time. There is one seated beside me. At times he speaks .. At times he refrains from speaking.Some know him as the wayward son of a king, a ruler rich in the temperate lands to the north. He reclines upon the red, sandstone paving lining the quayside. And he studies the grand parade. Listen to the tambourines. Hear the tiny chirping of the finger cymbals. Oh how perfectly measured are the rhythmic chants. How precise the steps of the dancers. There must be dozens of professional mourners. Such incense! What colors! Look! Look! Look! I have captured a silken handkerchief swimming through the breeze! A gift to keep. A souvenir of this special moment. Who is it? Who sets off for The Bardo? Who will stand before the divinities ? Who will learn his fate? A powerful nawab, a leader of armies. One beloved of Krishna. That is what they are saying. But the One seated beside me says other things. The one some call Siddhartha speaks different words. Who sets off on the eternal voyage? Is it truly a prince? No, says my neighbor. It is each of us. Death is but a rest-stop, a chance to void the bowels before setting off once more upon the river of enlightenment. But Teacher...Great Teacher... what fate befalls those who miss the boat? What fate befalls those who tarry in the land of death? What fate befalls those who do not venture on? And he said --- They fail to complete themselves. Their spiritual boils contimue to fester. And the rancid poisons of their misdeeds grow until they drown in a cesspool of human corruption...... I watched them complete the elaborate funerary rites for the rich one from the north. And I took three coppers from my alms bowl and passed them on to one who had even less than I. Such is a memory of this Disembodied Spirit, who now wants to tell you about more contemporary things...... The Shaky Hand Man is positively giddy with distruction. He has used his little girl. He has used Annie and her animals to kill many random, unfortunate humans. The hounds are fat. They doze in the shadows. The rats are sleek and warm. They all grow lazy. But that is the way. Their hunger will return. And in those odd,misplaced forests that hide between the Gotham and Quaker metropolises, along the trails through the lonesome pines, interested parties begin to gather. Preparations are made for a powerful rite. The world is being readied for 'a throwing of the bones.'

The Book of Sarah

It is I, Tomas. There will always be evil---- That is what he communicated. That is what the Red Paint gentleman 'said.' I heard him in my mind. No, deeper than my mind. I heard him in my soul. And I learned other things as well. His people sailed to our shores in ships much like those of the Vikings, or the American Indians of the Pacific Northwest. Some mixed with native tribes and some did not. They stayed hidden. The woodland sprites of the New World, if you will. And they claim descent from an even older human line. Their stories detail an ancient lineage wrought from those who witnessed the Ice Age. Formed from a people as old as the moon. Fashioned from those whom 'others' term Neanderthals. Yet the resemblance is tenuous at best. If you saw them pricing sneakers in Target you would never suspect a thing.  And if their brow ridges are now more refined and their chins a bit more pronounced, that is only normal. People change. Evolution. Get with the program. But somethings do not change. Certain abilities resist transformation. And that can be a good thing. For there are talents which when lost, can never be reborn. And the Red Paint People never lost the 'thought magic.' They never lost the ability to communicate without words. Not like we do. Not even like the cherubs. These individuals converse in a rich and nuanced manner. And they share other remarkable powers as well. The gentleman predicts the coming of a big show down. Is it an apocalypse? --- I ask. He shrugs. He does not know that term. He does not trouble himself with such things. I ask ----- Is it the end of the world? He smiles and we know what  he knows. We know that the world will endure for a baby eternity. We know it is foolish to ask such questions. He knows that there will be a confrontation. On one side stand the forces of good. And on the other side, the forces of evil. It has happened before. And it will happen again. But it will happen soon... on the streets of Philadelphia..... on the streets of The City of Brotherly Love. Then he falls back, or rather his mind does. He closes his eyes. Edith and I sit there for a few moments. And then the woman comes in, the one who looks like world-famous-skier, Peekaboo Street, only thinner. She drapes an intricately woven blanket over the gentleman's body. Then she gestures for us to follow her to the door. We do. The portal silently swings open. We hear the slow, final song of late autumn crickets. She asks if we have learned anything. We nod. She tells us she is sure we will be invited back. We shake hands. She slips each of us a tiny, wrapped tid-bit. We descend the steps and retreat back into the woods. She turns and goes back inside. The heavy door closes. We open our palms to examine our gifts. Edith has a small, wax paper wrapped Tootsie Roll and so do I. I laugh and say --- You want mine? I'm kind of allergic. She smiles and takes it. On the way back 'home' I say prayers for Bob. And maybe some prayers for the rest of us too. God knows what is coming.

The Book of Sarah

We met, or should I say encountered one of the Red Paint People. It was a man, the one who resembles Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the starship Enterprize. He resides in a small, stone cottage deep in the woods. Hans Christian Anderson could not conjure up a more fitting site. Edith took me. Sarah was not invited. Maybe next time, but not now. Two huge black newfoundland hounds stand guard on either side of the heavy, oaken door. They possess the bluest eyes. I do not know iif that is natural to the breed or not. We stepped up onto the porch. They dogs examined us carefully. Screeners at an airport could not have done a better job. Edith pushed open the massive door. We entered. A welcoming orange blaze crackled in the large, river stone fireplace.The furnishings were storybook-cozy, in a turn of the twentieth century, country-English fashion. But the wood finishes seemed a bit heavier, rougher and more massive. The 'Man' sat in a throne-like winged chair. Edith and I took our places upon an old settee. No one spoke. But We could sense his mind. And we began to communicate.Now I cannot share much withyou today. My familiar, my wilkravitz is unable to devote much time to this task. I hope you understand. Please go to the vampirewonderland discussion at  the Billy Kravitz hasgtag site. Google it... It's all there...... Have a joyous day of thanks and a happy start to the holiday season.

The Book of Sarah

More from wilkravitz among the elves and cherubs...... They did not actually teach me how to levitate. They levitated me. I was like a big old beach ball and they sent me slowly sailing back and forth. I think they were playing ping pong with me. It was as if every tiny, point in the universe was a little hand softly cradling my body  and carefully supporting my weight. Like a giant, Swedish Temper Foam mattress. Like bubbles floating up from the mermaid's chest at the bottom of a fish tank. Like three dimensional figure skating but without all the sequins and tight, binding spandex. All in all, a very memorable experience. Albion slips out to get me food, but I don't think he has much experience providing for actual living humans. Yesterday it was two bags of Cheetos, a pint of Maalox, a container of liverwurst, one gallon of milk and a seven month old box of matzoh. And it ain't even Passover. Figures. Where does that boy do his shopping? Ooh, that reminds me. I have to tell him to get some toilet paper next time he goes out. You should see. The very idea of toilet paper, not to mention the bodily function it's used for, completely baffles them. They hover outside the door to the scuzzy bathroom like frantic puppies. I don't have any privacy at all. And then, after I vacate the premises, they swoop in to investigate. God only knows what it does for them. Personally, I think they use it like cat-nip. Everything about living humans intrigues them. Marianne, the eldest elf girl, likes to sqeeze through crowded subway cars inhaling the five p.m. putrid exhalations of tired office workers. You know how dogs sniff butts? Well, then you know what I mean. But at least I'm safe from Annie in here. And they do bring me little gifts. Last night one of them brought me a single, solid gold, lady's earring. The night before that it was a moldering human finger with a platinum wedding band. Hey, look, it's the thought that counts.