I have many haunts throughout the city, but I do have a home. It is a small, brick townhouse on a tiny forgotten street. Most of the other shelters along this byway were turned into commercial establishments long ago. But they open onto the next street which is wider. All I can see are bricked up entrances, or the occasional metal door leading to some storage chamber. I like it like that. It is quieter. No one really knows that I am here. Usually I have to change houses every fifteen years or so to prevent the neighbors from noticing that I do not age. But I have been here for just over seventyfive years. I like it. It suits me. One of my familiars serves as housekeeper. She appears to be a weathered seventy year old woman. True, she is still technically mortal, but tiny infusions of my miraculous blood have enabled her to achieve onehundred and forty human years. She says that she wants to die soon. And I promised her I'd stop the infusions as soon as I got someone else. But you know how hard it is to find good help these days. For I do so like a clean house. I draw comfort from the gleaming hardwood floors and freshly vacuumed fine orientals. Everything is kept just so and it is not like she has much to do in the kitchen. True, she does buy food for herself and she does have to clean the bathroom that she uses. Aside from my numerour hot baths, my washroom stays mostly spotless. It's not like I use the toilet or anything. And she watches the place during the day, while I 'sleep' in the cool, moist pit in the windowless cellar. There's a thick bed of dried rose petals (other flowers too) at the bottom. It is actually quite pleasant when I jockey the heavy, stone slab over the opening. The perfect nest for the not so perfect vampire. I often dream about my mortal family while curled in that nest. I never saw them again after my transformation. The Trinitarians were beginning to threaten our region of Al Andaluz and I learned that my people had emigrated to the East. Some said Syria, others claimed they'd joined a remnant of Khazar fellow believers somewhere on the plains of Kievan-Rus (you know it as Ukraine). I spent time in many places. Sometimes I tried to find my family. From time to time I'd run into a descendant in some European marketplace. I would know them. I would just know who they were. But I kept my distance, not wanting to upset them or put them in danger. After all people were burned for consorting with creatures like me. Oh, look! They have the soft, black, leather boots that I like in that shop. Please excuse me while I release the mind of my wilkravitz familiar (who types this out for me) and go in to make my purchase. Who knows? Perhaps later I will stroll over to a few of my favorite galleries and look at the pictures. I enjoy this urbane environment. My sensabilities are quite cinematic. I view my life as one grand art film. I even imagine a love theme. It is the Seal song that goes...'Look at me... I'm one of your secrets... You belong to me... And I belong to you.' I am sorry. I cannot sing very well. Some individuals think that I can, but I do not agree with them. Adios.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
I make myself known to her now. She does not fully understand just what I am. But she is open to new things. I suppose that comes from being the child of teachers. One of my helpers (I have them too, just like Santa) showed her how to put all of her new assets into a business account. So what with all the rolls of bills and assorted precious stones, she should be all right for the foreseeable future. I sit with her in the bookshop. We discuss the classics. The Age of Innocence is a particular favorite of ours. Sometimes I even help her straighten up the shelves. She takes her 'lunch' break at one or two o'clock in the morning. Such is the schedule in an 'all night' bookshop. I bring her takeout from a little twentyfour hour coffee shop. She likes a grilled chicken breast sandwich with lettuce and tomato, a small order of fried sweet potato crisps and a diet iced tea. I of course am never hungry. But it is good for people around the neighborhood to see me buying food. It makes me seem more normal. She asks me how I came to be and how I got here. I tell her that I came on the wind. She says - Oh, like Mary Poppins? But that is really the truth, for it was the good ship Welcome, a seventeenth century sailing craft that brought me here. And so we sit, a vampire named Tomas and his many, many, many times (mortal) great granddaughter named Sarah. I gave her a tiny vial of my blood. I did not tell her it was blood and it does not taste like blood, at least not like mortal blood. She did not want to drink it at first . I told her it was a type of absinth. We had been discussing the works of Proust so she was open to such things. It will preserve her well-being. It is better than the strongest flu shot. It is better than the most over priced vitamin capsules. She mixed it into her coffee and drank. Instantly the cancer which I knew to be inside her disappeared. You cannot know how much that meant to me. I pressed a few more vials into her hand. She asked me if I would not like some of the 'absinth' for myself. I think she was feeling a bit unnerved and wanted to see me ingest something. I took one of the vials, opened it and shot it back neat. It was my own blood, so I could do that. It satisfied her and she relaxed. But she feels a bit telepathic to me. I am sure she knows more than she lets on. I do not know if it is my imagination or not, but she seems to favor my mother. There is something about the cast of her features. Yet how could that be? There are so many generations between us. Geneticly we are not much more than total strangers. But a creature such as I knows there's more to life than genetics. Where am I now? I am standing over the body of my monthly victim, watching as it ignites into a cold, blue flame. This one was a bad one, a very bad one. And the dancing, windblown ashes cannot disappear fast enough. When it is over, I step out from behind the bushes of a favorite vest pocket park, examining my new, gold Rolex and whistling The Teddy Bears' Picnic. When you go out on the streets tonight you're in for a big surprize. But the Enemy has not left us. He is till here. I can feel him.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Revisit the nights when Sarah was still mortal and her strange, little, hidden bookshop, known as PHILADELPHIA AFTER DARK, catered to 'the night shift'.... The Enemy took a victim last night. I know it. I felt it. He was not of this city and must have been passing through. Maybe he had business with other life-eaters. That is what I suspect. My local brethren seem to agree. We meet in a certain place to discuss the passing scene. For the past forty years, that place has been The Mutter Museum of Medical Oddities, a nineteenth century edifice with squeaking old, wood floors, low, antiquated lighting and heavy, dark paneling. They have row after row of aged, glass display cases featuring such treasures as a life-cast of Chang and Eng, the first scientifically studied conjoined twins, along with countless huge jars filled with embalming fluid and tragically deformed babies. When it comes to the adult specimens, they save only the heads. Bob gets us in. He has a job there. He is the night watchman. It's ironic, a vampire with a pension plan and health benefits. We don't know what he would do should they ask for a urine specimen. I presume he would borrow some, just like a drug addict. We sit on a few eighty year old, decrepit folding chairs, back near the two-headed babies. I don't know why. I guess because it's just so cozy there. Baylah, our Beyonce look-alike, says this place is the perfect spot for us, because it is a refuge for dead freaks. She thinks that's funny. Bob and I do not. Getting back to the recent victim. We think he was a male, a young male who appeared to have about twentyfive human years. We get visions and that's how he looks. The Enemy and his dogs (he befriends the most vile, junkyard strays) cornered their sad, lonely prey in a dark, forgotten wharehouse. He was torn apart (I mean it. quite literally torn apart.) by the vicious beasts. When he was reduced to dripping scraps of oozing meat adhering to broken bits of bone, they devoured him. The dogs had to eat fast, for a 'dead' vampire always ignites into a cold, blue flame and disappears, just as his human victims do. But the flesh was already inside them and the blue, radiance shooting through their canine bodies provided knowledge. It is said that The Enemy occasionally slaughters one of his hounds and dines on the pale, oily meat. In this way he too gains a certain measure of power. He learns things about us, things that we do not want others to know. That's why we're careful, never absentmindedly wandering into isolated places, as those of our kind often do. But old Philadelphia is filled with such out-of-the-way gems and I miss them. Maybe The Enemy will go 'way? He's done that in the past. Perhaps he'll kill a few 'tainted' mortals and disappear? It's just that the ones he finds lacking often turn out to be the very best. He's not like us. We only kill bastards. But that one is demonic. We are something else. Now, forgive me, but I must go to Sarah. She needs money. She needs help to keep the little bookshop snug and dry. Soon I will resume the role of 'angel' and another stack of bills or maybe some sparkling little bijou will find its way into her pocket. After all, ask and you shall receive..... Just be sure you ask for something 'nice.'
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Friday, September 24, 2010
A tramp along death's highway... that was me. I was a few hundred leagues from home and unsure about my current condition. I could not let myself be seen in the daylight, because the Crusaders were all about. True, they would not have spotted me as a Jew, for I was dressed like any other poor traveler. But what if they suspected? What if they asked me to parrot some Trinitarian prayer? I would not have known what to say and could have been killed as a heretic or a Jew. What did it matter? They were not concerned with details, after all who cared about such things when one was on the road to heaven? I slept in deep, dark caves and subterranean Roman ruins. I knew I had been transformed into something 'different', but I did not truly understand what that meant. One night, I tried to drink some cool water from a little stream, but it burned like poison. There was another morning when a tiny pin prick of sunlight found me in the crumbling cellar of an old Roman villa. I had the scar for days. But I am a fast learner. I think I am instinctive when it comes to these matters and I learned quickly. During the daylight, when I was 'sleeping' I would have visions. It seemed that I was seeing into The Realm of The Holy Presence. There was an angel there and he was instructing me. And I knew that I would never kill wantonly. I knew that I would only take the guilty. I now know that most genuine vampires conduct themselves in the same manner. But this age has its own Crusaders and they distort the truth and spread murderous lies . They cry for war and vengence, when they should be praying for something else. I have borne my burden in many places. But now it is time to speak about the present. It is time to speak about events in Philadelphia. It is time to speak about the coming of our Enemy. Oh, before I 'sign off'' that wilkravitz fellow, my familiar, liked his new sneakers. And I liked my new pair as well. Shhh... I can hear the far off sound of a dog howling. Listen, there goes another one... Our Enemy often uses dogs. Their night song makes me nervous. May Michael, the Arch-Angel, help us all.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Sarah and I have much in common. We both lost our parents at a most vulnerable age. She, after they lost their money. Her father had a stroke. Her mother suffered a fatal heart attack caring for him. He died soon after. Sarah tried to do her best, but without money the devoted souls in the medical establishment were blind to her needs. Now I didn't truly lose my parents. They lost me. The same Crusader horde responsible for the burning of the synagogue descended on Jews throughout the region. The unknown vampire who created me actually went to my father's camp to tell him I perished in the fire. My father and his entourage were hastily packing up when he got the message. They were fleeing to the coast, hopping to find a ship that would take them south to a Moorish port. A band of blood soaked Crusaders encountered my creator, as he returned to his rocky lair. They had a vampire traveling with them, a prisoner, a pathetic, little 'elf', or child vampire on the cusp of puberty. She feared for her very existence. It was her job to finger any 'unclean' souls found along the way. A group of these unwashed barbarians attempted to overpower my creator, but he fought them off, sublimating through a few and instantly shredding them to bits. But his strength soon waned. They pinned him to the ground and locked him in a heavy, 'iron maiden' minus the usual interior spikes. He screamed. He raged. But it was no use. The chains were too heavy and the locks too strong. Perhaps if he could feed?. My maker needed blood and was surrounded by souls deserving of death, but he could not take a drop.... So they carried him to Rome, where he was kept as a curiosity, deep within the hidden Vatican archives. I learned all this much later from the little 'elf' girl. She survived. For a while she had a successful career as a waif-like fashion model. But that is an entirely different tale and one that she should tell herself.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
There are others. We do not come from the same line, mortal or immortal, but we share the city and so make common cause. My oldest companion in this place is The Transvestite. She is not really a transvestite, but a tall, statuesque black woman who burlesques such an individual to fool the populace. It is all a question of misdirection, an old magicians' trick. They see her surface incongruity and fail to recognize her own true, special self. She goes by the name of Bylah and if my recollections are correct, she has been 'working the night shift' as they say for about twohundred and fifty years. At first she used to haunt the inns and taverns. Now she picks up a meal or two in the clubs and bars. She was traveling with some French-West Indian voodoo woman, who turned out to be more than just a follower of the old gods. That's how she caught the midnight fever,but she's a good soul and like me, takes only those deserving of death .Then there is Bob. He appears to have about fortytwo mortal years and we can't remember when we first encountered him. I think he just combusted on the street one night, like that old time Philadelphia preacher, Father Divine. Even Bob can't remember his real name or how long he has been called to this mode of existance But he is a 'nice guy' and his name appears on various mailing lists for Atlantic City casinos (yes, we go down to the seashore from time to time), so we get tickets to all the shows. I liked Charo the best. I presume it was because of all the Spanish music. You can keep all the illusionists though. When one can work a bit of true magic, one loses patience for the ersatz sort. But there is something about the little mute one from Penn and Teller. His soul is deep. He knows things. I believe he would make a very good vampire. If he suddenly disappears from the act, or developes an aversion to daylight, don't say I did not warn you. For now, I have been working my 'wilkravitz' familiar person very hard. I feel guilty, so let me permit him to stop this typing. I think I will go to The Footlocker and purchase him a new pair of sneakers. Who knows, perhaps I will purchase a pair or two for myself as well?
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Some insights into Sarah's early life, first appearing two years ago, but never even read... Please click on this. Do that tiny bit of magic and make the tale appear... I will do as I promised. I will tell you about Sarah. They say that time is an illusion. They say that everything that was, is and will be occurs instantaneously . Our minds perceive them as unique events unfolding in a seemingly endless sequence. But that is just God's trick. There is one universal celestial jewel, yet it sparkles with a trillion lights reflecting the radiance of Heaven. I believe that Sarah is one of those lights, one of the brightest lights. And when I discovered her it was my special blessing to love her and my sacred duty to keep her safe. She is the daughter of well respected school teachers and her childhood was warm and secure.Her people were known for their good deeds. And when she was a bit older, they sent her off to a small college, rich in history and colonial ambiance. But she never graduated. Her aging parents, in an attempt to safeguard her future, gave their life's savings to a blood sucker much more vicious than I could ever be. He was a self-styled investment adviser, a money conjurer. They believed his lies and so lost everything. For the only sorcery he could accomplish was transforming other people's wealth his own. Sarah was compelled to make her solitary way in the world with what little money remained. She opened a cozy, nocturnal book shop. She opened Philadelphia After Dark, the place where I found her. The place where I fell under the spell of her pure, warm beauty. For me it is a holy place. Not a large, overpowering one, like some Gothic cathedral or the Temple Mount, but rather like a small spring hidden deep in the green, mossy shadows and dedicated to a beloved saint. I kept watching her, from the shop and from other sites as well. And I think she is the last child of my human line. I am certain. A father knows. A father can sense his own.
Monday, September 20, 2010
After the coupling my skin began to burn. An acidic agony spread over my whole body. I began to tremble. The girls began to scream. My two mysterious companions looked down silently from above. A tear developed in the skin along my hairline, as I started to molt like a snake. I heard my benefactor's voice. He said - Now it is complete. There is no going back. Welcome to the demi-angelic host. I stood there watching my skin slough off and roll down my bare body. I really didn't understand it all and was just grateful that the burning stopped. But then I was gripped by a visceral craving. The strange man watching from above knew this. He felt it and he said - Take the rejected one. Take the one who will not be the mother of your mortal line. I hesitated for a moment, but I knew what he meant. She screamed. My 'bride' pulled back into the shadows. I grabbed the second girl and began to feed. It was not gross. It was not sloppy. It was not like what you see in the cinema. The whole act was neat and discreet. My eye teeth, now formed into razor sharp, cunning fangs, broke through her skin. There was no tearing. There was no mauling. It was rather like a kiss. It was like a restorative drink from a warm, rich fountain. And in a few heartbeats it was over. I was satisfied. I was fed and she was dead. The fat, little dwarf started clapping his hands, as he capered about making disgusting sucking noises. My strange benefactor yelled - Silence! It is as his first communion!... The dwarf sneered and said - He no have first communion. He Jew. He no believe in real god...The strange man struck him hard and he collapsed. I could hear it. I could hear his mohair covered, fat, little ass smack down against the cold, hard stone floor. And I saw the corpse of my victim ignite in to a cold, blue flame and. disappear. I know I promised to tell you about Sarah, but sometimes these things just come pouring out. Please forgive me.I can't help it. We of the 'demi - angelic host' are in fact a very emotional breed.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Things like this were common practice among the vampirisi in the old days ~~~ This is not fiction. I am not supposed to say it, but I have to. My God, I have to..... I heard muffled screams coming from somewhere deep within the maze of caverns. My strange benefactor just stared at me, never saying a word. I got up and began to explore. First I came to a hidden 'room' covered in primitive, though evocative murals, rich with animals and other rudimentary signs. The colors were basic, yet still vivid. At the time I did not know how I was able to see them in what I took to be complete darkness, but I was able to see them. Now I am quite used to these abilities, but then it was like a dream. And still the sound of the muffled screaming drew me on. More rough tunnels. Dampness. Cold gray rock, then another room, larger and rounded. A manic, little, naked dwarf danced about a yawning, dark pit. He was festooned in chains and jewels from the treasure vault. His skin seemed softly golden, but as I drew nearer, I saw that he was covered in short, glossy fur, like a horse. Weak moans came up from the bottom of the pit. I approached the edge and peered down. Two pathetic, dirty girls dressed in filthy tatters stopped their crying and looked up at me. I heard the voice of my strange savior. He said - Go down to them. Go down, before the last of your human self dies. But I did not comprehend what he was saying. So the manic dwarf danced behind me and pushed me in. I tumbled to the bottom, a distance equal to four times the height of a man, but was not injured and quickly sprang to my feet. The strange savior called down and whispered - Now, before the last of your living essence dies. I understood. It was elemental. It was instinct and there in that arcane place, I coupled with one of the filthy victims. Through that act, my human line survived. Some of them are walking with you now. But the second one became my first true meal..... And I remember her taste to this day.....
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Friday, September 17, 2010
I have to think fast. They know my familiar. They know who that wilkravitz person is. I'm channeling to him. He's sitting in the library right now, but one of my enemies grows suspicious. I must work fast. The vampire lifted me up and carried me out of the smoky ruins. I was near death, very near to the end, for I was already entering the River of Radiance. But he took me into a sheltered place near the town wall and that's where he did it. That's where he made me into what he was. I know now that he could have simply given me a saving draught of his miraculous blood, but he did not do that. He could have saved me and sent me back to my father's camp, but that was not to be. When I woke up to the night world I choked and coughed up great clots of dampened ash and blood. He chuckled quietly and ponded my back. When I finished he hoisted me up over his shouled and carried me out of the town and into the surrounding woodlands. No one paid us any mind. Just a couple of drunken Crusaders going back to camp after a night of fun. He entered a cave. I was afraid to so much as move. I think I held my breath the whole time. But what was oxygen to me? Did I even need it anymore? I think not. Even now, I only breathe out of habit. The rhythm comforts me. He proceeded into a series of tunnel, dark, but I could see. It was like a maze. How would I ever find my way out? We must have been at least a half mile into the earth. We came to a larger space. It was like the lairs of dragons one reads about in stories. Treasures were heaped all about us. Gold and jewels glittered in the soft light from creamy candles. He threw me down onto an old, gilded, Roman divan. And that's when I heard the muffled screams coming from somewhere deeper inside.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Do you promise to accept this as fiction? During a lull in the hymn singing (their cantor was very good, actually) we heard the pounding roar of hoof beats, as a hoard of newly minted Crusaders galloped into the town, only to dismount . They shouted to each other in a dialect I could not understand. But it all happened so fast. The native Jews inside seemed prepared for what was to come.In the few seconds of silence, I studied the simplistic, scriptural paintings adorning this place, Solomon and the other kings, an archangel or two. Very different from our Moorish influenced Beit Sefer in Granada. Johannan slid close to me. There was a loud, pounding sound, like rocks slamming against the great oaken doors and monstrous hail stones assaulting the roof, as volley after volley of stout fire-arrows rained down upon us. There was no escape. In seconds this house of prayer was engulfed in flame. The people inside softly began to intone the prayer for the dead. I just sat there. I was not used to persecutions like this and knew not what to do. Some tried to smash through the small, stained glass windows, but they were instantly shot dead and the rush of air racing into the breech only served to fan the flames. Johannan grabbed me and threw me under the heavy, stone table holding the scrolls of the Bible. I was surrounded by what looked like fiery human automatons. Some just sat there. Others prayed. The sad little boys just prior to their consecration (bar mitzvah) huddled together and wept. Death was all around me. I passed out from the noxious fumes, but did not die. And a bit later, in the smoking ruins, was found by a being who I eventually learned to be a vampire.
What is it I always say? Oh, yes, about this being fiction. You know the drill. Now, while we were proceeding up the east coast of Iberia to the vineyard/manor of the great biblical scholar, Rashi, in the south of France, Crusader fever had begun to grip what passed for the hearts of the local Trinitarian populace. We were camped for the night, just over the border of the Christian, Visigothic kings in the north of the peninsula , and in the domain of some Provencal noble. I do not remember his name, but do not worry. He is of no importance. There was a town nearby that styled itself a city. I was eager to visit one of the grey stone municipalities of the north and set off with one of our retainers to explore this exotic site. We were dressed in the manor of well born travelers. My creed was my own business. Upon entering this country town, I was struck by the abundance of foliage. It was quite different from what I was used to in Al Andaluz, in the south of Iberia. The edibles and wares hawked by village worthies seemed attractive, but I was bound to follow a righteous diet and could partake of none of it. Well, maybe I would have fudged things a little and eaten a bit of fish, or tasted a tankard of ale, but Johannan, our retainer would have none of it. He espied the local synagogue, which was quickly filling with fellow believers to celebrate the birthday of some sainted regional sage, so we joined the throng and went in. The service was similar to ours. The chanting was a bit different. The order a little off, but what could we expext from these pre-Frenchie Jews? Come back for the next post. I'll tell you more.
Monday, September 13, 2010
First of all we must agree that what comes next is fiction. What did I want to share with you? Oh, yes, let me tell you how I first contracted the divine disease. As I stated earlier, I was about eighteen years old. We were on our way up the east coast of Iberia, where I was to study with the great biblical scholar, Rashi, at his vineyard/manor house in the south of France. My father's tents were rich and commodious. Thirty retainers rode with us, including a dozen men-at-arms. I was mounted upon the young stallion given me by the son of the Caliph himself. None dared molest us. We were accepted in the great halls of Trinitarian lords, as well as those belonging to our fellow unitarian Muslim neighbors.This was a golden age, a symbiosis of three spiritual interpretations, a fountainhead of philosophy and learning. But ugly cracks were beginning to appear in the alabaster facade of our rarified world . Not only on the facade, but in the very foundation itself. Demons of intolerance were busy whispering in dirty ears up and down the continent of Europe. Bands of common brigands swarmed onto the crumbling Roman hyighways, stirring up the peasantry and lesser nobility. They demanded a holy war of conquest, a blessed slaughter of all infidels, and the establishment of a Trinitarian kingdom, ruled from the radiance of Mount Zion itself. Ruled from the navel of creation. Ruled from Jerusalem. And as a show of piety, they killed every Jew, Muslim and Trinitarian heretic they found along the way.. Needless to say, they found us. Look to the next posting, for there you will learn more..
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Blessed art Thou, O Creator-King, Who enables me to share this truth~~~. This is how I help people. This is how I make up for taking lives, even when those lives are meant to be taken. My blood can also save people. It has certain qualities of preservation. I have cartons of these little vials. They used to use them for perfume samples not too long ago. I have thousands of them. I slice into a finger tip with an old fashioned razor blade and dribble a few drops of my wondrous elixir into the tiny, glass tube. Then I seal it shut with a bit of wax taken from dime store birthday candles. I stuff a few of them down my shirt and go on my way. I walk by houses and feel the lives of those inside. When I stumble upon a deserving soul I sublimate through the wall and go inside. There is a speech that I say... 'Fear not. I am sent to balm your wounds. I am here to make all things right.' They think I'm a guardian angel of some sort. Well, I am. I'm the sort of guardian angel that is actually a guardian vampire. So what? Who cares? At least I get results. The subject usually bursts into tears. I comfort them, while managing to dribble a few drops of my red medicine past their lips. Afflictions vanish. All is well. Spiritual strength is renewed. And I even fill their coffers too with whatever I scavenge from my evil victims. One poor grandmother with two toddlers to manage got a stack of one hundred dollar bills from some drug dealer, plus the deed to a condo in Atlantic City, New Jersey, complete with the keys and everything. It was all legitimate. I have an advocate who helps me. You'd be surprised at the people who help me. Some of them do it because they believe in my work, others to keep me away from their door, or their throats actually. There's an old grizzled man who sleeps on steam vents. He's been homeless for eleven years. I slipped a solid gold, diamond encrusted Rolex watch on his wrist a few nights ago (from a shady, extortionist doctor), along with a pocket full of loose cut, high-quality emeralds. I seem to remember that the total worth was somewhere in the vicinity of three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Then I woke him up and arranged for a suite at a fine hotel. It's easy to mesmerize desk clerks. He saw the watch and not the filthy sleeve above it. When last I heard, my grizzled ward was keeping company with the widow of a wealthy real estate developer and they were contemplating a small investment in Belize. In a few nights I'll be due for my monthly feeding. I'm starting to feel the hunger. During the day, during the time when I leave this world, I have visions. I see the image of my next meal. Each night the picture grows ever clearer, until I know the soul and all their faults. Then I just go out and do my duty. Such is life... or death in my case. Oh, look. There is my favorite Starbucks. I think I will go in (remember, it is a familiar of mine who transcribes this. I communicate with his mind, while I am free to wander at my leisure). The lovely young girl inside thinks I remind her of some curly haired swain on a television show called Entourage. I will have to watch it sometime. Oh, I am so very vain. The other girl, the one in the clothier's, tells me I look best in Dolce and Gabbana. Who am I to argue? What I could tell her about the goods vended in the souks of Marrakesh. But for now, I will just snuggle into a deep, leather chair near the fire (conditioned air makes it bearable) and contemplate my meal. Who knows, perhaps it will be you? The aroma here is so like what I remember in the coffee houses of old Granada. Let me un focus my gaze for a moment or two and lose myself in my thoughts. There is a land where dreams are born. I know, for I have been there. And I seem to think that some of you have wandered through there too.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Here's a peek at the beginning ------ My, how Tomas/Jonathon has grown!------First of all, we must agree that what comes next is fiction. You have to accept this. Please, you must. You do not know. Please... I am in hiding. Even for a 'vampire' I am in hiding. There are secure places. I have them all over the city of Philadelphia. I am writing this through my 'familiar.' He is that wilkravitz fellow . I can send my mind up out of my body. I send it to him and he does what I say. He was eating lunch in an all you can eat Chinese style buffet when I occupied him. Now he is sitting in a public library frantically typing away, while irrate young ruffians await their chance to play games and turn their own minds into jelly. They are after me. They want to destroy me. I do not understand this world. I do not know why. I have never so much as harmed one soul. Countless bodies maybe, but a soul, never. You would think that after almost one thousand years, I would have this all figured out, but everything keeps changing all the time. Just when I get used to a century it's all gone. Do you know anybody who needs any powdered wigs or stove-pipe hats? I believe I have a trunk or two stuffed with bell-bottom pants if you want them. Can you imagine the tag sale I could have? Right now, I'm in the long forgotten, dusty toy department of the buried Gimbels subway store. I like it. I can forget my troubles here. Lincoln Logs, Tinker Toys and Legos... They are wondrous. I have reconstructed our old villa in Al Andaluz. It's quiet here. It calms me. Except for the passing subway caravans, I hear nothing... at least not with my ears. Sarah... I want to be with Sarah. I will abandon this wilkravitz person soon and fly to her. She is worried about me. Soon it will be dark. I will leave then. Inshallah, they will not see me. Maybe I will be strong enough to sublimate? Maybe I will be able to pass through the solid matter of the world and appear by her side. There are things she has to know. For they who seek to extinguish me , would do the like to her. Please believe me. I have never harmed a soul. No one can harm a soul. their fate rests in the Hands of God. Am I still a believer? Of course. Faith never dies. I am looking at the small, plastic recontruction of my boyhood home. It is a balm to my senses. Yet it reminds me of that fantastical trip and how I came to be. Let me catch my breath. Let me relax and float back down to the floor. This nervous levitation tires me. I like to feel my own weight. I like to have my feet on the ground. I can hear the fire of the sun. It is beginning to pass 'round to the other side of the world now. Perhaps I will soon be able to leave this land of dead, dry, dusty playthings? Perhaps... and then the real games can begin. I am done here, for now. Let the ruffians come and have their fun. Who cares? They'll soon be jelly.Corpses get that way, you know....
please hit the SHARE button. kindly leave a COMMENT. and a happy 'klactu barada nicto' to you.
please hit the SHARE button. kindly leave a COMMENT. and a happy 'klactu barada nicto' to you.