Tuesday, December 21, 2010

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.....

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