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.

The Book of Sarah

My skin itches. It's me, wilkravitz. I'm here with the elves and cherubs. The little ones, the cherubs flit all around me taking sharp, tiny blood kisses with their pointy tongues. Just a bit. Just an almost microscopic drop. I think that's how they communicate. But I'm actually breaking out in hives from it.They're nice, little babies and I don't want to upset them, but I need some relief. This place used to be an old storage building or garage. There's a dried up, filthy restroom in the back. I found an old bottle of calamine lotion in the rusty medicine cabinet. But it's so out of date (Oct/99) that I'm afraid to use it. Oh God, I hope this goes away. They have a real nice flat screen TV here, but all it seems to run is a continuous loop of Mary Martin in Peter Pan. I think the 'There is a Land Where Dreams Are Born' song is kind of a national anthem around here. Albion and the older ones, the elves, are all right. At least they talk more. But it's still like being locked up with a middle school cast of Pippin or something. Oh, and they pick up things. So I'm pretty sure something big is going on with the others, the ones in the Pines. And they told me what I did with my old car keys. But if it wasn't for the extensive collection of legos they have here, I would go completely crazy. Right now I'm half way through a detailed, lego rendering of Hearst Castle in San Simeon, California. So I can't talk anymore. Shhh, don't bother me. I'm looking for a few of the skinny, little red ones. Hey, how are you getting this, 'cause I don't have any keyboard? Gee this is all new to me. I mean I'm used to being a channel for the others, but this is real MAGIC! Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Two of the girl elves are asking me if I want to learn how to levitate.... Hell yeah, I want to learn how to friggin levitate. Wouldn't you. Look, I'll talk to you later. I think they're telling me I have to take my shoes off.

The Book of Sarah

I can see you, but you can't see me. It is I, the disembodied spirit. I don't mean to play with you, but I can see you, all of you. So tell that bartender in Singapore to take his hand out of the till. And that sixth grade hotsie-totsie better keep her eyes on her own paper, 'cause Missus Buttwasher is closin' in for the kill. That's the hotsie-totsie in Aukland I'm talking about. There's a wild party full of drunk, barfing seventeen year olds in Flosmoor, Illinois and no, that vomit stain on the new, Henerdon couch will not come out. So some soon to be busted, little mister big stuff is gonna have to do without his new k'nect, or whatever the hell they call it this year. Look, I am just trying to put off the inevitable. I do not enjoy being the bearer of bad news. But the Jersey Klan got Bob. Oh, come on, you knew it was Bob. What? Did you think it was gonna be Baylah? She already told you she would not be the first one down. And you better get in the habit of believing what she says, because Baylah don't play like that. But Bob is gone. And it was not pretty. The Jersey Klan saw that posting on the web, the one that shows him launching Barbra's sloppy, old head up into the air, just like it was a bottle rocket. You remember Barbra, Bob's eighty something year old Big-Mama-Nazi wife? Well she had some runnin' buddies over the bridge in Jersey and some of them, the old ones, the great grand daddies of the current bunch of head bangers, recognised Bob from way back when. They downloaded the picture and sent it out to all their fellow travelers. Now he would have been safe if he'd listened to Edith and the other Pineys. They told him to stay inside. But he was restless. That's how Bob gets. He just can't spend the night tucked inside with all the others watching Jimmy Kimmel and eating potato chips (everybody but the vampires that is). No, he has to go roaming around out in the woods. True, he didn't have to worry too much about the rattlers, or the bob-cats, or the bone crunching snappy turtles, or the occasional black bear, or even the half dozen or so fully grown Jersey Devils they got gyrating around in these parts. But he never banked on stumbling into a pack of shit-faced Jersey Klansmen doing their best to maintain an investment in a brand new, shiny copper, state of the art still. Bob didn't know. He thought he'd discovered a passel of South Philly wise guys planting some of the competition. But them Klan guys got fast reflexes. One of them had a copy of that web picture stuffed in his back pocket. He sees Bob. He pulls it out, eyeballs it and starts yelling - It's him! It's him! It's that no good puzzlingly young race trader what killed 'Mother' Barbra!! Well, they grab brands from the fire and give chase. Now you know Bob gets rattled real easy. And you know he ain't got much brains for a supposedly, immortal, omnipotent, supernatural guy and all. So he does what he did back in Rittenhouse Square Park when Annie and the hounds was after him. He shimmies up a tree. A dry tree. An autumn tree. A November tree. Do I have to tell you the rest? Them J.K.M.'s (Jersey Klansmen) use their flaming brands to set fire to that tree. And a couple of the new guys go running back to their truck for a big, old container of high octane gasoline. Yes siree, high octane, only the good stuff for our Bob. So they lobbed the volitile fluid right into that over-sized burning bush and whoosh!!! We got a human (or formerly human) sacrifice going on right here in Burlington County! They was whooping and jumping like a regular bunch of wild Indians, gettin' all sweaty and poppy-eyed and spittin' and dancin. And you know it is dangerous to get so over heated out in the deep woods on a cold November night. Those boys could have caught pnemonia. As it was, one of them smashed a foot right into the den of a fixin' to hibernate rattler and got hisself bit real bad. And Bob tried to run down that tree and sublimate through the flames. But the only thing is some of his atoms got mixed up with some of the  aerasol (did I spell it right?) fire-oil atoms that were bouncing around in the air, so when he commenced to solidifying poor Bob found out that he was sorta made of fire. Looked a little bit like Flame from the comic books. Oh, you could smell him burning. And you could hear him shrieking and hollerin' and all. I guess one of the worst parts was when his eyeballs exploded. But seeing as I ain't got no physical body, I can't rightly tell which part smarts the most. Damn, I like this country livin'. I think it kinda suits me. Think I'm gonna look up the ghost of Hank Williams and Patsy Cline and have a hoe-down or something. The other vampires heard the noise. They ran out and saw it all from a little ways off. It's sad. It's not like they truly liked Bob, but they felt the loss. And for the last forty, fifty years or so he was doing his best to make up for past transgressions. But now he is gone to the Great Beyond. And the way I hear it, he is trying his darndest to set things right with them little toddlers (and their teacher-wimmen) he originally exploded all those years ago.