Sunday, April 1, 2012

TOMAS DE MACABEA...UN VAMPIRO QUIERE HABLAR ......

Please permit me to intrude on those vaqueros one more time. For those of you unfamiliar with my Old Andalucian background, 'vaquero' means cowboy. I do tend to lapse into the Andalucian dialects and apologize for  any confusion that may cause.


I think it is obvious to you that I am eager to commandeer these pages once again. THE LITTLE MATCH BOY was one thing. But I find these Martian upstarts quite intolerable. So I walk through the damp, chill streets, hands jammed down in my pockets, eyes fixed, as I wait for my chance to come back. 


And if 'he who channels this'..... the wondorously creative, Billy Kravitz, is aware of my presence (depending how deep his trance actually is), I hope he knows there's a nice new pair of fresh, white, springtime sneakers in it for him if he can possibly speed things along.


Right now, I sit on a bench in Washington Square. No one comes through at this hour on a Sunday night. I have the traditionally landscaped, urban park to myself. Granted, a few wan, etherial spirits, risen up from the forgotten and unmoved Revolutionary graves hover about, but they molest me not. For what am I, but one of them covered in flesh?


And if I wax religious at this time of year, please indulge me. It brings back memories. I cannot help it.  They tried to burn me. I was eighteen years old and on my way to study Scripture at the Provencal academy of a great philosopher of The Faith. We stopped for the Sabbath in a small town just over the Frankish border and proceeded to join our brethren in a well mortared stone synagogue for Evening Prayer. The Teacher (for that is what rabbi means) was not to my liking, but devotions are devotions and he was immaterial. 


Approximately one half hourglass into the service the chapel was surrounded by a rowdy group of brigands off to The Crusades. And what better way to sanctify their new found religious purpose than the excruciating slaughter of believing Jews at prayer? So they sealed the building an lit it up. 


The lucky ones died from the smoke. I too would have joined them, had my quick thinking body servant not pushed me under the stone  rostrum, where the air was clear and cool.....well, relatively speaking.  And I did not die.......not completely. 


Later that night, cold, silvery moonbeams washed in to the roofless structure, kissing the charcoal corpses  of newly minted martyrs. Have you seen the bodies in Pompeii? Well, then you know.


And I moaned in the solitude, lungs caked with ash, oblivious to the rats searching for pools of grease, when he found me........


Why do I recount these things?....... Why was I saved? Why me? Why Tomas de Macabea (Bible name - Jonathon ben Macabi)? For what purpose? A vampire ponders these things. A vampire seeks reasons. He lifted me up and He took me out. My own, personal Exodus. (but are we not taught that The Exodus is personal to us all?) Yet He used a vampire to do it.


God works in mysterious ways......


For those familiar with my tale, do not worry. I seek not sanctification. Not that kind anyway. Parallel universes attract me not. I have had my fill. Let the world save itself. I'll be more discerning......


That's why I tarry here looking at ghosts. A young nurse comes by on her way to work. I see her on the street. Tonight, I shall do more.....


Join me for the outcome, when the cowboys go away.......


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