Sunday, January 31, 2016


The vampire, Jonathon speaks --- I have so many stories to tell. In 1832 I almost immigrated to California. This was about eleven years after Mexico gained its independence from Spain. The new government, influenced by both the American and French Revolutions, set out to do great things. The Catholic missions were forcibly broken up into what was known as 'ranchos.' Each mission became three or four vast holdings awarded to privileged families, much as earlier European warlords created baronies. And I almost got one. They knew me in Madrid. Some de Macabeas had remained in Spain. They feigned adherence to Catholicism and rejection of Judaism. You know. You've heard stories of The Inquisition. But if people were discrete... attending Mass... observing the appropriate holy days... contributing toward the construction of great basilicas there, as well as in the New World and careful with their servants, they could survive. After a time it felt natural ... Un cuerpo ... Un coracon... pero dos creencias...One body... one heart... but two faiths.... Many homes had two kitchens and two dining rooms. There was la cucina catolico y la cucina judio... the Catholic kitchen and the Jewish kitchen. Usually, the Jewish kitchen was a more interior room as was the space used for Jewish devotional purposes.

Well, I kept in contact with the de Macabeas of Sevilla. At first I was 'the cousin' from Provence, over the border in France and then the cousin from other places, for there were Spanish diasporas all over the world, even in Muscovy. The feeling for Old Iberia is very strong. Many exiled, Spanish Jewish families never gave up the keys to la casa vieja in Spain. Many homes today in Israel or Chicago, or Manila have an ancient wooden box and in that box rests heavy, iron keys. The memory lives on.

It came to be that one branch of the la familia de Macabea was offered a rancho near Santa Barbara a beautiful place, laced with orange groves and avocado farms. There was a massive residence, a former bishop's palace... red tiled roof... thick, stucco over adobe walls. In a very real sense, a continuous style all the way from Moorish Spain. They, the family, wrote to me, in Philadelphia, asking that I make the journey and take up residence. For a while I considered it. But three thousand miles (and that's in a straight line) cross country was an impossibility back then. You have to remember that wagon trains and The Pony Express came after the 1849 Gold Rush. The First railroad, The Union Pacific, wasn't established till 1867. What could I do, pay familiars to guard my casket in a rickety flat boat? Go down the Ohio river, to the Mississippi, then across the Gulf to Corpus Cristi and up the Rio Grande?... How could I transport my wealth? Checks didn't travel well. Neither did gold bars.  Who would I 'cull' along the way? You know what would have happened? Somebody would grow suspicious. Somebody would try to kill me, but I'd have to kill them first and then I'd be on the run, moving among the Indians, like a windego, or spirit of the night... An adventure? Of course. Enough for countless dime novels and penny dreadfuls. I might have enjoyed it. You've heard of my forays into the Eurasian Steppes and other places?

But I did none of that, though I did send two casks of gold to Cadiz so other de Macabeas might make the trip. They sailed to Panama, then part of the new nation of Colombia, went overland across the isthmus, onto another ship and up to Santa Barbara. Some died along the way... an old abuela (grandmother) and a little baby... Such things happened. Today, that branch of my people own land up and down the Pacific Coast, including three choice properties along 'The Queen's Necklace' in Malibu. A certain Sonny de Macabea has connections in Hollywood. If something doesn't break for Billy soon, I'll see what he can do. Look, I'd like it to happen too. We'll see.

How I digress. Vampires are like that. We're really reticent creatures... able to take care of ourselves, but due to the circumstances of our existence, we don't like to push.

Edith saw the 'dog.'... She saw the coyote and she recognized it as a coyote. Jersey Pines people know. She whined at the front door, begging for food. It was light out. I was sleeping. Edith sensed she had a purpose, so she let her in and fed her. Then she put her in the laundry room tub and gave her a bath. That's when she saw the collar. That's when she noticed the bullet. How compliant the 'dog' was. Edith whispered - I can smell The Pines on you. The hound kissed her and whined.

She was all groomed and curled up on the rug by the time we came down. Conrad was scared.... Is she like a wolf? -he asked....No, she's not a wolf. Well, I suppose she's like a smaller wolf. They say gray wolves and coyotes can breed. They have bred. I've seen big coyotes in The Pines. - said Edith.... Will she bite me? - the skittish vampire continued... Of course he knew she couldn't kill, or hurt him, but Conrad hates pain, so he had to know.... Edith said - Why don't you hold out your hand and see?.... The 'dog' kissed him.

Sarah and Billy took to her right away. She was grateful for the attention. The young vampire woman ran out and bought her a rawhide chew toy. When she got back, Billy ran out to get a leash, so they could walk her. When he came in, he saw me examining the bullet on her collar..... What's that? - he said..... I wasn't sure, but two seconds later Edith's cell phone rang. It was someone from The Pines... She said - Yeah, she's here, all prettied up and fed... Then I knew. The 'translation,' the secret arcane words chanted by the little homeless girl a few nights ago was inside. Where else could it be, but that little artillery shell?

And, to be truthful, I didn't want to know...

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Thursday, January 28, 2016


Things began to happen. God bless the Red Paint People. They've seen everything and they know everything. Belonging to a continuous culture that goes back to Cro-Magnon times has to be worth something. Edith has a special friend among them, a quiet gentlemen (well, they're all quiet), named Newt. His father wanted to name him Salamander, but his mother thought it sounded too ethnic, so they compromised with another name for the same amphibious being. Outsiders think it's short for Newton, but it's not short for anything. It's just Newt. He looks like Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the starship Enterprise. They all look like Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the starship Enterprise. And the females all look like famed skier, now in trouble with the law, Peekaboo Street. Regular 'VW's' (WonderLanders) know that. He talks to coyotes and they talk back. They ask him what cars are and how long humans live and what's with this fire and food thing and who the hell really believes the world is round and what the hell IS 'the world?' Stuff like that. He asks them if ass sniffin' is all it's cracked up to be and what other creatures they like to hump, besides each other and humans? Most of what goes back and forth between them isn't in words. It just 'is.'

Edith asked Newt to take a look at the words she copied from the back page of Jonathon's book. She called him. Luckily, his cell phone was charged. Red Paints always forget about that. Technology is a bunch of crap to them. Years ago, they though 45rpm records were like Frisbees and electric table fans were big toe amputaters.  They're nature people. You know the types.

So Newt wrote down the letters exactly like she said and did his best. Now the Red Paint population in the dense woods known as The New Jersey Pine 'Barrens' is only a tiny remnant. Other surviving Red Paints exist in Greenland, Newfoundland, Norway, Iceland and Michigan's Upper Peninsula, not to mention a few settlements along Hudson's Bay. They say tiny bands can be found scattered in remote parts of Europe too. Our crew, the Pines crew numbered about thirty six people... enough for a 'meeting of the minds.' So he blew the ram's horn (Jews aren't the only ones) and wherever they were within the 'colony' each and every Red Paint Person (the adults, that is) stopped what they were doing and 'listened.' Look, some were too far away to hear the ram's horn, but via their own, home-grown brand of telepathy, they felt the sound. The colony was still... twenty three people, some curing skins, some playing zithers, some digging deep in the cold mud and snow, looking for 'thousand year old' snapping turtle eggs. Synapses jumped from head to head. Eyes blinked a little. Guts grumbled. Brains jiggled. Then the humming started. That's when each one shares what he knows with the others. Two hundred and thirty heartbeats later, a man comes walkin' out of the trees. Mr. Edith sees him comin' toward the porch and opens the door. The cabin's a real homey place. Folks drop by all the time. Most Piney People ain't Red Paints, just in case you didn't know.

Red Paint guy nods and says - Good afternoon. Is your woman to home?.... Mr. Edith goes - Nope, she's still in the city with her vampire buddies. That's why I can drink my wine. You want some? It's homemade. Mostly bog grapes and a little crawfish juice. Nice batch too. (he holds up the old, irregular, green glass bottle) Red Paint guy thinks a few seconds, smiles and nods again. Mr. Edith gets a glass (I believe it has Barney Rubble on it) and pours him some. Got a nice, deep amber color. Smells real tasty too... Guy takes a sip and goes - I'm here to tell her 'bout 'the words.'..... What words? - says Mr. Edith. What about the wine?.... Oh, I like it fine, thank you. A true, quality fermentation, but I'm here for the words. Vampire buddy found some words. Don't know what they mean. Your Missus thought we could help...... Can you? - asks Mr. Edith..... The Red Paint guy nods a third time and asks for a piece of paper and a pencil. Mr. Edith looks in the junk drawer and gives him what he needs. Guy writes something down. Looks like two lines.... Guy says - Here, you save this. We thought she was here, but you save it. Newt'll send another copy out by coyote. Put it in an old artillery shell. Fix it to the collar. Coyote blend right into the city. Look like a skinny, gray dog. Run fast too.... How's it gonna find her? - asks Edith's husband.... You leave that to Newt. They his coyotes. They Red Paint coyotes, if you know what I mean?. Then he winks, holds up the old Barney Rubble jelly glass and asks for more. Gets some. Stays for sizzlin' hot Taylor Pork Roll and cheese sandwiches on pan toasted Kaiser rolls too. Big, old cast iron fryin' pan give 'em a real good flavor.

You might ask why Newt don't just call Edith back on his cell phone, like she called him. But he won't. 'Smarts' might come into the Pines that way, but they don't go out that way. God damned cell phones. Never know who's listening.

He fortified her with a big old steak, 'fore he send her out. Newt, I mean. Slue-foot-Sue one a the best. She a real good coyote. Fast too. Be there in twenty four hours. Edith'll feed her real nice too, 'fore she send her back. Piney Folk know.

Vampire Jonathon gonna know too, 'cause true meanin' a them words in that artillery shell.

God bless the Red Paints.....

And in case you're curious, go Google Red Paint People...

They real... You bet they real...

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Tuesday, January 26, 2016


Jonathon was sleeping when the houseguests left. Edith gave them each an envelope with a gift card inside... Twenty five hundred dollars on a pre-paid Visa debit card. I think it was Sarah's idea. They were thrilled to get it. The woman cried. Of course between herself and the little girl they had five thousand dollars, but children need a lot, so that was all right. The wino's card was set up so he couldn't spend it in a 'state store' (Pennsylvania's Government controlled liquor outlets) , or any other venue selling alcoholic beverages. So he bought a whole mess of counterfeit movies and sold them from outside a state store on Walnut Street. Winos ain't dumb. Spent some for other stuff... two packs of tightie-whities... matching t-shirts... couple magazines.... eighty-eight cent pack of store brand 'Bic' style pens and one of those plastic measuring pitchers bedridden men use to pee in at hospitals. Wino has some class, after all. Oh! I almost forgot to tell you. He made a lot of cash selling bottles of cheap wine on the street. Opened a bank account and everything. Spent a night in a hotel every couple weeks for hot baths and piped in porn. Life was good. The lady rented a nice room from some old woman who had a house in University City (the 30's) for about $400 a month plus chores and errands. Had a refrigerator, a microwave, access to a clean bathroom, a washer and dryer in the basement. After two weeks, the little girl was calling the old woman 'mom-mom.' Never had any memories of her 'talking in tongues' episode and Jonathon never told anybody except Edith. She looked at the words he wrote down. Said she didn't know what they meant, but would ask if any of her Red Paint neighbors knew something. Red Paint People are supposed to be one of the oldest cultures to reach the east coast of North America. Folks think they're extinct, but they're not. Little pockets survive deep in woodland hidey-holes. Quiet folks, but they know a lot. Some say they have a 'clan-mind.' What one knows, they all know. Who knows?

Doctor Franklin met Jonathon in a warm, little brasserie for dinner. The streets were still slippery and icy, though cars could maneuver, provided they kept going and didn't park. Where could they park? But the place had a lively walk-in, local crowd and Franklin's driver, Joey, left him off right out front. The head waiter came out to help the old reprobate in to his seat and Jonathon was already there.

I'm sure you know vampires are quite adept at faking a full meal... No salad, just broth... and Jonathon can eat that.... a glass of wine.... pasta Bolognese, or whatever the French equivalent was. Could always mash that up and move it around, even ask for a little Styrofoam container for the leftovers. Who'd notice? Besides, Jonathon enjoyed the atmosphere. Franklin skipped his usual Kelly green Eagles sweat suit for a slightly loose, soft wool turtleneck and a brown, velvet sport coat. Combed his wispy hair back neatly too. He really was quite charming when necessary. I don't know if this night was one of those occasions, but his demeanor was more than adequate.

Jonathon said - What did you find?..... The Eternal Patriot said - They found another child in The Holy Land. On the beach at Elat, in the south. Came right up out of the water. Even the lifeguards couldn't explain it and they watch the surf. And do you want to know what else? She was dressed in a bathing suit from the nineteen-fifties..... Does the press know? - asked Jonathon..... No, but the internet does. Everybody's on line. People at the scientific center where they took her knew. Some people on the beach saw. You know how parents and grandparents guarding  kids in the surf are? They watch everything. Oh, and ask your friend Billy what Twitter's been saying about it. He knows. They think it's a feral language. They think it's something she made up. But I have a copy of what she said, a video. I'll show it to you. Some of the words sound like Basque - he whispered. Look, who knows how much people at nearby tables could hear?... They say every mysterious language sounds like Basque - added the vampire. Basque, or Welsh..... They say a lot of things - said Jonathon... But one thing they can't talk away is her costume, that bathing suit. It appeared to be relatively new, but hasn't been in production since nineteen-fifty-seven - said Franklin. They have a big beachwear industry in Israel. They know..... Jonathon asked - So what are you saying? She was 'dead' under the waves and came back?..... Oh, come on my life-eating friend, can you deny that 'miracles' happen? - said Franklin....

Jonathon didn't say a word and his dinner partner stopped a passing waiter and asked for a side of roasted vegetables....

Just a grandfather and his grandson, enjoying a meal after the storm in a warm, crowded, cozy room.

But back at the townhouse, Edith made a call to The Pines...

<more nest time>


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Sunday, January 24, 2016


We took in three homeless people during the storm. Two, we knew... the lady with the little girl who dumpster dives in the alley behind the corner with the Dunkin Donuts. Jonathon often leaves fat wallets there for her to find. Don't worry. He watches. He knows. She always finds them. The third was a guy who sleeps in the loggia fronting the Main Library on The Parkway.

Edith set them up in the basement. The rooms are finished off... storage... laundry... a little den... a sewing room... a wine room. The sofa in the den opens up, so the lady with the little girl slept there. The guy from the library got a roll out cot in the wine room, which worked out great, because he is a wino. Jonathon opened a bottle of Mosel for him. Edith gave him a nice big tuna hoagie and a pack of TastyKake chocolate cup cakes.. The other two got heaping plates of rigatoni and meatballs from upstairs. Edith does cook for me (Billy) and her, you know. There's also a tiled bath down there. The lady with the little girl went first.... Then the ghost boy, who always haunts down there and the little girl watch kiddie shows on sprout. Jonathon introduced them all, so nobody felt funny, or was scared. The lady said ghosts don't bother her, because all her favorite relatives were dead. She asked the boy if he ever came across her Uncle Scooter, but he said - no. The wino leafed through some gourmet/wine magazines and went to bed.

Doctor Franklin was supposed to come over, but with the blizzard and all he couldn't. He wanted to discuss the 'talking in tongues' children. Said he found a reference to similar occurrence in eighteenth century Denmark and seventeenth century Mexico. The Danish children were called 'the potato boys' since they roamed the potato fields in the moonlight quietly singing hymns in an unknown tongue and no one died during the three months this went on. In Mexico, it was a little girl, grandchild to an Aztec lord. She'd walk up to people in the Zocalo, never make eye contact and recite what sounded like a poem in some mysterious language.... if it was a language. Who could tell?

Vampires, being paranormal beings aren't surprised by all this. Jonathon says such children show up all the time, but usually just one or two. What we have now appears to be the beginning of an epidemic.

He sits in the library reading an old volume of Henry James... The Turn Of The Screw, I believe. Now when I say 'library' I mean the small, cozy, traditional room with the bay window fronting the street. There's a larger more formal space upstairs, but everyone from the little ghost boy on up prefers the one with the bay window. It's like a special cocoon. Jonathon liked Henry James. Few did ghost stories as well. The house was quiet. Sarah and Edith were already upstairs. I am too, only not sleeping because I have to channel this. Jonathon 'sends' it to me. He's not conscious he's doing it. Just lets me feel his thoughts and I type, up in my room, under the dormers, just below where the ghoul, Johnny Jump Up once prowled.... When downstairs, someone knocks on the library door.... a quiet, small sound... Jonathon whispers - Yes?.... The door opens and the little girl enters wearing the long, flannel gown Edith laid out on the sofa bed. Her chin high. Her eyes rolled back in her head. Jonathon didn't say a word. He just watched. The girl moved to the middle of the snug chamber and stood there in the light from a small table lamp (vampires prefer it dim). He knew what was coming. Every molecule in the room seemed to jump. Then she spoke in a low throaty voice. The vampire couldn't understand what she said. At first he thought it might be some dialect from The Caucuses, or Old Persian. But only at first. He picked up a pen lying on the side table and wrote her words phonetically on the last page of his book, till she was done. For a while she remained there, her eyes closed. Then she shook with strong, silent laughter. He blacked out. When he woke she was gone.

The only way he knew it wasn't a dream was by the little piece of blue, flannel fuzz sticking to his pants.

He picked it off, studied it, closed the light and went to bed. The little ghost boy, standing by the foot of the stairs watched him go up.

<more next time>


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Tuesday, January 19, 2016

DON HENLEY [Eagles] - THE HEART OF THE MATTER ... 1/19/16<~~ Glenn Frey passed this day

I am the disembodied spirit narrator known as Zebulon. Many know me from before. I was a thirteen year old boy stoned to death for consorting with Assyrian witches, or at least they said they were Assyrian witches. Stoning was very rarely used. I guess I was the lucky one.

Now to our tale~~~

Doctor Franklin called our reverent vampire friend. He had Jonathon's special number. Not many did... maybe a few high ranking 'familiars' and people like that. But Doctor Franklin was a special case. They'd known each other since the 1720's, when Franklin established The Junto. Was a vampire rare in a fraternal organization based on mutual assistance and scientific inquiry? Sure, but this was Old Philadelphia and before anything happened anywhere, everything happened here.

Anyway, Doctor Franklin had some information about those 'talking in tongues' children. It seems, unofficially, tests were done and each of them shared a certain set of genetic markers. That's all he said. But he wants to retest Jonathon too. And another thing, incase you're new to all this, Doctor Franklin is not a vampire, or in any way paranormal. He's preserved via regular 'harmonic' treatments and realignments on his Grand Armonica. If you're familiar with the naughty statesman, you'll know he carried out extensive sound wave investigations on various incarnations of 'armonicas' and 'grand armonicas' and all sorts of contraptions..... Some say he tapped into The Heavenly Choir itself. Sound is a very visceral thing.

That's why Glenn Frey's music was so basic to this 'age.' I think the song up above might owe more to Don Henley, but the basic 'vibe' is the same and what can you expect from me,  a two thousand year old Judean soul who used to run with Assyrian witches? My 'spirit' head STILL hurts where that first rock hit me.

I'll let you know what happens with Jonathon's genetic retesting and anything else I hear about those 'talking in tongues' kids.

Maybe Jonathon himself, or Doctor Franklin will chime in?

Sound is energy. It can break glass. It can give birth to symphonies. It can hurl curses. It can heal.

If you've ever cradled a purring cat you know that.

<more later>


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Monday, January 18, 2016

Comes 'The Prophesy' ... I'll Fly Away, played on mountain dulcimer by David Durrence .. 1/18/16


I mentioned 'prophesy' a few posts back and you saw an inkling of the miraculous when I opened 'the book' (La Ciencia Vampirismo), but now it starts.

'The Voice' never stops. It isn't loud or intrusive. It's just 'there.' Some call it a muse, or a conscience, or a devil, or an angel. If you're not too particular, it can be all those things, but to the true of heart it is always The Voice of God. It is always there, but we don't always listen.

Edith says humanity needs more music lessons. She says that when children all took trumpet, or violin, or piano lessons life was quieter. I said - Were the 1930's and 1940's quieter? People took a lot of music lessons back then.... She makes like she doesn't hear and goes back to her dulcimer. They play dulcimers in The Pines. Banjos are the main thing, but they have parlor guitars and mandolins too. Dulcimers are old. Everybody used to have dulcimers. In the 1600's and 1700's dulcimers were the pianos. Every goodwife had her repertoire... Christmas music... hymns... Old English folk songs. Listen to the video up at the top. They had a nice sound... still do.

A little girl walked into a town in the Golan Heights. Nobody knows her name, or where she came from. She speaks in a language all her own. At first they could not understand her. Then a woman from a university (I don't know which one.)... a linguist, figured it out. Every fourth word was Hebrew. Every fourth word was Arabic. Every fourth word was Aramaic and every fourth word was Farsi. They want to give her one of those cheek swab tests to reveal her genetic make up, but haven't done it yet.

I didn't 'get' this through any vampire ability. I got it on the computer, a little Mideast news feed I subscribe to.... a real small organization... sort of coded too. The name has nothing to do with the region, or the people, or the politics and they change it all the time too. But it's sure an interesting feed. They say the 'Girl Of Four Languages' talks about 'others'..... children from other places. No one knows who they are, or where they're from. They print rumors. They admit it's only hearsay. One story says Putin picked up a similar child, a boy who speaks Old Slavonic and I don't know what else. There's supposed to be a little Tibetan girl and a Bolivian Indian boy who speaks Quechua (Old Incan type language), Spanish and Portuguese. I read about another one in Africa. I read a lot of things.

But all of these things fit with my prediction. I knew. I still know. It's not over. It's just starting..... People are beginning to 'hear.' They're aware. Not everyone, but enough. They know the way we live now has to change. That's why we have all those radical 'fundamentalist' groups. They know it too and they're scared.... 'Brighten The Corner Where You Are' and all that. But when all the corners are brightened, where are they gonna hide?

Baylah says she has dreams in Tuareg now. She still spends most of her time at the Jersey Shore with her rich, mortal gentlemen friend, but we speak. I call her. She calls me.

I study people on the street all the time. I look at the children. Stores are open till nine or ten o'clock. Apparently small children have no set bedtime now. I keep expecting one of them to start talking like that little Golan Heights girl. I keep expecting a lot of things.

The Vampire Revels are coming up. I told you about that 'get together' a fortnight ago. Still don't know if I'll attend. Sarah can do without it. That I know.....

(It's 5AM now. Jonathon closes his laptop and gets up. He knows how to type. Billy still does everything else and he doesn't know that much either.... Our vampire tells Edith he's 'retiring.' She nods, waits for him to leave then clicks on HGTV. Edith loves that network. She turns it down low and watches for maybe thirty minutes, then she goes up too.  The den is quiet. The house is quiet, save for the periodic sound of the furnace, or tiny little noises made by the dear little ghost boy in the library. Sarah bought him a new set of Legos, pirates, I think it is. He plays with them on the thick Turkey rug in the small pool of illumination that washes in through the slightly open draperies, from the streetlamp near the corner.

That's how it is... life in the townhouse.....

Now please allow this disembodied, spirit, narrator to say good night, or good morning, whatever the case may be...

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Tuesday, January 12, 2016

Jonathon's Volume of La Ciencia Vampirismo Has a Name and Mind of Its Own .. 1/13/16

The book known as La Ciencia Vampirismo speaks for itself.

The strain now known as 'vampires' has been embedded in humanity since the beginning. Indeed, there is a life-eater saying that goes - I am but a link in the chain going back to the beginning. May no man know its source.

Some have seen 'gnome' vampires [here the book refers to Neanderthal vampires] and other varieties of forest folk. The chain is very long..... Since the inception of language, or at least languages that can be deciphered, we have been called 'the demi-angelic host.' In no way were we allied with evil. In no way were we cut off from Divinity. Indeed, our task has always been to combat evil. We stop it and we consume it.

As people developed cultures, forming clans and tribes, we became holy men and holy women and shamans. [when La Ciencia Vampirismo was first written and compiled, fourteen recognized 'lines of descent' were still acknowledged]... Existing lines, stemming from illustrious ancient shamans are  ~~ 1) Prism 2) Luna 3) HeartsBlood 4) Dacians 5)HollyBough 6) Ursus 7)BaughBaugh 8) Ospreys 9)Vulpines 10) Leonids 11)Serpents 12) Stone 13) Star 14)RamsGate

The book goes on detailing rather physical information about the vampire world.... preferred shelters... safe levels of dusk and dawn light..... methods of sublimation.... differences between classic vampires, cherubs, elferinos and imps.... skin shedding among the new born..... preserving mortal lines if possible.... the gathering of 'familiars' to help with various chores.

Then it gets interesting.... 'Thought Throwing' [what we might call telepathy].... 'Thought Lifting' [what we might call telekinetics]..... 'Talking to Dieties' [well, that's self-explanatory]... Increasing your inner power.....Interacting with Merfolk.... Lies Alchemists Tell... Undergarments for Unicorns and How To Sniff Out Rancid Ladies... Plus countless other arcane essays and additions.....

The last chapter is 'Practical Prophesy.' Most night-folk go right to that one. Knowledge is power, after all.

And in case you didn't know, hand copied and illuminated books, especially on vellum, or some other natural skin, develop 'souls' of their own. Jonathon's copy of La Ciencia Vampirismo calls itself 'Cumis.' ... To be truthful. There is no way to tell if this post is due to Cumis, or some other disembodied spirit-narrator.

Cumis likes being wrapped in clean, soft, Spanish Merino cloths. Cumis likes quiet libraries, low light and cozy, though not overly warm temperatures. Cumis likes the smell of fine wood and bees wax.

Whether these things are beneficial to Cumis is immaterial. Old, vellum books have minds of their own.

Next time we'll go into Prophesy.

<to be continued>


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David Bowie lost his physical form. Is he still here? I am Jonathon. I am a vampire. What do you think I'll say? Of course he's here. Flesh and by that I mean offal too, is a very friable thing. Energy is forever.

All of you, everyone reading this are already dead... are yet to be born... are young... are old... are experiencing 'existence' at every possible singularity. Time is an illusion. Time is a mathematical conceit. You know that thing we say at the top of every post... Everything is everywhere?.... Well, it is.

I see that in 'the book.' I see that in La Ciencia Vampirismo. We do not create new things so much as we (individually) become aware of what is already there. The 'spice rack' is full, but perhaps... just perhaps... there are combinations of flavors yet to be discovered. And maybe there will always be bottles yet to be opened? Eternity is terra incognita and we are in (vampires too) very small boats.

I should tell you that 'La Ciencia...' is not a collection of all vampiric knowledge. How could it  be? It is merely a collection of compass points... each bit pointing toward a different horizon.

Would you like to learn the best possible scenario vampirically speaking? It is that the need for vampires will decrease as humanity spiritually evolves. After eons of contemplation intellects greater than mine agree. We are here to cull the wicked. We are a physical tool wielded by a spiritual hand... 'pinking shears' for Creation meant to snip off errant threads.... Those of you familiar with our tale know that. We parrot it enough. But it's not just a slogan. It's the truth. We get those 'vision' and that's who we kill... 'Not the Shepherd, but the sheepdog.'.... Needless to say, we're the sheepdogs.

What can I tell you in a single episode? All true philosophies come down to one thing... be righteous...... Why is that so hard to understand?

And when humanity achieves that state, what will become of us? Will we exist in abeyance, like farm tools in the city?... Will we be mute observers, or do we have an as yet unexplored additional purpose? Will we forever be that point where the spirit meets the flesh? Will new duties appear?

Heal the sick.... We do that too. I do it, not every day, but I do it. I give tiny vials of my blood to 'familiars' with sick children and not just children. Those few drops make them well. Those few drops... not enough to make them like us... but enough to make them whole.

It always comes back to the same thing... Do what you can, where you can, when you can.

It's three o'clock in the morning. The book is closed. I sit in the snug, little library and I 'hear' the city... Not sounds... Not words, or noise... Maybe I feel it. That happens all the time.

I get up and sublimate right through the wall. It's cold. I'm on the street. Our narrow, little side street is empty, but I hear traffic nearby. If I continue, if I walk through the city... if I pass through knots of humanity, they'll notice. They'll say - Who is this man without a coat?..... I don't need that, so I sublimate back into the townhouse and bundle up. Comfort counts too, you know.

Then I leave through the front door, lest Mrs. Jackson, down the street is out on her step with Pepe, her little dog. She must think we're drug pushers, coming and going at all hours. Sometimes she smiles and waves. I wave back. Sarah waves back. Edith does. Conrad does. We all do. I send her a nice gift every Christmas... 'summer' chocolates on Mothers' Day.... little toys and goodies for Pepe.... Our own Gladys Kravitz (sorry, Billy).

I head for a coffee shop. You've seen that Edward Hopper painting, Night Hawks? Wee hour city life takes place in coffee shops. There's a waitress. She sits in a booth far from the window. She holds her cup of tea. She cries. A little child is sick... her child and doctors charge so much money. I give her a vial... For the little girl - I say.... She understands. They always understand. Like they pick it up from me. Then I give her some money. Two 'flats' of one hundred dollar bills... five thousand in each flat.... I say put it away. She stows it in her pocket. The money's not for the doctor. What's in the vial will take care of that. Maybe she'll fix up the apartment a little? Who knows?.... She doesn't get off work till seven in the morning. It'll be light by then and I'll be home, snug in the sleep cabinet with Sarah.

Then I dream. I see the little girl as an adult. Does she do great things? Is that all you care about? Maybe she does. Maybe she doesn't. But her line goes on . Maybe a descendant does great things?... And who's to say what's 'great?'

Tomorrow night I'll read some more. No part of this book is new to me, but every time I read it I find something.

Look, maybe you like illusions? Maybe you like the vampires they write about in paperbacks?...

But I thought you'd like to see a bit of the truth...

I've shared things like this before. And I've helped some of you out there too

Let me bid you adieu. And as night-folk say --- May you never know fear. May you never know pain. And may you hide from death, now and for forever, or until that time when all doubt slips away...

Good night....

Jonathon ben Macabi

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Sunday, January 10, 2016

This will make You Cry (Incredibly Touching Piano Music) while Jonathon reads La Ciencia Vampirismo .. 1/10/16

Jonathon takes the book, puts it on a small desk and gently runs his hands over the ancient, hand tooled surface. Then he quietly closes and locks the door, turns off the little overhead fixture and sits down to read by the focused light of a boudoir sized table lamp. He loves the warm, confines of the space. The library is his favorite room. And La Ciencia Vampirismo is his most treasured volume, a medieval text compiled in Spain during the last days of La Convivencia , that special time when Muslims, Christians and Jews lived together in something approaching harmony.

He whispered a prayer and opened it. Some say he made this copy, or contributed toward its creation. The calligraphy, in Old Castilian, Hebrew and Arabic is quite beautiful and the illuminated border of flowers and vines (with tiny, little black and gold bees) is, after all these centuries, incredibly vivid and alive.

Jonathon likes bees. Nocturnal creatures rarely see them, but he remembers. They had an apiary when he was little.... three hives to be exact, stocked with plump, furry honey-makers from up in Galicia. Gentle creatures they were... an old strain dating back to the Romans. Stings were few and far between. Jonathon brought them flowers. Not that they couldn't find their own, but his blooms, in small clay pots, had a sweet, fresh perfume and lots of thick, amber nectar. Rina, the kitchen girl, said the bees used it to bake tiny cakes for their young ones.... Can they do that? - he asked. For the idea of industrious, insect bakers seemed like magic to him. Rina said that they could and forever after Jonathon believed in the fantastic..... more than believed. He lived it.

Odd, the recollections a vampire has. But La Ciencia Vampirismo is an unusual text and readers often see words that are not there.

Jonathon turned the page (fine, creamy vellum). Where the former sheet had the title surrounded by that famous border, this one featured a large, stylized number one, drawn in a more or less Arabic manner, though at the same time favoring a stylized flamingo. Whether those birds were known in the Iberia of that day is a mystery, but they were in 'La Ciencia...' Beneath the bird-one was a phrase --- Never be defined by thine enemies..... A line, considering the times and the first inkling of organized, inquisitional sentiment and thought, obviously penned by a vampire. Some of you may know that up until The Inquisition, vampires were often seen as tragic, positive creatures. A base, judgmental age changed that, fashioning a more evil and gothic 'Doctor Polidori' take on those beings.

Soon the enchantment would start. Soon the book would work its famous magic. Insights would float up from the page. Jonathon would see things and gain knowledge. His feelings of impending prophesy from a few episodes ago, would be fleshed out and he'd know what was coming.

Sunday nights... late nights, I mean, are very peaceful and special in the townhouse. Edith softly knocked. Jonathon, cognizant of her rhythms said - Come in.... she brought him tea. He rose from the desk and sat down on one of the settees to drink it, lest it spill and ruin the book.

But he looked at the opened tome resting there on the desk in that small pool of light and saw tiny, diaphanous figures rise up from the page and dance about. Some favored Berber mountain girls, others eastern odalisques... a few suggested birds that quickly flew off and disappeared.

That's when he fell asleep and began to dream....

In the beginning, he was a toddler eating honey cakes made with honey from their very own bees and making a sticky mess.....

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Saturday, January 9, 2016

Zorba - Life Is (1968) <~~~ Jonathon Remembers An ALL VAMPIRE Cast of Zorba At A Past Vampire Revels.. 1/8/16

Jonathon speaks..... I come from a lyrical time. 'Human' speech had rhythm and cadence. All languages had a 'Shakespearean' quality. In my mind, I equate this graciousness with my youth. Do I still crave that homeland? I suppose, but I could never give up on this place. Philadelphia is mine too. It has a style not often seen in New World cities. Buenos Aires has it. Quebec City, Boston, New Orleans, Charleston. Other places too, I suppose.... Still, have you ever seen the delicate architectural details of Granada? Have you ever attended oud recitals in The Alhambra? Tasted the light, seafood based cuisine of Spain's southern coast, or sailed the moonlit waters of the Baleric Islands? Granted, the food has not been mine since that fateful night in Provence, but the memories are mine, as is so much else.

Maybe a trip to the 'Revels' will suffice? There was an announcement. A large, creamy, heavy, ivory envelope came. We get them from the Antiquities Registry, an organization that chronicles and regulates activities in the vampire world. The language, while strictly speaking not coded, is couched in terms unfamiliar to mortal ears. According to that latest epistle, a convocation is to take place this February... Not a full formal event, but a convocation none the less. You've heard us liken them to Bilderberg occasions? Google that. Google the Bilderberg Conference for an example. Well, perhaps I'll go. I like the mountains, though never much of as skier, I can handle myself if I have to. But riding through snowy, starlit, alpine meadows is sublime. Percheron mounts are the best. Just shy of Clydesdales. We pound through the powder. It flies like sugar. If humans, or post-human beings like us, ever want to feel like centaurs, that is it.

I'll let you in on the location as soon as I know. They release these things little by little. Most high ranking night-folk can pick up and leave quickly. 'Familiars' run everything anyway. Odd, when you think about it, but we function like preternatural corporations. I don't know who the shareholders are, yet we do have our hangers-on. We do have people who depend on us. I myself give quite substantial sums to various museums throughout the city. If you know our story, I'll bet you can guess which ones they are. Not to mention the work we do with Doctor Franklin and his people at The Anti-Enchantment Bureau.

Additional details will be provided next time.

My beloved ancient hand illuminated copy of La Ciencia Vampirismo has arrived.... And I'd like to retire with that book...

Thank you for forgiving the eccentricity of this unusual post...

As always, I am Jonathon ben Macabi, also known as Tomas de Macabea. And I appreciate your affection and support.

This is but a coming attraction to tomorrow's post. Could not blog tonight. #FF duties on Twitter and all that. But please, listen to the song and come back tomorrow for the story.

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Thursday, January 7, 2016


The next night, Jonathon went with the elferinos. They soared over the January city. Vampirinos possess not true flight, as do Elferinos. They can sublimate through the air, but do not glide upon it. To an observer, both methods seem the same, though to night-folk they are not.

He likes to vault high above the noise and float there... like a leaf on an infinite sea, staring up into the void. Sometimes a meteor streaks by... sometimes a tiny, artificial moon. Mortals would be terrified by the immensity of it all, but not vampires... not life-eaters like Jonathon.

This night (the one we speak of now) a small, sleek, propeller driven, four passenger plane, probably a Beechcraft, whizzed by just above him. I don't know what the pilot thought when he saw what looked like a young, wavy haired, Spaniard all bundled up in black, tailored, quilted leather waving up at him. Maybe it was hard to see him with the bright lights of the city down below? But I'm just guessing. In an effort to avoid a collision, the poor man pulled all the way back on the wheel, causing the plane to break up, as it fell in a nose over tail spin. The unfortunate man, the only one on board, was dead by the time he hit Broad Street. The bus that ran over him right after was completely redundant. And the almost-a-crack-head slacker dude sitting in the torture-the-driver seat across the aisle screamed like a little girl, as the doll-like corpse came tumbling down.

A few minutes later, Jonathon came down to earth, executing a neat, right foot first landing worthy of a ballerino, but as this happened on an impossibly narrow street lined with incredibly cute little 'mews' houses, no one saw but the cats and you know how hard it is to impress them.

Soon after, he re-joined the elferinos and elferinas (picture early teen, waif-like street kids, a la the junior revolutionaries in Les Miserables) in the sculpture garden of The Rodin Museum, a favorite spot. They liked the walled privacy. Tiny bits of illumination hidden in the grass, or among the trees daubed  the bronze statues in a low, yellow light. The 'elf' folk, two males and two females, Roland, Albion, Marianne and Celeste, condense from the shadows. Jonathon follows them to an exceptionally dark corner, where they sit upon the dry, cold grass and talk. Night-folk can have exceptionally quiet voices when they want to. You might mistake them for whispering leaves, if the trees still had leaves.

Jonathon tells them of his 'plans.' Elferinos and elferinas look young, but the ones here in Philadelphia are mostly three hundred years old or more and not English. They hail from the Low Countries, victims of seventeenth and eighteenth century witch hunts. I think if you GOOGLE ~~ Vampire Wonderland by Billy Kravitz, Marianne In Britches, you'll find a way into one of our most popular story arcs, where you can read all about it.

Roland, a stalwart 'lad,' says - Jonathon, don't you like it here?.... He shrugs, nods and shrugs again.... They understand. No one talks. Celeste sings an old Walloon song.

Back at the Townhouse, Edith (the witchy-woman, housekeeper) makes a call to Mister Edith, over in The Jersey Pines and the next day that venerable, ancient, vellum text, known as La Ciencia Vampirismo, is brought back to the city.....

Perhaps it contains some answers?

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Wednesday, January 6, 2016


They sit in the townhouse kitchen. It's late. It's quiet. Jonathon reads a magazine... SPANISH LIFE... all about resorts and property in the hot coastal regions. Traditional, tile roofed, stucco villas... five bedrooms, five and a half luxury tiled baths, chef's kitchen, built-in wine cooler, stainless steel appliance package, two car garage plus parking for three. Bit of a Mediterranean view from private balcony off master. Close to bars, coffee shops and spending opportunities of all kinds. Marina space available.

Sarah (vampire Jonathon's consort) peeks over his shoulder and says - What do you think?...... He goes - I don't know. I'm guessing I'll have to go up into the hills to get something like I want. You know how it is in Malibu, all crowded on the beach but spread out and roomy when you move back a bit? (scans the glossy pages) God, it's so different. They want four and a half million dollars for these places....

Edith pours tea and says - What did you think? Did you think it would be the same? And where would you walk? There's nowhere to walk around up in the hills.  Nowhere but the hills. You like to people watch. Who you gonna watch, rabbits and grouse? I say 'no.'

Sarah adds - Look, you don't have to go right away. Think about it. If you really have to do this, I'll go. You know that.

Do you want to go? - he says..... She doesn't answer.

Edith blurts out - He wants the old days. He wants it to be the way it was. We can get a hypnotist. He must have a 'familiar' who's a hypnotist, or knows a hypnotist. They can regress him. They can take him back to old Al-Andalus all he wants. It's hard to hypnotize vampires. I know that, but we can get a really good hypnotist. Doctor Franklin must know some.

Sarah moves her bar-seat closer to his and hugs him. They're sitting at the granite breakfast bar. Edith whispers - And who would you kill there?..... People, I'd kill people. Why? That wouldn't be a problem - says Jonathon. I only 'cull' twelve a year. I'd have visions. I'd know who to kill. That wouldn't change.... She shrugs.

Does Baylah ever want to go back to Timbuctu? - asks Sarah...... She's only about three hundred years old. Not even that. - says Jonathon. And 'Papa' has his out of body experiences, or whatever it is when he misses his past.

You went back once. I was with you. What was that? - asks Sarah...... I don't know - he says. God, do you know how long it's been since I've read my copy of La Ciencia Vamperismo? I don't even know where it is. I lost track of it.

Yeah, well, I didn't - says Edith. I got it out in The Pines. I got it put away. It's safe. It's OK. I wouldn't let nothing happen. You know that.

I don't know anything anymore. I just want to rest. I just want to sleep - he says.... Sarah helps him and they go up to their chamber. Edith puts the cups in the dishwasher and closes up.... Except for the ticking of the clocks, the townhouse sleeps....

The little ghost boy, who spends most of his time in the rooms down in the basement, comes up to sit in the dark, library and peek out through the draperies. He likes to watch the street. Occasionally, a rare late night pedestrian sees a small, gray face, but this is Old Philadelphia. People see a lot of things.

Jonathon and Sarah get undressed and burrow under the covers. Everything is snug and tight, just the way vampires like it. She clicks on the small flat screen they have mounted on the wall at the foot end of this humidor-walk-in-closet for people... well, exotic people... and watches some station binge blasting The Twilight Zone. Jonathon just lays there..... She says - Jonathon, if we go to Spain, how am I going to watch television?..... But he was already sleeping.

And then he dreamed. Maybe it was something he saw, or experienced once. Vampires experience a lot of things....

There was a rectangular shaft, lined with square, white, porcelain tiles. And it was just large enough to accommodate two bull hippos with perhaps a cubit and a half of empty space around their unyielding, boulder-like bodies. One faced east. The other faced west.... water up to their flanks.....

A skinny, shrieking, babbling man desperately hangs onto iron spikes running in a line from the lip of the shaft, maybe twelve cubits above his highest hand-hold to seven cubits below his twisted, puny, inadequate for gripping toes. Four pike-men wielding elephant spears jab at his head, his ass, his thighs, his groin... wherever they could... forcing him ever downward toward the 'dead-bath.' Drunken, overfed courtiers, each with perhaps two, sticky, clinging, low grade concubines borrowed from the 'cheap' harem with the slightly tattered, stained cushions, yell, gesticulate and for some odd reason make kissy faces and go 'awww,' as the doomed, bare man inches lower and lower.

Then it happens. The pike-man with the big thing growing out of his left nipple hits a tender spot. The doomed, bare man screams, lets go and SMACKS down, stomach side south, right on the wide, expansive, oozing back (did you know they can sweat 'blood?') of the west facing behemoth.... For a few heartbeats he just lays there, like a mouse in a glue trap, tasting what comes out of those pores.... The audience up above gasps. A few of the concubines go 'tee hee hee.'... The pike-men pull back on their weapons.... Bubbles stream out from the lemon sized nostrils of the offended 'river horse.' Then it SLAMS the left side of its body against the tiles. The accidental passenger screams some more, but the beast is so big. What can he grab onto? Then it slams into its neighbor, who slams back. Soon they're at it, rearing and 'mouthing' at each other's giant, hippo butts. Hides rip. Blood flows. Water churns, as the skinny, naked man slides down between the two berserk killers.

Those up above begin to cheer, greasy and hot in the orange torchlight. Someone heaves a squealing concubine over the edge. Two others follow. By the time it was over, they all went in. Look, the 'prince' was gonna redecorate anyway. Shame to waste all those bracelets and anklets. Lucky they were just the cheap stuff... the girls too....

Last Image - What looked like two huge raw livers floating in a gruesome vat of Campbell's Chunky Soup from hell.....

Then the dream was gone.....

And Jonathon wasn't sleeping...

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Monday, January 4, 2016


True, bone chilling cold descends upon the city. Steam rises from manholes and other street level grates.  The air feels like shattered glass and I love it. The heart of winter is here. Those about at this hour huddle in coffee shops and all night deli's, reading their fortunes in vapors rising from big bowls of thick, split pea and ham soup, or cut up all beef hot dogs if they like it like that. Some just have coffee, either for economic reasons, or the zen like purity of it. I walk by. If you're sensitive to it, and inside, you might feel the fresh from the dishwasher tableware in the racks vibrate a little. Vampires can cause that....

Have I 'culled' anyone tonight?... No, Jonathon ben Macabi, also known as Tomas de Macabea, hasn't kissed or killed anybody. I just walk and I just think. I hear the oud (medieval large guitar-mandolin combination) music of old Cordoba. How soothing it was. We'd sit in aristocratic halls, either Muslim, or Christian, or Jewish, sipping sweetened wines, precursors to Brandy or Sherry, while Andalician Gypsy girls danced ancient flamencos. How I long for the staccato beats of the fiery castanets.

That was my world.... No, you don't realize what I mean. You don't understand how fundamental it is. That was 'my' world.... And it still is. Yes, I have witnessed and absorbed the breath of other lands. I know Britain and Muscovy, Byzantium and The Levant.... I know Philadelphia. For over three hundred and fifty years (before the English, since the Swedes and Dutch) I have been at home here, though I still often dream in various old Iberian dialects, both mortal and life-eater.

We had orange groves and between the trees there were rows of aloe plants. Sometimes I'd walk the horses up and down the rows. Sundown was magic. Tiny bells tinkled on the bridle. I felt close to God then.

I want to go back. Look, maybe I've always wanted to go back. They say vampires always long for the surroundings of their mortal life. And I think that's true. We hide it. We deny it. We pretend we're changed. We pretend it doesn't matter. But everything matters. It all comes together. We can't help it. That's just the way it is..... Old people remember their childhoods and devoted wives instantly brighten whenever someone calls them by their 'maiden' name.

We long for the familiar.....

I realized that last night. We were watching Downton Abbey. The show is a drug to me. Ask me why. I can't say. At least I can't put it into words. But the heart of the story gets through to me.... A family... Their land... Their 'seat' (ancestral house)... Their lives... (sighs) Well, I suppose I have put it into words.

And I've watched it since the beginning, only now it's the final season. Six years isn't enough for a vampire..... Oh, God! Time is so different for us. I don't think I can make you understand that. A ninety year old, or a centenarian might have the barest inkling.... or parents watching their first little toddler grow up. It all happens so fast... baby clothes barely worn.... infant toys packed away.

We want it to last. We want it to mean something... We want to taste it and taste it and taste it and never let go. How can one mortal lifetime be enough? That's the funny part. I long for my own mortal childhood and youth, yet it's such a small part, temporally speaking, of who I am.... though it goes so deep.... (sniff)

Have I been mumbling to myself while we've been walking?.... There's a place near here. They have Yemeni coffee. We had Yemeni coffee when I was a boy. I want some.... How fundamentally cold it is.

He stops channeling. Billy stops typing...The usual 'ending' stuff appears on the screen. I guess he types that. But I'm just a disembodied spirit who helps narrate this thing.... What the hell do I know?

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Saturday, January 2, 2016


Jonathon shares scenes only a near immortal vampire might witness~~~

I was once the guest of a certain potentate. He had 'troublesome slaves sealed in plaster blocks... Coffin sized blocks they were. An eight inch 'bed' of moist plaster covered the bottom. Then the naked soul was forced to lay down with a thin, copper straw to hold in their mouth, as wet plaster came down all around them. When it dried, they were encased in a rectangular cube approximately seven and a half feet long and three feet on each side. The straw enabled them to breathe (shallow breaths, due to the unforgiving plaster, to be sure), for it protruded from the smooth, white block.

Victims were kept alive for a while, perhaps a few days at most. You see, the body continued to shed waste. But where could it go? There was minimal space, if any. Plaster bonds with skin. Thus whatever exited the body compressed it even more. Truly fortunate slaves and underlings, and all in that place were underlings, had their copper straw infused with an exotic fixative... some sort of resin. Those favorites died fast.

And the plaster blocks? Ballast for swift dhows plying the East African trade. Sometimes, after years, one would deteriorate and crack open, releasing yellow-brown bones, sticky tissue remnants and a unique, horrific stink.

Intact blocks are still found to this day. Collectors pay dearly for them. A few have been carefully halved, cleaned out and used to make casts of the long gone prisoner.

Come back a bit later, just before we start #SNL4fun . (you can click on it) at 11:30PM Eastern Time and read about 'The River Horse Pool' too.

Maybe if Billy isn't tired, he'll help me post a wee hour episode detailing me.

A Joyous Saturday Evening to all~~~~

the vampire, Jonathon ben Macabi... aka Tomas de Macabea...

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