Tuesday, September 27, 2016

A NIGHT AT THE PARANORMAL MEETINGS IN THE BRITISH CONSULATE IN PHILADELPHIA.. 9/27/16

Been told you can access my RSS by clicking on bit.ly/297pDxg ... and clicking on SUBSCRIBE TO RSS rectangle at upper right portion of the screen.. takes to to the new way they do things... I think... I want to get the direct link to that page but do far I don't have it.

I'm at the British consulate house on Rittenhouse square with the others (Jonathon's faction)... I listen to the talks and meetings... Learned a spell or two from the magicians. I can make people who KNOW they saw me, forget that they did. I can lure animals into quietly following me. Works best with dogs and crows... probably ravens too...

Boy, do they go through a lot of absinthe. I can't drink it. It's harmful, but the magicians and vampires don't mind.

They have a singer, a girl who accompanies herself on the harp. When she's done, she just stops... freezes and stops. I never see her recline or rest. I never see her lower her arms or blink or breathe.

They feed me rich stews. Not just me. The magicians get food too. They are mortal after all, even if some claim to be more than five hundred years old.

Jonathon and Cressida (Aura's new name) are off somewhere 'renewing' their acquaintance. They give each other slow, lingering 'cat baths.'... She does him. He does her... Probably in one of the bedrooms upstairs.

I'm charged with logging all this down. It's what I've always done. There are two cats here. They have silvery coats that change color from bluish silver to russet silver to, oh, I don't know what you'd call it. They sit and listen in the meetings just like humans and dine on little cans of crab meat.

A magician-girl tells me their enchanted mortals... twins from Normandy, but that's all she knows.

I try to speak with the emperor. I try to talk to Marcus Aurelius. But he keeps his own council. The cook makes him garon sauce, a fermented fish condiment ancient Romans dote on. He smears it on bread and spreads a little on broiled meats and such. He likes hot dogs too, vile cheap ones with hog's lips and cow farts.

They're listening to a concert now... Mongolian throat singers... an ethereal sound seeming to come from two unrelated sources. The singers are conjoined twins from Ulan Bator. They're joined at the base of the spine... never see each other face to face, only reflected in mirrors.

I see a big wing chair over in a corner. It's empty. I'm going to go grab it an try to fall asleep. No one's offered me a bedroom yet. I sleep where I can. Clothes and toiletries are no trouble. A magician from Nairobi conjures them up for me. Right now I have on a hip length, long sleeved, fitted tunic that fastens with little bone toggles and slim, legging-like pants such as Persian noblemen wore in the thirteenth century. I'm shod in fine, dark purple leather mid-calf boots. My underwear and socks are fairly normal. Oh, the tunic and pants are deep olive green and made from a roughly woven silk The magician offered me a turban. I turned it down. No turbans. I don't do turbans.

I'm going to take two accent pillows from a sofa and go commandeer that wing chair. That throat singer music is hypnotic. I'll be asleep in no time.

The enchanted human cats are watching me. I wonder what they think... cat thoughts, or human?

<until next time>

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