Friday, June 30, 2017


What if we still had elections and kids still went to schools with crossing guards? But what if every school was a charter and all the children were segregated by faith, race and income? What if everyone knew the elections were arranged, gerrymandered affairs, but no one dared say a word?

How bout if the food available in supermarkets was keyed to neighborhood income and the government put tracking and surveillance chips in every car?... What if the government went 'melting pot' with a vengeance, only there were a few pots and if you didn't fit their idea of what your reality should be they simply made you disappear. No one notified your family. No one listened to their concerns. No one cared.

did they kill the non conformists?... No, they enslaved them.

The North American plains contain huge slave farms. Agribusiness thrives. Fossil fuel thrives too. Safety features are non existent. You fall in the fire... you die.... You lose your balance and slide into the processing machine... you die. The cheap, common grade 'food' has a little more bone meal and protein, that's all.

Should an innocent 'subject' wander into the vicinity and see the ''farms,' they vanish too. If a citizen gets a peak, nothing happens. Who cares about the helots?

Obviously, no 'subject' gets a car. Some are covertly 'treated' with fertility drugs. After all, the nation needs workers. Merit means nothing. Your whelps do what you do. Look, there are enough well connected, plugged in citizens and they have a whole lot of sons, daughters, nieces and nephews. What do they need your crap for?

You know who the worst are?... the first level, front line white collar, clerical types. After all, they take lunch in Arby's. Subjects eat at the trough.... You make a face. You disappear. You fail to smile and cheer when they want you to smile and cheer, you go bye bye.

Subjects take vacations at sex camps in the country. Got to keep up the herd.

And then there's THE RED ROOM a place where slaves fight to the death for big wigs in luxury boxes... a place where drug companies choose test specimens and surgeons and biologists pick 'lab rats' so they can play Mister Potato Head with men, women and children to their hearts' delight.

Well fixed citizens have domestics. Never human servants. That would be too dangerous. They might steal weapons, or escape, or learn things. Android home aides are the norm.

You know The Stepford Wives?.... Well, everyone's a 'Wife.' Even rich folks know not to see, or think too much. Those that do, for social crusaders crop up from time to time, suddenly lose their sight, or maybe a limb. They never wind up on the farms. Slaves might learn something.

And the population of the nation?... a nice comfortable sixty five million..

Everything's quiet. Silent, self driving electric cars ply the cantonments where the citizens live. Subjects crowd into non airconditioned, or heated buses. Don't want to encourage too much mobility.

No one votes. The Party controls everything. No one knows who's in The Party. No one knows if newcomers are ever recruited. Rulers remain anonymous. Things seem to happen in and of themselves.

That's how it is.

Legions pray for salvation...

But it's hard to hope too much, when no one knows who even 'winds' the machinery.

THE RED ROOM ... on (one day, I hope) NETFLIX.

<back to Jonathon's Tale next time, unless you want more of THE RED ROOM?>


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Monday, June 26, 2017

Jonathon In the Cave.. and World's Oldest Motion Picture (1865) and Oldest Sound Recording (1857)


As a vampire, I am usually immune to mortal magic, but the Talk-To-God man had me. He was adept at some sort of matter-temporal manipulation, or alteration, which is even more difficult to achieve. I was locked in place, my feet secure within the beaten clay floor of his cave, as if held in cement. Nothing moved. The small, reddish flame between us hung quiet and still, illuminating the evil smile on the face of my adversary... a tableau vivant in Le Grand Guignol ...

If you too are caught out of time. If you've missed our last get together, kindly click on OLDER POST at the bottom of this offering to see what previously transpired. Sound seemed frozen too. The crackle of the fire... the low, resonant echo of the shaman's voice... my own basically useless breath (vampires need no oxygen, but breathe out of habit) all ran together in a sort of 'hum.'

I came to The Pines to do a good deed, but fell into this nightmare instead. Let me see. How can I explain it?... Do you know those dreams mortals have? You're walking down a dark, street... maybe even your own street. No one else is around. There are no automobiles. No one comes and goes. Front doors are locked. Maybe the leaves on the trees produce a low, menacing hiss. But you keep going... Then you hear, or barely hear a mumble behind you. Somehow you manage to summon up a bit of courage and turn around. There in the even deeper shadows under a tree you pick out a shape. Someone stands there. Someone faces you. They don't move. You don't move. The dark shape takes a step. You turn  and do the same. The thing is, your body slows down. Every particle of your being seems heavier. Forward momentum is almost impossible. The foot steps behind you keep coming. You want to run, but you can't run. You try to scream. You can't scream. The footsteps get closer.... There's your house, just up ahead. There's your walkway. You turn. The footsteps stop. You fumble for your keys. The thing behind you just stands there, maybe thirty feet away, watching. You fumble some more and manage to get the key into the lock, but it sticks. It won't turn. The thing comes closer. Still no face. Just a thing... You and 'the thing' and the hissing of the leaves... The key turns. The door opens. You rush inside. No lights! No lights! The timer didn't work! You slam the door. You turn the deadbolt. But then, in the dark, the shape from the street begins to descend the stairs.

When 'magic' has you, magic has you. Nothing means anything. Either you find a way to fight it, or you're gone.

Then ever so slowly, almost imperceptibly, the Talks-To-God man raised his hand and blew a gritty powder in my face. Each tiny particle danced through the light, as a wraith-like shape moved forth from a black, side passage, (the cave had many) stopped by the man and whispered in his ear.

I couldn't hear a word... but the message was very clear...

I was to be locked in time... like a fly in amber... No hope of escape... No hope at all...

Do you realize the man in that impossibly ancient 'video' up above was born during The War of 1812?... and what are the garbled 'words' on that even older recording?

<more to come>


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Wednesday, June 21, 2017

James Carr - The dark end of the street..Our Vampire, Jonathon, Loves this song.. 6/20/17

Jonathon speaks ~

I need this song. Every so often I listen to it. It soothes me. Night-folk spend a lot of time in the dark. And I mean to make no moral judgments. 'Dark' is an ambiguous thing.... basically just an empty void. It takes all comers. It hides everything. Some are eventually discovered. Others never are.... Darkness is magic.

The storms were severe. Four houses were struck by lightning. One home in the Delaware countryside suffered tornado damage. Vampires fear lightning. We seem to attract it. The most famished life-eater will not go out when it's near. A mortal might, under certain circumstances, survive a hit. Vampires never do. We explode. Suicidal vampires run screaming and laughing maniacally into the tempest searching for the final cataclysm. I am not suicidal. Suicide is a sin.....

So I waited till it was over, went out into the dark, raised my arms and ascended into the cloudy night sky. Sublimation calms me. Some vampires fear it, but 'Papa's' blood is almost without equal. I revel in it. I move through the air and the air moves through me. I like that... and headed for a secret place, deep within the New Jersey Pine Barrens.

Ah, The Pines... one of the largest, old growth, original forests east of the Mississippi and right in the middle of Philadelphia and New York City.... Some folks don't even know it's there... but night-folk know... and 'witchy' folk and Red Paint People and strange, mysterious species of human-ish beings know too. ... Secrets live along its dark streams. Orange eyes peer out from black shadows..... Careless people have been devoured by the huge snapping turtles and certain spider bites can take an eye out.

There's an ivy shrouded cave deep in a dense stand of tall, Southern Pines. South Jersey is the last stand of them what thrives in the South.... Got muskrats and bobcats and coy-wolves... a cougar or two... and that's just the documented varieties.... It's the undocumented specimens I mush up with.

Came down and condensed right outside that cave. Two, little dead-fish-white imp things tittered and scurried out of my way. I stood there, barely discernible in the weak moonlight dripping down through the trees and listened to what was going on in that cave.... Talks-To-God man lives in it. He's a shaman... a non-denominational shaman. Line started with the Red Paint People more than eight thousand years ago, but he does hoo-doo's for everybody now. Acts as court of last resort too. Real bad types get dragged in there. Then he shoves them down a near endless, round, narrow tunnel... more like a chute, sliding into the dirt, gravel and mud... a one way ride you don't want to take. Some folks try to straighten their legs and wedge them against the opposite side. That works for a bit, but sooner or later they get a cramp, or get tired and the race is on... sliding and careening down that greasy tunnel till they pop out the end, fifteen feet above an oozing, muddy, clay-like floor of a Hershey's Kiss shaped chamber...

I can hear them moaning.....

If they break a few bones, they break a few bones. It's not like anyone comes back up.

I step into the cave and quietly make my way 'round a bend, toward a low burnished glow about sixty feet up ahead... a four hundred pound black bear snorts and wakes up to check me out. Animals don't bother night-folk. He just sniffs and goes back to sleep.... Then the Talks-To-God-Man speaks. He says - His eyes are my eyes. Why are you hear, vampirino?.... I enter the small, round room where he sits staring into a compact, reddish fire. It's hard to tell where his shaggy hair and beard leaves off and his tattered, shredded up animal skin cloak begins. I sit down, nod... he talks again - Can you hear them moaning? There's two of them down there. One's got a broken shoulder and a broken leg. The other's got a shattered femur. Razor sharp piece jammed up into his bladder. He might have a few more fractures too, but that's the big one. They don't die right away. Water seeps up through the clay. Got fat slugs crawlin' around down there. Live off the mold. When them two get hungry enough, fat mold eatin' slugs gonna be like candy. Last bastard what rode the chute lived nine months. Well, existed nine months. When he dies, slugs ate him. They got a slime turns bone into soft, rubbery gristle. Slugs got rough tongues. They like gristle. They like everything. Mold just for tough times. Now, why you here, life-eater?

No reason for me to tell him. He knows. Talks-To-God-Men have their ways. I want to rescue one. You see, Edith, my housekeeper is a Piney-Witchy-Woman. She picks up things, even forty or fifty miles away in Philadelphia and one of them poor bastards is like a nephew to her.

Did he do anything horrible?

Don't ask me that. It's not what you do. It's all who you know... I say - I want one of them back.....

He laughs and says - Which one?

I say - The one with the punctured bladder. You know who that is. I'm thinking the slugs are your eyes too.

He nods and says something in Red Paint People talk. Then adds - Do your best, vampirino...

I attempt to get up, but my legs are all sucked into the damp, clay floor and no matter how I try, nothing changes. Even with all my abilities, I'm not going anywhere.

And the two, poor souls, three hundred feet into the earth begin to scream...

<more next time>


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Friday, June 16, 2017

Our Reverent Vampire, Jonathon , shares his thoughts as he watches this filmBaraka (1992) . 6/15/17 - fast... and slow


I have kept my own counsel as of late and in a sense I have retired from you. Others, both mortal and night-folk have filled my place, but I have always been here... thinking, experiencing and asking. Perhaps, I'm beginning to taste what 'life' is like for the one we all know as "Papa?'

But I am Jonathon ben Macabi, equally known as Tomas de Macabea and I have something to share.

Our world, our planet, our place in the universe is in a state of unbalance. A tribe of philosopher shepherds in the semi arid lands of what now calls itself 'America' has a name for it.. they call it 'Koyaanisqatsi.'... The Hopi knew and subsequent generations of humanity continue to know. We can't pretend any longer.

We are here to help complete and perfect Creation, or at least our part of it... and is not every place we touch our part? Our hands are God's Hands. That is the potential. The actuality of that truth is up to us.

Go out and work toward the perfect completion of Creation. There is an old Hebrew - Aramaic term, 'Tikkun Olam.' It means 'repair the universe' and the Children of Abraham are charged with nothing less..

Think not that the duty skips you. Think not that you hail from a 'different' tribe. We are all intermeshed.

If the nations had not been so intolerant toward the Exiled of Israel for the better part of two millennia the ten million souls existing at the time of Constantine would, through natural growth, be five hundred million souls today. In a sense, due to brutal forced 'assimilation' that number still rings true. The 'blood' is spread among all. The 'genes' shine forth in many bodies... These days, in this scientific age you can have the test. You can know.

Would that certainty entail a change of belief?... No, what we believe is up to each and every one of us.

These days politicians in the great New World empire of America view mankind as so many crabs in a basket, each responsible for its own place in the pile.. They tell us to work for the betterment of ourselves and be loyal to those who give us work. Well, that is true, up to a point, but it's only the beginning.

You are more than cogs in a machine. I'm sure, 'intuitively' we all know that, just as we know the ideal of 'righteous charity' so often falls so short of the mark....If it did not, physical want and injustice would be gone from the places they call 'red states.' Sadly, that's not true... far from it.

We are our brothers' keepers. There are no 'strangers.' We are all neighbors... It's obvious... Why is such a pure and simple thing resented by so many?

What choices do you make?

Those of you who visit this place with any regularity know me. Tomas de Macabea, or Jonathon ben Macabi (I am both) is a reverent soul, a believing 'vampire,' or at least, most nights, I am.

That's all

Have a nice weekend and if it is within your power to help others have a nice weekend, do that too.

It's a start.

<more to come>


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Monday, June 12, 2017

Meet the Baron Sareki... inspired by the music of the great Brandon Fiechter.. #vampirewonderland 6/11/17


Think of me as an Austro-Hungarian raconteur. I've graced the legendary coffee houses of Vienna and Budapest and Prague. I've danced at Schonbrun Palace and tasted the blood of Hapsburg royals. Some say I invented the czardas, or that it was invented for me. I have a lock of Cissie's hair... more than a lock... live strands complete with waxy roots and all. Some day we'll grow her back. I'm told the roots hold volumes on each and every one of us. Who has your hair?

Don't ask my age, or the place of my nativity. Who cares for such arbitrary details? But know me as Baron Sareki. That role defines me. Am I vahmpir?... Yes I am vahmpir ... and I am showman, impresario, rememberer of things past and so much more... I am orchestrating a 'come back,' though I have never gone anywhere.

It was so much easier being vahmpir in the old days. Private things were private things. People believed what you told them to believe. Brash, showy but eccentric Mittl-Europan 'aristocrats' were two for a pfennig . And the occasional missing 'ladies of the Ring Strasse' meant nothing. Members of the Gendarmerie barely noticed. Men of a certain sort were worth even less.

Unlike your Jonathon, I took no vows. Once I heard an advocate (lawyer) say most murders are aberrations. People snap. The right stimulus at the right time can cause that. Murder happens. Someone dies and then it's over. Skies clear. Birds sing. Peace reigns and the killer never does that thing again. Murder addicts, what you now call serial killers are rare. I think night-folk commit the same aberrant act over and over again. The trigger... the visceral blood lust... But in our case the circumstance, or the trigger, or the tension never disappears... Who knows? Perhaps we are serial killers. I mean do you think the Menendez Brothers will kill again?... The whole issue puzzles me. Are we battered individuals? Was the vampire who brought us over, in effect, out batterer? Is the only cure peasants with pitchforks, or some such variation?

Our individual conditions... yours... mine.. everyone's are so muddled. That's just how life is...

But the 'wine' flows... and we of the vampire persuasion possess near immortality, so tonight I dance. Tonight I feast. If I happen to drain you, or some other human you're attached to, hate me not. The act is not 'personal,' but an automatic reaction to a trigger far beyond my control.

Such savory little treats you all are... like sweet and sour meatballs drenched in gravy.

Ah, wunderbar.

(clicks heels) Baron Sareki is pleased to taste... no, forget I said that... Baron Sareki is pleased to meet you...

<Baron Sareki's tale will continue>


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Friday, June 9, 2017

Vampires hate the Summertime .. 6/9/17

They once sealed a vampire into a heavy, thirteenth century iron maiden made of lead. When it was shut and locked they wielded the seam with more lead. For the unfortunate life-eater sealed within there was no way out. Vampires cannot sublimate through that dense metallic substance. He sat there, forgotten, in the burial crypt of a semi ruined Austrian castle. Snow melt filtered down through the stones. He felt the cold. Thus he marked the seasons. Sometimes he dreamed. sometimes he didn't. The world turned 'round without him.

He's still there. The 'magic' rests differently on everyone. Some would dry and shrivel. But only some. I am Jonathon and I know many things. I feel them. I smell them. I taste them. And I sit here in our Philadelphia townhouse contemplating what I should share with you. There's so much... But let me just say this --- Truth usually comes at the beginning. So pay attention to our early writings. First utterances are the most accurate. All the really good words get used up. What comes after that rings hollow. It's like that with musicians... with poets and artists. The initial torrent runs clean and fresh. Subsequent trickles bear pebbles and sand.. Do you understand?

I've been practicing my 'expansions.' It's like sublimating. But when we sublimate the atoms of our beings  diffuse only enough to allow us to pass through solid matter. Expansions are different. We grow like clouds. Each particle moves away from its neighbors like stars in the firmament. Of course you understand the universe is expanding too? Maybe that's just how it is? 'Entropy' and all. I rise up above the atmosphere unto the very portals of space and I expand till my outstretched arms reach Heaven's Door... figuratively speaking.... I rest like that, drifting toward the Moon.... an invisible human shaped thing perhaps twelve thousand miles long. The silvery orb a basketball . My fingers rake the dust.... Then I contract and come back home.

'Papa' says I may not feel compelled to feed much longer. though I'll still possess that ability. Am I afraid?... Of course. But life goes on. What comes next is also a new beginning.... Will I still be here? Certainly... Things take time. Ux Mal wasn't built in a day. Sarah, my consort, watches me.. Now please know she has abilities far in advance of most other six year old vampirinas. I created her. My blood is her blood. But I've witnessed more than a thousand years... Well, maybe not. But close to it.

She sits there, in her comfortable club chair doing needle point.... petit point, actually. Her eyesight is superb. With concentration, she can see microscopic creatures cavorting through a glass of tap water. I can see souls rise up from corpses. I can hear the shrieks and cries of those buried alive. That doesn't happen so much anymore, not in 'developed' western cultures. But when it does, I can hear them.

Edith, our 'witchy woman' housekeeper, hands me an 'old fashion' glass of chilled vodka... more than chilled, icy cold actually. I enjoy the sensation... Cold is good. Vampires love cold. Winter is our time.... long starry nights.

The summer solstice approaches. They say in the misty time of first beginnings, early vampires truly feared that event. What if the days continued to get longer and longer till nighttime was no more? They gathered for prayers and for what some might call 'feeding frenzies.' But that was far, far in advance of my time... Papa's time too... even the Lady Renate knew not those things, though we all heard stories.

I suppose 'Mr. Old Bones,' the only extant Neanderthal vampire I've ever encountered might know the truth?

With that, the life-eater known as Jonathon ben Macabi, or Tomas de Macabea (both are equally valid) puts down his glass, exits the 'den,' proceeds through the entrance hall and leaves the house.

Sarah, his consort, waits for the door to click shut. It locks automatically. Vampire doors are always locked.

She exhales and returns to her craft.

<next time - magic even you can do>


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Monday, June 5, 2017

Our Vampire, Jonathon ben Macabi likes this ..David Bowie - Cat People (Putting Out Fire) Music Video HQ


Your vampire friend, Jonathon ben Macabi, like this. He listen to it all the time. He think and he listen. Tried to get rid a y'all for a while. Had Billy throw that Illuminati tale at you. True stuff too. Got it from an old journal. Lawrence Edgerton was real. A lot of what we tell you is real. Thing is... y'all don't know which parts.

But nobody read it, or not 'nuff nobody. Y'all want blood. Gets like that in the summertime. Folks get hot. Get itchy. Get buggy. I Mister Never You Mind. Y'all know me. Just a disembodied spirit of a man what got throwed in acid 'bout ninety five years ago somewhere in Le Vieux Carre. Dat de Frenchie part a New Orleans. I was a Creole gentleman, or at least I dress like one. Had dem white suits and nice cool Panama hats. You know them hats not come from Panama? Get 'em little way passed Panama, down Ecuador way. I used to go down there for de white powder... de cocaine. Folks in Quito, dat de capital, like doing business wit America people, 'specially us Creole folk, 'cause we sorta speak they talk. Most Creole be a mash-up a Spanish an' Frenchie. Talk both ways. But I digress.

Jonathon tired. Night-folk (vampires) get dat way come June. Nights too short. Blood too hot. Dey like it hot, but not dat hot. He once make a gal take a cold bath 'fore he kill her. She say - What for I got take a cold bath?.... He say - 'Cause I say so.... She go - Humph.... He say - You take dat cold bath, I give you gold bracelet.... She say 'humph' again, but she take dat bath an' he give her dat bracelet. She wear it when he kill her. But then he take it back. What for she need gold bracelet when she dead? Not like she know what comin'. Ain't nobody know dat. I once knew a fellah walkin' by de boneyard get killed by a beer bottle from the sky. Aviator guy toss it out. Diss right after de Great War. Dem bastids think they hot shit. He got gal up dere wit him. She say - Whoopee! How 'bout you an' me get drunk, big boy?...... So they do. She get herself little bit knock up, but dat wit 'nother big boy.

Dey send me out here to talk to you first. Night-folk, I mean. Jonathon gone break some bastid's knuckles wit a hammer 'fore he kill him tomorrow.  You know ev'ry finger got three knuckles... the big one what meet the hand and two little ones. Gone be lot a bone crackin'. Punishment fit de crime. Dat how it is... He got this thing he do, vampire fellah, I mean. Stand behind a guy. Put his right hand over guy's forehead, so head can't move. Then he hook his left hand over fellah's jaw an' rip it right off. Tongue too, most a the time. Dat for like a real big crime.

Vampire got they ways. You don't wanna cross 'em. They tear you right up. Not like gettin' throwed in no vat a acid, but still....

It gone be a long hot summer... an' if y'all want vampires, you gonna get 'em.

<more to come>


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Sunday, June 4, 2017

Welcome to The Wonderland and possibly, Fame - I Sing The Body Electric


This is Jonathon ben Macabi speaking, or Tomas de Macabea. Both truths are equally valid. I am the vampire 'star' of this site and in a sense its mascot. We've been here, on line, for six and a half years, detailing all types of fiction and fantastical escapes (well, at least we 'say' it's fiction) And we will continue to do so, but it's time to grow. That's where you come in...

Everything is everywhere... We believe that. In this digital plane of existence location is not a bar to anything. Light shines through every screen... hopefully some of it bounces off you. So join us. Pick a niche and write, or report, or interpret and tack your words up here. We already enjoy a somewhat respectable level of traffic. As of tonight, we're closing in on 400,000 hits. Considering most came in the last two years or less that's pretty good.

It's time for you to stake out a platform and fully inhabit your space. We're adding writer-reporters to our authorized contributor list. I think we're allowed one hundred.. A few we've already nominated. Many will nominate themselves. If videos are your thing, post videos... Cover food, or style, or cinema, or politics, or culture, or humor. Interview people. Share your links and any other sites you might have... Cover music. Post your own material... Discuss creativity with other creative people.

Switch niches whenever you want, just preface every post with --- KEYWORD MUSIC ... or KEYWORD POLITICS ... or KEYWORD CINEMA ... You get the picture. Make's it easy for browsers to search topics... example --- music.... All written posts should be at least 500 words. That's not our rule. Blogging experts say readers prefer 500 words or more. If you post video or audio material, you're the director. You pick the length... You decide how your by-line looks.. Does it come up top right after the keyword, or at the bottom? If you have a Twitter of FaceBook page, or any other social site add those links too. You can make them clickable. You'll see 'Link' on a bar at the top of the page when you write. Click on it. Very easy to figure out.

If you'd like to do this, click Billy's Twitter link just below all this and he'll set it all up.... Uh, I'm not 'Billy.' I'm Jonathon... remember?... OK.

There's a 'share' bar at bottom of each blog page. I'll get into how to use it later... but USE it... It works.

Till next time.....


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