THE 'VAMPIRE' Jonathon talks --#OutOfOz: "For Good" Performed by Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel | W...

Jonathon, our reluctant thousand year old vampire, sits in his favorite wing chair and speaks to us from his special place, the 'little' octagon shaped library, by the light of a small, porcelain, Chinese lamp....



The Vampire --- I've neglected my duties. It used to be we communicated almost every night. I told you about myself. I shared old memories and all manner of exotic, spiritual journeys. We poked about below The Temple Mount in Jerusalem and swam with merfolk beneath the sea. You met Sarah and Annie and Conrad and 'Papa'... mortals and night-folk, elferinas and elferinos.... Edith, our Jersey Pine Barrens 'witchy woman' housekeeper and our nextdoor neighbor from Chestnut Hill who fed her kid shitty pizza. Even the three hundred and ten year old Doctor Benjamin Franklin, preserved by harmonics. We've run ghastly experiments in his amazing lair under the Philadelphia Navy Yard and whispered with ancient mummies hidden away in forgotten storerooms deep down below the vast, marble paved public rooms of great museums... Odd how their 'ka' stays so close to the physical remains, when they could fly away to God knows where. Annie (our sometimes strange, little child vampire) would lay down next to a bundle of desiccated, parchment-like remains know as Hec Tan Ti Ti and listen as the bitter 'queen' (well, so said she) recounted an endless litany of slights hurled her way by plotting priests and priestesses, as well as haughty retainers, for even well places slaves gathered power in the 'old days.'



I like the spirit-form people you call 'ghosts.' The nice little boy in our townhouse was my favorite. He died from polio sometime around 1950. The family had money and the basement level was finished off and fitted out like a personal hospital. His iron lung, a rather monstrous device resembling a large, horizontal, bed sized tin can for weak, stricken bodies (the heads stuck out a hole, supported by a small padded shelf) rusted in a corner for the longest time. When we bought this particular townhouse a few years ago, it was removed to make way for night-folk, daytime sleeping amenities. Please don't think we sleep in coffins. That theatrical affectation is known mostly among isolated  cretins in remote, Balkan valleys. We rest in snug cubicles, more like those Japanese mini hotels one reads about... though ours have a more traditional look with fine paneling, sumptuous bedding and all... There's electricity for televisions and personal devices. The pervasive culture dribbles into our realities as well.



Sometimes too much...



As I said, the little polio victim was my favorite. He'd sit with me, here in this little library, watching almost 90 year old, black and white movies on a small flat screen device resting among the books, on a dark, mahogany shelf. Thank God his malady could not survive death, for he was happy and free. The Wizard of Oz was a particular favorite. He'd watch transfixed. We bought him beautiful toys, the kind sold in fine specialty shops... collections of napoleonic soldiers.... Lincoln Logs... Tinker Toys... many different things...



Please remember, for at least sixty years, he lived there all alone. Oh, there were mortals in the house, but they weren't the type that accepts 'ghosts,' so he kept to himself. Ghosts can sit, isolated in thought, for the longest time. You have no idea. A houseful of spiritually adept night-folk and even the mortals among us, was a godsend to him... and he was a godsend to me.



But there came a night when things changed. It happened less than two months ago. The city had already taken on a holiday air. He liked peeking out at the lights through the draperies. There were traditional (though electric) brass candle sticks in our windows... a full fragrant wreath on the door... Sarah and Edith organized a nine foot, lavishly decorated tree in the den, plus a smaller, five foot edition in the cozy 'morning room' off the kitchen. I took out my collection of antique Hanukiahs ( the actual word 'menorahs' just means regular candleholders). The centerpiece, a three foot tall, silver wonder from medieval Narbonne (just about the only place in Europe with a reigning Jewish feudal court). The little ghost boy watched silently as I lit all eight of them, arranged like a glittering mountain of light on the stone island in the kitchen... On that night when things changed, he looked at me and said --- I have a family..... I knew what he meant and nodded.... Sometimes, when the moment's right, 'ghosts' realize it's time to move on... They feel that 'other place' and are drawn to it.... I told him that I loved him. We all did. He said he knew that and told us he loved us too.

I hugged him. The way night-folk hug 'ghosts' is to assume the rather nebulous form we take to pass through walls and other barriers. Then we blend. The others with that ability hugged him too... A few moments later, he smiled and disappeared, just like the last wisp of smoke rising from the last glowing ember.... We cried, even though he was in a better place.



That's primarily why I haven't shared much with you for two months.



We needed him... and he needed us...



When it happened, I thought about destroying myself too. Vampires can do that, not with fire. Few take that route. Most 'sublimate' up into the cold, dark winter sky. We find a remote place and we do it. After a bit the particles of our being are too diffuse to come together and we are gone, like a huge misty cloud in the void.... Who knows if there is consciousness after that? Who knows if it is our final death?... Who knows?



Yet as you see, I go on, touched by all that came before and by one little 'ghost' boy in particular...



All I can tell you is remember..... Be aware of all you have known and all who have known you...



The universe needs fixing and God has sent each and every one of us to fix it....



Let us all go and do good things....



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feels good to have our 'vampire' back and to be transcribing this blog for him again.

A SOLITARY VAMPIRE ...SOME DAYS ARE DIAMONDS John Denver

I don't even remember how I got here. I don't know. Maybe I do, but I kjust don't think about it. I don't even know my name. Looked for a wallet. Couldn't find one. No tattoos. No nothing. Woke up one night with fangs. I call them fangs, but they're really just slightly lengthened, sharp cat teeth. And the part about avoiding the day is instinctive. Even before I'd accepted what I am, I knew enough to hide under the bed, so to speak. No yellow light from the sun. I sit in a little dried plank shack. Who knows? Maybe some prospector built it? One night I paced it out. Guessing it's nine feet wide by sixteen feet long.Got a pounded dirt floor with a little door in it. Goes down to a cellar. That's where I sleep.