In fiction we read about vampires who shun their mortal faith, replacing it with bleak distortions. In real life few actually do that. Most cling to their creed and desperately try to make sense of it all. We pray for divine understanding. We pray for acceptance and forgiveness, just like mortals do... And we search for 'reasons.' Why do we kill? Who do we kill? What purpose does it serve?
You know me. You know what I believe and what other life-eaters with other faith histories believe too. We 'cull' the wicked and help the worthy live... Not the Shepherd, but the sheepdog... That's what we say. I hope it's real. I think it is. I believe it is. What else can I do? And this time of year, with the advent of Rosh Hashana (literally head or start of the year) I, along with many mortals, attend midnight penance services for forty days, culminating in the great spiritual rebirth on Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement). The penance services always start at midnight, or perhaps a few hours later... for it's always darkest before the dawn. A perfect liturgy for vampires. I take advantage of it as often as I can. Some see me, sitting in the back, at an old Sephardic (Rite of Spain) synagogue in Society Hill, the ancient, red brick, Center City district in Philadelphia. There are little brass, rectangular frames, each holds the name of a family, mounted on the back of every pew. Mine says 'de Macabea.' That's my Spanish name. I represent a long line. From time to time I hear of a mortal kinsman. That makes me feel good. Life goes on in all its forms.
As the forty days go on, things begin to change in the sanctuary. The rabbi, cantor and choir wear white robes. The sacred Biblical scrolls in the Ark are dressed in new, white sleeves. Some congregants now dress in the symbolically new and pure color too. For it is not just the 'next' year that is coming, but a 'new' year that is coming. In Ezekiel 36:26 it says - I will create in you a new heart and a new spirit. Many feel that in a most personal and visceral way, especially those who know they receive those things via grace and not, strictly speaking, in return for their own thoughts or actions.
Why does this promise happen yearly? Why is it an annual renewal? Because God never forgets. A promise is a promise. A covenant is a covenant. And that's what I, Tomas de Macabea, or Jonathon ben Macabi, take your pick, experience at this time of year.... I'm sure other life-eaters with other faith histories experience similar things according to their own spiritual calendar.
I know sometimes we fudge a little and post blood drenched tales of death and horror, because according to the numbers that's what readers like. But this isn't fiction and sometimes (most times) the truth comes through.
Vampires are not all monsters. We're just people with a very particular collection of issues.
I hope you understand that.
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Far away, in the picture-book city of Prague, stands an old enduring Gothic house of prayer. Travelers and townspeople know it as The Alt-Neu Schule... the old-new 'schule.' Schule means school. Centuries ago synagogues in Central Europe were called that, for that's where the faithful went to learn the faith. The interior looks like what you'd find in a rustic Quaker Meeting House, though it dates from the mid twelve hundreds, four centuries prior to the founding of that creed. Like prayer houses everywhere, it has an angel. Some chapels have grand angels with silvery wings and fine, shining robes spun from sun beams, moon beams and the occasional leftovers from fleecy, white clouds. They whisper in the ears of the congregants, reminding each one that they are God's Hands on Earth. Sometimes the rouse sleepers. Sometimes they let them sleep. After services, after the morning call, the afternoon call and evening call, the angels flew free to visit other heavenly messengers all around the world. They sang hymns in the ornate temples of India and inspired monks on windy, Celtic shores to create vivid, illuminated texts. But the angel of The Alt-Neu Schule could not do that, for he had no wings, nor any other way to fly. During the quiet times he watched the rabbi study and whispered ideas for sermons. Did the rabbi know they came from him? Well, not directly, but he certainly felt the inspiration. On clear, cold nights, he'd pass through the timbers and shingles and sit on the pinnacle of the high, sloped roof watching the stars. Sometime another angel would pass over head. He'd say - How go your travels?.... They'd tell him of old, wood churches in Norway that creaked in the wind and the ornate calligraphy of blue domed, Turkish mosques. They spoke of enduring synagogues bright with intricate mosaics and pious little children with good hearts, lost in their dreams and studies. But the little angel still could not fly. And so the centuries passed. He sat with the children as they prepared for their Assumption of The Faith (bar mitzvah), whispering scripture in their ears so that they could remember. One spring, storks came to The Alt-Neu Schule and made their home on the roof. He watched them build the nest. How careful they were... How precise. They knew he was there. Animals are good that way. They just are. And how like dancers they were. Such graceful beings. Our little angel sat with them. The mother let him see her eggs. How smooth and white they were. The father whoomt his great wings and soared off to find food, both for himself and his mate. When he came back, the mother had her turn. Prague was new to them. They're usual nesting site was in a country town a bit farther south. So she glided over the city, marveling at the red tiled roofs and intricate clock towers. The angel watched their comings and goings. He wanted to fly so bad. Why was he flightless?... Who knows? No one ever told him. One night, after the city was quiet, save for fussy babies crying here and there, or maybe barks from an agitated dog, he went up to the roof and sat by the nest. The majestic birds were sleeping... a yin and a yang over their trusting eggs. But the mother felt his presence (she's always on guard) and opened her eyes.... She saw him there and whispered - Tell me your dreams, angel..... He said - You know. I do so want to fly..... She said - Are you a good angel?..... He nodded.... She said - I knew that..... They sat in silence watching strangely bright clouds pass over an ivory-white moon. Spring nights can be like that.... Then the stork mother said - One day, you shall have wings.... How? - asked the angel.... She said - One day my earthly life will be over and I shall come back and bear you on my spirit wings. Then she fell back asleep. The angel sat and thought, before going back inside to sit in The Sanctuary and stare at The Eternal Light..... < the conclusion comes tomorrow night. then back to newborn vampire, Danny and his problems> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ click - SOAR ... to see more Vampire Wonderland... click - LE GRAND ALLIANCE ... to join me and everybody else on Twitter. please leave a comment. if you're willing to help, please tell people about me. always only one click (tonight we use the word SOAR) away from every episode. thank you.
No matter what religious path you take, may all of us have a blessed year filled with spiritual fulfillment and meaningful human relationships. 'The righteous of all nations (groups) shall share in The World to Come...' 'Brighten the corner where you are..' 'MANKIND is created in the image of GOD. HE is ONE, so we are one.' ... and even for atheists... 'Would that you would forget MY very existence, but remember all of MY teachings..' 'God is a verb..' DO SOMETHING ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ browse.feedreader.com/c/Billy_Kravitz_vampire_wonderland @wilkravitz ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This time, you hear from me. I am back. wilkravitz is unable to function tonight, so I will tell the tale. These words come from Jonathon ben Macabi, also known to you as Tomas de Macabea. The old man is dead. Right now,top executives have already begun maneuvering just like Alexander's generals. Just like they did when Howard Hughes died. But I don't care. It's quiet now. The other night-folk are already cloistered within their chambers. Dawn comes early this time of year. I don't like that. Next month will be even worse. Annie isn't sleeping. I can hear her. She's watching television... an old, black and white version of Little Shop of Horrors.... the story of a nagging, blood drinking plant. Vampire vegetables... imagine that.... The rest of them are quiet. I'll go in and join Sarah soon too. I suppose most of you know we do not, nor have we ever, slept in coffins, just small, cozy, easily sealed off bedrooms. Though I have used excavated cavelets in cellars from time to time, but only when they had earthen floors. Even then, I slumbered on a thick 'mattress' of rose petals. Loyal 'familiars' made sure they were fresh. Sarah knows. Edith will be up soon. She's on day-watch. I don't know when she sleeps. She naps a lot. I know that. Soon she'll go back to her home in the Jersey, Pine Barrens. Odd to think such dense woods exist so close to Philadelphia and New York, but they do.Jersey Devil run through the trees as I speak. Actually, they're really quite docile... a little skittish, but that's the equine blood. Tomorrow night I'll go back to that place under the big bank building on The Avenue of The Arts. I'll contact some of my devotees telepathically. They're mortals, but they understand. The candle smells good. Not green apple. I think this one's different. Wait a minute, let me look under the base. 'Ocean Breeze,' it's called. I must tell Edith to get more. I hate when she visits her people. I understand it, but I don't like it. Sometimes we hide in the pines too. Peaceful... I like the 'Pineys.'I like the old songs...the pow-wow magic... and the ghosts. The magic doesn't come from the Indians, well, not all of it anyway. That's just a term they use. You know. I may not be able to change the world. I don't know. There will always be men and women like Tobias Maxwell.... and creatures like Johnny Jump Up. But that doesn't mean I won't try. It's four o'clock. The sky is black, but birds already sing. Don't they like the night? I know songs...old madrigals, from my early days in Al-Andaluz. Some nights I play my guitar. Used to have an oud, but that was long ago. Look at 'Papa.' Right back into that catatonic state. What does he see in there? I try to penetrate. sometimes I manage to break through. But only sometimes. Soon he'll shuffle off to his room, if he doesn't silently sublimate through the ceiling. The world is more aware of us now. I suppose that's my doing. There've been articles and little shows on You Tube. There's always been 'little stories.' The government, or certain secretive puppet masters, say it's a hoax, or mass hysteria.. But what would you expect. Now, let me close up and go to sleep... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ thank you. hit THIS .. for more. your COMMENTS & LINKS are very welcome.
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