The Book of All Things New

I am more than semi-remembered. I now know my name and it is Zebulon (they called me Zeb for short). My father was a great man at the court of Zedekiah. He was granted the privilege of 'the white horse' and his steeds were among the snowiest. Our fields were rich in corn (what you call wheat) and the income from our many retainers (peasants) provided a lifestyle unparalleled along the shores of The Levant. We marched in the forefront of the great Temple processions. Our menagerie featured little-known and exotic specimens from the far corners of creation. Elephants? Giraffes? We had those. But my favorite was a 'forest gnome,' what you now call a bonobo and the chimpanzee-like ape was a special friend to me. When the Great Rebellion failed and we were carried off to live amongst the pagans by the shores of the Rivers of Babylon, my special friend escaped. He eluded the soldiers and ran off to live a bandit's life in the forests that grow around The Sea of Harps (what you call the Galilee). But then my mother fell victim to a strange water borne malady from the wells of Babel and I was left in the care of a nurse, another foreign sojourner in the land, the third daughter of a lesser Bactrian nobleman. How she got to the Mesopotamian capital I  do not know. But my father became 'involved' with her and after a time, she filled the role of a second mother. Did she know our ways? Not really. But the sophisticated life of The Great City had changed us. Such things did not feel inappropriate. And my father married her. And she taught me many wondrous and mystical things. Let me collect my thoughts. Soon I will tell you more.

The Book of SarahGOOGLE

It is I, the semi-remembered disembodied spirit. That wilkravitz 'familiar' works so hard. And those elves and cherubs are driving him crazy. Do you recall KINDERGARTEN COP? Well, picture that. He would so like to know how many individuals read his offerings. But the blog carrier does not currently offer such services. If you visit this magical site (which I too help to create) please contact us via wilkravitz on twitter. your response will be forever inscribed in the akoshic record. And a joyous Season of Miracles to us all. Si tu quieres leer un poco mas, tu tienes esperar para solomente un poco tiempo. Nuestros vampiros no son disponsible. Lo siento............ google ....wilkravitz on twitter.......Muchas, muchas gracias.

The Book of Sarah

And in the morning with the sunrise the people awakened and they knew. Smash the bull. Smash the bull.Smash the bull. It was on everyone's lips. And they rose up and fell upon it, chipping it away with rocky shards. They shattered it with stones. The people labored all through the day. And with the early, cold, December sunset, their work was over. The bull was gone. A warm breeze moved through the pines. The Red Paint Man, the very one who bore witness to Captain Jean Luc Picard of the starship Enterprise, sat up in his wing-backed chair. He opened his eyes and said - Bring me the 'blood' woman. Sarah was sent for and she went to him..He gestured. She came forward and knelt down at his feet. At first she was afraid. At first she did not speak. She turned and looked questioningly at the Peekaboo Street woman, who only smiled and nodded. Sarah turned back to the strange man and said - Yes, teacher? (Why did she address him so? Who can say?)She said - What is is you want me to know?...... He stroked her hair and spoke - Your children wait for you. They need their mother. Go to them. Return to the city and feed your family. Tomas and Baylah watched from the background. The spiritual Andalusian said - What about me? What should I do? The 'Reddie' whispered - What would Rashi have taught you all those centuries ago? Tomas said - You know about Rashi? The 'Man' nodded and said that he knew of many things. Tomas teared up and said - He would have taught me to love mercy. He would have taught me to seek righteousness and to walk in the path of The Lord....... The seated man responded - Then seek not the truth in visions. For the knowledge is already in you. And Baylah, Baylah..... (she was shocked that he knew her) Trust your heart. Doubt not the still, small voice that guides you. It is the voice of the mother who lost you, but never let you go..... Baylah said - You know my mother? What was her name?  He bekoned her  to come closer. She did and kneeled down. He leaned forward and whispered in her ear and she cried. Tears ran down her cheeks. She said - Thank you. The Peekaboo Street woman said - The life is beginning to leave him. He is near his end. None present knew what to do. She comforted him and told the others - Don't be afraid. He did his part and soon he will be free. But take his blood. Take it while the spark of life still warms him. Take it and pass it on to others. So the three blood folk caressed him and drew in his essence. The Peekaboo woman watched and said - To everything there is a season and a time for every purpose under Heaven......

The Book of Sarah

What language are they speaking? - asked Sarah. An old one. I think the Cro Magnons started it. Why? - said Edith. No - whispered Sarah - but how will the message get out? Do you all speak it? Do all the 'Reddies' speak it? Hell no. They don't even talk English right. They sound like a bunch of Jerry Springer people. They ain't never  been to school.- snorted the Pow Wow Woman. And then we just stood there watching the show. Soon there was nothing left inside the crystaline bull but a pile of gummy bones sloshing around in a pink-red, bubbly broth. Someone screwed out an unseen quartz peg corresponding to the navel of the beast, and released the sickening contents into a copper caldron. Two dwarfs were lowered into the death chamber through the saddle opening. They collected the bones in burlap sacks. Then a few of the young men helped them clamber out..They dumped the bones at the feet of the blind shaman. The pile was quite large. Some woman came over and carried the bones to a small spring flowing out of a crack hidden in the shadows, where the reverently washed them. Then they carried the bones back to the blind shaman and dumped them down onto the stone floor. He screamed. That was all. He just screamed. And everyone there  rushed forward. I hadn't noticed, but they were all clutching rocks, which they used to smash the ivory-like remains to bits. Shards flew all about us. People were injured. Smashed fingers were quite common. One young woman lost the sight in her left eye. And then they were through. Acolytes swept the sharp bits into piles, which they scooped up and deposited in a series of small, oaken casks. Everyone appeared to relax. I asked Edith what it all meant? What would be done with the remains? She said that the 'blessed' bones would be used to fashion magical spear points and arrow heads for use in the coming battle.. I said - You mean that Red Paint man was serious? There really is going to be a battle? And it's going to be in Philadelphia? She just cackled and nodded. Sarah, Baylah and I just looked at each other. And then all the people tore off their clothes and had an orgy. But not the children. Not the little ones. Some old folks shepherded them into an adjoining chamber where they sang songs and ate popcorn. I think they drank a little cider too. But it might have been something else....... Supposedly, everyone will 'know' the meaning of the sacred ramblings when they regain consciousness in the morning. I wonder what they're going to do with that oilly, gummy mess in the copper caldron.

The Book of Sarah

It is I, Tomas... And Sarah too. They're having a 'throwin''... That's a term they use now, but it originally stems from an ancient Red Paint dialect. It sounded something like this---- A trovin ova bon, and even the surviving 'Reddies' (a nickname) don't know what it means. About twohundred and fifty of us are winding our way through the pines. Each holds a small, flickering candle. Not more than twentyfive or thirty are true R.P.'s by blood. The rest are Piney neighbors who have lived right by them too long and absorbed a lot of Red Paint ways. Edith says they got 'a taint o the paint.' It's cold. The humans are wrapped in well-worn woolen layers. The Reddies too. They are, after all still human. We 'blood folk' as they call us are similarly attired. It is not that we have anything to fear from old Jack Frost. But rather a desire to fit in. And I have to agree, it is comfortable. Sarah looks like a fetching, turn of the twentieth century immigrant. Baylah has her head wrapped Erika Badu style. I look like a cold-campus college kid straight out of Penn State or Michigan  or some place like that. Our feet crunch on a thin layer of snow and ice. Some of the others softly chant an old song. And some do not. We approach the partially hidden entrance to a cavern. There are not many such places in the Jersey flatlands, but apparently they have found one. And from what I am told, have been using it for centuries. We file insside. Orange candlelight dances around the rocky outcrops. The passage is narrow. It snakes down into the earth. No one sings anymore. A ghostly scattering of gruesome pictographs decorate the cold, hard walls. Ours is not the greatest colony of Reddies. Most are found far to the north along the Canadian, Newfoundland coast. That is where the first migrants apparently  made land fall all those milleniuum ago. But ours maintain a strict orthodoxy. And it seems they have attracted a certain number of converts from among the ranks of the Pineys. Edith whispers to me -----Tomas? You seen a few of those human bonfires they used to light up back in the day, right?..... I assume she means Inquisitional Spain and answer in the affirmative,..... Well, this is gonna be a little bit like that, but with a taste of say a rustic Mardi Gras and a reality TV show thrown in to spark things up a little....We hear an angry 'shush' from up ahead. Everyone files into a large-ish, roughly circular chamber. Some of the Leaders use their candles to light torches affixed to the walls. Various gradations of shadows dance all about us. And in the center rests one of the most unusual objects that I have ever seen. It is large, at least as large as a small bus. Like the ten passenger jitney buses they use to ferry people around airports or along Pacific Avenue in Atlantic City. But this thing has a threatening ancient menace. It is a coarse rendering of a huge bull, almost prehistoric, probably an aurochs. It stands twelve feet tall and measures about twenty feet long. But it is not solid. The monstrous carving (probably from a single quartz boulder) is hollow. A matching 'saddle' seals a small opening along the back. A stone fire pit occupies the ground between its legs. The congregants (for that is what we are) move about, forming a circle around this centerpiece. Drums sound. A shuffling dance begins to wind counter-clockwise 'round the idol. A 'Caller' takes his place under the head of the beast. He is blind. A white haze covers his useless corneas. He begins a chant and rhythmically shifts his weight from foot to foot. Every so often his claw of a hand shoots out and he grabs someone. Those chosen join him under the bovine head. And then the dancing stops. Each of the 'grabbed ones' is given a razor sharp, silver knife, which they use to silently saw off a little finger. No one says a word. A woman gathers the severed digits in a metal bowl and drowns them in what appears to be a strong acid. The contents fizz. A froth is formed. She pours everything onto the stone floor. The blind one gets down on his hands and knees and examines the bones. The newly mutilated are given draughts of something to numb their pain and rags to staunch the blood. And then the blind one begins to call out names... four names... two men and two women. Those called step forward. Two young men wrestle the cloudy, crystaline saddle from its resting place. The bull is opened. The four 'Ridders' remove their clothing and climb inside. They tenderly assist each other. We can see them through the foggy, semi-precious surface. The interior chamber is small. They can move around, but just a little. A few buckets of water are thrown in with them. The saddle is jammed back into place. The bull is closed. Some of the people have been carrying kindling. Others retrieve armloads of wood from alcoves. They deposit their flamable burdens into the pit and return to their places in the circle. Another woman comes forward. She ignites the crisp, dry fuel. It begins to burn. The smoke is drawn up and disappears through cracks and fissures of the arching roof. The rest of the celebrants fall back.  They reverently watch their encapsulated brethren contort and writhe, as they futily attempt to escape the searing heat. And we witness the spectacle of human  beings roasting and boiling and charring in their own juice. No one so much as coughs. The screams of the victims issued forth through small openings drilled into the nostrils, mouth, ears and rectum of the beast, blending into a hellish song. Shamans quickly called out interpreting the 'music..'  Baylah and Sarah and I stood close together with our arms about each other, waiting for it to end. And the 'singing' went on for a very long time..........

The Book of Sarah

I am beginning to recall the events of my past. I think this has happened to me before. I remember things for a time and then I lose them. Maybe I want to lose them. I do not know. Am I simply a disembodied spirit, or am I the remnant of lifetimes gone before? Once I told you that I remembered the orange-gold reflection of sunlight upon the sacred Ganges. I remember the ghats. I remember the families releasing beloved corpses into the current. I can smell the colors and see the aromas meandering through the air.I can see the river. I can see the flow of time. There is one seated beside me. At times he speaks .. At times he refrains from speaking.Some know him as the wayward son of a king, a ruler rich in the temperate lands to the north. He reclines upon the red, sandstone paving lining the quayside. And he studies the grand parade. Listen to the tambourines. Hear the tiny chirping of the finger cymbals. Oh how perfectly measured are the rhythmic chants. How precise the steps of the dancers. There must be dozens of professional mourners. Such incense! What colors! Look! Look! Look! I have captured a silken handkerchief swimming through the breeze! A gift to keep. A souvenir of this special moment. Who is it? Who sets off for The Bardo? Who will stand before the divinities ? Who will learn his fate? A powerful nawab, a leader of armies. One beloved of Krishna. That is what they are saying. But the One seated beside me says other things. The one some call Siddhartha speaks different words. Who sets off on the eternal voyage? Is it truly a prince? No, says my neighbor. It is each of us. Death is but a rest-stop, a chance to void the bowels before setting off once more upon the river of enlightenment. But Teacher...Great Teacher... what fate befalls those who miss the boat? What fate befalls those who tarry in the land of death? What fate befalls those who do not venture on? And he said --- They fail to complete themselves. Their spiritual boils contimue to fester. And the rancid poisons of their misdeeds grow until they drown in a cesspool of human corruption...... I watched them complete the elaborate funerary rites for the rich one from the north. And I took three coppers from my alms bowl and passed them on to one who had even less than I. Such is a memory of this Disembodied Spirit, who now wants to tell you about more contemporary things...... The Shaky Hand Man is positively giddy with distruction. He has used his little girl. He has used Annie and her animals to kill many random, unfortunate humans. The hounds are fat. They doze in the shadows. The rats are sleek and warm. They all grow lazy. But that is the way. Their hunger will return. And in those odd,misplaced forests that hide between the Gotham and Quaker metropolises, along the trails through the lonesome pines, interested parties begin to gather. Preparations are made for a powerful rite. The world is being readied for 'a throwing of the bones.'

The Book of Sarah

It is I, Tomas. There will always be evil---- That is what he communicated. That is what the Red Paint gentleman 'said.' I heard him in my mind. No, deeper than my mind. I heard him in my soul. And I learned other things as well. His people sailed to our shores in ships much like those of the Vikings, or the American Indians of the Pacific Northwest. Some mixed with native tribes and some did not. They stayed hidden. The woodland sprites of the New World, if you will. And they claim descent from an even older human line. Their stories detail an ancient lineage wrought from those who witnessed the Ice Age. Formed from a people as old as the moon. Fashioned from those whom 'others' term Neanderthals. Yet the resemblance is tenuous at best. If you saw them pricing sneakers in Target you would never suspect a thing.  And if their brow ridges are now more refined and their chins a bit more pronounced, that is only normal. People change. Evolution. Get with the program. But somethings do not change. Certain abilities resist transformation. And that can be a good thing. For there are talents which when lost, can never be reborn. And the Red Paint People never lost the 'thought magic.' They never lost the ability to communicate without words. Not like we do. Not even like the cherubs. These individuals converse in a rich and nuanced manner. And they share other remarkable powers as well. The gentleman predicts the coming of a big show down. Is it an apocalypse? --- I ask. He shrugs. He does not know that term. He does not trouble himself with such things. I ask ----- Is it the end of the world? He smiles and we know what  he knows. We know that the world will endure for a baby eternity. We know it is foolish to ask such questions. He knows that there will be a confrontation. On one side stand the forces of good. And on the other side, the forces of evil. It has happened before. And it will happen again. But it will happen soon... on the streets of Philadelphia..... on the streets of The City of Brotherly Love. Then he falls back, or rather his mind does. He closes his eyes. Edith and I sit there for a few moments. And then the woman comes in, the one who looks like world-famous-skier, Peekaboo Street, only thinner. She drapes an intricately woven blanket over the gentleman's body. Then she gestures for us to follow her to the door. We do. The portal silently swings open. We hear the slow, final song of late autumn crickets. She asks if we have learned anything. We nod. She tells us she is sure we will be invited back. We shake hands. She slips each of us a tiny, wrapped tid-bit. We descend the steps and retreat back into the woods. She turns and goes back inside. The heavy door closes. We open our palms to examine our gifts. Edith has a small, wax paper wrapped Tootsie Roll and so do I. I laugh and say --- You want mine? I'm kind of allergic. She smiles and takes it. On the way back 'home' I say prayers for Bob. And maybe some prayers for the rest of us too. God knows what is coming.