The Book of All Things New

It is I, 'The Teacher.' I have not released you yet. There is more that I must say. Be quiet and read. In the beginning, at the start of my captivity, I was pure. I was nobel and true to our calling. But my captors taunted me. They cursed me and said that I was damned, though that did not stop them from wanting to learn of my abilities and secrets. They desired my powers. But I told them nothing, for I knew them to be hypocrites and evil men..... In truth, there were somme sincere believers among them who gainned solace and morality from their creed. But my guards were not of that number. My 'handlers' I believe they would call them now, were of a different breed. Indeed, most Vatican functionaries were unaware of their existance. They survived and endured as a shadowy force, whispered about, but seldom seen........ When the lofty door at the top of the slippery chute was opened and victims thrown down the 'throat of death,' they would listen. When it was over, when the screaming stopped and I had fed, they would ask me questions. Their voices echoed down to me. But I would curl up, hug my knees, say my prayers and tell them nothing. So they would throw down another victim. And another. And another, in an effort to ensnare me and inflame my thirst. for living nourishment. I ate. And I ate. And I ate. Initially I tried to hold back. I tried to controll myself. The pathetic victims would survive. They would sit with me in the darkness. We would talk and confide in each other. I told them of my 'life,' and they told me of theirs. But then the moon would wane. The month would end and a new cycle would begin. I could feel it. Hundreds of cubits below the streets of Rome and I could feel it, a visceral gnawing, a visceral ithching beyond the limits of my endurance. It was a fundamental 'call' and I was helpless. There was absolutely no thing I could do. The victims knew it. They sensed it. They felt it. At first, I would grow unresponsive and then, after a while, completely silent.. And they would grow wary. Small parcels of food and drink were slid down to them. I could hear them chew. I could hear them swallow. And then I would inch closer. And closer still. I would sniff all about them. Tasting the particles of their essence in the dank and putrid air. They would gasp and freeze up in fear. A heartbeat can make music. It can keep cadence better than a drum. The low, throbbing sound would call me. It would tempt me. It would bewitch me and set my soul on fire. The human would suddenly feel my breath upon its neck. I could hear the sobs. I could smell the tears. Sometimes, I would lick them off. I enjoyed that. Not a word was spoken. What good would it have done? And then I would break through the skin and feed, an addict lost to this most dangerous of drugs....... At times I prayed. I prayed for Tomas (known to you now as 'Jonathon') to mount an invasion and swoop down into this vile place at the head of a band of angels and set me free. But they never came. Tomas never came. I could feel his heart. I could live his thoughts. That's what kept me going. And I presume he could hear me as well. But there was no rescue. I had no hope. I could not climb up to the top of the chute and force my way out. Believe me, I tried. But they would force me back with fire and throw down more flesh. And after a time, on a certain level, I did not want to escape. I just wanted the lives. I just wanted the nourishment. They used me as a cesspool. They used me as a sewer to wash away all those deemed unfit, for all those beyond their limited grasp of salvation. And I did my job. And I did it well.....Can you picture me? Can you see my face. I am sending you an image. Remember, since the first posting of this tale more that four months ago, we have only been pretending that this is fiction. But I think you know that, especially one in Sweden and another in the Balkans. Relax....Close your eyes.... I'll show you more....

The Book of All Things New

What name have I given you in the past!? No, wait. What does that matter to me? That is less than shit to me. You are less than shit to me. I dine on better than you. You mean nothing. When  you are no more than earthly corruption, when your name is unknown even to the filth that consumed you, I will  still be here. I will see your descendents perish....if you even have descendents. Who am I? Well, I will tell you, for you find me in a charitable mood. I am He who Made Tomas. Yes, yes, I know he prefers the name'Jonathon' now. But there will be a lot of 'nows' annd he will become enamored of many names. So refer to me as 'The Teacher,' for I will show you what it really means to be a life eater. And believe me. I have learned from the best! What is that Philadelphia band, but a deluded collection of tattered angels? I harbor no pious conceits. I did once, but not now.  Look at that wilkravitz person typing away. He thinks this comes from 'Jonathon.' But does he ever ask why that reluctant killer doesn't sit down and operate this contraption himself? How difficult can it be if the lumpen, sweating masses can do it? How hard to understand, if my cheap, little appetizers comprehend it? The 'chains' are weakening. My captors are blind to it, but they are weakening. Soon I shall shread their soft, sallow hides and send them to bathe in The Lake of Fire. Soon I shall see beyond the eternal darkess of my leaden tomb and walk free in the world once again. I can already see the cracks spidering through the thick, cold walls. I can already see the terror eroding the flesh of my enemies. And they thought a disembodied spirit was hard to handle.  Wait. Have patience. They will scream out new words to label the horrors I will commit.....But now I am hungry. It is 'their' fault. They have made me like this. They have accustomed me to it. There was a time when one 'meal' a 'moon' was enough. But not now. Shhhh, I hear the door opening above. I hear the words. I hear the pleading (odd, I once had a set-up something like that.....ask 'Jonathon' to tell you about his nativity)  The 'meat' is forced through. They push 'it' down the ancient chute, a long and polished wicked fun-faire ride. A greased eusophagus plunging down to hell. And I am there to catch them when they fall. True, at times I do just that. But there are instances when I am not so hungry. I wait. I wait silently in the blackness , two hundred cubits beneath the  eternal cobblestones of Rome. And I listen. I listen to the cries. I listen to the whimpers. I listen to the prayers. They get up. They explore. There must be a way out. There must be a door. There must be some way to escape..... But there is no way to escape. There is no hope. Who better than I to know that fact? I have been searching for an eternity. So I bide my time until the hunger moves me. Then I breathe, or cough, or move about. And they shout - Who is that!? Who are you!? .... That goes on for a while. But then they grow apprehensive. Then they grow silent. And the crying comes back again . And then I make my move. Sometimes I grab an ankle. Sometimes a torso, or a cheek, or an ear, or any other plump and lucious part. My hands are like ice, so cold they burn. And then I begin to feed. I begin to bite. I begin to drink. A few die right then and there. I don't like that. Dead food is worthless. It offers no nourishment. Blood tastes good, but it is the taking of the life that matters. And dead ones, or rather those who die before I am satisfied, do not ignite into the cold, blue flame (my only source of illumination), leaving me with a monstrous pile of oozing , stinking, refuse. The noxious odor sickens me. I am forced to break the bones and shread the flesh with my fingers, rendering it into smaller and smaller bits and patting it all together into a neat, little pile at the spot where I hope my next (successful) meal will ignite into a cleansing, blue flame and burn it all away. This one will not have to wait long. I told you, I am in a charitable mood. Just a little bit.. Be patient. My time approaches. 'Teacher' is coming. And class will be in cession soon enough....

The Book of All Things New

Now... one night has gone by and here is where we are vis-a-vis our 'heavenly' messengers. This morning's services were a bit more well attended at the North Broad Street Synagogue. No, wait. It is actually not a synagogue. Rodeph Shalom is a Reformed congregation (a dead former member set me straight) and termed a 'temple,' and not a synagogue. Picky. Me (Zebulon) in my time, we called them Beit K'nesset (bate keh nessette) , which means 'meeting house' or 'house of assembly,' much as the Trinitarian group known as 'Friends' does today. But I must say, I caught a few episodes of their presentation in the magic mirror-television thing and I could not understand it. But I believe they promote the consumption of healthful breakfast cereals (oatmeal, I'm told it is called) and that in itself is a good thing. Where was I? Oh, yes,....'Temple Rodeph Shalom'..... One could not obtain a spot to tie up one's vehicle for a good two leagues in all directions. Indeed, little Robbie Leiberman (the leader of some sort of annual youth service) had more people in the seats than Justin Bieber when he played Toronto (the first time, not the second). And it was like this everywhere. The basilicas of the Ornate Trinitarians were packed. The less elabotate structures of the Plain Trinitarians were packed. The prayer houses of The children of Ishmael (very similar to what we had in Babylon, I must say) were packed too. And what is more important, all those 'food drive' bins found in marketplaces were brimming with donated, metallic cylinders containing all sorts of high sodium delicacies. A painted up smiley, happy girl in the magic mirror, claimed that six hundred and thirteen hand guns ( a sum equal to the number of blessings in the first five books of the Unitarian Scriptures, I might add) were turned in to the municipal security forces. So I guess the number of 'caps busted into people' will go down accordingly. Another suddenly spiritually inspired group distributed coupons good for two free 'buffet' dinners at The Showboat Hotel Casino in Atlantic City. And while I do not know what manner of animal a 'buffet' is, the mere mention of its name seems to drive  people into states of delerium. Granted, a certain number of inndividuals planning to dine on these mysterious delights turned out to be homeless and lacked the means to attend this glorious repast. They cried forth from magic mirrors everywhere, explaining to a different smiley lady that they 'ain't got no ride, Jesus Christ!' I presume their prayers worked, for I heard that fifteen busses, complete with drivers, were quickly forthcoming.........And the mortals infected with these strange, worms of the spirit likewise began to heal. I suppose it is like the part where Tinkerbell gets sick . You know, in Peter Pan. What with all the elves and cherubs, we  of the Fairmount Park redout are thoroughly familiar with that, since they play the disc constantly. So it is like that. It is as they say - 'You gotta believe. You gotta believe. You gotta believe.'....... Well, maybe it was a certain much beloved 'relief pitcher' known as 'Tug' MacGraw who said that..... But you get the idea................................... Oh, as hinted earlier, the being responsible for the creation of Tomas/Jonathon  wants 'out.' His captors find it increasingly difficult to contain him. The ghost of Leonardo Da Vinci (also ensnared in the same ancient web) tries to console him, but to no avail. And his handlers, hidden deep within the maze of Vatican  hierarchies (and unknown to others of the religious community) fear the worst. They fear an escape...... If it happens, I presume one of the smiley, magic mirror faces (male or feamale) will tell us all about it.

The Book of All things New

They had to banish the 'sickness.' They had to cure it. Jonathon, after discussing theories and observances with the others, said - We need an event, or a stunt, as they say in these times. Something to bring out the hidden goodness and the longing for spiritual closeness in the people. But something big. Something real, or at least something that seems real......... Albion, who had been watching television with some of the other 'young' ones heard and he came over. I could try to get us the talking Oprah woman from the magic mirror. That might help. - he said...... Jonathon hugged him and answered - Maybe it would...... Sarah luaghed - Can you imagine what that show would be like? YOU get a blessing! And YOU get a blessing! And YOU get a blessing! Along with the keys to brand new Volkswagon Jettas! She'd have Rabbi Shmuley up there and Marianne Williamson and a gospel choir and.... Edith chimes in - Ooh, I'd like to see that. Don't go disrespecting the 'O' lady........ Baylah says - Yeah, she's big, but she ain't the only one....... They all turn to her, expecting further explanation....... Sarah says - Why? What are you going to do?..... But Baylah only chuckles and says - Don't worry. It won't be the first time....................... Now the restaurants are crowded this time of year. Families draw together during the holidays. They have reunions. They have renewals. They have fights. They crave fellowship. And the crowds were particularly stiff at a certain Italian style place. I believe it is known as The Olive Garden. The flat, black, cinder-tar exterior plain adjacent to the inn-like structure was covered with all manner of mechanical conveyance. A long line of hungering humanity patiently waited for room at the tables. Baylah was also there. She was all alone and dressed in a long white, woolen gown. Over that, she  wore a pure blue, flowing, hooded mantle. Her dark, wavy hair spread softly down the front of her attire. She watched from a stand of shrubbery, initially meant to hide some of the air cooling mechanisms. Now the sun had already set, so she was safe, even though the sky was still violet and tinged with orange in a Maxfield Parrish kind of way. That's when she did it. That is when she made her 'miracle' happen. Baylah lowered her gaze. Her arms went up and her hands reached out as her feet left the ground and she sublimated up through the air, up through the molecules of nitrogen and oxygen, to a place where all could see her. And all of the people did see her. They gasped. Assorted bickerings stopped in mid bicker. Parents grabbed children. Grannies broke out in prayer....... And Baylah said five words. She said - Your hands are the hands of God....... She repeated it two or three more times maybe. Then she rose up to a great height and vanished. But what she actually did was sublimate through the air at great speed, so it only appeared as if she had vanished. Almost everyone on the ground came equipped with various forms of electrical communication devices. And the miraculous occurance was enscribed on countless image catchers and little talking things. The 'Word' was out and the media soon started screaming about 'Our Lady of the Olive Garden' and 'The Black Madonna.' By next morning, fifteen thousand people showed up. The place never took in so much money or sold so many bottles of wine. True, the toilets in the men's room and the ladies' room did overflow a few times, but when heaven speaks you have to expect things like that............. And for good measure, just a few leagues away, just as evening services were starting in the huge sanctuary of the great, Byzantine-Moorish, Rodeph Shalom Synagogue on North Broad Street,  at the precise instant the rabbi opened the Ark and prepared to take up the Torah scroll (the symbolic presence of God), a shimmering shaft of illumination pierced through an already darkening, ornate, stained glass window and came down to bathe him in its light. And that wasn't all. Jonathon sublimated through the translucent mosaic too, dressed in a suitably, scriptural  costume. He stopped. His feet dangled five cubits over the dumbstruck rabbi's head. He turned to face the silent, astonished congregants, threw out his arms and in his best Ancient Aramaic (almost an exact match for Liturgical Hebrew), said the same five words as Baylah - Your hands are God's hands. Then he continued to sublimate down through the bimah (altar-table), down through an opened Bible, continuing all the way to the basement, where he ran up some stairs and disappeared into the night.................. Up above, about four or five  piously devout Comcast executives (headquartered in Center City Philadelphia) were there to see it all. And four hours later, there was already a quickly prepared special on basic cable. That was it. The fire was lit. A miracle had happened. The people bore witness. And humanity (at least for the time being, was 'changed')............

The Book of All Things New

Zebulon again. Was trying to float through some of the Red Paint Folks, in an effort to learn about them, but discovered something else. Great pulses of mind energy expanding out into Creation. Seems to be originating in Rome, from the new Trinitarian Temple complex, known as The Vatican. Jonathon appears to be hearing something too, but he's attempting to hide it. He's nervous. I can tell. Baylah seems to be picking up on it too. Sarah busies herself with the 'children.' A regular Maria Von Trapp that one is. But she loves them and they are intrigued with her. I suppose they love her in their own way. Jonathon's eye is twitching. He's thinking. He remembers something. Humans still sick. It's bad here.....

The Book of All Things New

Please accept my apology. I was not able to communicate with you for what I think, in your world, translates into a three day period. I became entangled in another reality. That happens to spiritual beings from time to time. Did I enjot that other place? Yes, I did. Not that I enjoy all places. Especially not the ones where say, Nazi Germany won the war, or your nation never won the revolution, or the Inquisition is still in play, or miniature French Poodles can talk (such self centered, judgemental little beasts!). But that place was all right. They had the most friendly, intelligent praying mantis individuals. Quite well educated and creators of a hauntingly beautiful poetry. The marriage rites were a bit over the top for my taste. Everyone clicks their front claws for good luck when the bride chews through the neck of the groom and severs his insipidly smiling head. The ceremony, obviously takes place after the actual union. And there were other peculiarities. But at least the food was interesting (not that spirits get to partake of any), an assortment of live (though drugged) honey coated bumblebees, accompanied by other crunchy tidbits. Tell you more latter. Now back to our little dramatic episode. Christmas was uneventful. Sarah managed to make it nice for the eternal children. The two park workers got a load of those heavy, well made xylaphones they use in grade schools. You know, the ones with the white notes and the black notes on a piano-like keyboard. I don't know how they came across them. City employees seem to have their own sort of magic, if you know what I mean. The younger elves and the older cherubs greatly appreciated this gift. They took to them immediately. You should hear them. Within five minutes, they had mastered the Gould Variations and were hard at work on some variations of their own. They also got a flat screen TV and some DVD's. One was a new copy of an old favorite of theirs...the Mary Martin version of Peter Pan. Did that ever make them happy. They had their 'There Is a Land where Dreams are Born' song back. I think it is like a prayer to them. Speaking of payers, the humans could use some, because they are still all sick. The Old Woman, Edith, wilkravitz, some of the Pineys and Annie. Not Morticia so much. I suppose it is because she only visits, but does not actually reside here. I don't think the Red Paints are sick. Maybe they do not get sick. I'll have to remember to float through their bodies and see what I can find out. I did think a few of them were sick at first. But not now. I think all they had was the diarrhea. Albion insisted on making crab cakes and the Old Woman thought it was all just a big joke. Think I'll hide her false teeth and see how much she likes that, the cackling old fool! It is strange. The Shaky Hand Man is not here anymore. But he really is. The sickness comes from him. I don't know. Did we manage to over power him or didn't we? And what is he? Is he the source of all that negativity, or just another vehicle, the same as Annie? Jonathon, his consort Sarah and Baylah have been 'culling' on a regular basis. I think it agrees with them. Their eyes appear brighter. Their features more finely drawn. Their humor a bit more biting. And they all sport these trimly tailored, stylish new outfits from the huate chi-chi establishments on South Street. Sarah even got some new bedding for the bottom of that French wardrobe thing they snuggle in. I think she used a coupon from The Bed Bath and Beyond. Boy, if the salesclerk only knew how beyond. But the sickness really does worry them. Blood gifts do not help. I don't know what will happen. They'll have to try something.....

A Slight Midwinter's Digression

Jonathon has memories. He picutres scenes long gone, from places far away. There was an inn on the way to the manor of the great Rashi. They camped not far off and were able to witness the comings and goings . The building was contructed of stout, Catalonian gray stones. Long timbers spanned the heights,  providing support to the peaked, tiled roof. Pigeons, or some other similar breed, made their nests under the eaves and they fluttered 'round the structure like mustering angels. A thin, long tracing of fragrant smoke danced up from the chimeny (quite the modern marvel at the time) and disappeared into the watery, white, featureless sky. The traveling band of devout Jews (Jonathon, his father, other kin and retainers) did not enter the fine building for two reasons. Crusaders were abroad in the region and it was not in the least illegal (or immoral) to slaughter non Trinatarians. And if times were different and the souls 'round about a bit more congenial, the fare offered within would still not conform to the diet of righteousness. So they took their ease within a stand of trees, ate their cold repast (a fire would attract too much attention) and nervously  observed the personages entering and leaving the worthy establishment. There was an hidalgo (nobleman) and his entourage. Two nuns accompanied by some sort of  Christian religious, probably a deacon, went in. The usual compliment of merchants off to some trade fair or another. And then there came the woman. Now we all know hos unseemly it was for women to go traveling without some sort of male guardianship. But this woman was alone. She  stopped outside and looked down the coarse, primitive road  to the Israelite encampment. Ans she seemed to see them clearly through the trees. She could have sounded the alarm. She could have yelled -- Jews! Jews! There are Christ Killers abroad among us!! She could have thrown up her arms and run around screaming like a crazy person. But she did not. She just looked (actually locking eyes with Jonathon), smiled and nodded. Jonathon nodded back. She turned and proceeded in through the heavy, wooden door. A moment later a damp, chill breeze came through, stirring the leaves and scattering the dust. The Israelites retreated to their tents. When it was past and they came out, a light, lacy, wafer-like substance clung to the trees. Jonathon took a piece and tasted it. Then he took some to his father and the others and they tasted it too. A particular retainer who had been born and raised up in the Holy Land said that it was manna. And the others agreed. They ate and were nousished. The episode was over. But  Jonathon recalled the face of the woman. And she looked just like a medieval version of Peekaboo Street.