Any Dream Will Do ... Our Angel Knows ... 11/20/15

Sometimes our special angel would leave his post at The Alt-Neu Schule and pass through the town. There were other angels there. Some promised to 'God Houses' as he was and free lancers delivering 'letters' from The Lord' or just seeing the sights. Baroque era Prague was a very happening place. One saw beys and pashas on errands from Constantinople. Rome is forever, you know. Whether the empire is ruled by imperators or basileuses or sultans, the realm never ends. One saw German speaking merchants from the city-states to the west and Muscovite boyars from their own nascent empire in the cold plains and forests to the east. The whole world came to this city of spires and towers. Chimes and church bells filled the air with music. Matrons hurried home forcing troublesome geese into large, wicker goose-baskets. Neck wringing happens later. One gander saw him, the angel, I mean, and yelled - Angel! Angel! Save me! Save me!..... The angel said - Alas, that I cannot do. But I bring you tidings from a Better Place and know this, as your flesh goes in the oven, the core of your being will glide 'cross a Heavenly Pond with all your kith and kin..... ALL of them? - asked the gander.... No, just the dead ones - said the angel. I got that part wrong..... Well, that's good enough for me! - went the gander and he stopped trying to bite the fat matron's hands. Animals believe with a sincere and perfect faith. And when it was time for the matron to wring his neck and crush the bones, she did it in an efficient, practiced manner with a minimum of suffering.

Our Angel walked home, following two gentlemen from his congregation. That's how he knew it was time to return, for the gates to the ghetto were locked from the outside at sundown. Such barriers were nothing to him. He could pass through walls, floors, ceilings, root cellars, locked chests, just about everything, but the congregants, if caught outside would have been very roughly handled indeed. Split noses and severed fingers were a specialty in those parts.

A bit later, during evening service, the angel looked at the people at prayer. Almost each had a dream... a deep desire either for themselves, another, or the great wide world. And he thought about the people on the other side of the gates too, for they also had dreams.

Some prayers were answered. The book seller's daughter found a fine husband and the vintner's widow, severely short of funds and reluctant to burden the community, discovered ten lost bottles of a  rare and costly Alsatian vintage eagerly snapped up by the captain of the guard (he guarded the ghetto) for a price mutually beneficial to both of them.

But the cantor's little boy could still barely walk and Mr. Amshel's lungs grew worse. And they weren't the only ones.

The angel thought - Who am I to ask for flight when the world is as it is?

Later that night, when prayers were over, the angel passed into the old library, took a book from the shelves and sat down to read, accompanied by the soft tick-tock sound of an old wall clock brought back from a synod in Speyer. He needed no light. Angels, when need be, can give off their own illumination, sometimes white, sometimes cream, sometimes a pale, pure blue.

One passage stayed with him --- Every misfortune that we observe is an opportunity for a good deed.

Now angels instinctively know that, but even they forget...

<more next time and hopefully 'next time' means tomorrow>

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Matisyahu "Miracle" // SiriusXM ..Our Angel Still Waits to Take Flight... 11/18/15

And the stork mother and her mate raised their chicks in the nest atop the Alt-Neu Schule. Summer came. The waters of the Vltava River grew silvery-warm under a bright Czech sun and the red tiled roofs of the city shone like candy.

The flightless angels sat by the great birds. He watched their graceful movements and smiled at the hungry, downy babies. They were good babies and they had good avian parents.

He sang songs to them, the angel did... old hymns and folk tunes played at weddings. He told them stories of each and every person passing on the street below. They knew the baker's wife and the silversmith, the old clothes man and the other rabbi from the other schule down the way.

The angel from that other schule would come to visit. He'd float down onto the shingles, fold his wings ( he was a winged angel... not all are... but that doesn't mean they cannot fly) and tell tales about all the places he'd seen. He told about caravans along The Great Silk Road and reverent crocodiles tolling their prayers, as they waited for sustenance ( who may or may not have also been reverent) to drift their way. The storks listened and told tales of their own. Storks see many places too.

This mad our angel sad. He grew silent. The mother stork knew why and said - Your time will come. I will keep my promise and you will fly, for I will bear you up...

But our story will not end this time. You see, the teller stayed up too late watching news of Paris and the tragic things that happened there.

So let him rest and rise refreshed to spin the tale anew.

<more next time>

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A TALE FOR THE FEAST OF THE RE-DEDICATION -- Hanukah.. 11/16/15

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>

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BECOMING A VAMPIRE COMPLICATES FAMILY RELATIONSHIPS... 11/12/15

We couldn't drive up in our special taxi cab.  No one rode cabs around my way. Cabs were strictly for emergencies, like if somebody was dying in the hospital and there wasn't any other way.  And they only used the bus to get to the elevated train stop, which rattled them along to the subway, Center City and work. Everybody in my old neighborhood drove cars and parking spots were at a premium. The houses were mostly either 'rows' or 'twins.' Some blocks had old singles from before World War 2, but only some. And all the houses, whatever their type had neat, little 'lawns' punctuated by rose bushes, azaleas and red leafed Chinese Maple trees. Red brick too... Almost all red brick. Some stone trim down toward the basement windows... slate roofs and that was it. Actually, very cozy in its heyday, what with oak lined streets, snug little patios and a few walkable commercial streets people would kill for today. This all started in the late forties. My parents came up just before my birth in fifty five... maybe fifty three... fifty three and a half... something like that. People called it 'the semi suburbs.'... A quiet refuge from the teeming city, though still within municipal limits.

I liked it. I used to like it. There was a neighborhood movie house maybe four blocks away with great Saturday matinees, like The Seventh Voyage Of Sinbad, or The Nutty Professor (the Jerry Lewis version). Bright 'luncheonettes' that also served dinner plus waffles and ice cream after. Conventional families... Decent cars... Big P.T.A.'s.

And now I'm a vampire. Remember, this was nineteen seventy one. Nixon was in The White House. They were still sending space ships to the moon. And dads put on little, vaguely 'alpine' looking hats with small feathers on the side when they went to work. All the kids my age were taking their S.A.T.'s and beginning to write away to colleges. Almost everybody went to college. It was just what was done. And I knew how to tap into a vein and drink blood, plus all that stuff I read in those old books at the library. Quite the iconoclast.... and a nervous iconoclast too.  My parents were sick, or at least one of them was. I didn't know what was wrong, but I knew something was going on.

Please don't think I just showed up. I wanted to, but too much has happened and there was no way it could play out that way. First I wrote a letter. Then I mailed a photograph of myself taken in a pinball arcade. You know those old booths that took a strip of four black and white pictures? Had to be black and white. I was afraid color shots might highlight to much of the vampire traits and I didn't want to shock them. Look, the average person might not notice that much of a difference. But I could see it and it bothered me...

Finally I called them on the phone. My mother picked up. She was real scared. She said - Who are you?! Who is this!? ... She was crying. My father grabbed the phone. He said - Who the hell are you, you God damned son of a bitch. I'll kill you, you God damned bastard!!

I could tell that they knew my voice. But they wouldn't let themselves believe.... I was crying too. I told them about my fifth birthday party. I described the clown and all the Flintstones decorations and the shiny, green pedal car I got and the whiny kid from across the street who sprained his ankle. I talked about all the old family pictures my mom had in three big albums..... (sigh) They knew it was me. But they were afraid. What if it wasn't?... Well, maybe they were right?

My dad said - Come to the house. Just come to the house...... My mom yelled - Where is he?! What happened?! Come now. Tell him to come now!! Get a cab!  Just get a cab! We'll pay for it!

I said I couldn't. I just refused. I had to. And they got very quiet. They didn't know what was wrong. But they knew something was wrong. From an abducted kid I became a runaway. I could tell how their minds worked. I hated for them to think that, but what could I do?

I told them I knew about the doctor. I told them I saw. My mom said - And you didn't come over?.... I didn't answer. She cried. My dad took the phone. He said - What's this all about? What are you talking about?... I said - When do you go back to that doctor?... He said - Wednesday, for some tests..... I said - Stay over in a hotel. I'll arrange it.... He went - 'Arrange it?' How will you arrange it? You're sixteen years old.... I didn't say anything. He went - Danny, are you OK?... I said - What time's your appointment?... He said - Four thirty..... I told him I'd meet them outside about five thirty. If they got done earlier, they could sit in the waiting room. He agreed. I said that I loved them. He mumbled something similar. We hung up and that was it.

Wednesday would come soon enough...

<more next time>

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VAMPIRES AREN'T MORTAL BUT THEY NEVER STOP BEING HUMAN... 11/11/15

This is Danny speaking. Please excuse any typographical errors. It's late, even for a vampire. The sun will begin to rise in two hours and I am sensitive to light. Once in a while I'll endure a snippet of violet dusk, but only once in a while. My resting place is not grand, like those other vampires. There are no specially designed and luxuriously furnished sleeping cabinets. I make due with what I have. So let me begin.

I desperately wanted to see my family. Heidi knew. I told her. She didn't think it was a good idea. Now she was a runaway. Her familial estrangement was discretionary. I was abducted. Mine was not. We rode around the city, snug in the back of 'our' big checker cab. I say 'our' because we always had the same driver... a familiar of sorts. A Jamaican, who considered himself fairly adept at 'Voo Doo' and the African-European-Native mélange that is Caribbean Witchcraft. They say the term 'Voo Doo' comes from the French words (and Gallic spelling is not a skill of mine) Veaux Dieu, which means 'Old God' or 'Old Gods.'

There are many Voo Doo 'schools.' Indeed, the symbols, services and accoutrements are merely a means to concentrate and focus  the natural abilities of the human conduit. Some incorporate West African, Native American and Christian divinities. Others feature ancient Celtic gods. One often overlooked 'school' practiced by a line of 'Wise Women' among the old Jewish families of Charleston and New Orleans calls on Scriptural Arch Angels and Seraphim. Saints too. A particularly flamboyant early nineteenth century practitioner, Margaleet De Montoya, from an original Spanish Jewish family come over on the Saint Charles in 1654, held court in her Low Country rice plantation, Evermore. They say she had a vampire 'familiar' of her own. I bring this up, because that Jonathon, also known as Tomas, whom regular readers all know, was said to be a friend of hers. Though I don't know if he was actually the 'familiar' in question. One night, if we meet, I'll ask him.

Excuse these digressions. I know you expected to read about my return home. But it did not play out as I expected. I'll tell you. Just give me a little more time. Vampires have souls you know. We're not mortal, but we are human...

And a self-taught specimen like I am is more human than most.

I'm sorry. I can't tell you more tonight.. I'm sorry... Please let me sit here and stare at my movie... THE ROSE, from 1980... Driven artists are a lot like vampires too...

We need so much... but get so little.

< more next time >

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Bobby Freeman - Do You Wanna Dance - Rock'n'Roll Legends - R'n'R + lyrics ... 11/10/15

 

Not a true post. Just a shared thought before retiring ( for the 2nd time). If Vampire Wonderland makes it to the screen, or perhaps the PHILADELPHIA AFTER DARK script the blog is based on, I always imagine this classic example of early rock as the soundtrack.

If anyone would like to explore the varied characters, settings, times and predicaments of my tale, kindly just 'google' this ~> Vampire Wonderland by Billy Kravitz ... and jump through literally countless portals, some not even paranormal.

Thank you---

Billy

A VAMPIRE'S SCHOLARLY RESEARCH INTO HIS OWN NATURE ... 11/9/15

I told Heidi. I wish I could have told another vampire, but I didn't know any other vampires. So I told my friend. I told my partner. I said - I saw my parents. They were 'in town' and I saw them..... Heidi went - Oh God. Did they see you? Do you want them to see you?.....

At first I just shrugged, but that was just a reflex. I knew. I wanted to see them, though I wasn't sure I wanted them to see me. Vampires can be quite insecure... What do I mean 'can be?' We ARE insecure. Afraid of being judged. Afraid of being discovered. Afraid of what happens when we really die.. Look, insecure isn't even the right word. New vampires, vampires like me are afraid of everything.

I'd go to the library, the big one, and wander around all night. You gotta remember. This was before computers and the internet and all. What did we have? Calculators were high tech. Pong was a big thing. Books... it was all in books. And the Dewey Decimal System I remembered.

There was an alley in the back. Sometimes homeless guys would sleep there.  They liked little streets around museums and libraries, because they emptied out at night. I don't know why they always made opera houses the place to haunt.... To active at night. Hundreds of people swarming all over the place... Lights... Carriages parked all around waiting for fares after the show. Not where I'd go... Not where I went...Nobody gave out blankets in those days. People had to scrounge around. Outside a fast food joint was best. Fast food people aren't rich. They share. That's how they are, but they're not rich.... a quarter or two... a few nickels. Sometimes they walk out with an extra sack of food AND money. When the manager, or the help gets after them, they run away. away. Fast food joints were everywhere. That wasn't a problem. See, they told me things. I knew how the watchman used to open a metal door around twelve forty five AM. That was their lunch hour. Gave each 'bum' a dollar or two. There were eight watchmen. The place is huge. Five stories above ground and three below. A neoclassical municipal palace. Cold, marble floors. Big, institutional light fixtures. Cathedral-like expanses three stories high with tiers and catwalks to the upper levels. Brown oak tables worthy of Camelot. Books must be worshipped, don't you know. That's how it was.

Well, after the watchmen dispensed their largesse, I'd slip in a folded piece of newspaper. The door would close, but not lock shut. Then I'd give them maybe fifteen minutes to go pee, or whatever they did and sneak in.

The northwest corner of the building was given to stacks, multiple, low ceilinged levels of rabbit warrens, lined with metal shelves, each and every surface crammed with books. Most were old and worn, retired volumes kept on hand for the occasional scholar. Some books were even older, but not so worn, rarely used ancient tales and treatises printed on fine, linen stock and hand bound in carefully tooled leather. A few date from just after the printing press. There were kept in locked cages made from heavy, wire mesh of a type used to corral small, weedy backyards in rougher, city neighborhoods.

They had little known tomes on spirits and magic. They had books written by ancient 'magicians' and alchemists. And all of them, throughout the stacks, both the venerable and not so venerable, bathed in a weak, amber gloom.

That's where I went. What else would you expect a curious, newborn vampire to do? Although I knew little of my own special, night-folk abilities, I was aware of certain, heightened 'normal' functions. My fingers were particularly sensitive. My hearing quite acute. And with a more or less heavyweight paper clip I was able to pick the locks and enter the enchanted sanctums where 'secret' knowledge was kept.

Did the watchmen ever see me? Well, their retinas may have recorded my presence, but their minds knew me not. 'Clouding' men's eyes is instinctive with us. It's not like an ability I had to discover. I wasn't even aware I was doing it. At least it was instinctive with me.

I spent whole evenings hidden in some deep corner, disturbed by none, save the ghosts (oh, the Main Library has enough of those), breathing in the truth about myself. I 'stole' one book. I still have it, always meaning to take it back, but I haven't done so yet. It tells of a life-eater (vampire) who watched over his mortal family and kept them safe and warm. It gave me hope. If my parents (or one of them) faced sickness, I'd help them.....

And the next night, I set out to do just that.

Please excuse the globular nature of my tale. Linear grids are so mundane...

And I am a vampire after all.....

<more next time>

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