Everything posted here for the last month or two was a delusion. Night -folk are very prone to dream. Some sit quietly staring at a light bulb for evenings on end. Others feign divinity to balm their own fears. That's just how it is. We search and look and find nothing. Oh, there are bits and pieces gleaned from ancient tomes, but antiquity doesn't equal truth.
I speak to you tonight as myself. I am Tomas de Macabea, also known as Jonathon ben Macabi. Billy doesn't type this. I do.... I'll get to why the delusions. I will. But, as you know, vampires rarely think in linear fashion. The magic fluctuates within us. It swirls like cream in coffee. It floats like the mist. Still magic is dead magic. It is the blood that courses through creation. It fills the space between atomic and subatomic particles. Some search for 'dark matter,' but we night-folk know better. Some of you do too. Not enough, but some.
And before I forget, let me clear up something. Permit me to explain a mistake mortals often make. You occasionally see narratives claiming to be about vampires, but they're not about vampires. Witnesses and writers are not always well versed in our world. They hear bits of disjointed local lore... peasants tales... grandmothers' stories and half truths. This has always been a problem in isolated parts of Eastern Europe. Different exotic specimens are lumped together and tarred with the same brush. Non-decomposing 'zombies' are termed 'vampires.' They look like vampires. They rise from the grave, like local vampires do. And they dine on the living. But non-decomposing zombies are not the same as true night-folk. They devour flesh and blood indiscriminately, bone, organs and gristle too. They're seen by daylight, not often, though it happens. True, they don't rot away like their less fortunate brethren. Small 'blemishes' and unsightly areas quickly regenerate after good feedings. In a sense, what ails them is more organic and less a matter of enchantment. Is there a magical component? Of course, however of a base frequency, similar to the universal echoes of the Big Bang. It's just 'there.' No one really directs, or controls it. For that reason, many true night-folk hate them. Interlopers, masqueraders, liars - that's what they call them. Some call them 'maggots' too. I stay above all that. Please don't laugh at me, but I and those like me, aspire to sainthood. You know how I am.
I sit with Edith (our witchy-woman friend and housekeeper) at our kitchen table filling little, midnight blue, velvet, drawstring pouches with shiny silver dollars. These are genuine silver coins, big ones. Each is valued at about twenty five dollars. Every pouch gets five. I give out a lot of pouches. Been doing it for centuries. They're 'Gelt Sacks.' Little children get them during The Festival of The Re-Dedication, but not with silver dollars. And the custom comes not from my own background, but from Central Europe. I picked it up in my travels. These days, most beneficiaries are homeless folk. There's a little note inside each sack directing them to an honest precious metals buyer. Brings a little brightness into their lives. You know, I'll tell you when I picked it up. Some have read my old Hanukah tale. Well, it's a true story. It really happened. I think if you search 'Indulge me... Hanukah tale... Billy Kravitz' it comes up. And with very slight alterations, it makes a nice Christmas tale too. I know. I've used both versions at times. Funny kind of vampire. I know. Homeless souls are a 'thing' with me. They are so vulnerable. Each is an opportunity for a good deed. Look, I kill, at times, yet I'm not a monster. Few of us are. Well, maybe to our victims, but the hell with them.... They ARE monsters. I live on monsters. That's what I do.
Now why the delusions - Night-folk are a vain lot. We dress to enhance our bodies... finely cut attire... subtle shades. Fashion is for giggly cheap little things. We don't do that. But our kind craves attention. Perhaps it comes from living in shadows, or seeming too. You don't know what a sensation Doctor Polidori was when it came out. Dracula wasn't the first. Doctor Polidori was. Everybody read that book when it first appeared. Eighteen seventeen, I think it was. The era of romantic poetry... Keats.... Shelley... and that other one who never used his actual name, but signed himself 'Lord' Byron. Such an old lady, garden party nicety. I'm glad he overdosed... or they overdosed him.... But back to the 'delusions.' When we got our first computer, we didn't know what to do with it. I took it from a victim... a loan shark. Kept his records on it. A real 'creep,' as they say. You should have heard him plead. You should have heard him offer me money. I killed him and took the money anyway.... Came in a nice, leather briefcase too. Edith, our housekeeper, you've already met, knew how to 'google' things on it. We found out how to make Peking Duck... what a whole bunch of naked people look like and how to dicker for a cheaper boob job. We got free WiFi from someplace. Bob knew how to get it. He was a vampire who lived with us back then. Somebody caught him on tape... put it on You Tube. Bob found out. Thought he was a star. Stared at himself for hours. Got loads of views. No one thought it was real. Figured it was a hoax... One night we stumbled onto some blogs. I didn't say anything, but how I wanted one. So naïve. I truly thought .... Well, you know what I thought. We beg for readers all the time. Some of you do too....
We wanted gimmicks. We wanted readers. So Doctor Franklin became a vampire. We had big, secret meetings with night-folk from all over. Wanted to 'fix' the election. Wanted to control the world, but in a nice way. Wanted to do a lot of things.
Trouble was, none of you read it. So now we're not lying anymore. Just the truth. Just how we really live. I think some of the episodes were real. What went on at the seashore in Baylah's boyfriend's house was mostly real.
Please understand all of those lies were my fault.
Don't blame Billy. He wanted to write about settlers on Mars and an alternate American history where fascists really do take over. So don't blame him...
That's all.
Now allow me to venture out before the sun comes back and distribute some of these small, velvet pouches.
It's what I do...
<more next time>
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What if, one day, America does suffer a 'polite' coup? What if, one day, the end does justify the means and you and your children are not as welcome here anymore? And What if everyone else just puts their heads down and joins the herd.
Sometimes the devil wins and no one even cares.
(cue the video up above)
In my dream of an edgy cable series, that's how it all begins. The camera pans through rough, hardscrabble areas of D.C. as the theme plays...
Welcome to - Dark Heart White House ...
We focus on The Presidential Mansion.... Inside, a man and a large, German Shepherd dog occupy a sitting room. The man's trying to teach the dog a new thing. Her name is Blondi, but he wants her to answer to Brandi. He sits her down. He offers treats. If she responds to 'Brandi' she gets a small cube of ham. If she insists on 'Blondi' he turns his back...
An aide comes in - How's it going, sir?
The President - Not so good. Can you imagine if word gets out that I have a German Shepherd named Blondi? We're not ready for that. Not yet.. no, no, no, no, no. But that's not why you're here. Speak!
Aide - The banker... the financier, Isaacson, is on his way back from that meeting in Russia...
The President - And?
Aide - They've lost contact with the plane. It's missing... A regularly scheduled flight. Not private. Not air force. Two hundred and six passengers... the usual cross section, business travelers, tourists, a few families...
The President nods - Where'd it happen?
Aide - Somewhere over the Arctic Ocean.
The President - At night?
Aide - Yep.
The President - Who knows?
Aide - Just 'friends.' The C.E.O. of the airline is a friend. He's doing his best to keep things quiet... well, as quiet as possible.
The President - And the families of the victims? You KNOW how THEY get.
Aide - We'll offer to fly them to Seattle. They can wait it out there. Of course we'll feed them packaged information. I believe Mr. Larsen's already filled you in?
The President nods and sits back on the sofa. Blondi rests her head on his lap. He pets her and says - You tell me. Tell me everything. I want to make sure it jibes.
Aide - A bomb will go off... a big bomb. The hotel in Seattle will be destroyed. We'll blame the 'terrorists,' some Jewish Defense League type thing dissatisfied with our handling of the Oklahoma Pogroms. We already have the 'guilty parties' in custody. They'll be displayed to the media. Believe me. These are not sympathetic characters. They serve a purpose and they serve it well.
The President nods.
Aide - Of course we stage a few more 'spontaneous' pogroms. We'll make an attempt to control things. The operative word is 'attempt.'... Then we'll quietly 'liberate' the assets of some very rich and potentially troublesome members of 'that' community. We won't say a word. No one takes credit, but one day soon, the money will be gone. Any real estate they own will suddenly be mired in debt. You know how they always 'over estimate' what they have anyway. Believe me, they'll be selling their leftover diamonds, desperate to get out.
The President - And when some asshole investigative reporters start doing their crap? We haven't 'schooled' ALL of them yet.
Aide - Who's going to print it? We've 'schooled' enough. The masses, not little groups of bastards here and there, but the 'herd' if you will, wants to believe us. They need to believe us. What choice do they have? After all, they're 'on top.'.... People just want to live. And they'll bow and scrape and shake your hand, even when they know there's a knife in the other one, because they don't want to see the knife. And the fiction goes on. Who cares how rough it gets? Who cares who disappears? Just so the acid gets thrown in somebody else's face. Believe me, once they realize that the blissfully blind lead happy lives, blind is the thing to be.... The beauty part is we can milk this deal over and over again with all those God damned bastards out there.... Just like magic. Bam, bam, bam. NEXT!
The President hears, but doesn't respond. The dog whines ...
Aide - And one more thing, sir.
The President looks up. The aide continues - Mr. Lucas, from the kennels says if she doesn't respond, oh, he's gonna work with her too, but if she doesn't, they'll put her down and go to with the other bitch. That one already answers to 'Brandi.'
The President sighs and kisses the dog on her head.... The aide quietly exits...
The President stares out at the beautifully manicured grounds, as the daylight begins to fade....
He says 'Brandi' one more time...
But the dog doesn't respond....
<more next time>
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One more thing.. This is the first installment of a DARK HEART WHITE HOUSE story arc I might run with. It's just fiction. It has nothing to do with the recent election, but all the stories flying 'round made me think.
I am here at my shop. I am speaking to you from Philadelphia After Dark, the special place I started back in my mortal days. Maybe you've been there... a cozy book store with mullioned windows on a narrow, cobbled street? It's where Jonathon ben Macabi, also known as Tomas de Macabea, found me.
Sometimes I come back. The ladies who run the place know me. They know my 'nature' and they help me. Old customers occasionally recognize me too. They say - Sarah? Where have you been?.... I shake their hands, or kiss their cheeks and tell them I've been in Baltimore looking after a sick aunt who helped raise me. They nod. They understand.
I offer them coffee. I drink hot water and lemon. They don't seem to notice. Night-folk can cloud the vision of mortals. We talk. We discuss books, plays, even restaurants. There's a little nook off to the side of the oak counter with three enveloping, wing-backed chairs. I like that space. It's my space, even more than the townhouse we live in now.
Do the others know it? I don't know. I suppose they have their prior lives too. Jonathon often speaks of his years in England, or Old Muscovy, or Byzantium, or Al Andalus. So many places. Edith, our 'witchy-woman' friend and housekeeper still goes back and forth to the Pines (Jersey Pine Barrens) and her little cottage there. Her husband keeps it going. We call him 'Mister Edith.' And the small boy taken by polio who lives in our cellar... well, he wanders all over the house... that's just his special place, remembers how it was before we got there. You see, there were other residences before this one, though he's only our second or third ghost.
If you're a long time follower, you've seen lots of drama play out here. It happens. But night-folk life is really very orderly. We have our territories. 'Families' rarely fight. Sometimes bands break up. This one goes with that group. That one goes with this group. Old members disappear. Newly created vampirinas and vampirinos take their place. Life, or what we call 'life' goes on.
I'm not like Jonathon, or Doctor Franklin. Odd to think of that old reprobate as a vampire now. For almost two hundred and thirty years he preserved his life by scientific means. 'Harmonics'... Most of you know that. Now he and Jonathon debate our night-folk future. They mean to increase the 'cull,' or our taking of, usually, unworthy mortals. The Doctor and his faction press for a less discriminate method. They lack faith and patience. Jonathon keeps to his old ways, relying on God given visions and dreams.
I do my own thing, focused more on the preservation of 'worthy' life than the extinguishing of malefactors. I'm doing it right now. There's a little display by the register. Most take it to be perfume samples. You know those little glass vials with the tiny, plastic stoppers, on heavy stock cards? Used to see them all the time in department stores. I loved them. Too expensive these days. Now we have to make do with waxy, or sticky, perfume ads in thick, glossy, fall fashion magazines. But I keep tradition alive, creating my own samples. 'Everlasting' I call it. Each one contains a drop, or two of my restorative blood. They put it on and absorb it through their skin. Some taste it. Vampire magic can do that. I should call it 'Irresistible.'
Do I offer it to everyone?... No, I don't. Sometimes I slide the display back out of sight. Other times I call people's attention to it. There's a men's version too, called 'Smoke.' A scent artist up in New Hope, makes it up for me. I just ad the blood... barely colors it at all. You see, I know who merits saving and who doesn't. Maladies disappear, or lessen. Aging slows down. People stay around longer. When I'm not here, Wendy and Caroline know who gets it. Most love the scents and are only too eager.
Maybe a sweet, dedicated school teacher enjoys an extra few years, or a young painter fights his pulmonary problems. I've only been night-folk about five years, but I know I'll forget and one day neighbors will say - You know Mitzi, who lives across the street?.... Yeah?.... Well, she's almost a hundred and thirty eight years old!... God bless her. How's she do it?.... Turtle meat and egg salad.... Wait. Let me write it down. And, gee, she's got such a nice bust line too!
Do I 'cull' people?... Of course I do. And I know who to take out too. Believe me. I just don't get all 'Biblical' about it.
Now let me close up in here. It'll be dawn soon and I have to go. You know the line - We open with the gloaming and close up with the dawn.... A bookshop for the evening trade...
How do our regulars walk the streets so late? I 'charm' them. What do you think?
My name is Sarah and I make miracles....
<more next time>
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Giacomo never met up with Jonathon later that night. He made his way back to the beach house on his own. Not that his powers of sublimation are on a par with Jonathon's, but he's more than able to 'radiate' his atoms through the air, which is what sublimation is. Please don't think a nebulous, comet-tail-like streak, as in Star Trek. This is not a transporter beam. The atoms move ever so slightly apart, just enough to let 'foreign' atoms pass through. But light, at any level, refracts differently through a sublimating body rendering it invisible. In that way did Giacomo move about. He enjoyed expensive cars and has an extensive collection of Bugattis at his villa in the Lake District back home. The thing is, sometimes his vampire nature over rides what's human and the night-folk aspect always wins. Oh, Jonathon's a moral, believing soul now, yet vampire nature's vacillate. Some 'change' every few decades. Others change over centuries. Who knows what the future might bring?
They met in the great room just before dawn. The draperies were opened. The lights were low. They sat in the big club chairs and stared at the surf, as before. Giacomo began rattling away in his Neapolitan dialect. Jonathon caught some of it, due to overlap with his Old Andalus tongue and Vahmperigo (old vampire, Western Mediterranean language), but Baylah couldn't follow, save for what she picked up telepathically. Her mortal boyfriend just sat at the piano shaking his head. He liked to play and accompanied them with a soft rendition of Stella by Starlight from the classic nineteen forties, romantic ghost tale, The Uninvited. Many paranormal fans reading this might enjoy it. Go look on You Tube. You'll find it.
Jonathon listened to Giacomo's rapid fire rant, but refused to respond. The newcomer began again. Still no response. Giacomo fumed. The piano playing rich boyfriend giggled, but real quietly. He didn't want the vampires to hear. But Baylah (his vampire enamorata) heard and she giggled too.
Then Jonathon said - Tu tienes hablar en ingles, por favor. La dama no lo entiendo su lingua... Giacomo exhaled. He understood and switched to English (which he called 'American') so the Tuareg Princess from Timbuctu might understand. Was he proficient in it? Enough, picked up during nights as a gigolo (vampires don't feed every night, even vampires like him) on the Isle of Capri and Stromboli, a coast, during the season, lousy with lonely British and American heiresses. Thus his accent was a mélange of Southern Italian, the gentle sounds of The Home Counties and The Welsh Baronies, which had little to do with Wales, but represented a string of posh towns along the Mainline suburbs of Philadelphia. Jonathon rolled his eyes at the incongruity of it.
Seemed the newcomer was fed up with vampire facades. He thought beings like Jonathon, Baylah, Sarah and all other vow-taking, 'moral' night-folk were self-deluding jokes.
He said - Tell me, did I not destroy an evil man tonight? (referring to the pimp)... Jonathon nodded.... Then he added - Did I have, or rely on any so-called, Heaven sent visions?.... Jonathon shook his head... And is the world, the mortal world, a better place because of my actions?... Jonathon whispered - Yes.... This time Giacomo nodded. He said - Well, wait for your God damned 'visions' if you like. Take out one a month. Hobble yourselves. But think on this. There is no shortage of 'trash.' They breed like flies and maggots. Look at the 'haters' on that 'Twitter' you love so much. Some are just fools. Others can't wait to start the killings again. Indeed, they years from nineteen forty-five till now are wasted time to them. Imagine plucking one out every night. No, not one, two or three. Who cares? There'd be little evidence. The 'cold' blue flames take care of that. A plague of spontaneous human combustions. You know how the press handles it. Those mortals you love so much are so dumb. I hear your dogma, 'not the Shepherd, but the sheepdog.' Well, be a wolf. Take them out.
So, you're a Franklinite? - said Jonathon....
Yes, I am - answered Giacomo...
Then no one said a word, till the newcomer added - Excuse me. I feel peckish and want to kill again before I sleep..... He got up and quickly sublimated from the place.... The mortal piano player switched to a nineteen thirties song - 'Just around the corner, there's a rainbow in the sky. So let's have another cup of coffee. And let's have another piece of thigh.'.... He changed that last word, in honor of their Neapolitan guest.
Baylah sighed, got up and fixed herself an iced vodka. She said - Anybody want one?... She knew her rich sweetie tickling the ivories did. He always did... but Jonathon just said - No...
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Just before dawn, the vampires went to bed. Baylah and her mortal boyfriend retired to their specially darkened suite upstairs and the others (just Jonathon and Giacomo, actually) made do with quilts and sleeping bags in the windowless storage room behind the garage. Giacomo said the chill, painted, cinderblock walls reminded him of a tomb. Jonathon said - Listen. The surf. I can hear the ocean. I've never slept by the sea before. Did cross the ocean 'melded' to a whale once, the old fashioned traditional way. You ever do that?... No - said the newcomer. This is the first time I've ever been here. Giacomo comes to The New World. Wow. That's a New World term, isn't it?.... Definitely - said Jonathon... Then they fell asleep, lulled by the pulse of the sea.
Later, that evening, Baylah came down to wake them. There were towels and toiletries in two of the en suites upstairs. Night-folk rarely perspire much, or shed excess oils, but they do tend to be fastidious, save for the most feral types and considering their semi-coldblooded natures steamy showers are very much appreciated. But let's gloss over the details. Baylah had a closet filled with the necessary smart, trim clothing favored by vampire guests, so they dressed, met for weak tea in the kitchen. The wealthy, mortal boyfriend greeted everybody over a plate of rigatoni Bolognese (he more or less kept to vampire hours but ducked out for a nice walk and lunch most afternoons). Giacomo said - I remember that from my mortal days, except tomatoes hadn't yet made their way into our fare. We used eggplant instead... Baylah went - Good, now we know. The driver's out side. Go. He'll come back for us later. Jonathon, you have your phone? It's charged? You have my number?.... He nodded. that was it. They left.
The driver, a trusted 'familiar.' Helped them into the car, a big, black, shiny B.M.W. and they were off, straight down Atlantic Avenue and into Atlantic City and The Borgada maybe fifteen minutes to the north. Just as they snaked up the landscaped drive to the entrance, Giacomo jumped out of the car and said - I need to kill somebody. You know how it is. Find you later..... and he ran off through the bushes. Just like that. Real fast. He was gone.
A few minutes later he spied a fat pimp haranguing two skinny hookers down a narrow scuzzy street (every town has a narrow, scuzzy street. what are you gonna do about it?) and heads right for him. Pimp thinks he's a cop, or a racketeer in his black leather sport coat and tight jeans and all. Vampires got an image too, you know. Waits for Giacomo to talk first. Only thing is Giacomo don't say nothing. Just grabs his head (one hand on each side and breaks his neck. First hooker goes - Eeeek! (like a little mouse) and skitters away. Hooker number two claps her hands and laughs. Even pees a little. Don't run away, or scream, or nothing. Watches as Giacomo lowers that still breathing, foamin' at the mouth pimp down onto the dirty concrete and proceeds to tear open his neck. She kicks his knee a little and says - Yo, mister, you a vampire?.... Giacomo, deeply chugging blood, manages to mumble a low 'uh huh.'... She goes - Can I get his watch?... The vampire finishes, belches and goes - No, watch comes to me. You get the ring.... She gets down and yanks it off, just as the body ignites into the signature 'cold' blue flame and disappears. She jumps back and goes - Wow! Look at that!.... But Giacomo is already gone.
She watches the flame burn out, leaving nothing but a greasy residue and goes - Goodbye, you lousy pimp... Then she sticks the ring on her thumb and tip-taps (high heels) away.
Look, even if somebody peeked out a dried up, old plastic window shade and saw something on that street, they ain't gonna say. They ain't gonna say nothin'. They just gonna 'live' and that's it...
Giacomo comes to America....
<more next time>
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They're seated in the ocean-front salon of the beach house belonging to Baylah's mortal companion. Jonathon and his nearly three hundred year old Tuareg princess ally listen to the tale of the vampirino known as Giacomo, a vagabond blood drinker, nominally part of the 'civilized' 'noble' line... but only just nominally. Baylah found him at the card tables up the coast, in Atlantic City. Night-folk have a thing for games of chance. It's said there's a special chamber, off the floor, of the legendary casino in The Hotel De Paris devoted to the wagers of life-eaters. Some say their loses are what keep Monaco afloat. You hear a lot of stories on The Riviera. The 'house' supplies them with plump, nubile refreshment, snatched from the shores of Sicily, Malta or North Africa and they fill its coffers.... But Giacomo tells a different tale. He speaks of his dark nativity.... Giacomo - I fought for The House of Modena, a lesser aristocrat, roughly equal to the knights and chevaliers of England and France. You know the history. The fighting never stopped. Each tiny city-state a 'potential' Rome, or at least an Athens. We accompanied a Neapolitan princess from her father's palace in Naples to our lord's holdings in the north. A beauty, she was. He sent a galleon powered by one hundred and eighty oarsmen comprised of criminals and Moorish captives. They were chained thirty to a side, sixty per deck, three decks in all and they rowed till they dropped. Replacements waited, ever at the ready, for the dreaded cry of 'bondsman UP!' As they scrambled through the slick, greasy darkness and slapped their asses down on the stained, fetid bench, the previous occupant, mercifully oblivious to it all, splashed down into the wine dark sea. The sharks dined well. The slightest hesitation on the part of any galley slave meant the sharks too. Can you imagine how they screamed? In a quiet voice, Jonathon said - Yes I can. I was herded into a tenth century Provencal synagogue with hundreds of other believers. They burnt the sanctuary around us. The roof became an orange sky. Little children burst into flame in the oven-like heat. They sang prayers. They laughed deliriously. Those 'lucky' enough to squeeze through an opening in the wall (heated masonry crumbles, you know) were immediately hacked to pieces by crazed, hate riddled men at arms. But this is your tale. So please go on.... For a while there was just silence. Vampires can be a moody lot. Then Baylah got up, tuned out the lights and opened the draperies, revealing a moonlit sea. How soothing it was, just to watch the waves break upon the shore. How easy it is for night-folk to fall into a trance. But then, after perhaps twenty five heartbeats, Giacomo went on - I had an enemy on board, my superior, a certain young gentleman hungry for a title or style (lesser title) like mine. He was ambitious. The army was one way. It's all he had. How he hated me. I didn't need this. He did. So one night he drugged my wine, shaved my head (oh, he had helpers. they always have helpers), stripped off my clothes and threw me in with the bondsmen. I was barely coherent when they whipped my ass and forced me up to take my place at the oars. Apparently I complained. I hesitated. I refused. No one so much as responded. They just wrapped me in weighted chains and heaved me over the side, into the chill, black sea. I screamed. I gasped. My lungs filled with salt water. People say that. You hear stories. but can you imagine what that really means? Did you ever have pneumonia? Did you ever feel that sharp, little, biting pinch when one small part of your lungs fills up with mucus? Cough it up. Get it out, if you can. But we who've drowned know better. That sharp, little pinch is nothing. The lungs fill up like balloons. Sometimes they burst. Maybe 'burst' is the wrong word. I should say 'explode.' And I stood there, on the bottom, thirty fathoms beneath the sea. My eardrums were gone. My eyes, oozing jelly from countless tiny ruptures, pressed back into my skull. I was blind. I was deaf. My ribs began to crack and my cranium would most certainly have followed suit, had he not found me when he did... a vampire who walked the depths for pleasure. There's no place darker, or more desolate. Could I see? Could I tell what was happening? No, my brain was almost dead. But (and I learned this later) we shot up through the depths, broke the surface and vaulted toward the stars. He took my blood and gave me his. Was I healed? A little. Complete restoration would come later. But I was saved, in more ways than one... Now I am here to help. I've scanned your blog. I know. I know. I know you don't write it. Perhaps in isolated instances, but not too often. I'm aware of that. But, as a vampire, I recognize the truth of it. I remember the passage, not too long ago, when you said - This is the time of independent actors... I can see that. Banding together in large political blocs doesn't work. I saw what went on with you and the venerable Doctor Franklin. What a farce. Politicians we are not. I suppose it's an ego thing.... But I am here to help. Who should I kill first? Baylah laughed. Jonathon didn't know what to say. Just then, Baylah's wealthy, mortal companion came in, fresh from a stint at the casinos. (blackjack is his game). He looked at the new face and went - Jesus Christ, who's this one? Another vampire??? Baylah laughed some more. Jonathon laughed too. But Giacomo felt hurt and disrespected... After all, he did so want to help... <more next time> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ click - WHO ELSE DOES SERIAL FICTION LIKE THIS? ... to see all Vampire Wonderland posts. But you might have to also click the 'subscribe' rectangle near the top right corner of the screen to make it happen. I think they changed things around. Or you could always click onto the other RSS subscribe buttons around the regular blog page. click - WHO'S CALLING? ... to join me on Twitter... please comment. thank you...
This is not one of the regular posts they put up here. This time it is I, Doctor Franklin, addressing you. If you know a bit about me, you know I began my career as a cultural observer, a fictional old busy-body woman, who dished out advice on just about everything to clueless, insecure letter writers via a column in some prerevolutionary newspaper. I was the first 'Dear Abby.' I popularized raccoon skin hats generations before Davey Crocket and in Paris, no less. Some know me as America's first, great, celebrity adulterer- theoretical scientist. Hey, curiosity... it's my 'thing.'
I joined clubs and associations all over Philadelphia. When I ran out of clubs, I started my own. I regularly attended and subscribed to Protestant and Jewish congregations. If the Catholics (of all types) and Muslims had organized churches and mosques back then, I'd have rubber necked the crowd and prayed there too. Was I a Mason?' Sure. So what? Who cares?
The thing is, I have studied and explored everything. And the truth is we ALL steal from everybody. Nobody's culture is sacrosanct. I've seen old white ladies eat dry Cheerios with chopsticks... Hey, 'sacrosanct'... isn't that a Latin word?
African food became American food. Indian food did too. You like succotash? Good. So did Pocahontas. ... Ancient, Celtic-Irish observances morphed into Halloween. The savory, deliciousness of Italian cuisine got Tarantella-ed into Chef Boyardee . <~~ Ever see an Italian name spelled like that? I didn't...And Jewish thought-belief-religious practice got 'knocked -off' (an old Jewish term) into pretty much every mode of Western Oriented Faith we have today. You might say we ALL follow various denominations of Judaism, even the Atheists. Ever hear Woody Allen? But, old biases die hard. It's 'not nice' to say that. Thus 'Abrahamic' was created. Thing is, them ain't Abrahamic stories in all them scriptures... Them's Jewish stories.... Oh, well. What are you gonna do?
Transplanted, West African - In North American culture is like that too. It's the music. It's the classic 'Southern' recipes. It's the speech patterns. (some linguists say Old Dixie's accents are just seventeenth and eighteenth century English overlaid with the cadences of Senegal and Cameroon and Old Mali). Keep diggin'. Yams grow in all the gardens.
And I haven't even begun to dish out all the Frenchie, Spanish, Creole jambalaya they got bubblin' up from New Orleans to San Francisco. Bet some American Indian grandmothers up in Alaska make a mean borscht too.
I think God wants it to be this way. Everything goes into the stew. But it's not all pureed down to a smooth consistency. We can still taste the chunks of meat and potatoes and spices..
So, the thing about cultural appropriation is this... When nobody wants what you got, that means business is bad.
And everybody likes a little business.
Regular readers know I am one of the night-folk now. I am one of the vampires. Hey, don't hate. Investigate.
Your obedient servant -
Doctor Benjamin Franklin
<more next time>
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