The Book of Sarah

We met, or should I say encountered one of the Red Paint People. It was a man, the one who resembles Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the starship Enterprize. He resides in a small, stone cottage deep in the woods. Hans Christian Anderson could not conjure up a more fitting site. Edith took me. Sarah was not invited. Maybe next time, but not now. Two huge black newfoundland hounds stand guard on either side of the heavy, oaken door. They possess the bluest eyes. I do not know iif that is natural to the breed or not. We stepped up onto the porch. They dogs examined us carefully. Screeners at an airport could not have done a better job. Edith pushed open the massive door. We entered. A welcoming orange blaze crackled in the large, river stone fireplace.The furnishings were storybook-cozy, in a turn of the twentieth century, country-English fashion. But the wood finishes seemed a bit heavier, rougher and more massive. The 'Man' sat in a throne-like winged chair. Edith and I took our places upon an old settee. No one spoke. But We could sense his mind. And we began to communicate.Now I cannot share much withyou today. My familiar, my wilkravitz is unable to devote much time to this task. I hope you understand. Please go to the vampirewonderland discussion at  the Billy Kravitz hasgtag site. Google it... It's all there...... Have a joyous day of thanks and a happy start to the holiday season.

The Book of Sarah

More from wilkravitz among the elves and cherubs...... They did not actually teach me how to levitate. They levitated me. I was like a big old beach ball and they sent me slowly sailing back and forth. I think they were playing ping pong with me. It was as if every tiny, point in the universe was a little hand softly cradling my body  and carefully supporting my weight. Like a giant, Swedish Temper Foam mattress. Like bubbles floating up from the mermaid's chest at the bottom of a fish tank. Like three dimensional figure skating but without all the sequins and tight, binding spandex. All in all, a very memorable experience. Albion slips out to get me food, but I don't think he has much experience providing for actual living humans. Yesterday it was two bags of Cheetos, a pint of Maalox, a container of liverwurst, one gallon of milk and a seven month old box of matzoh. And it ain't even Passover. Figures. Where does that boy do his shopping? Ooh, that reminds me. I have to tell him to get some toilet paper next time he goes out. You should see. The very idea of toilet paper, not to mention the bodily function it's used for, completely baffles them. They hover outside the door to the scuzzy bathroom like frantic puppies. I don't have any privacy at all. And then, after I vacate the premises, they swoop in to investigate. God only knows what it does for them. Personally, I think they use it like cat-nip. Everything about living humans intrigues them. Marianne, the eldest elf girl, likes to sqeeze through crowded subway cars inhaling the five p.m. putrid exhalations of tired office workers. You know how dogs sniff butts? Well, then you know what I mean. But at least I'm safe from Annie in here. And they do bring me little gifts. Last night one of them brought me a single, solid gold, lady's earring. The night before that it was a moldering human finger with a platinum wedding band. Hey, look, it's the thought that counts.

The Book of Sarah

My skin itches. It's me, wilkravitz. I'm here with the elves and cherubs. The little ones, the cherubs flit all around me taking sharp, tiny blood kisses with their pointy tongues. Just a bit. Just an almost microscopic drop. I think that's how they communicate. But I'm actually breaking out in hives from it.They're nice, little babies and I don't want to upset them, but I need some relief. This place used to be an old storage building or garage. There's a dried up, filthy restroom in the back. I found an old bottle of calamine lotion in the rusty medicine cabinet. But it's so out of date (Oct/99) that I'm afraid to use it. Oh God, I hope this goes away. They have a real nice flat screen TV here, but all it seems to run is a continuous loop of Mary Martin in Peter Pan. I think the 'There is a Land Where Dreams Are Born' song is kind of a national anthem around here. Albion and the older ones, the elves, are all right. At least they talk more. But it's still like being locked up with a middle school cast of Pippin or something. Oh, and they pick up things. So I'm pretty sure something big is going on with the others, the ones in the Pines. And they told me what I did with my old car keys. But if it wasn't for the extensive collection of legos they have here, I would go completely crazy. Right now I'm half way through a detailed, lego rendering of Hearst Castle in San Simeon, California. So I can't talk anymore. Shhh, don't bother me. I'm looking for a few of the skinny, little red ones. Hey, how are you getting this, 'cause I don't have any keyboard? Gee this is all new to me. I mean I'm used to being a channel for the others, but this is real MAGIC! Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Two of the girl elves are asking me if I want to learn how to levitate.... Hell yeah, I want to learn how to friggin levitate. Wouldn't you. Look, I'll talk to you later. I think they're telling me I have to take my shoes off.

The Book of Sarah

I can see you, but you can't see me. It is I, the disembodied spirit. I don't mean to play with you, but I can see you, all of you. So tell that bartender in Singapore to take his hand out of the till. And that sixth grade hotsie-totsie better keep her eyes on her own paper, 'cause Missus Buttwasher is closin' in for the kill. That's the hotsie-totsie in Aukland I'm talking about. There's a wild party full of drunk, barfing seventeen year olds in Flosmoor, Illinois and no, that vomit stain on the new, Henerdon couch will not come out. So some soon to be busted, little mister big stuff is gonna have to do without his new k'nect, or whatever the hell they call it this year. Look, I am just trying to put off the inevitable. I do not enjoy being the bearer of bad news. But the Jersey Klan got Bob. Oh, come on, you knew it was Bob. What? Did you think it was gonna be Baylah? She already told you she would not be the first one down. And you better get in the habit of believing what she says, because Baylah don't play like that. But Bob is gone. And it was not pretty. The Jersey Klan saw that posting on the web, the one that shows him launching Barbra's sloppy, old head up into the air, just like it was a bottle rocket. You remember Barbra, Bob's eighty something year old Big-Mama-Nazi wife? Well she had some runnin' buddies over the bridge in Jersey and some of them, the old ones, the great grand daddies of the current bunch of head bangers, recognised Bob from way back when. They downloaded the picture and sent it out to all their fellow travelers. Now he would have been safe if he'd listened to Edith and the other Pineys. They told him to stay inside. But he was restless. That's how Bob gets. He just can't spend the night tucked inside with all the others watching Jimmy Kimmel and eating potato chips (everybody but the vampires that is). No, he has to go roaming around out in the woods. True, he didn't have to worry too much about the rattlers, or the bob-cats, or the bone crunching snappy turtles, or the occasional black bear, or even the half dozen or so fully grown Jersey Devils they got gyrating around in these parts. But he never banked on stumbling into a pack of shit-faced Jersey Klansmen doing their best to maintain an investment in a brand new, shiny copper, state of the art still. Bob didn't know. He thought he'd discovered a passel of South Philly wise guys planting some of the competition. But them Klan guys got fast reflexes. One of them had a copy of that web picture stuffed in his back pocket. He sees Bob. He pulls it out, eyeballs it and starts yelling - It's him! It's him! It's that no good puzzlingly young race trader what killed 'Mother' Barbra!! Well, they grab brands from the fire and give chase. Now you know Bob gets rattled real easy. And you know he ain't got much brains for a supposedly, immortal, omnipotent, supernatural guy and all. So he does what he did back in Rittenhouse Square Park when Annie and the hounds was after him. He shimmies up a tree. A dry tree. An autumn tree. A November tree. Do I have to tell you the rest? Them J.K.M.'s (Jersey Klansmen) use their flaming brands to set fire to that tree. And a couple of the new guys go running back to their truck for a big, old container of high octane gasoline. Yes siree, high octane, only the good stuff for our Bob. So they lobbed the volitile fluid right into that over-sized burning bush and whoosh!!! We got a human (or formerly human) sacrifice going on right here in Burlington County! They was whooping and jumping like a regular bunch of wild Indians, gettin' all sweaty and poppy-eyed and spittin' and dancin. And you know it is dangerous to get so over heated out in the deep woods on a cold November night. Those boys could have caught pnemonia. As it was, one of them smashed a foot right into the den of a fixin' to hibernate rattler and got hisself bit real bad. And Bob tried to run down that tree and sublimate through the flames. But the only thing is some of his atoms got mixed up with some of the  aerasol (did I spell it right?) fire-oil atoms that were bouncing around in the air, so when he commenced to solidifying poor Bob found out that he was sorta made of fire. Looked a little bit like Flame from the comic books. Oh, you could smell him burning. And you could hear him shrieking and hollerin' and all. I guess one of the worst parts was when his eyeballs exploded. But seeing as I ain't got no physical body, I can't rightly tell which part smarts the most. Damn, I like this country livin'. I think it kinda suits me. Think I'm gonna look up the ghost of Hank Williams and Patsy Cline and have a hoe-down or something. The other vampires heard the noise. They ran out and saw it all from a little ways off. It's sad. It's not like they truly liked Bob, but they felt the loss. And for the last forty, fifty years or so he was doing his best to make up for past transgressions. But now he is gone to the Great Beyond. And the way I hear it, he is trying his darndest to set things right with them little toddlers (and their teacher-wimmen) he originally exploded all those years ago.

The Book of Sarah

Sorry, we cannot communicate with you this night. One of our number was destroyed. Still in the Pines. wilkravitz is with the elves and cherubs in their place in the park. Please...Please... We have to stop

The Book of Sarah

Hello? Hello? Can you see me? Can you hear me? It's Edith. I'm the one they call the Pow Wow Woman. Shit, you'd think after two months of living together and being in each others business they'd refer to me by my name a little more often. I know they do sometimes, but between you and me, I'm Edith. Call me Edith. Enough with that Pow Wow crap. It's stupid. It don't make no sense. It's like if I was talking about the Pope and I said - The Big Chief Catholic Boss instead. OK? Are we good? You got it? But, hey, who the hell is typing this? I ain't got no God damned computer. I ain't even got a good toaster-over, so it sure as hell can't be me. But yet I am positive somebody is tapping it all out. It's like some disembodied spirit is letting its fingers (if it has fingers) dance over a giant, universal keyboard and tattooing this story right onto the actual skin of your brains. But we're all here now. We're all deep, deep into the Pines. Regular folks would hardly think there'd be places like this stuck down between all that Philadelphia and New York nonsense. But we been here as long as they have. And some of them as lives in the Pines have been planted out here a lot longer. I'm teaching the 'blood folks,' the vampires all about them. I'm learnin' them about The Red Paint People. That's what all them scientific egg heads call 'em. Listen how I talk when I get back home, as if I ain't knowed the difference. Well, I know the difference. But this way's more comfortable on my mouth. And if you want to know the truth, for my brain too. Who are The Red Paint People? Just people. Just old people. Not them. I am speaking about their culture. How old is it? Real old. From back before all them 'henges.' You know, Stonehenge, artificial brick henge, asbestos siding henge... all of 'em. It's older than the Barrow Builders. For folks who ain't got no old culture smarts, them was folks who piled up humongous hills of dirt, like mud pies for the biggest Godzillas you ever saw. And they burried all their boss-men in 'em. Some say they are the great grandfathers of the henge builders. But The Red Paint folks are older than that.. Some say they go back more than seven thousand years, because they've been dancin' around over here for at least that long. And they did not trek over from Siberia, you know, near Sarah Palin's house? They cruised over from Europe, but this was way before Rick Steves discovered it and it got all fancified. A group of science guys found a few specks of dried up ocher colored paint on some of the trash in their old garbage dumps. That's how they got the name. Funny thing is they don't hardly care what a bunch of fast talkin' folks with too much school stickin' to 'em calls 'em. You wanna know what they look like? What do you think!? Like God damned teletubbies, you ass holes! No they don't. I'm sorry. I realize you do not know too much about our ways and we are not Red Paint folks. We just happen to live right by 'em. One of 'em I'm a little bit friendly with seems  to favor Captain Jean-Luc Picard, you know, of the starship Enterprize? And his lady friend sorta looks like a skinnier Peek-a-boo Street, that  world famous Olympic skier woman? Just gimme a little time. You'll meet 'em.

The Boob of Sarah

Where is everybody? I'm talking now. It's me, wilkravitz. I've been sitting in this Starbucks for two hours waiting for him, Tomas, to take over, but nothing. I feel empty. I feel none of them.  But I'm afraid to go outside. There's a little girl pacing back and forth on the sidewalk. I think it's Annie. She seems nervous. It's funny how nobody pays her any mind. She's about six years old for Christ's sake. Doesn't anyone think it's strange for a tiny, little thing to be parading around this late? But I know different. I know how strong she is, or rather how strong her controller is. I can't afford to lose any toes. I'm not that good a dancer as it is. I don't want to wind up like that nurse. And to be truthful, the idea of being torn to shreds  by frenzied, hell hounds doesn't do much for me either. Maybe she's clouding the perception of people on the street. Maybe that's why no one sees her. But she sees me. Oh God, oh God, please help me. Please get me out of this....... STOP, STOP, STOP, I can't let him suffer like this. It is I, the disembodied spirit. Let that wilkravitz fellow take his fingers off the keyboard. Let him see the allies I have sent him. Look, he does...he does see them. The other humans chattering away over their hot water and bean bullion see nothing. Good, that is how I want it. A little toddler crawls out from behind the counter. I must say that adorable, warm, layered outfit suits him. Sarah has good taste. The chubby, little fellow gurgles with delight. He chugs over to wilkravitz,, who stares tranfixed. Then the smiling, rosy checked cherub (for that is what he is) levitates up from the floor. He stops when he reaches eye level. He stretches out his sweet, little baby hand and caresses wilkravitz' cheek. Our 'typist' gets up and follows the tiny 'angel' as he floats toward a rear exit. They leave the aromatic coffee den and proceed along a narrow alley meant for deliveries, as well as the nocturnal wanderings of selfsufficent cats. Pay attention. Can you see them? There, in the shadows. It's Albion, the 'elf prince,' and his equally comely tootsie, what's her name. The miraculous children surround wilkravitz. Each elf takes an arm, as they rise up into the darkness and spirit him to safety. No one notices. It must be wonderful to be an enchanted, pre-pubescent vampire. It must be wonderful to possess a physical body. I envy them the sensations. Some day I will explore that reality. Annie sees them ascend into the void. She (or her master) is angry. She screams, clenches her fists and stamps her feet.... a real six year old's tantrum. She lashes out, tearing an expensive, stylish weave or extension or whatever the fashionistas call it out by the tight, artificial roots. Her innocent,  twenty-something victim screams.. She hauls back and bitch slaps Annie right across her face.  But you have to know better than to mess with a devil child, because Annie instantly grabs her by the wrist and bites off a couple fingers, rings and all. Serves her right. Look at her bawling and crying. What's she complaing for? She's got eight others. Besides that God damned wig thing didn't do much for her anyway. Look, I'm going over to Jersey. I gotta see what that 'throwing of the bones' thing is...