BAYLAH (our Beyonce look a like vampire) CONFRONTS THE STORM

I'm all alone. My human companion has gone back to the city (Philadelphia). Even the housekeeper left. She knows about me, but I gave her the usual gift of vampire hush money, a small vial of my blood. Her husband is sick. She's going to mix it in with his Spaghetti-O's. It'll help. I can guarantee it. The street is deserted. All the streets are desereted. The stores are closed. The restaurants are shuttered. Even Casels, a legendary 'see and be seen' gourmet (translates as high priced, but at least it's convenient) supermarket is sealed tight. Looks like the set for The Truman Show, but on a stormy, wind-blown late afternoon.

A few sticky characters are still around. They wear coveralls, like they work for some contractor or something. And they drive plain panel vans with easy to slap on or pull off magnetic signs. Locals know the score. Nobody stops them. Maybe the cops will...maybe. They look for easy pickins. Doors with cheap locks, flimsy windows. I just saw a guy come out of the house across the street carrying a high-end flat panel television. He had it all wrapped  up in a Dora the Explorer sheet, so I know he was snooping around in the little girl's room. Got to make a note to 'take him out' when this is all over. I have his scent. He won't be hard to find....but, then again, he had problems too.......Maybe I'll just scare him a little.

I can see the ocean through the big windoows in the living room. Some of the spray makes it all the way up to the heavy, double-paned glass. A thick, sandy film begins to grow.  Soon all the houses will be scoured by it. Hope the glass doesn't break. We should have storm shutters...But we don't....That's what insurance is for. Everybody gonna be remodeling and redecorating around here in a few days. Can you say 'tray ceilings'?

The giant waves attract me. The foamy, gray water is 'vampire water.' Ever see reruns of the old gothic Dark Shadows soap opera from the late '60's? Remember how the show came on? Well, this looks like that, only I'm listening to Tracy Chapman instead of that weird organ or synthesizer music or whatever they had back then. I got the fireplace going. It looks nice. The orange glow plays along the mirror-like ebony surface of the grand piano. I am burninng all my possessions. should this thing turn truly major, I do not need outsiders (insurance people and the like) asking  a lot of questions. Besides, it's easy for a vampire to 'collect' things. I'll be all right. And my companion is quite wealthy.

So soon, when it gets a little darker, I'll slide open the smoked glass doors and walk out onto the terrace. It's bare now. The gardener came to stow away all the furnishings. He pocketed a little knick-knack. My companion saw him do it. We don't care. Let him give it to his wife. I hope she likes it.

My kind need no oxygen. Breathing is just a habit...a reflex. It's comforting, but I can do without. So I'll walk into the roiling sea and pass beneath the surf.. Then I'll continue going, down into the depths, till the monstrous waves roll by like clouds far above my head. Cool water will caress my smooth, naked body. Lidless eyes will mark my passing. If my telepathic abilities are up to par.... (and why should I doubt them?) a curious mermaid (it's true, usually the females comme out first) will venture forth to meet me. And I will  swim with the merfolk till the heavens  all calm down.

Praise be to they who spread the balm of peace in the Holy Land. And may the frightened mortals escape the wrath of the storm......

THE LABYRINTH OF NIGHT SOULS

Where am I? What is this? I feel like a sharp, sweet, blade chipped from a piece of rock candy has cut into my heart. I am opened and you can share my thoughts. Walking through the late night alleys of the Sacred City. I see darkness. I see shadows. I see bright security lights. I see soldiers. Is it always like this? Yes, though I have never witnessed it before. This is mmy  first time....my first alone time.....And my feet know where to go.

I am Laila, the daughter of an Armenian Orthodox cleric. My father is a truly reverent man. And he has taught me well. Not formally. There were no lessons. I simply absorbed his teachings as I lived. My coins find their way to the poor box. My prayers waft up to Heaven (we are in Jerusalem, after all). Yet I search for something more. Please allow me to play a part in all this. Please lift me up from the choir and let me sing songs of my own.

I run my tongue along my eye teeth, willing them to grow. I wear dark colors. I wear black. My father approves of that, for at fifteen I am no longer a girl. I pretend to hear voices.....No, maybe I really do hear them. They tell me where to go. A being whispers in my ear. I call him 'Papa.'....... Not that he has taken the place of my own sainted father, only as a name. Is he but a great puppet master? Well, so what if he is. Some people think that God plays that role too.

My feet want to race down a black, deep shaft. I cannot see the steps, but I know just where they are, though Papa does not permit this. He pulls me. He calls to me. He gently pushes me and I respond. There is a door, a thick, old, wooden slab. I press my fingers upon its surface. It opens silently. Did I push it? I do not know.

Now I am in a courtyard. The old residences of this city are arranged that way... a blank face to the street.... a private sanctum behind closed doors. I have seen movies, old Hollywood films. The housekeeper watches them om a small, black and white television. Zorro lived in a house like this, so did Judah Ben Hur....... and so did a certain one called 'Jonathon.' I do not know him, but Papa shares his name.

I sit down on the edge of a tinkling fountain. Tiny moonlit ripples sparkle in the dark. I belong here...and I wait...... Then a slim, 'young' being floats down from above. His bare feet find purchase on the smooth, cool stones. I look up into a face  that has a haunting angular look, like a Peter Pan I've seen in animated cartoons (blame the housekeeper). This juvenile life-eater sits down next to me and takes my hand. His shoulders have an ivory glow. I think he is going to kiss me, but he does not. And the candy, sweet  blade shows me his name..... Roland......he is Roland........The one called Papa has 'sent' him all the way from his seat in The City of Brotherly Love to 'rescue' me. I smile. He laughs quietly. Then he says my name. He says 'Laila.' I nod, as he squeezes my hand and leads me deeper and deeper into the shadows...

Fifteen.....I am fifteen years old......And now, I shall be that age forever................

Yet I am still my father's daughter...........ah, the Old City of Jerusalem.....a place where ancient souls are born anew...............

LAILA LEARNS THE TRUTH.....OR SOME OF IT

The Armenian Quarter is a beautiful, though mysterious evocative warren of Byzantine streets and narrow, romantic byways. Their cathedral dates from the twelve hundreds and exhibits a wondrous blend of eastern and western influences. Interior illumination rains down from a multitude of oil lamps suspended from the ceiling. Congregants sit on sumptuous oriental carpets, absorbing the haunting channts of young seminarians, a magical, spiritual experience. The gates of the district close at sundown and remain sealed till the dawn.

Laila lives within these walls, rarely venturing out. True, she has visited Hurva Square in The Jewish Quarter. Maybe she's tasted a hot chocolate or two at one of the outdoor cafes, but always in the company of her father and only in transit to and from her physicians. Yet she's managed to imbibe something of the outside world. via dog-earred magazines found in the waiting room (her father dozes or prays).She loves People Magazine. She idolizes the comically bogus miraculous Twilight threesome. And now, due to her unannounced nocturnal well-meaning errand, her prayers have been answered. She knows that they exist. Vampires are real. She has seen one. She has smelled him. And her father was there when it happened {see yesterday's post}.

So things have changed. Maybe due to the tiny drops of vampire blood supplied by Jean-Michel? Perhaps those gifts did more than preserve her life? It could be they've transformed her. Into a vampire? No...but into something close. She slips out of her home. The walls are thick. And who would even suspect? She knows how to compress her body and squeeze through impossibly narrow spaces, escaping the limitations of her suffocating citadel and melting into the dark.....a thin, young waif, dark haired and  wide-eyed, dressed in black and searching for deliverance. She silently makes her way through the inky shadows, attempting to hide...But there are those who can see in the dark....and one draws ever closer......

WHAT THE KARDASHIAN GIRL SAW

The Chevalier Jean-Michel feels his guilt. He too is a noble vampire after all and his daliance with Sarah was wrong. So he retreats into an old Christian chapel, a photogenic ruin actually, from the days when Muslims and Western Christians fought for control of this place and he prays and he prays and he prays. The religious sanctuary is buried deep underground beneath Ottoman  ruins. The caretaker knows he is a vampire, but he allows him to enter. Tiny blood gifts furnished by the french knight help with his daughter's asthma. Although the chapel was originally built by Roman Catholics, the current overseer is Armenian Orthodox. It's like that in the Holy Land. Dogma tends to drift. Teachings often mingle. So the thin, severe cleric with the pointed goatee stands off to the side. He pretends that his eyes are closed, but they are not, not really. Jean-Michel knows the man is watching him, but he does not care. These sessions can go on for hours. Knights are used to this. In the old days squires often spent the night before their investitures praying on their knees. And those cold, flagstone pavers were hard.

Water drips down from somewhere up above. The slow leak keeps time with the chanting, as primitive frescos of cartoonish saints appear to vibrate in the feeble, flickering light from  fat, yellow candles. But there is another aspect to this rite, an observance from Jean-Michel's vampire teachings. This is his time. This is the night. The monthly 'hunger' is upon him. He who must be 'culled' cowers in a corner. A greasy, leather gag stifles his cries. Tight thongs bind his wrists and ankles. His body looks pale and weak in the sooty gloom. Tears fall from his pleading eyes. A child killer, that is what he is. The victim was his own daughter, slaughtered to save his family honor. Her crime? She laughed and talked with a boy known to be a Jew. She walked with him to a place that sells frozen custard. Is such the norm in his community? Probably not. But he came here from Somalia with hopes of becoming a martyr. And he brought his family with him. Why? How can one explain the events that pepper this place? All things happen here. Scripture is still being written.

So the man will get his chance. He will become a martyr, but to fangs instead of sharp, rusty metal scraps...to a kiss instead of a bomb. The chanting stops. The victim trembles, releasing a warm puddle of urine. The cleric shudders. He lowers his partially closed eyes, but still he sees. He sees it all....and so does his daughter, there to bring him coffee, a thoughtful remedy for a sore throat. She knows these subterranean chambers. She knows how to slip inside and does so silently. Yet this night is different from all other nights. And she sees things, new things, strange things such as she has never experienced before.

There is no sound. Even the air is still. The candlelight wanes, draping the saints in shadows, as our tall, sturdy, thosand year old knight contorts the neck of his victim, exposing the artery and breaking the skin. Did he know that she was there? Was he lost in faith and rapture? Did he care?

But that night, just before the dawn, the fifteen year old daughter of Father Kardashian failed to return home And ninety minutes later they discovered her empty bed...............

WHAT DO YOU SUPPOSE BARBRA BACHMANN WOULD THINK OF OUR PIXILATED VAMPIRE UNIVERSE?

Peace be unto you, oh best beloveds. Know this...I am of the true jinn. My palace/recepticle once rested on a silken pillow housed within an ivory shell, nestled in a treasure box belonging to non other than Solomon the King, Wisest of the Wise, Great Keeper of God's Secrets and Benevolent Master of me and my kind. Do not mistake me for one of the imposters flitting about the cerulian skies above the Divine Portal. My core is pure. My 'heart' is true. And what I share with you is real.

The world has changed since Papa sugared the dreams of one tenth of humanity. Did he do it on his own, or was he but a vessel for a Greater Power? Ah, but these things are just details, tiny fragments of the Celestial Puzzle solved only by fools.

Yet growth, spiritual growth, I mean, can be detected. It wafts up from the bodies of the fleshy ones (mortals) like early morning mist from a Kashmiri lake.  They do things a bit differently now. Would you like to know how I can tell? Well, here is one way, a concrete way, that you can  easily see.. The number of collisions between those mechanized sedan chairs they call automobiles has decresed.  And those in line waiting to purchase exotic delectibles at food emporiums smile more. Neighbors are less often cursed. Alms flow freely to those in need. No one sneers at fat people. I could go on and on.....

But they still lie...a little...Ask them to recount the dream. They will tell you - What dream?......For they are loath to step out from the herd, although the direction of the charge has been changed.

Papa sits on his chair, in the commodious den of his petit manor house in The City of Brotherly Love (Chestnut Hill, to be exact). An apt place. But his essence, his soul,  flies free, piercing the Eternal Membrane  and splashing through the wavelets of The Never Ending Sea. Is he the only created personality in that place? No, others swim there too. You may be slicing through those waters right now and not even know it. But tonight we speak of Papa. We tell a bit of the tale of our twenty eight thousand year old (Earth years, that is) life-eater, a vampire to some, a life saver to others.

The dream has been dreamed by many in The Holy Land as well. And the cause of peace has been advanced. Are others among the demi-angelic-host (vampires) still messing with those falafel balls? Well, I suppose they are. Every little bit helps. you know how it is....Brighten the corner where you are.....Every tiny effort reaps a bounty all its own.

Jonathon is happy. So is Sarah. And the 'anthem of love' created by the resurrected John Lennon, a somewhat incredulous Bob Dylan and Yusef Islam (formerly known as Cat Stevens) sells even better at ninety-nine cents per download.

Yet Edith, the Piney 'seer,' continues to smell trouble. The imposter jinns are still out there. And some people attempting to purchase exotic delectibles in glittering food emporiums still butt in line...

VAMPIRES...TSUNAMI...EARTHQUAKES...A GUY WHO KNOWS BONO...WE GOT IT ALL!!!

this is not our usual bog. just a short bit of info. the A.C. area shook. walls vibrated. no tsunami (we hope). BAYLAH felt it. the vamps in philly felt it too. BAYLAH was ready to run. her boyfriend has a car with blacked out windows in his garage. they were all set to drive inland.

vampires especially fear disasters that stike during the day. if a tsunami hits at night, they just go with it and let it drag them out to sea. they don't need oxygen. they'll swim, or walk back along the bottom. they would survive that.

the elves and cherubs in philly were all shaken up. but Papa creates something like a vulcan mind meld and he has them all calmed down now. edith, or Jersey Piney 'seer' (she's back with the philly contingent) suspects more to come. she smiles knowingly annd chuckles quietly. but that one does enjoy her drama, so I don't know if she really sees this, or if it is just wishful thinking.

the mole people living in the old unused subway tunnels beneath the city are worried. And a few sloppy loo-loos are acting kind of crazy, but they always look a little weird to me.

I'm telling you, browse through our older posts. we have about 320 of them. you'll learn a lot. we got paranormal info busting out the wazoo.

my new rolex submariner is all right. and that guy at the somers point diner knew a lot about Bono. no cracks in the margate house (beach block too). I was all set to run. Hell, I seen that movie where teoni leoni and her dad get flattened by that wave. you know what 'coastal frankenstein' says---tsunami baaaaddddd.......

more REAL STUFF coming later.....provided I don't get pulverized and crushed under a mound of wave driven debris.

HEY, WAIT A MINUTE.....ANDERSON COOPER KNOWS ABOUT OUR VAMPIRES???

COULDNT POST MUCH TONIGHT. BAYLAH WON ONE OF HER POKER TOURNAMENTS! She bought me a Rolex Submariner (surgical steel, 'presidential'  bracelet) at this shop in the casino. She made 'vampire eyes' at him and we got a good price. MUCH BETTER THAN NEW SNEAKERS OR TRIPS TO THE ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT BUFFETS! I like the semi-precious, solid quartz crystal too. I think James Bond wears one just like it.....(who knows, maybe if we get enough hits,  she'll get me an aston-martin too!!??)

I told you this wasn't really fiction. We only pretend that it is to foil certain anti-life-eater organizations.

Will attempt to channel more of the goings on in Jerusalem tomorrow. But I think I saw a quick mention of the events in question on ANDERSON COOPER.

Please browse through our earlier posts (we have hundreds of them) in order to gain a feel for our material and a deeper understanding of the vampiric condition....THE REAL VAMPIRIC CONDITION.

Gee, I love the way this bulky timepiece sits on my wrist.....gotta go. Meeting people at the Point Diner in Somers Point (minutes from A.C.) for coffee and cake.......

Such is Life In The Downbeach........