Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Recol...

Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Recol...: Little David (though everyone called him 'Davey', or 'Prince') squinted up at the two sky-ponies tracin' lazy circles ab...This how it all started...all them hinkie-dinks folks knows as EL RANCHO TEXACO... How The West Was Won... on Mars. You know it's gonna be like this some day... big spreads... big families... big power.



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Patriots all... of The United Stars of America.



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THE BOOK OF JONATHON.. Old Words Speak... 12/25/14

JONATHON SPEAKS ~~~~~

I sat in the chair, there in that place, that book shop known as Philadelphia After Dark and held my old copybook. How dry the parchment was, though the pages still intact. I saw letters written in a child's hand and simple teachings from Scripture. I saw 'feed the hungry' and 'clothe the naked.' I saw ' love thy neighbor as thyself.' I saw 'And God took back the soul of Moses with a kiss.' That last one comes from Commentaries. Young ones do not study that. But I did. For I was precocious even then. 

The deaf woman said - Turn to the last page... I complied and that's when I saw the words. That's when I saw what the angel wrote. Such a 'hand.' No missed stroke. Angels are emissaries of the Holy Presence, so in a very real sense they were written by the Hand of God.... I think we've mentioned then before, usually obliquely. I'd say this one saw the words, or that one saw them. But this time is different. I confront it head on. I saw the words. I saw the angel write them. They say - Scottosh beedosh. Beedosh boposht. Boposht skeedosht... Like a child's rhyme they sound... Like a game. But that night , there in that unusual shop, I had an epiphany. Everything flickered. For an instant I saw that angel. He looked into my eyes and I knew. The words, though written in both Hebrew script and Arabic script (we learned both) were in a far older language than either of them. The words were in Malakh. They were in 'Angel.'  And I know what they mean. Here, let me tell you---
They say --- Know what you see... See the truth... The truth ye shall proclaim.

Then all was still. The deaf woman smiled. Her blind husband clasped his hands and smiled too..... Did he see it? - he said..... Yes. Yes he did - she whispered... But for a blind, old fellow like him, a whisper is enough... He clucked his tongue and went - Good, good, good.

I closed the book, held it on my lap and that was it. They went about their business, straightening volumes and shuffling papers, winding clocks,dusting here and there. It was as if they'd completely forgotten about me. I said - May I take this book with me? It is mine, you know...... But they never answered. I sat there in that cozy, chintz chair, listening to the ticks and tocks. It was still dark outside. The curtains were cracked open. I could see a bit of the night. The street was empty and quiet. I turned back, looked toward the deaf woman, but she was gone. Her papers, her ledger was gone too, as if she was never there. The blind husband? Him too. I knew, because I walked through the narrow aisles. I knocked at the cellar door.... Nothing. And let me tell you, in my mortal state, that scared me. I tried the door. It wasn't locked. I slowly pushed it open. The mournful creaking noise was unbearable. Over and over I whispered - God help me. God help me... But I went down. And there were no windows in those old cellars. However there was, at the bottom of the steps, an old pull chain and a rather antique, clear glass light bulb. Thirteen steps... You'll find that most traditional houses in old quarters of Center City have thirteen steps between floors. That's just the way it is. I stopped on each one, convinced a spectral hand would reach from the darkness into the shaft of weak illumination from the floor above and pull me down into terrors best left unsaid, or even worse, some other unseen force would close and lock the door from above....

Neither happened.

I found the chain, pulled it and washed the chamber in twenty five watts. That's when I saw the place was empty... No books... None at all. Just an old, cracked linoleum floor, rough, painted concrete walls (brown-red)... There were rusty, metal, shelves, once grey, against the far wall, maybe thirty five or forty feet away. Something small and brown rested three levels up from the floor at eye level. I approached. So like a huge spider it was. But it was no spider, rather a skeletal hand, neatly severed at the wrist with an old, oak tag (heavy yellow card stock) label tied to one of the bones with a short length of rough, stiff string. I carefully turned it over. In pencil, someone had written - Anatomy specimen... gravedigger's hand... University of Pennsylvania Medical School 1908. It seemed to be pointing at me.

I stepped back, wishing I was already vampire again so I could sublimate out from that place and escape. But that was yet to be...

I turned and made my way back to the stairs. Let me tell you, when I pulled that chain I raced up those steps.

My book was still there, right where I'd left it. I picked it up, zipped it into my jacket and left. The door clicked and locked behind me. Fortunately the sky was streaked with the first drab clouds of dawn. I walked down the street. After a bit I pivoted 'round to look at the place. The small, red light above the door had been switched off.

Who could have possibly done that?

Then I went home, desperate to be night-folk once again...

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Jonathon Sees An Old Book And Remembers Certain Things... 12/23/14

These recollections appear in larger script so that none shall be troubled by deficiencies of vision , or any other distraction.  I do this in reverence of the material presented. I am Jonathon. The memories are mine and they are important to me.

I entered the bookshop. I went into Philadelphia After Dark... The couple expected me. Some things are meant to be. The woman invited me to sit down and wait, while her husband, the blind one, retrieved the book. She was a practiced lip reader and also somewhat telepathic, so we had no problem. 

I said - How will your husband find the book?... She busied herself with clerical duties behind the old oak counter and said - He tastes the bindings with his fingertips. We mark each new arrival with a unique solution and dab it onto the spine. Certain 'tastes' indicate novels, or treatises, or spell books, or essays. Additional nuances provide detail... an alphabet of flavors..... Like the ancient Incas and their quipus... an alphabet of knots and colored yarn? - I asked....... She nodded and said - Everything is everywhere...

Then she went back to her ledger book. I looked around. What a snug, little refuge this is... the worn hardwoods... narrow, maze-like aisles... the old, bookcase-like shelves. Such a magical place to spend a cold winter night.  And (not counting the proprietors) I had it all to myself. No one else would enter. There was a small light above the door. When it's green... cognoscenti know they can press the buzzer and wait to be let in. When it's red, they know otherwise. Few violate that rule. That's just how it is. After more than three hundred years people understand. They used candles in the early days. Slip a small, green-glass hurricane lamp over the flame for yes and a red one for no. I remember those times.

After a time (apparently the book in question was downstairs) I settled into the soft, club chair and began to inventory the small, stuffed beasts arranged on random shelves hung on the wall behind the counter. They shared the space with antique wall clocks... Snarling weasels and wombats (even a poised to attack red-legged tarantula) glaring down imperiously from amidst their tick-tock neighbors. Always liked that wall... invitingly cozy in an Addams Family kind of way.

Then he was there, right before me (the husband) holding the book. He said - Go ahead. Take it..... A moment later, it was in my hands and I began to taste things too. I felt the thin, carefully oiled wooden binding....the thick, dry, sheepskin pages within... Not vellum. No fine calf skin this, but the thick hide of a sheep... an inexpensive thing made for children... made for school... a copy book... and it was mine. 

How the memories flooded back. I was five years old, bathed and dressed for my first day of school. So dignified in my new brown gabardine cassock. My mother kissed me and kissed me and kissed me. She made sure I had a red string tied 'round my wrist. I can tell you that. And my long, dark, wavy hair was carefully parted and brushed. Then a servant, not Johannon; he was still too young, picked me up, followed my father and we were off, parading through the sunny streets of Cordoba. People smiled and clapped as we passed, both Children of Israel and Children of Ishmael, for the customs of both were quite similar. And then we were there...

The school looked ordinary from the street, a clean, neat stucco building approximately forty cubits (18 inches) on each side. My father stopped. The servants stopped too. A young boy (though not so young as I) stepped forward and knocked. Yes, it was Johannon. He was already with us by then and proud to help in this way. I viewed him as a special friend, much like an older brother.

A thin, old man let us in... not ordained, but the sexton of this place, for learning is a holy act.... We followed him into the courtyard. Another man, ordained (indicated by his white prayer cap) met us, introducing himself as 'Rabbi de Luria.' I walked forward, helped by eager hands. My father said - And this is my son, Jonathan (Yo-nah-TON). I nodded. The rabbi patted my shoulder. Another functionary showed us seats 'round a wooden table in a shaded arcade. The rabbi smiled. He gestured for me to step forward. My father smiled too. The rabbi said - Come boy. Sit on my knee. I hesitated. My father mouthed - Go on... So I did. Then the cleric picked up a small, rectangular slate with the Hebrew Aleph-Beit on it. He asked me if I knew my letters. I whispered - Yes.... He gave me the slate and said - Splendid. Show us..... So I tentatively picked my way through the twenty two letters ( vowels are represented by shorthand-like dots and strokes) much to the delight of my doting father. Everyone was glad.... The rabbi took the slate and poured a tiny drop of honey from a special, small vessel used just for that purpose, on a clear, clean spot near the top, right hand corner. Then he held it before me and said - Taste it..... I did. What small boy doesn't love honey? You know, in those days, sugar was largely an unknown commodity.... After that, the rabbi said - May learning ever be sweet.... I think my father cried a little.... We had lunch. Mine was special... roasted eggs with Biblical passages, carefully inscribed round the smooth, creamy shells. The adults talked. I listened to a conversation that effortlessly flowed from Hebrew to Spanish to Aramaic and Arabic. The later was our everyday tongue and much of my education would be in that language too.... Then we walked home. Nobody carried me this time..

We stopped by the banks of the greatest river in all Iberia, the Wadi-Al-Kabir, know to Trinitarians as the Quadalquivir, basically only the accent differs. I held my father's hand, watching somewhat scaled down,
lateen (Latin styled) sail craft carrying goods up and down the broad water way....

And my father said - Behold the current. See the flow. It has neither end, nor beginning, may such be your success and knowledge. 

At that point all I wanted to do was go home and eat a plum, but I nodded and said - Uh huh.

Just before entering our street, we turned into a commercial thoroughfare, stopping at a shop specializing  in clerical supplies (in those days the term meant office supplies, for religious clerics were the most learned men in society). My father purchased three pots of ink and a matching number of fine, camel hair brushes.... He bought four, wood framed, slates, some chalk and five pristine copybooks. One of which I hold right now.

Most leaves are filled with boyish attempts at smooth calligraphy with maybe a few pedagogical corrections.

But the last page was written by an angel. I know, for I saw him one night, a being made of moonlight, as he did it. Though the visitation frightened me and I never told a soul.

And now I hold the selfsame book in my hand. After roughly nine hundred and forty three years we are reunited.

Some things are meant to be...

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Jonathon InThe Bookshop Known As Philadelphia After Dark .. 12/22/14

Sarah does not like it when I go out alone. Mortals are easy to kill and I am still handicapped in that way. But she called for allies to protect me. And so Albion, an elferino, attends me from the shadows. He thinks I don't know. But I do know. Even mortals have certain talents. Edith says mine is telepathy. Witchy women from The Jersey Pines know such things and I trust her implicitly. 

I am Jonathon. These words are mine, though the one you know as 'Billy' types them. He's done do, on and off, since I first went public almost four and a half years ago.  We've taught him the rudiments of thought transfer. Well, mostly Edith has taught him. But the important thing is that he knows. 

Sunday night, or more properly the wee hours of the morning, are quiet. Streets stand as stage sets, populated by ghost-like clouds of steam rising, here and there from small, street level vents. I quietly pass shuttered stores, restaurants, theaters and counting houses. Excuse me. I mean 'banks.' Here and there a bodega shines out into the night. Cabs go by. I head for a special place, on a small street. We have been there before. It is the strange and cozy establishment known as Philadelphia After Dark. Sarah owned it during her mortal years. And we have led you to believe she was the first. We have lied. Others were there before her. The shop has a long, abiding past, going back to the time of William and Mary, almost three hundred and twenty five years. Indeed, it holds the oldest continuous mercantile license in Philadelphia. Far older than Franklin's Print Shop. Though the Old Doctor hates to admit it. I'll tell of the proprietors sometime.

At this time it belongs to a couple. One blind, the other deaf. Some night-folk call them 'Light and Music.' But neither seems hampered to me. 

They have a book... an old volume. They say I wrote it many centuries ago, during a sojourn in some remote European principality. But I have no memory of it. 

See how Albion tries to hide. He flits from darkness to darkness. How he works to preserve my vanity... to preserve my independence. I have always loved the elferinos and elferinas. How 'the magic' favors them.

There is the shop. A small warm lamp shines in the mullioned window. A singular place, like something from Dickens. PHILADELPHIA AFTER DARK... We open with the dusk and close with the dawn. The sign, though carefully retouched, has been there for generations. 

Albion flies away. They buzz me in. I go inside. The deaf one nods to me. I nod back. The blind one shuffles off to get the book.

I settle into an old, chintz chair, one of several 'reading nooks,' each married to it's own tiny side table and small boudoir lamp.

Perhaps I'll learn something?

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Bing Crosby- Count Your Blessings Instead Of Sheep...Jonathon Worries About His Future ... 12/18/14

Jonathon sits in the little room we call the 'chapel.' He chooses a record from his collection... an old 33 and a 1/3 rpm. I suppose all this vintage vinyl is worth something, but he'd never sell. Each disc is stored flat in the jacket and every jacket is separated from its neighbor by a thin styro-foam square. He's very careful about that. Some he's had for decades. Others come from small, independent record shops. There're still a few. He browses them in the evening before closing, mostly in the winter. It's too light other times of the year. Vampires know how to work the clock. Some make a point of being out and about around their way from approximately five to six in the morning... maybe six fifteen, or six twenty. The sky is still dark then, at least during winter. They're seen in local markets. They buy coffee in coffee bars. People nod... say hello. And the thing is, it registers as 'daytime,' because everybody's doing pre-work morning chores. When those same vampires run into people after work, in the evening, it's assumed they've been out and about all day. Mortals are stupid... supremely self-limiting and stupid. 



Our Philadelphia contingent isn't faced with that. They don't have to fit in, since their little street is fairly cloistered. Plus, Edith runs interference. The 'familiars' do a lot too. But before he goes back... before he re-assumes 'the burden' and becomes vampire again, he makes a point of being seen out in the daylight. He has hot tea and a couple donuts that he mostly plays with and crumbles. You can cover a lot with a napkin. He buys magazines and store brand aspirin in a nearby sundry store and two packs of tightie-whities from the store that sells tightie-whities. Sometimes he sits in one of the squares or little pocket parks they have around town and talks to people. Girls like him. His new body looks a bit more mature... twenty eight or there about instead of eighteen... Just right for a prosperous young man about town. They ask where he lives and what he does. He makes up stories. They believe him. Jonathon is very intelligent. But there are times he has to run away and laugh like a maniac on a shadowy side street or behind a bush, or a car. How's he supposed to talk to some lawyer girl ... nice girl and all that... who knows only her job and is exactly like every other semi-well off 'twenty something?' That's when he's glad to be a vampire, or at least going back to being a vampire. Mole people, down in never used subway tunnels are different. They see things with mole-folk eyes and he sees things with night-folk eyes. Sometimes you got to have special eyes. Viewpoint and experience is everything. How are you supposed to have a conversation with bastards who only want to talk about  'did you see the game?' or 'Ewww she got sooo fat.'.... Lone vampires in out of the way places and remote areas have been known to sublimate into mental hospitals just to find somebody to talk to.



So now he's up in that little room listening to his music and thinking about what he likes about mortal life... the mindless freedom... the sunlight... the french fires ( the good HOT french fries) ... afternoon trips to the movies... And he hasn't been mortal long. Guess he's a fast worker... Likes seeing nice, little kids in daylight too. Nighttime doesn't do them justice.



You see, it goes both ways. Being crazy is OK. You just got to do it right. When it comes to that, night-folk get a pass. Maybe it's the prions in all that blood they drink? Maybe it's the magic?... Maybe it's just being unique, or at least sorta kinda on the whatever passes for 'unique' spectrum. They tell you reasons for everything else, but nobody ever tells you that... about being the good kind of crazy, I mean...



Jonathon puts on a record, some Christmas album. Bought it for one song... Counting Your Blessings.... Bing Crosby sings it. What the hell kind of name is 'Bing?'.... 



See, that's not crazy. That's just weird. Guess he's making up his mind what kind of vampire he wants to be.... this time, I mean.



This is Zebulon talking. I'm one of the disembodied spirit narrators. You know me. I'm crazy too.



Getting stoned to death two thousand years ago for consorting with witches, when you're just thirteen years old does that.



Now lemme go... I want to glide through dark department stores.



<more next time>



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Bing Crosby- Count Your Blessings Instead Of Sheep...Jonathon Worries About His Future ... 12/18/14

Jonathon sits in the little room we call the 'chapel.' He chooses a record from his collection... an old 33 and a 1/3 rpm. I suppose all this vintage vinyl is worth something, but he'd never sell. Each disc is stored flat in the jacket and every jacket is separated from its neighbor by a thin styro-foam square. He's very careful about that. Some he's had for decades. Others come from small, independent record shops. There're still a few. He browses them in the evening before closing, mostly in the winter. It's too light other times of the year. Vampires know how to work the clock. Some make a point of being out and about around their way from approximately five to six in the morning... maybe six fifteen, or six twenty. The sky is still dark then, at least during winter. They're seen in local markets. They buy coffee in coffee bars. People nod... say hello. And the thing is, it registers as 'daytime,' because everybody's doing pre-work morning chores. When those same vampires run into people after work, in the evening, it's assumed they've been out and about all day. Mortals are stupid... supremely self-limiting and stupid. 



Our Philadelphia contingent isn't faced with that. They don't have to fit in, since their little street is fairly cloistered. Plus, Edith runs interference. The 'familiars' do a lot too. But before he goes back... before he re-assumes 'the burden' and becomes vampire again, he makes a point of being seen out in the daylight. He has hot tea and a couple donuts that he mostly plays with and crumbles. You can cover a lot with a napkin. He buys magazines and store brand aspirin in a nearby sundry store and two packs of tightie-whities from the store that sells tightie-whities. Sometimes he sits in one of the squares or little pocket parks they have around town and talks to people. Girls like him. His new body looks a bit more mature... twenty eight or there about instead of eighteen... Just right for a prosperous young man about town. They ask where he lives and what he does. He makes up stories. They believe him. Jonathon is very intelligent. But there are times he has to run away and laugh like a maniac on a shadowy side street or behind a bush, or a car. How's he supposed to talk to some lawyer girl ... nice girl and all that... who knows only her job and is exactly like every other semi-well off 'twenty something?' That's when he's glad to be a vampire, or at least going back to being a vampire. Mole people, down in never used subway tunnels are different. They see things with mole-folk eyes and he sees things with night-folk eyes. Sometimes you got to have special eyes. Viewpoint and experience is everything. How are you supposed to have a conversation with bastards who only want to talk about  'did you see the game?' or 'Ewww she got sooo fat.'.... Lone vampires in out of the way places and remote areas have been known to sublimate into mental hospitals just to find somebody to talk to.



So now he's up in that little room listening to his music and thinking about what he likes about mortal life... the mindless freedom... the sunlight... the french fires ( the good HOT french fries) ... afternoon trips to the movies... And he hasn't been mortal long. Guess he's a fast worker... Likes seeing nice, little kids in daylight too. Nighttime doesn't do them justice.



You see, it goes both ways. Being crazy is OK. You just got to do it right. When it comes to that, night-folk get a pass. Maybe it's the prions in all that blood they drink? Maybe it's the magic?... Maybe it's just being unique, or at least sorta kinda on the whatever passes for 'unique' spectrum. They tell you reasons for everything else, but nobody ever tells you that... about being the good kind of crazy, I mean...



Jonathon puts on a record, some Christmas album. Bought it for one song... Counting Your Blessings.... Bing Crosby sings it. What the hell kind of name is 'Bing?'.... 



See, that's not crazy. That's just weird. Guess he's making up his mind what kind of vampire he wants to be.... this time, I mean.



This is Zebulon talking. I'm one of the disembodied spirit narrators. You know me. I'm crazy too.



Getting stoned to death two thousand years ago for consorting with witches, when you're just thirteen years old does that.



Now lemme go... I want to glide through dark department stores.



<more next time>



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JONATHON and HIS VAMPIRE CONSORT TALK ... 12/17/14

They sit in the small, garden-like backyard. The high brick walls make it private. Vampires like watching the night sky. Sarah sits like a cat staring up at a tiny bright speck moving across the blackness. She thinks it's a satellite, but it's much more remote than that. And in six hundred and five hours will explode into the surface of Mars with the force of a mile wide sun....

Do scientists know? Of course they do. But for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Vast swathes of subsurface permafrost will instantly vaporize and the Martian atmosphere will once again know rain. NASA's been watching for years, even nudged the small comet into a more precipitous trajectory. Rovers dropped seeds in areas likely to get the most rain. A second Genesis for the Forth World.. 

But Sarah didn't know that. Doctor Franklin did, though he doesn't share everything. that's another story though. 

They sit on two Adirondack chairs, all wrapped up in sweatshirts, hoodies, gloves and scarves. She's vampire. Cold can't harm her, but it's still uncomfortable. Jonathon's mortal. He needs all that GAP stuff. Actually finds it quite cozy. Bundling up against winter chill is a mortal pleasure. Vampires enjoy it too, but it's not the same thing. 

Jonathon says - I'd like a little color this time. 
Sarah - What are you talking about?
Jonathon - After, when I'm vampire again. I hate that alabaster look. I hate it.
Sarah - Get a tan. Go to one of those places. You know.
Jonathon - Yes.. and how little you know. Don't you pay attention?
Sarah - Don't bother me. I'm star gazing. And what don't I know?
Jonathon - My skin. I'm going to shed. I'm going to peel. I'm going to lose it when it happens. Even if I could tan, which I can't, that's where the melanin  would be...

Then he just sat there.

Sarah - So we're pale.
Jonathon - (jumps in) It reminds me of death. It reminds me of graves. It reminds me of corpses. I don't like it. 
Sarah - Jonathon?
Jonathon - What?
Sarah - Are you sure you want to be a vampire again?
Jonathon - I don't know...

More silence.

Jonathon - No, I do know. I do. I do. I want to be a vampire.. God, I hate that word. (sigh)... You know, back when this first happened to me... back during the middle ages... people used to call us 'the demi-angelic host.' Not the others. Not the 'noxious' like-eaters, but 'noble' ones... ones like me. ... They ruined it!
Sarah - Who ruined it?
Jonathon - The writers... the novelists... the scripts... the bastards. Look what they did to us. Are you like True Blood? Am I like True Blood?
Sarah - You liked that show?

He just looks at her, then turns away to study his sneakers.

Sarah - Last night was good. You liked that. You like the helping people part. You like the cool, sharp clothes and all. You want to go out on the street and give out gold coins? We have some real ones in the vault. We can do that. I'll go with you. It's 'First Night'... Hanukah.... Come on.....

No response...

Sarah - You want to play Scrooge?... Christmas spirits?... Sublimate through walls? Scare people? Make them change their ways?
Jonathon - Last guy had a fit. Crapped all over the bed. Stunk like high hell in there. I don't want to do that.
Sarah - You want to go to the zoo? Sublimate in with the polar bears? Spend the night with them? You like that.

He thinks about it.

Sarah - No, we can't. You're mortal. You're human. They'll kill you.

Jonathon - (quietly) I want pancakes.
Sarah - (sighs) Come on. I'll take you. You can't go by yourself. You know how late it is?
Jonathon - I want potato pancakes from that diner that makes them with the crispy edges.....

She nods.... They get up, go inside and lock the back door, as cold, wintry stars look down.

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