What a Vampire Thinks... 12/29/14

I type this myself. Billy is already sleeping. Edith set this up for me. She knows the rudiments of modern technology. For those who may not know - I am Jonathon ben Macabi, also known as Tomas de Macabea. Right now, I'm mortal, but will soon revert to my night-folk state. The circumstances leading to this unusual, but not unheard of, state of affairs is complex. But everything's in the record. All you have to do is google Vampire Wonderland by Billy Kravitz Tomas dies in The Academy of Music .... The March, 28th, 2014 post (second from the top) is best. Click on that if you like. It's all the work of an evil elferino (a rare occurrence). There was a 'born' witch too, though she was just a stooge. So pointless. But I digress. 

Soon I shall be  'life-eater' again. How will I bear that burden?.... I think you know... I will bear it as I did for my first nine hundred and thirty odd years. I will bear it nobly, renewing the vows made oh so long ago. Thus if you're not evil, you have nothing to fear from me. Those of you familiar with this site, or tale, or whatever they call it, know this. I and those like me 'Cull the wicked and help the worthy live.' 

We dine but once a month. Smaller infusions of liquids, such as broth, or spirits are tolerated and make social situations with unknowing mortals less troublesome

I study this body in the mirror, wiping the steam from the glass. Night-folk enjoy hot showers, especially between feedings. How similar it is to my first body... same height... same build. Perhaps a bit larger. I was eighteen the first time. This meat puppet is twenty eight. Belonged to a model. Gym memberships and all that. I won't complain. Still the same long, dark, wavy mane. That I like. Doctor Franklin did a good job. Hair where there should be hair and smooth where I should be smooth. First eyes were Andalucian brown. These seem more dark grey. Change is good.

Sarah dries me. I love those towels. So thick... So soft... So clean.  I stand there like DaVinci's famous Vitruvian Man, allowing her to get all the damp spots. Pity I don't have more of them. Then, she anoints me with lotion (sighs)... delightful. 

No, I do not type away in the warm, bathroom mist as this goes on. Some things I repeat from memory. Don't like when she brushes my hair, though. Finger drying works best. Am I fussy? (shrugs) I suppose. Look, I admit to being vain. All vampires are vain, thus my predilection for fine, leather bootkins and hand tailored denims. Good legs on this body. I'm glad of that. 

Thought I'd tell you more. But Sarah wants me. Soon I won't be mortal. I suppose she likes the novelty.

So let me leave this miraculous device and go to her. Edith, our witchy-woman housekeeper will close up. She'll put my towel away. Look at her peeking out from the kitchen. She's not watching that Bruce Spingsteen tribute. She's watching me.

Let her enjoy the show...

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Jonathon Asks Sarah About her Mortal Days... 12/28/14

It was a warm December, sometimes damp, but rarely icy. Jonathon and Sarah continued sitting out in the little back garden. It was their private space, hidden from view by brick walls. But squirrels can scramble over bricks. They came down to gather the walnuts Edith left out for them. She thought it her duty.. more than that... She had to do it. 

Sarah snuggled beneath an old shearling robe. I don't know where it came from. Vampire households have many treasures. Things just turn up. Jonathon lay next to her. The antique, patio chaise lounge held two. He had a knit cap pulled down over his ears. Mortals, even temporary ones, are quite sensitive to nighttime chills. 'Warm December' is a relative term, you know.

He watched a squirrel, surprisingly nocturnal,  tuck one of the walnuts under its arm, much as a man might carry a large melon, before disappearing over the wall. Sarah counted stars.

Then he said - What did you keep in that basement?.... What do you mean? - she said...The one under Philadelphia After Dark, the bookshop; I was there last night.

And you went downstairs?

Yes.

Sydney let you down?

Sydney wasn't there - he said. 

She exhaled and said - That happens sometimes. You do understand I knew about magic, or whatever you want to call it before I met you?

Uh huh.

So, what happened?

There was a blind man and a deaf woman. I think they were a couple. I think they were husband and wife. Ghosts, I think.

Were you scared?

Yes I was scared. Not terrified. I don't think I was terrified. But I was scared. I knew they couldn't touch me. I knew they couldn't hurt me. It usually goes that way, I mean, but he gave me something.

She looked at him.

He gave me a book, my book, an old book, a copybook from my school days.

Which school days?

My mortal school days. My real school days. My human school days. Old leather... Old parchment. Nine hundred and forty years old it is. I was shocked. Did anything like that ever happen to you?

No. 

And you never went down the cellar? 

No. There was a key. I had a key. I guess Sydney has it now. The landlord showed me the cellar, for like about a minute. Told me not to store books there. Too much trouble getting cartons up and down the steps. So I kept everything in the little storeroom by the back door. What'd I get, maybe three boxes a week, if I was lucky? It was a big empty space. That's all I remember. The key was for emergencies. Like if the fire department had to go down. I put a big chair in front of the door. I didn't like it.... What, there're bones down there?

Just a hand. An anatomy specimen. Think the tag said 'University of Pennsylvania.'

What did you do with it?

It's still there.

And the book?

It's upstairs. (he thinks and continues) I know what Scottosh Beedosh means.

Did the ghosts tell you?

No... An angel did.

Oh God! no more of this religious stuff. Do you know the trouble it starts?

What do you mean 'do you know?' Of course I know. But this isn't like that. No big movements. No big demonstrations. I think it's just for me... a reminder to be the right kind of vampire... to be the kind of vampire I always was. I want to be night-folk again and I want you to do it.

Sarah's startled.

You have the power. You have my blood. You have Papa's blood too. You're just as strong as me... or as strong as I was. I want this thing. Please.

All right.... Now?

Jonathon begins to cry... She kisses him

And in night-folk lore, already prone to spiritual hyperbole... the daughter shall be mother to the father...

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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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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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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.



Just click on right above, where it says These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO and dive in.



Make sure you got your chupicabra gun... Come on... We got a sky pony all ready for you.



If you want, all you gotta do is click NEWER POST  down at the bottom of each episode to go on.



Maybe, do us a favor and click on BRYAN FULLER ... Tell him, if you like it.



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



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

google Vampire Wonderland by Billy Kravitz, then ad ANY word, click on and see what you get. with over 800,000 words up you'll find plenty. explore. it's like a game.



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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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