Korngold plays Kings Row (Main Title)... Our Admittedly Unique 'Vampire' Jonathon Waxes Sentimental ..7/13/15

I do not even know where I am. Deep woods. I see deep woods. The trees are majestic columns that kiss the stars. And I sit on a carpet of cool moss. My heart races and my face burns from the sublimation. There's friction when we pass through the ether. Every atomic particle leaves its mark. 


A visitor came to see me... a friend from the early days. Edmund of Colechester, he was called and a 'vampire' as am I. I knew him amd he was my friend. We had so much in common...He, the indulged, though unacknowledged son of a bishop and I the spoiled scion of a Sephardic, Granadan aristocrat. Innocents of 'the night' we were, snatched from mortality by cold, hard hands. I met him in an inn along some pilgrimage trail soon after my transformation. He was new to the night too. We sat in a corner by the hearth, trying to be invisible. How scared he was... a russet haired 'vampire' in a monk's robe. And the cloth reeked from scent. New 'night-folk' often do that in an effort to obfuscate the supposed 'vampire' stench. But the truth is we don't smell. Maybe noxious vampires who frequent graveyards and live as ghouls acquire a disgusting bouquet of sorts, but higher types do not. Edmund did not know that.


I said a few words in Vahmperigo, my Mediterranean Vampire dialect. And then, seeing as he was English, added some in Vahmpergahn, the tongue of Northern Night-Folk. He feigned ignorance, but he knew. I could tell he knew.


Then I smiled, so that he could see my teeth, my fangs. Night-folk can do that discretely... a fast glimpse and that's it. He saw. I leveled my eyes right at him and nodded. He did the same. We couldn't drink the grog. They had ale and dark beers and mead. Distilled spirits were rare. Arab lands had them, but not Europe. There was wine. They had that. But wine was a woman's drink. Men might have some with a meal and we weren't eating. I tipped my head toward the door and got up. Edmund followed me . We left the hot smoky white washed room and stepped out onto a twisting, muddy 'lane.' Oh, one other thing. Please don't think the smoke came from tobacco. That was still a MesoAmerican affectation, four hundred years away from our world.


Everyone had cloaks. Everyone had hoods and they used them. People abroad after dark stayed hidden. We did too. Those with means traveled in snug, sedan chairs borne by strapping henchmen. Torch bearers led the way. Scared, nervous lantern boys came up the rear. Many killed simply for sport. You can't imagine how dark it was. Public illumination did not exist. People slept at night. That was it. Cats snarled. Rats scurried. Dogs growled. Various types of insects feasted. Life, for all save the most vicious, amoral, violent and brutal ...and I'm talking about the warlord aristocracy... was crap. Maybe some monks and nuns escaped it and, oddly enough, Jews, forced into flood prone ghettos, due to their scrupulous food and bathing laws, escaped some of it too. But for the rest, the only escape was sex, or hut brewed intoxicants. Life meant nothing.

Excuse my digression. But Edmund left us tonight. He diffused, sublimating out in all directions til there was nothing discernable left. Night-folk do that sometimes. I don't know if their soul stays with the nebulous particles, or passes on into THE WORLD TO COME.

Just know that we became friends on that long ago night. I had someone to talk to... my first night-folk companion. This was after perhaps a century or more of solitary wandering. Oh, I had conversations...midnight visitations with learned clerics .... privy talks with busy rulers.... dream time with poor, hopeless children. Most all children were poor and hopeless then. Talent meant nothing, except maybe talent for killing. Boys so blessed might become knights.... Blood was everything... and not just blood... 'legitimate' blood.

I told Edmund tales of Old El Andalus and he schooled me in the creation of illuminated texts... Not texts as you know them. Back then, they were books. That's how I learned how to illustrate my Journal. You've heard us reference that. Oh, I knew the necessary calligraphy from my mortal school days, beit safer (book house, school) and all. We started publicly funded education at three. But living imagery, other than plants was denied us. Not in antiquity and not in all places, though then, in Spain, it was.

Did we hunt together?... Never... That's not what we shared and I want him back. 

A 'vampire' went into the dark tonight... or the light... depending how it plays out...and I will say prayers for him.

The nights are already longer... Not by much... perhaps ten to twenty minutes, depending on the clarity of the sundown sky. But it's a start and I am glad. 

'Noble' vampires live as kings, or ay least have the potential to do so. And I've known many over the centuries... a heavy hearted array, all lined up in a dim silent row.

Edmund... he was the first...

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WE'VE ALL BEEN EFFECTED BY GHOSTS ... 7/9/15

Albion exposes us to spiritual entities~~~

Albion whispers. He says - Some are vain about their lost physical forms. They always manifest as they looked in life. Others no longer care, or even remember such things. But they still think and their thoughts condense into visions. The Midnight Zepher is one of those. I don't know if he still has a name. I call him that..... 

Then he thinks for a few heartbeats and says - Look how you're here, but you're not. Yet you know my words and even something about my feelings. I can feel you. Not as individuals, but as a spiritual mass, an aura, a blanket. Maybe we all play 'the ghost' at times?

We're in the loggia of some Parkway museum. The heavy, bronze lanterns hanging from the ceiling (what else would you call it?) are turned down low... not really dark, but dim and shadowy. A few homeless guys curl up under their summer blankets (seasonal change is good, you know) ... They look like impressionistic sculptures. Albion sits there, pensively hugging his knees, a vaguely gallic, more or less pubescent boy, staring at the night.... Then a breeze kicks up.. not cool, warm and thick. The gallic, elferino boy flashes a wry smile. He knows. The ghost is here. Heat lightning radiates in the distance. Sleeping men slowly roll toward the shadows.... Shadows mean shelter... It's good to hide. But one man begins to mumble. He paws at his skin till it bleeds. Then he screams --- The bugs! The bugs! Oh, PLEASE, God, make them stop!! ... A neighbor growls - Yo, you bastid, this ain't GONE WITH THE WIND . Them 'animules' ain't killin' you ... But he stares wide eyed, as millions of nickel sized bed bugs swarm up from cracks in the sidewalk, stream under the blanket and torment the man . They even bite his eyes. He thrashes. He vomits. But they eat that too ,before streaming down his throat for more. He trembles. The blood dries up. He belches. It's over. All are as they were, physically, at least . The breeze moves on and dogs begin to howl. Albion looks into the camera (if we HAD a camera ) gets up and moves on. We 'hear' his voice. --- You've probably felt 'The Zepher' too....

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Some Night-folk Have True Flight... 7/7/15

THE ELFERINO, ALBION, CONTINUES~~~

I lived with the Indians in the early days. They called me windago and I did favors for them. I killed then. That's when I killed. I know I told you how elferinos rarely drain a person to the point of death. But if the person is small we can do it. If we drain them little by little over time we can kill them too. That's what I did. They'd imprison an enemy in the 'dead box,' a tiny, log cabin-like structure. Similar to a log cabin telephone booth, if you can remember what they were. Every night, just after 'night piss' (when braves habitually wake up to reconnoiter the village and pass water) I'd go over to the box, open a little door and bite 'em. At first they'd thrash about and bang their shaved head against the rough walls. But I tapped them anyway. After a few nights they were too weak to do anything. Some moaned a little, but that's all. Sometimes I kissed them, mumbled a prayer, told them not to worry. I knew a bit of Indian patois... really quite a bit. When the victim was European, I spoke French or Dutch... later English. They listened. They sobbed. They died.

And the Indians gave me fine glass beads...delicate suede garments... lynx cloaks and raccoon skin hats. Davy Crockett never looked as good. I had costly English clothes too, pilfered from rich, Philadelphia houses. But I liked my life in the woods. I had a cave. That was my place. Google Vampire Wonderland, the Talks To God Man, if you want to know what it was like. Burned fat, tallow candles in natural, rocky niches. Had a domesticated, or maybe just merely mesmerized, mountain lion called Le Chat. Elferino blood was like catnip to him. I gave him droplets every now and then to see him stretch and purr. Once he ate a chief's baby, but I had nothing to do with that.

The trees were so thick and green... the ground so fragrant and moist. You think bottled water is clean and pure? You should have tasted the Wissahickon. That was clean. Like cold, liquid glass. Night-folk can imbibe clear liquids. That's how I know. I bathed in it too. Running water rarely freezes and cold doesn't harm me... just another sensation. I washed by moonlight. Some of the Indians would sneak out to watch. I didn't care. I knew they were there, but vampires are vain... elferinos and elferinas even more so...

That's when I discovered I could fly... back in those early nights, I mean. I'd rise from my icy bath and streak toward the stars. Ordinary vampires appear to fly, but they can't. Vampirinas and vamperinos sublimate through the air. There's a difference. They actually 'climb' each molecule, whereas we truly fly, even through a vacuum. Do I know why that is?... No, but as you have probably heard, the 'magic' settles different on each and every one of us. Doctor Franklin has his theories, but no one understands why. 

Did you know Celeste and I did a magic act at the old Arch Street Theater? Think eighteenth century vaudeville. We'd fly about... read some minds... plant images... create mass hysteria. Jonathon saw us. Told us to be more discreet. But nothing ever happened. Even then he was thick with the powers that be and he looked out for us. Rondo and Alice we were called... two gothic harlequins on the stage. We had fun. Some called us demons. People say a lot of things...

The building's still there. Old pockets survive all over town. God, I love this place. 

Come back next time. I'll show you some ghosts... Just make sure you don't address them by name...

No, really... You have to promise.... 

Don't do that...

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Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: Post 2 NaNoWriMo for November 2012

Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: Post 2 NaNoWriMo for November 2012: Post 2 Now walk-in bingo parlors are a fixture in certain areas, usually cropping up along low level strip malls or struggling old busine...If you read part one of my BINGO BOY story arc yesterday, here;s part two.. Marty's story. How that bastid got into the bingo business... And, yes, this post is based on truth too... Please click on that NaNoWriMo phrase up above and come in...

Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: TOMAS PLAYS 'BIG BROTHER'... 3/17/13

Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: TOMAS PLAYS 'BIG BROTHER'... 3/17/13: Edith was crying. Tomas found her like that. The sun had just about set and he was getting ready for the evening. He can take 'the gloa...This is what happens when vampires right wrongs... You ever been wronged?... Read this... It's cathartic ... Click on TOMAS PLAYS BIG BROTHER up above and see the whole thing.... Regular post comes later... Vampires don't like hurtful, disrespectful, meanies...

Sweeney Todd - Not While I'm Around...The Elferino, ALBION SPEAKS .. 6/29/15

I am Albion. Attentive readers may know my name. I fly through the tale from time to time. I am one of the elferinos and elferinas and a vampire of sorts, but only of sorts.... A Peter Pan by moonlight. I'm sure you know Marianne. Many wealthy people here abouts payed ten thousand dollars to hear her story. She told it in a house just down that cobbled lane over there. You can still hear the echo. Well, night-folk can, I mean. Echos never fade for us. They get tiny and quiet and brittle, but they're always there. I hear Abraham Lincoln addressing the crowd 'round The Pennsylvania State House. You may know it as Independence Hall. I hear old char women scream as the notorious ghoul, Johnny Jump Up, drags them to the roof tops for a midnight feast.


The world's a hard place. I can tell you that. They sealed me in an leaden box. I was a captured little elferino... a vampire boy, snatched up in a net wrought from fine, lead filaments. Night-folk cannot sublimate through lead. I don't know why. We just can't. I felt them seal it shut. I could feel the heat... the molten lead. You see, the box was like a cube and I was all curled up hugging my knees. Movement was impossible. I had burns on my arms, the sides of my shoulders and my scalp. They tore off my clothes and forced me in. This was in Normandy, but that's not important. Well, it sort of is. Most New World elferinos and elferinos come from Northern France or the Low Countries (Belgium and The Netherlands)... Witch hunts and all... They were big then. We didn't burn, though. They didn't want to foul the land with our ashes. They got another boy when they grabbed me. He'd just been turned the night before. I don't know what happened to him. Most were taken out in boats and thrown into the sea. The lucky ones washed up here, or in Cuba, or Haiti, or someplace like that. Currents helped. The whales helped. We know them as 'Princes of The Sea.' Princesses too, I guess. Enchanted folk, I mean. The whales would nudge us along... around rocks, or impediments. I was under the waves almost thirty years.


Sixteen thirty four... that's when I washed up. Philadelphia was already there. It just wasn't Philadelphia yet. Swedish people lived around here... maybe some Dutch too. How do you think the Schuylkill River (Center City's 2nd waterway) got its name? Some soldiers rescued me. They broke the box. I didn't cry, or anything. I was numb... frozen... locked in position. But my mind was a thousand leagues away. Night-folk can do that. We go into dream-like stupors. I was home in Normandy. God knows what they thought when I fell out. No treasure. Just me. 

I bit one right away for the blood. The other ran into the woods. Elferinos rarely kill... almost never. He was a big musketeer. Too much blood for me. He lived. A smaller man, or a woman might have died.

Listen to me, going on so about myself. Do you have anywhere to go? Your face will bruise, you know. I can 'do something' to that guy if you like. You're not scared of me are you? My eyes shine... the pointy ears. That gets people sometimes... mortal people, I mean. Don't cry. I won't hurt you. And you'll be safe with us. (He puts his arm across her back... They just sit there, on the white, marble steps of a Philadelphia row house. The woman inside is dead, but Albion didn't do it. She just died. He sensed that and came to comfort her spirit. But then he found the girl. He helps her up. They walk off. The ghost of the dead woman peeks through the drapes and watches as they go.)

Elferinos and elferinas are basically good souls and often defend the helpless. Are they 'vampires?'... Yes, but 'magic' is a funny thing...

Well, not 'funny' but strange.

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Elle King - Ex's & Oh's .. While Jonathon's Away, Vampirina SARAH Scores a Few X's & O's .. 6/28/15T

This is Sarah. You know me as Jonathon's consort. But what you don't know is I also 'consort' with others when he's out of town. I like the city during the summertime. Perhaps because 'humanity' is not so distant from me. And I speak of my humanity. Five years ago, I still ate salads and drank diet soda and bought Clearasil. Twenty somethings break out too, you know. I used Tampax and Secret roll on deodorant. I carried Tic Tacs and bought knock-off designer bags from a place off Bainbridge. And now I'm a vampirina... No more Clearasil and Tampax and the bags aren't copies anymore. I drink eighteen dollar chilled vodkas. And every time I walk into a certain Old City dance club the D.J. plays DEVIL IN A BLUE DRESS. My mortal bed-boys, Luther and Timothy go with me. Flotsam and Jetsam, I call them. Such evil toys they are. But I keep them in check. See those thick, black watch things they wear? They're house arrest bracelets. You don't have to wear them around your ankle. That way I know where they are. That way they stay out of trouble.



Philadelphia is clogged with tourists. They stand where George Washington stood and Chubby Checkers stood and Bobby Rydell stood and Grace Kelly stood. They take selfies with all the ersatz Ben Franklins (and sometimes the scientifically preserved real one). Ben Franklin is our Mickey Mouse. They go see the townhouse mansion (now a museum) where house guest Bram Stoker wrote Dracula, some say based on stories Jonathon told him about a certain noxious vampire from Austria-Hungary he knew.



I like to talk to them... the tourists, I mean. I chat up conventioneers in bars. I kiss them. I bite them. I tickle them. We go to hotels. there's a suite haunted by the ghost of Sid Vicious or Nancy Spungeon. I like that one. Although I forget which ghost it is. Some spirits are so dull and nebulous. But my dates like it. It's fun to meet a ghost, especially with a witch for protection. That's what I tell them I am. I levitate a little... move things with 'mind power.' Sometimes I levitate during sex. that's a real show stopper. 



Edith (the housekeeper) knows. Look, Jonathon plays games too. I don't tell him and he doesn't tell me. Oh, and I have an alter-ego. Celeste and Marianne, the elferinas gave me the idea. When I'm out and about with Luther and Timothy or whoever, I'm not Sarah... I'm Evangeline.... Some in the Papal retinue have requested an audience. They know 'Papa' from his years in Rome and are curious about the rest of us, I suppose. I'll probably meet with them. we'll see. But that's three months away. If you're here then, or possibly before, make sure you see The Basilica Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul... a vast baroque, God House on the Parkway and equal to anything in Europe. Then take in the deformed, grotesque, preserved bodies at The Mutter Museum... And maybe a stop at a strange, little, cozy, all night book shop called PHILADELPHIA AFTER DARK. Tell them I sent you... after all, I used to own the place.



Now let me go 'levitate' for a guy at The Society Hill Sheraton. I'm in a mood to put on a real show...



<to be continued>



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