I have kept my own counsel as of late and in a sense I have retired from you. Others, both mortal and night-folk have filled my place, but I have always been here... thinking, experiencing and asking. Perhaps, I'm beginning to taste what 'life' is like for the one we all know as "Papa?'
But I am Jonathon ben Macabi, equally known as Tomas de Macabea and I have something to share.
Our world, our planet, our place in the universe is in a state of unbalance. A tribe of philosopher shepherds in the semi arid lands of what now calls itself 'America' has a name for it.. they call it 'Koyaanisqatsi.'... The Hopi knew and subsequent generations of humanity continue to know. We can't pretend any longer.
We are here to help complete and perfect Creation, or at least our part of it... and is not every place we touch our part? Our hands are God's Hands. That is the potential. The actuality of that truth is up to us.
Go out and work toward the perfect completion of Creation. There is an old Hebrew - Aramaic term, 'Tikkun Olam.' It means 'repair the universe' and the Children of Abraham are charged with nothing less..
Think not that the duty skips you. Think not that you hail from a 'different' tribe. We are all intermeshed.
If the nations had not been so intolerant toward the Exiled of Israel for the better part of two millennia the ten million souls existing at the time of Constantine would, through natural growth, be five hundred million souls today. In a sense, due to brutal forced 'assimilation' that number still rings true. The 'blood' is spread among all. The 'genes' shine forth in many bodies... These days, in this scientific age you can have the test. You can know.
Would that certainty entail a change of belief?... No, what we believe is up to each and every one of us.
These days politicians in the great New World empire of America view mankind as so many crabs in a basket, each responsible for its own place in the pile.. They tell us to work for the betterment of ourselves and be loyal to those who give us work. Well, that is true, up to a point, but it's only the beginning.
You are more than cogs in a machine. I'm sure, 'intuitively' we all know that, just as we know the ideal of 'righteous charity' so often falls so short of the mark....If it did not, physical want and injustice would be gone from the places they call 'red states.' Sadly, that's not true... far from it.
We are our brothers' keepers. There are no 'strangers.' We are all neighbors... It's obvious... Why is such a pure and simple thing resented by so many?
What choices do you make?
Those of you who visit this place with any regularity know me. Tomas de Macabea, or Jonathon ben Macabi (I am both) is a reverent soul, a believing 'vampire,' or at least, most nights, I am.
That's all
Have a nice weekend and if it is within your power to help others have a nice weekend, do that too.
It's a start.
<more to come>
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Think of me as an Austro-Hungarian raconteur. I've graced the legendary coffee houses of Vienna and Budapest and Prague. I've danced at Schonbrun Palace and tasted the blood of Hapsburg royals. Some say I invented the czardas, or that it was invented for me. I have a lock of Cissie's hair... more than a lock... live strands complete with waxy roots and all. Some day we'll grow her back. I'm told the roots hold volumes on each and every one of us. Who has your hair?
Don't ask my age, or the place of my nativity. Who cares for such arbitrary details? But know me as Baron Sareki. That role defines me. Am I vahmpir?... Yes I am vahmpir... and I am showman, impresario, rememberer of things past and so much more... I am orchestrating a 'come back,' though I have never gone anywhere.
It was so much easier being vahmpir in the old days. Private things were private things. People believed what you told them to believe. Brash, showy but eccentric Mittl-Europan 'aristocrats' were two for a pfennig . And the occasional missing 'ladies of the Ring Strasse' meant nothing. Members of the Gendarmerie barely noticed. Men of a certain sort were worth even less.
Unlike your Jonathon, I took no vows. Once I heard an advocate (lawyer) say most murders are aberrations. People snap. The right stimulus at the right time can cause that. Murder happens. Someone dies and then it's over. Skies clear. Birds sing. Peace reigns and the killer never does that thing again. Murder addicts, what you now call serial killers are rare. I think night-folk commit the same aberrant act over and over again. The trigger... the visceral blood lust... But in our case the circumstance, or the trigger, or the tension never disappears... Who knows? Perhaps we are serial killers. I mean do you think the Menendez Brothers will kill again?... The whole issue puzzles me. Are we battered individuals? Was the vampire who brought us over, in effect, out batterer? Is the only cure peasants with pitchforks, or some such variation?
Our individual conditions... yours... mine.. everyone's are so muddled. That's just how life is...
But the 'wine' flows... and we of the vampire persuasion possess near immortality, so tonight I dance. Tonight I feast. If I happen to drain you, or some other human you're attached to, hate me not. The act is not 'personal,' but an automatic reaction to a trigger far beyond my control.
Such savory little treats you all are... like sweet and sour meatballs drenched in gravy.
Ah, wunderbar.
(clicks heels) Baron Sareki is pleased to taste... no, forget I said that... Baron Sareki is pleased to meet you...
<Baron Sareki's tale will continue>
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They once sealed a vampire into a heavy, thirteenth century iron maiden made of lead. When it was shut and locked they wielded the seam with more lead. For the unfortunate life-eater sealed within there was no way out. Vampires cannot sublimate through that dense metallic substance. He sat there, forgotten, in the burial crypt of a semi ruined Austrian castle. Snow melt filtered down through the stones. He felt the cold. Thus he marked the seasons. Sometimes he dreamed. sometimes he didn't. The world turned 'round without him.
He's still there. The 'magic' rests differently on everyone. Some would dry and shrivel. But only some. I am Jonathon and I know many things. I feel them. I smell them. I taste them. And I sit here in our Philadelphia townhouse contemplating what I should share with you. There's so much... But let me just say this --- Truth usually comes at the beginning. So pay attention to our early writings. First utterances are the most accurate. All the really good words get used up. What comes after that rings hollow. It's like that with musicians... with poets and artists. The initial torrent runs clean and fresh. Subsequent trickles bear pebbles and sand.. Do you understand?
I've been practicing my 'expansions.' It's like sublimating. But when we sublimate the atoms of our beings diffuse only enough to allow us to pass through solid matter. Expansions are different. We grow like clouds. Each particle moves away from its neighbors like stars in the firmament. Of course you understand the universe is expanding too? Maybe that's just how it is? 'Entropy' and all. I rise up above the atmosphere unto the very portals of space and I expand till my outstretched arms reach Heaven's Door... figuratively speaking.... I rest like that, drifting toward the Moon.... an invisible human shaped thing perhaps twelve thousand miles long. The silvery orb a basketball . My fingers rake the dust.... Then I contract and come back home.
'Papa' says I may not feel compelled to feed much longer. though I'll still possess that ability. Am I afraid?... Of course. But life goes on. What comes next is also a new beginning.... Will I still be here? Certainly... Things take time. Ux Mal wasn't built in a day.Sarah, my consort, watches me.. Now please know she has abilities far in advance of most other six year old vampirinas. I created her. My blood is her blood. But I've witnessed more than a thousand years... Well, maybe not. But close to it.
She sits there, in her comfortable club chair doing needle point.... petit point, actually. Her eyesight is superb. With concentration, she can see microscopic creatures cavorting through a glass of tap water. I can see souls rise up from corpses. I can hear the shrieks and cries of those buried alive. That doesn't happen so much anymore, not in 'developed' western cultures. But when it does, I can hear them.
Edith, our 'witchy woman' housekeeper, hands me an 'old fashion' glass of chilled vodka... more than chilled, icy cold actually. I enjoy the sensation... Cold is good. Vampires love cold. Winter is our time.... long starry nights.
The summer solstice approaches. They say in the misty time of first beginnings, early vampires truly feared that event. What if the days continued to get longer and longer till nighttime was no more? They gathered for prayers and for what some might call 'feeding frenzies.' But that was far, far in advance of my time... Papa's time too... even the Lady Renate knew not those things, though we all heard stories.
I suppose 'Mr. Old Bones,' the only extant Neanderthal vampire I've ever encountered might know the truth? ___________________
With that, the life-eater known as Jonathon ben Macabi, or Tomas de Macabea (both are equally valid) puts down his glass, exits the 'den,' proceeds through the entrance hall and leaves the house.
Sarah, his consort, waits for the door to click shut. It locks automatically. Vampire doors are always locked.
She exhales and returns to her craft.
<next time - magic even you can do>
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Your vampire friend, Jonathon ben Macabi, like this. He listen to it all the time. He think and he listen. Tried to get rid a y'all for a while. Had Billy throw that Illuminati tale at you. True stuff too. Got it from an old journal. Lawrence Edgerton was real. A lot of what we tell you is real. Thing is... y'all don't know which parts.
But nobody read it, or not 'nuff nobody. Y'all want blood. Gets like that in the summertime. Folks get hot. Get itchy. Get buggy. I Mister Never You Mind. Y'all know me. Just a disembodied spirit of a man what got throwed in acid 'bout ninety five years ago somewhere in Le Vieux Carre. Dat de Frenchie part a New Orleans. I was a Creole gentleman, or at least I dress like one. Had dem white suits and nice cool Panama hats. You know them hats not come from Panama? Get 'em little way passed Panama, down Ecuador way. I used to go down there for de white powder... de cocaine. Folks in Quito, dat de capital, like doing business wit America people, 'specially us Creole folk, 'cause we sorta speak they talk. Most Creole be a mash-up a Spanish an' Frenchie. Talk both ways. But I digress.
Jonathon tired. Night-folk (vampires) get dat way come June. Nights too short. Blood too hot. Dey like it hot, but not dat hot. He once make a gal take a cold bath 'fore he kill her. She say - What for I got take a cold bath?.... He say - 'Cause I say so.... She go - Humph.... He say - You take dat cold bath, I give you gold bracelet.... She say 'humph' again, but she take dat bath an' he give her dat bracelet. She wear it when he kill her. But then he take it back. What for she need gold bracelet when she dead? Not like she know what comin'. Ain't nobody know dat. I once knew a fellah walkin' by de boneyard get killed by a beer bottle from the sky. Aviator guy toss it out. Diss right after de Great War. Dem bastids think they hot shit. He got gal up dere wit him. She say - Whoopee! How 'bout you an' me get drunk, big boy?...... So they do. She get herself little bit knock up, but dat wit 'nother big boy.
Dey send me out here to talk to you first. Night-folk, I mean. Jonathon gone break some bastid's knuckles wit a hammer 'fore he kill him tomorrow. You know ev'ry finger got three knuckles... the big one what meet the hand and two little ones. Gone be lot a bone crackin'. Punishment fit de crime. Dat how it is... He got this thing he do, vampire fellah, I mean. Stand behind a guy. Put his right hand over guy's forehead, so head can't move. Then he hook his left hand over fellah's jaw an' rip it right off. Tongue too, most a the time. Dat for like a real big crime.
Vampire got they ways. You don't wanna cross 'em. They tear you right up. Not like gettin' throwed in no vat a acid, but still....
It gone be a long hot summer... an' if y'all want vampires, you gonna get 'em.
<more to come>
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also, please read the post right before this one, especially if you'd like to join an expanded version of this blog... go see what we mean.
This is Jonathon ben Macabi speaking, or Tomas de Macabea. Both truths are equally valid. I am the vampire 'star' of this site and in a sense its mascot. We've been here, on line, for six and a half years, detailing all types of fiction and fantastical escapes (well, at least we 'say' it's fiction) And we will continue to do so, but it's time to grow. That's where you come in...
Everything is everywhere... We believe that. In this digital plane of existence location is not a bar to anything. Light shines through every screen... hopefully some of it bounces off you. So join us. Pick a niche and write, or report, or interpret and tack your words up here. We already enjoy a somewhat respectable level of traffic. As of tonight, we're closing in on 400,000 hits. Considering most came in the last two years or less that's pretty good.
It's time for you to stake out a platform and fully inhabit your space. We're adding writer-reporters to our authorized contributor list. I think we're allowed one hundred.. A few we've already nominated. Many will nominate themselves. If videos are your thing, post videos... Cover food, or style, or cinema, or politics, or culture, or humor. Interview people. Share your links and any other sites you might have... Cover music. Post your own material... Discuss creativity with other creative people.
Switch niches whenever you want, just preface every post with --- KEYWORD MUSIC ... or KEYWORD POLITICS ... or KEYWORD CINEMA ... You get the picture. Make's it easy for browsers to search topics... example --- vampirewonderland.blogspot.com music.... All written posts should be at least 500 words. That's not our rule. Blogging experts say readers prefer 500 words or more. If you post video or audio material, you're the director. You pick the length... You decide how your by-line looks.. Does it come up top right after the keyword, or at the bottom? If you have a Twitter of FaceBook page, or any other social site add those links too. You can make them clickable. You'll see 'Link' on a bar at the top of the page when you write. Click on it. Very easy to figure out.
If you'd like to do this, click Billy's Twitter link just below all this and he'll set it all up.... Uh, I'm not 'Billy.' I'm Jonathon... remember?... OK.
There's a 'share' bar at bottom of each blog page. I'll get into how to use it later... but USE it... It works.
Till next time.....
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click BILLY ON TWITTER ... to join me and talk about your ideas..... Everything is everywhere... What choices do you make?... You want inspiration?... Listen to the great video from the movie FAME up at the top... Saw it on You Tube and had to share it. It's sooo good.
We've been experimenting and considering new things. Story arcs will still be a part of it, but so will a lot of other things.... non fiction... 'newsy' things.... critiques... opinions...interviews.... Still feeling our way around... Will be sending invitations to writers soon... Manhattan's Ron Woodard might be the first (his invite already went out).. If you're a regular reader or TWITTER inter actor<---- click here to communicate with me (us?) about this via Twitter.... Morphing (maybe, I hope) into #vampirewonderland (clickable) an Urbane 'Evening' Newspaper... as we always say ---- 'everything is everywhere'..... what do you want to say, or highlight, or share?.. What's YOUR niche?
We already have 'some' name recognition... Might as well stretch and grow...
Also note ---- you can cover goings on in ANY city on Earth.... arts.... politics.... film.... pop culture..... how to get a break... how not to get a break.....Everything is everywhere.... borders are merely an illusion....
Please think about this... If you like, go watch ALMOST FAMOUS for inspiration...
Lawrence Edgerton, in spirit form, shares more from his early years with the Illuminati-----
Besides Hefton, I made three other friends that night. They were all a bit older than I and called me 'little brother.' One was a 'lord,' since his father was an earl and, as elder son, he carried the secondary title. The other two were brothers hailing from an amazingly rich gentry clan. Now gentry families are a whole other thing. They bear no titles, but not due to any social deficiency. I suppose, they just don't need them. Everyone knows who they are. And not being peers allows them to pull strings in the commons, where it really counts. Besides, they often hold vaunted county seats, such as sheriff and that provides real power too. Tarlton, they were called. Twins, though not identical, if I recall correctly.
Why do I dwell on this?.... Well, that's due to what happened next. They took me to a secret establishment. London was filled with secret establishments, from hidden gambling dens to a variety of gimmicky whore houses and occult cellars where they (at least according to whispers) sewed live humans into the carcasses of gigantic Nile crocodiles, which were then slow roasted in a long narrow bed of red hot coals. They say a certain Upper Egyptian river deity appreciated the gesture and dispensed eternal largesse to all committed supplicants. Why they didn't just write him a nice fat check, I'll never know.
We went to a rare and new display, deep beneath the second cellar of an old country house (or what was once a country house) a bit to the west of Vaux Hall, a once esteemed pleasure garden with wine dispensaries, live music and lovely little boats for hire, as well as a festively decorated merry-go-round and other such fun-fair devices. The place sat off beyond a dark, secluded copse patrolled by armed guards. Some said a Scots Laird paid them, others a gentleman close to the throne. Wise men said nothing, as it was their place to know nothing.
That night we travelled incognito, in a nondescript hired coach, devoid of ostentatious trim. The coachmen was a mute illiterate. Any secrets he might know were sealed within his bones. The two bodyguards, brought up from Palermo and blood members of The Black Hand were the best that money could buy.. So we rode through the gardens and passed through the trees, till we came to the house (still a large commodious affair) and entered through a discreet, little kitchen door 'round the back...... A quick race down two or three turns of an ancient, spiral stair delivered us to the spot.... How many similar places hid among the rabbit warrens of London, I do not know. In that age they were numerous and well frequented.... You might call them 'television' and 'internet.' So feign not exalted honor at our expense. You do the like, though from a proper distance.
None were witness, save myself, my four companions and a master of ceremonies done up like a cruel, dandy clown. The walls, thick, white washed, rough hewn stone. In the center of the chamber was a large, black, cast iron cage with a small narrow passage going off to the right and a matching one going off to the left. They floor was strewn with straw. A miserly bit of dull, orange light fell down from lanterns widely placed about the space. The cruel clown whistled. A door opened and a whimpering naked wretch crawled forth from the sinister side out into the round cage.... No one made a sound.... The wretch, in a barely audible voice, whispered - Please..... but in vain. No rescue there that night.... The clown sighed and the remaining door burst open, releasing a bristling, bounding ape, brought hence from the banks of a river deep within the fetid depths of an equatorial jungle... How it shrieked and rattled the bars.... The victim curled up like a nut and tried to disappear, but the keen eyed beast already knew his scent and studied him . It hissed. The man screamed. The carnage was on.
First they go for the scrotum (true). Do you know how easy it is for a one hundred and eighty pound thing with two and a half inch canines to do that? The immediate and prodigious fountain of red is absolutely amazing. One can see the heartbeat in each and every pulse. Very often other sex parts come off with it. Death, due to exsanguination is a given. The straw was completely blood soaked. The ape's head resembled nothing so much as a crazed, candied apple. One or two of my companions downed swigs from cunning, little flasks.... Then the ruined fetal human babbled in an unknown language, reigniting the ire of the troglodyte, which grabbed the doomed meat sludge by its ankles and swung him around in complete circles, like a frightful ballerino committed to smashing as much bone as possible against the bars. Finally, the dizzy, stumbling ape settled down and proceeded to strip the flesh from the skull. We heard weak, little moans as it sucked out the eyes. Hard to stomach the fact that any measure of consciousness still remained.
The small door at the end of the passage to the right scraped open. The ape grabbed his dead 'toy' by the mandible and quickly disappeared back to its den.
No one moved...
After a heartbeat the cruel, dandy clown clapped his hands and giggled with delight.... We freshened ourselves at the kitchen pump (fortunately no one was splattered... they obviously had this show down to a science) and left.
The cool, night air through the slightly opened coach windows felt good.
And the sound of lurid hurdy gurdy music (a Vaux Hall staple) played us down the lane and out to the streets.
Tomorrow, or some day soon after, I'd see the Tarltons about an investment. My Illuminati mentors need their money to proceed.
And I think I know how to approach them..
That's how it was... Witness a murder, make a friend....
'Society' in the capital, circa 1830's......
<more next time>
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