February 19, 2017
Diary 19th February
My interest in history?
It was the way our teacher approached the subject back in the day, made it so much different to my other classes. I can’t remember her name now, but I can visualize her face. I was seven years old.
It was a mixed class, boys and girls, and we all sat around listening to her, still as statues as she told us about the Stone Age, Neanderthal man and the first Homo Sapiens. It fired my imagination.
I remember working flint in the garden at home and making my own (lethal) Stone Axe, using a tree branch (suitably trimmed and stripped of bark) and twine. My first attempt at ‘historic’ reconstruction.
Dildos are great and vibrators are fun,
But nothing beats the strength of my tongue!
Just because it’s a bad idea doesn’t mean it won’t be fun…
I felt your mouth on me as I slept. I forgot about your teeth…Ah, my sweet vampire!
Trump, Trump, Trump…
Poor Donald seems to be floundering, out of his depth. He plays the media, of course, and they hate it. Each day in office he creates a new controversy and the media like a pack of constipated gripe hounds hurry to the sound of “their master’s voice”.
He has, without doubt, outraged the world with his attempted immigrant ban. But he’s certainly NOT the first president to do this. Back in 1882, Chester A Arthur signed his name to the ‘Chinese Exclusion Act’ banning Chinese for a period of ten years from entry into the US.
President Franklin D Roosevelt, elected four times no less, argued Jewish refugees posed a threat to US national security. Exaggerating the fear that Nazi spies could be hiding in their number, he limited the number of German Jews who could be admitted to 26,000 annually. (Less than 25% of that number were actually admitted).
Theodore Roosevelt, that tireless advocate of war and winner of the Nobel Peace Prize (one should never underestimate Scandinavian wit), banned “Anarchists” from entry to the US along with sufferers of epilepsy, beggars and importers of prostitutes. It was the first time ‘the home of the brave and land of the free’ banned people because of their political beliefs.
And more recently, Jimmy Carter banned Iranians from entering the US. His attorney general, Benjamin Civiletti, ordered all Iranians with student visas to report to U.S. immigration within a month or face possible deportation. Almost 60,000 students were registered as requested, 430 were deported and 5,000 left voluntarily. There was no great outcry or gnashing of teeth at the time by the moral majority.
And then President Ronald Reagan, dear Ronnie, inventor of the Star Wars project and ex-FBI informer, banned HIV positive persons from arriving in the US. This law was influenced by homophobic and xenophobic sentiment towards Africans and minorities at the time. Again, the media paid little attention.
So perhaps the problem is NOT the immigration ban as such, but is more about President Trump’s ‘style’ of government? He is NOT seen as “presidential” by the media, possibly?
Perhaps they are comparing him with those rather dim presidents in the past? Rutherford B Hayes, for example. Hayes and his wife known as Lemonade Lucy were high society butterflies. Of course, his opponent in the 1876 election, Samuel Tilden, was elected president by a quarter of a million votes. But Congress and the Supreme court, showing they could act just as forcefully and illegally as any president, reversed the election and the poignantly blameless Rutherford became know thereafter as president Rutherfraud.
Or then again, perhaps it’s Trump’s wealth the media and his opponents take issue with? The US, of course, has never had a ‘poor’ president. Even George Washington was a millionaire (his fortune honestly acquired via marriage). From that day to this, holders of the presidential office simply became increasingly more wealthy – that had to be the case in order to finance their political campaigns. And the media flourishes on the hundreds of millions of dollars spent at election time for television advertising – air time that increasingly avoids anything political, while indulging in ever more disgraceful character assassination.
Or then again, perhaps it’s the way Donald backcombs his hair pisses off so many people? I don’t know. It’s a mystery. He’s not a very ‘revolutionary or original’ president; most of what he suggests has been done before – like the famous wall between US and Mexico, a build already commenced by another, earlier president!
No. Ultimately, I see Donald Trump as one of the prosperous few making wide-ranging promises to the restless many – his personal goal, to depart on that magical ego trip of White House residency. But will he keep those promises? Are they even realistic or realisable? Only time will tell…
October 18, 2016
March 13, 2016
Diary 13th March
Sometimes we resemble a small pack of wolves, we’re that insatiable…
Yesterday, I was out of “salts”: hardly any sleep to speak of; prepared breakfast as usual, but couldn’t face my own…For the whole day I eat only a small bowl of cous-cous mixed with roasted veg. Drank nothing but water and one glass of apple juice. Concern from the others – Was I all right? ‘You must eat…’
Made tender love together in the evening – but, abruptly, it turned rough and selfish. We pursued and achieved climax in an orgiastic delight of thrashing flesh…
Talk of monsters…Real monsters. The rise of Adolf Hitler in Germany. Almost inevitable given the circumstances of Germany at that time. Probably one of the most hypnotic orator’s of the twentieth century. He offered boundless aims and promises, and unlike other politicians of his day, he gave social conflicts and national hopes a mystical sense of majesty and purpose.
The man did not step from a void, however: a strong belief in German racial superiority had developed during the Second Reich of Bismarck and Kaiser Wilhelm…Hitler was a logical heir to this idée fixe of the German people.
It is easy to overlook the part played by the Weimar Republic in the rise of Hitler, the terrible inflation, the tidal wave of sexual immorality…Thomas Mann’s son, Klaus described walking past a group of dominatrices in Berlin 1928:
“Some of them looked like fierce Amazons, strutting in high boots made of green, glossy leather. One of them brandished a supple cane and leered at me as I passed by. ‘Good evening, madam,’ I said. She whispered in my ear, ‘Want to be my slave? Costs only six billions and a cigarette.”
Child prostitution was commonplace in the larger cities. There were brothels specialising in the supply of girls as young as eight years old in Berlin. Mother and daughter “teams” delivered sexual services to men, as described in pornographic detail by the French journalist, Jean Galtier-Boissière. Prostitutes were everywhere on the streets. When your currency is devaluing with every passing second, when work is nowhere to be found, then a woman’s greatest asset becomes her body. Earn the cash and spend it quickly before it becomes worthless. The same applied to boys and young men, too, of course.
In his memoir, “The Europeans”, Luigi Barzini affords us a view of the sleazy side of Berlin brothel-life:
“I saw pimps offering anything to anybody: little boys, little girls, robust young men, libidinous women, animals. The story went the rounds that a male goose whose neck you cut at just the right ecstatic moment would give you the most delicious frisson of all – as it allowed you to enjoy sodomy, bestiality, homosexuality, necrophilia and sadism at one stroke. Gastronomy too, as one could eat the goose afterwards…”
It was a time when six wheelbarrows full of bank notes could barely cover the cost of a loaf of bread. A single pound sterling could purchase in excess of eight billion German marks…!
Cold night, but I slept for a few hours. Outside before dawn, the air smelled fresh and cold, frost on all the cars. The lounge retained the faintest tang of the roasted vegetables I cooked last night. A truly lovely smell, that…peppers, red onion, courgette, tomatoes and olive oil, overlaid with a hint of spices, cumin etc.
If you don’t frighten people a little bit, then what’s the point…?
Sweet Cheeses! Every night he rises from his coffin-bed silently to seek the soft flesh, the warm blood he needs to keep himself alive!
January 5, 2016
February 28, 2015
Snow softly falling on the small clutch of buildings comprising the Morieve family estate. As later related by Aristide Groult, all were sleeping when the child screamed.
‘It was a scream to curdle the blood.’
‘A soul in torment,’ Groult described, making the sign of the cross in the air before him. ‘It woke everyone. We all heard it. A death sound…’
Fear often paralyses. An individual, touched by unspeakable terror, finds him or herself unable respond; to take action of any sort. And that is precisely what happened now, following the screams of young Adine Boursang. Groult and his wife sat frozen into ridged immobility – as did most of the estate’s terrified inhabitants.
Josépha Boursang, however, after momentary hesitation, rushed to her daughter’s room above the stable; her husband was only seconds behind her. They found the girl on her bed of blood-soaked straw, throat ripped open and totally drained of blood!
Word of the bloody atrocity quickly spread. Many of the local peasants muttered an explanation of sorts with the single word: vampire…
‘The child had been sucked dry by one of the undead,’ said Groult. ‘A priest should be sent for immediately. Action taken…’
Because the vampire’s identity was known to one and all: the old Viscount, dead and buried these past ten years. Yes, the Viscount de Morieve, that shrewd aristocrat who had managed to keep his head, when all about him were losing theirs, during the ongoing terrors of the French Revolution, an upheaval soaked in the blood of the French aristocracy.
‘There was talk,’ said Aristide Groult, ‘of great evil in the man. Even before the Revolution, people claimed the Viscount’s blood was tainted; that he came from the East. Others say how could the man have survive the trials of Robespierre’s Reign of Terror? Explain that if you will. Madame guillotine was cheated by this de Morieve. He faced down the mob. Or so they say. He came through it, and with his lands intact.’
Came through it, yes, but greatly changed by what he’d seen and experienced. People ripped apart by the mob, literally ripped limb from limb; others stoned or beaten to death by peasants whose faces were awash with blood. He’d witnessed friends and close acquaintances beheaded by the guillotine, the national razor. He’d existed for some years in this sea of blood…
Biding his time, or so it was claimed, the Viscount de Morieve waited until the restoration for his revenge. He systematically began to murder peasants, day labourers and casual farm hands. Using a double-handed axe he would decapitated his victims, bathing in their blood and dancing naked in the moonlight.
These atrocities continued for some months, until one evening a blacksmith on the estate fearing for his own life brutally murdered de Morieve. The Viscount was dully buried in consecrated ground with all due ceremony.
‘But he came back,’ Aristide Groult claimed. ‘He came back and we did nothing. He murdered child after child. For years it went on. And we did nothing…’
Finally it was Nathalie Larrieu who took action. Seventy-two years after Adine Boursang’s bloody murder, Nathalie visited the newly appointed priest. The priest, uncertain, shocked by the woman’s tale of blood lust and walking dead, consulted with the grandson of de Morieve. Together they investigated the Viscount’s tomb, opening it to find…the perfectly preserved body of de Morieve, ruddy-cheeked, and in the full-bloom of health.
Without delay a stake was obtained and driven through the heart of the ‘sleeping’ Viscount. He screamed and his screams were heard for miles around. Blood spurted over the interior of the tomb and over the praying priest, the grandson and his retainers.
‘It was the most terrible thing,’ Nathalie Larrieu later testified. ‘As if he were still alive. I’ve never seen so much blood before. After the whitethorn stake was driven through him, the body was removed from the tomb and burned. The ashes were taken to a nearby river and scattered. Since then there have been no more attacks on our children…’
February 18, 2015
Being buried when one is fully conscious and keenly aware of the confines of her narrow house and the stink of cemetery soil, these things are terrible, but, as she has learned, there is always something incalculably worse than the very worst thing that she can imagine. Miss Josephine has had centuries to perfect the stepwise procession from Paradise to Purgatory to the lowest levels of an infinitely descending Hell, and she wears her acumen and expertise where it may be seen by all, and especially where it may be seen by her lovers (whether they are living, dead, or somewhere in between). So, yes, Brylee objected, but only the halfhearted, token objection permitted by her station. And then she did as she was bidden. She dressed in the funerary gown from one of her mistress’ steamer trunks, the dress, all indecent, immaculate white lace and silk taffeta; it smells of cedar and moth balls. Amid the palest chrysanthemums and lilies, babies breath and albino roses, she lay down in the black-lacquered casket, which is hardly more than a simple pine box, and she did not move. She did not make a sound. Not breathing was, of course, the simplest part. Miss Josephine laid a heavy gold coin on each of her eyelids before the mourners began to arrive, that she would have something to give the ferryman.
Caitlín R. Kiernan
The Belated Burial
February 18, 2015
She came to him with the first full moon – her eyes brimming with the light from myriad stars, enchanting him with those delicious butterfly kisses on his eyelids and lips and neck, teasing him with those long slender fingers. Her name was unknown to him. This should have disturbed him, but it didn’t. All that mattered was the feel of her long body against him in his bed.
The young man lost himself in her sensuality, her beauty. Oh, how beautiful she looked, how beautiful, and only he could see. Only he.
And for her part, this Muli, one of the feared Mullo, the undead, was so libidinous she would literally fuck this youth to death over the course of the following days, weeks, on occasion months. She will demand and demand fresh orgasmic release from him, fill herself with his seed, until he’s left a husk, a desiccated corpse.
The Roma believe there are defenses against these creatures of the night. They are wrong. There are none. The simple gypsy solutions to this complex problem are laughable, as any self-respecting Mullo will tell you.
So beware boys & girls. Keep your distance. And girls, should you be unfortunate enough to encounter a Mulo, a male vampire, remember although dead he can still (and probably will) impregnate you. A condom would be a practical idea.
February 13, 2015
Sanguisuga is a Latin term meaning “bloodsucking” used in the Vulgate to explain a passage in Proverbs (30:15) that makes reference to a bloodsucking demon, the Aluga – an Arabic name that translates as: “Horse-leech”, or “Bloodsucking Jinn“ , and traditionally a female demon that feasted on dead babies.
The term Sanguisuga is also used in titles and texts of various eighteenth-century treatises on vampires e.g. DISERTATION ON THE BLOODSUCKING DEAD by Johann Rohl and Johann Hertel, DISSERTATIO DE CADAVERIBUS SANGUISUGA by Johann Stock.
Interestingly the Aluga in some Mediterranean sources is described as a Demonic King of the Vampires…
January 15, 2015
The corpse in its coffin held the thumb of one hand in the thumb of the other. Its left eye was open…as if watching! Its face radiated the look of life: this despite the individual having died three month earlier!
‘Nachzehrer,’ whispered several of the individuals assembled at the graveside.
This creature is truly terrible. It eats its own shroud, and then feasts on flesh – its own! As it consumes itself so living members of its family begin to fade, waste away, their life force sucked from them. The Nachzehrer can leave its grave and lap the blood of its relatives or friends. It can climb to the church belfry and ring the bells…the sound bringing death to anyone unfortunate enough to hear them.
Found extensively in Northern Europe, The Nachzehrer brings death to anyone its shadow should fall upon. It can only be destroyed by disinterment and decapitation. A solid silver coin must be placed in the mouth of the severed head…
December 31, 2014
His hand floated gently too rest on hers. Her skin exploded with goosebumps, her senses thrilling with vibrations. His breath was soft, but cold on her cheek.
“A moment of paradise in your presence – any man would endure a thousand years of torture for that,” he said.
His eyes had the passion of a mad-man, and no doubt when the moon was right he produced scatterings of death over the land. He could blight her very soul. But what did she care? With her hair cropped close to her skull, nose, ears, lips and eyebrows pierced with silver rings. She looked a wild and pagan beauty.
They lay on the shabby bed and, as twilight thickened to purple, exchanged sweet kisses and caresses which burned the very fabric of the world.
There is power in murder. Performed correctly, like any true art, it is a liberating and empowering act. In the planned, calculated killing there is always exhilaration and uplifting joy. There is pleasure, too, in the initial urge; in the conception; in the meticulous planning and in the beauty of the act. He knows this. He relishes what is to come –
Her beauty shrank to a pale glow beneath his animal ferocity. Fear now, finally, deep within her jewelled eyes. His cock, corpse-cold, enters her like an assassin’s knife. He is cruel and hard with a bite that would never be forgotten. Never. She senses more than feels the now slack gash swilled with cream. Here, she thinks, bite my fruit. Crunch its soft juicy flesh between your teeth. Damn me forever…
And she arched her back, threw her face to the sky as that final pulse filled her. And the scream echoed in her skull and the surrounding darkness…
Thus the obayifo drinks the blood of a fresh victim, causing slow and painful death. The Ashanti people living on the Gold Coast in West Africa rightly fear this creature, which can be male or female, and which flies the night winds sowing death across the land.
They are virtually unstoppable, boys and girls. Their appetites voracious to a point beyond human comprehension. Raw meat will cause a feeding frenzy in any obayifo. Be warned.