A Letter to a Thief

To the woman who stole a dress from the store, whom I confronted in the street:

I know you stole that dress.  The hanger was sticking out of your bag when I chased you down in the street.  When I pointed that out, you said that you liked the hanger, then huffed and sighed and rolled your eyes saying "Jeez, I'll pay you the $5."  And the dress?  How would you like to pay for that?

I put the items you wanted to try on in the fitting room, (and counted them as I did) so I know what you had in there.  Also, we only had three of those dresses, and now there are two.

Look, I think stealing is wrong, but if you are going to do it, there should at least be rules.  Such as, once you are caught, you should hand over the merchandise.  All I got was a hanger.

I started by trying to give you a way out.  I suggested that maybe you had taken the dress accidentally.  I would even have been prepared to accept an excuse to that effect.  "Oops, it must have fallen into my bag!" you might have said.  And I would have taken back the dress without question.  I still would have known that you'd stolen it (as would you), but we both could have pretended that you weren't a lying, thieving, bitch.

As it stands, I kind of hope a piano falls on your head in the near future.

I doubt that you got home and sobbed.  I doubt you thought about me for longer than a few minutes as you congratulated yourself on a successful grab, whereas I have thought about you every few minutes for the last five hours.

I have run through every scenario in my head as to how I might have done things differently.  In one, I scream at the top of my lungs until someone calls the police.  In another, my eyes well up and I plead with you to give it back and you, taking pity on this poor, pathetic shop girl, denounce your life of crime and hand it to me.  In another, I tackle you to the ground, empty out your purse taking back the dress and whatever cash you have on hand as a "finder's fee".  And then I spit on you.  And, I don't know, kick dirt in your eyes, or whatever it is that bullies do.  Because that's what you are: a bully.

I hope you spill something red and permanent the first time you wear your stolen dress.  But most of all, I hope you think of me every time you look at it.  And I hope the thought of me gives you the same sick feeling in your stomach that I have when I think of you.

With thoughts of vengence and general stabby feelings,
Julia

Snafu

Well, I’ve run into a slight snafu.  Apparently I forgot that I never actually finished the next chapter.  I just sort of skipped over it with the idea that I would come back to it later.  Well…later never came.  Until I started putting it up here before it was finished.  Stupid idea, really.

However, I am working on it, and might be able to just eke out one more post before I really hit a brick wall.  The trouble is, I didn’t realize that I had left a considerable chunk out.  I thought it was just a few more paragraphs that needed finishing.  But, as always happens when I actually start writing what I planned to write, it keeps growing.  So, there it is.  Nothing I can do about it except slog away until it’s finished.  You will have to learn patience.  And if you’re still reading this blog, I think you must have learned it in spades.

On another note:  I’m on a TRAIN!  I’m headed to PA to see my Mom and Sister.  HUZZAH!

Also, I started taking this class with my voice teacher called, “Singing With the Band.”  It’s a small group of her students, and we are learning how to communicate with a band, especially if you’ve never met and they don’t know what you are going to sing.  We have learned how to make a song chart which you can hand to a band and, even if they have never heard the song, they will know how to play it.  Also, we learned how to transpose!

I have always thought transposing was this magical thing which required a working knowledge of physics, music theory, and rocket science.  Turns out: not that hard.

Transposing, btw, is changing a song from one key to another, in case you don’t know.

Anyway, at the end of the class we will have a concert in which we each get to sing with a real band playing behind us.  Like with drums and everything!  So cool.

So that’s what is going on in Juliaworld.

Goodness the scenery is beautiful.  I think I’ll look out the window a while.

Later.

The Story of My Death Part 2

Part 2 (A bit long, but I couldn't decide where to cut off, so I just left it.  Enjoy.)

June 20, 2011

            I spoke to him tonight.  I didn’t tell him what I was or what my plans for him are, but contact has been made.

           I awoke just after the sun set.  Yes, it is true that I cannot tolerate the sun.  I am a nocturnal creature, uniquely suited to hunting at night.  My eyes are capable of seeing in complete darkness, and in this age of electricity where cities are lit bright as day even at night, I am forced to wear sunglasses to protect them.  My skin is white, and offers little protection from the UV rays of the sun.  I’m not sure the sun would kill me, but I have been burned and blinded by it before, and it is very painful.

            I sleep during the day, usually in a basement, or a room with heavy, thick curtains.  I don’t sleep in a coffin anymore.  There was a time when I loved coffins.  Sleeping in them felt like giving the giant middle finger to death.

            My hair and nails haven’t grown since I was alive.  In fact, except for my skin having been drained of melanin turning it from polished bronze to deathly pale, nothing about my appearance has changed.  My hair is straight and jet black, hanging just below my shoulder blades.  Sometimes, as a treat, I go to a late-night hairdresser and get it cut.  It grows back during the following day, but it’s fun to feel like someone else for a night.  In the 1920’s I would cut it myself every evening so I could slip into the clubs with a fashionable bob.

            I cover my skin as best I can, wearing long sleeves and high necks even in the warmest climes, and applying powder to my face, neck, and hands.  Lucky for me, sunglasses that cover half your face are in style now.

            Tonight, I tied my hair at the nape of my neck, put on jeans, a t-shirt, and my favorite leather jacket.  With the powder applied to mask the unnatural whiteness of my skin, I looked like any other 20-something woman slipping silently through the crowds of New York: unnoticed, anonymous.

            I walked for a long time, the ghosts of times past haunting me with every step, until I came across a poor dying creature in a back alley.  She was searching the trash bins for treasures, a hacking cough rattling her small frame.  She looked up when she saw me, surprised that I had stopped to watch her.  Looking me up and down she held out a hand and mumbled, “Spare some change?”  Her voice was hoarse, and she coughed wetly again for a few minutes.

            I took off my sunglasses and gave her “the eye,” holding out my arms in welcome.  “I’ve come to bring you home,” I said, as she stared at me transfixed.  And then she took one, two shuffling steps forward and I held her tenderly and told her she would be safe.

            She believed me, the poor fool.  I bit her throat gently, just the smallest of gashes to make the blood flow, and began to drink.  She sighed against me, surrendering.  I pulled back and bit again, widening the gash so the blood would come faster.  She began to speak, but I wasn’t listening.  She was probably hallucinating, believing me to be someone she trusted, someone she loved.  The blood was slowing; her heart wasn’t pumping as strongly now.  And I was cradling her as she died.  I found a dirty blanket amongst her scant possessions, and covered her with it.  I didn’t bother to disguise the kill; they’d never catch me anyway.

            Killing has never bothered me much, except maybe the first time.  It is my nature to kill.  I may have been human once, but I’m not anymore.  Don’t look at me like that.  You wouldn’t condemn a lion for killing an antelope, would you?

            I have been cruel, frightening my victims instead of comforting them, tearing their throats out with the first rush of blood, leaving little behind but a mess of body parts.  And I have been kind, killing killers before they could take the life of some innocent.  But while saving a few lives doesn’t make me a hero, taking them doesn’t exactly make me a murderer; I have to eat, after all.  And, yes, I can drink animal blood, and for a period of 500 years that’s all I did drink.  But here’s the part you can never understand until you have experienced it for yourself: drinking blood is more than just a meal, it is literally taking a life.  When I feed, I see and feel and touch and taste the life of that individual.  Memories flow just as the blood flows, and I take my victim into me, closer than lover or mother or sister or daughter.  We become one in that instant.

            You can see why it’s so addicting.  Animal deaths are cleaner because their feelings and experiences are unclouded by guilt or doubt.  They are predator or prey, and they experience the world in absolutes, unquestioning.  The problem with that as a steady diet is that it began to make me see the world in absolutes.  I was living in the wild at the time, far from human civilization, and I became almost like an animal myself, incapable of rational thought or introspection.  I hunted because I was Predator.

            Eventually, some unlucky explorer stumbled into my territory, and with the first rush of his blood I began to remember what it was to be human, with all the complicated emotions that go with that.  It took me a long time to come back to civilization, and when I did, I found that I had missed 500 years of technological advancement.  Moving pictures were making their debut, and the first time I watched one of those marvels, I vowed never to lose myself again.  You humans are just too interesting not to keep my eye on you, and the rate at which you’re going, I can only imagine where you’ll be in the next 500 years.  I wish I could see it.

            Sorry, I will try not to turn maudlin on you.  Suffice it to say, I have stuck to a strictly human diet ever since.  I have always wondered, though, if a domesticated animal would be different.  Does a dog which has spent his/her life being cared for by a human master have more human-like traits and emotions?  Maybe that will be a question for Grayson to answer.

            Speaking of Grayson, I did mention that I spoke with him tonight, no?

            I’d watched him often enough to know where I could find him at that hour, and I sped away from my kill, moving faster than the human eye can see.

            He works nights at a club in Brooklyn, tending bar.  He took the job partly for the live music which he enjoys, but mostly for the people.  He loves to watch people, to talk with them on every topic from politics to art to dirty jokes.  He collects them as characters in his head, and when he goes home at 4 AM, he sits down at his laptop and recreates them in words on a page.

            It was watching him through his apartment window, as he rhythmically tapped his keyboard creating characters and worlds, that made me pick up the pen (metaphorically speaking).

            I’d bought a computer many years ago, just as the internet exploded in a big way, and I loved it for a while before I grew bored of it.  But watching Grayson transform thoughts into words as quickly as he could type, made me want a laptop of my own.

            I went out and bought the most expensive, technically advanced model I could find, plopped it down on my wooden roll-top desk and began to type.  It’s incredibly freeing, this writing-thing.  Makes me feel in command of my thoughts and my past.

            But tonight I didn’t just watch him.  I went to the bar and struck up a conversation.

            “What can I get you?” he asked as I slid onto a stool.  There was a band playing near the back of the bar, so he leaned in a little and spoke loudly.  He could have whispered from the next room and I still would have heard him.

            “Glass of the most expensive red wine you have,” I said, tossing several bills on the counter.  His face pulled back in a half-smile.  He found me amusing, he was intrigued.  He got me the glass of wine, took the money, and moved on to other customers.  I sat and watched the band.  They weren’t bad; all raw emotion and loud drum beats.  I liked it.  It felt very primal with them running around on the small stage, their bodies contracting with the beat of the music, shirtless and long-haired, like some kind of tribal war dance.

            “How’s the wine?” he asked, nodding at my untouched glass.  I turned and smiled my most seductive smile.

            “I never drink…wine,” I said, looking him straight in the eye.  His heart jumped in his chest for a moment, his body recognizing a predator even when his head could not.  Then he laughed, full-throated and surprised.

            I laughed too, softly, so he would think I’d meant to make the joke.  I had, but I was also warning him, daring him to guess what I was.

            “So why’d you order it?” he asked, leaning on the bar casually. 

I shrugged.  “I thought it would be rude not to order something.”

“Doesn’t matter to me, you can sit here all night for all I care,” he replied with an easy smile.  He was flirting with me.  It is a curious game, this flirting.  It is a dance of power, of give and take.  I’ve honed this skill to an art, but that was when the goal was the kill.  Now I would have to move slowly to develop real feeling rather than lust.  He glanced around, checking on his customers, then, satisfied that he wasn’t needed, turned back to me.  “So,” he said, “you into vampire movies then?”

“Some of them,” I replied with a shrug.

“You’re not one of those Twilight people, are you?” he asked, ready to pull back, to be disappointed if I said ‘yes’.

“Please, give me some credit.  I quote Lugosi and you insult me with sparkling vampires?” I drew myself back, affecting an air of mock offense.

“OK, OK,” he said, putting up his hands in surrender.  “You’re right, I should have known better.  You’re far too classy for that shit.”

I couldn’t help but grin.  I love his use of language.  “Too classy for that shit.”  English is so direct.  It is an excellent language, versatile and eloquent, and not afraid to get dirty.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” he said after a moment’s pause.  He was probing, using all the tools in his arsenal to dance this waltz with me.

“You wouldn’t have.  I’ve never come in before.”  This was technically true, for while I had observed him, I had done so from an alleyway across the street.

“Did you come for the band?” he asked, nodding his head toward the writhing bodies onstage.  I shook my head.

Then, in a moment of pure abandon I said, “I came for you.”  He stared at me, trying to decipher my words.  I smiled and he smiled back, but there was confusion in his face now.  I’d upset the balance.  He no longer felt in control.  Down the bar someone called for a drink, and he went to help them.

I watched the band for another song, then slipped out, unnoticed.

I will go back tomorrow.  Let him think on me, mull me over in his mind.  It is nearly 4am now, just about the time he would be heading home.  I could go to him.  Watch to see if I become a character in his story.  What sort of backstory would he ascribe to me?  Or was I too confusing?  Perhaps he won’t write of me at all.  No, I won’t go.  I think I would be too hurt if he decided not to include me.

Julia's Got Talent...Maybe

I'm not posting the next part of TSOMD tonight.  I'll probably do it tomorrow...wait, it's after midnight, so technically it already is tomorrow...well, you know what I mean.

Tonight, I'm going to post a video of me performing at a bar.  This is from a little concert my voice teacher put on in May.  It's (I think) the first time I'm actually posting a video of ME.  Unfortunately, something kind of funny happened with the camera during the first song, and it cut out for a few seconds.  But overall, I think it's OK, at least OK enough for me to share it with you.  Watching it makes me realize that I really need to learn how to play the guitar, if only so I will have something to do with my hands while I sing.  I look kind of awkward just standing there...

Anyway, here it is, enjoy:

The Story of My Death Part 1

Here we go...wind are you ready?  There is some caution coming your way in 5...4...3...2...

Yeah, so, this is the story I've been working on/complaining about/ putting off writing by doing really productive procrastinating (I've talked to you about that before right?  It's where instead of doing the thing you ought to be doing you do something else that is actually productive and useful, such as cleaning your apartment, but still not what you are supposed to be doing.).  It's not finished.  I can't promise that it will ever be finished.  I'm also pretty sure it's not very good.  I mean, I like it, but I'm totally biased.  And with that rousing endorsement, I'm certain you can't WAIT to read it.  So with absolutely no more ado, here it is:

Oh, wait, before I do that, I did want to direct your attention to the right hand side of the blog, where you will find a place to put your email address so that you will get an email whenever I update this blog!  HUZZAH!  You no longer have to periodically check to see if I've updated only to be disappointed!  I have entered my own email address and will be putting this service to the test with this blog.  So yeah...  Onward.

The Story of My Death

June 19, 2011

            Whoever said dying was easy has clearly never been through the experience.  You see, for some of us, it’s not as simple as lying down, closing our eyes, and drifting off into nothingness.  Well, not for me anyway.  I’m a vampire.  Correction: I’m THE vampire.  As in, the only one in the world.

            Listen, I’ve watched just about every cheesy, fang-bearing, stake-shoving, cross-waving vampire movie ever made.  I’ve also read every book I could get my hands on, and while some land closer to the mark than others, the one thing that nobody has gotten right is the fact that there can only be one vampire in the world at a time.  See, the process of making someone into a vampire involves the maker dying and passing along their vampireness to the makee.

            Yeah, it sucks (excuse the pun).  Not only are you a member of the undead, destined to roam the earth drinking the blood of the species you once called your own, but you have to do it alone.

            I was always afraid of death.  I suppose that’s a big reason why I chose to become the vampire when it was offered to me by the current one.  His name was Mirkus, by the way.  He said he chose me because I was strong; strong enough to endure immortality.  He also said I would know when it was time to end it.

            That time is now.  This is the story of my death.

            Mirkus was a little crazy.  He couldn’t take immortality, watching the world change as he remained the same, separate from it.  The vampire before him had already descended into madness when he made Mirkus vampire, and Mirkus told me he hadn’t been ‘chosen’ so much as he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.  He said he was never meant to be vampire, and that he didn’t want to make that same mistake.

            He searched for years for someone he deemed “worthy”.  Don’t ask me how he found me or what he saw in me that made him confident I wouldn’t crack after the first few hundred years.  He said he wanted me to “last”, that it was the only way the vampire could learn and evolve.

            So, what have I learned?  Hell if I know.  Maybe that’s why I wanted to write this little memoir, to reflect on the lessons of my life.

            No, sorry, that’s bullshit.  I don’t want to tell you about my life at all.  What did I say?  “This is the story of my death.”  If it were the story of my life, it would be a hell of a lot longer.

            I’ve lived for 3481 years and in that time I have learned many secrets of the universe, but I never learned the secrets of the afterlife.  I was born in the year historians call 1470 B.C., just three years before Hatshepsut became pharaoh of Egypt, and Egyptian religion was my first guide to the mysteries of death.

            I’ve studied every religion, large or small, desperate for answers, and I have found none.  I suppose what I fear the most, is that I will simply become nothing.  Or maybe that would be a relief.

            You might be asking why, if I am so terrified of dying, I would choose to end it all in the first place.  It’s a question which requires a complicated answer, (too complicated to go into here) but the simple answer is: I have found my replacement.

            I wasn’t looking for him.  I was walking the streets of New York (excellent city for a vampire, New York; you can be surrounded by people and still be alone), when I saw him.  Took me completely by surprise.  But I knew he was the one.

            Now I just have to convince him of that.  Others have discovered what I am before, and it’s never ended well.  They either go mad, try to kill me (and no, stakes and crosses won’t do it), or beg me to “turn” them.  Any relationships I’ve maintained with mortals have had to be carefully orchestrated to be sure they never learned the truth about me.  These relationships didn’t last, for obvious reasons, but I enjoyed them anyway.

            But back to my replacement: Grayson Finch.  How do I know he’s the one?  I could get all mystical on you and say I got a “feeling” but the truth is I see myself in him.  He’s adaptable, curious, creative, and…terrified.  I’d recognize that fear anywhere, especially now, when I feel it so keenly.

            The hard part (after convincing him that I am what I say I am) will be giving up this world and all its wonders.  I have plumbed the depths of the oceans, mapped the deepest jungles, and seen the best (and worst) of humankind.

            I was always an explorer, eager to learn the secrets of the world, and being indestructible allowed me access to the remotest regions.  You would not believe the shit that lives down at the bottom of the deepest oceans.  I don’t have to breathe, so I tied rocks to my legs and just let myself sink.  Animals generally go out of their way to avoid me, but I met some monsters of the deep that didn’t care what I was, only that I was in their territory.  I can’t wait for humans to develop the technology which allows them to dive that deep.  The things you will discover…too bad I won’t be around to see it.

            And the jungles – you think you’ve put a name and a label on just about everything, but you haven’t even scratched the surface.  The number of species of spiders alone is enough to blow your mind.

            And how about when you lot start conquering other worlds?  Who knows what the universe will offer.

            There it is, I’ve gone and made myself depressed.  It’s time to go out, anyway, so I’ll pick up this narrative tomorrow.  I’m going to hunt, and then I’ll check on Grayson.  I’ve just watched him so far, I want to be sure he’s really the one before I do anything rash, but I’ll have to speak to him soon.  I have to move quickly, before I lose my nerve; but still, there’s time enough to savor the end, maybe visit a few old haunts, “put my affairs in order” as you mortals say.

            Tomorrow, dear reader.

In Which I Do NOT Drop a Baby

I have become rather adept at pretending to like children.  Really, the act is almost too good, as evidenced by the incident which took place on May 10th, at approximately 4:36 PM.

Let the record show that I was working.

A woman had come in to my place of business with her baby, a child who had only known life outside the womb for a few short weeks.  The baby was ensconced in a stroller/crib.  You know the ones...they look like a crib, but, you know, on wheels.  Woman wanted to try things on, and parked Baby in it's croller just outside the dressing room.

My coworker (let us call her Leela to protect her identity) was attempting to entertain the child with such devices as silly faces, and soft, cooing noises.  Baby seemed to enjoy this, and it kept Baby from becoming upset whilst it's mother donned various articles of clothing, such as are sold in the store.

Leela was called away, and Baby became agitated.  Not wanting Woman to feel she needed to stop in her quest for new garments, I stepped up to the croller, in full view of Baby, and smiled.  Baby smiled back.

I then spent several minutes engaged in what I believe is a rather cruel game known as "peek-a-boo".  I managed to convince Baby that I had disappeared from existence the moment my hands passed in front of my face, only to magically reappear upon drawing them away.  Baby seemed delighted to discover that I was still alive every time my face became visible.  Still, Baby began to twist and squirm, seeming to search for something which was absent.  Was Baby looking for Woman?  Or was Baby merely becoming distressed by the number of times I vanished into nothingness only to return whole and seemingly unharmed from that abyss.  How many times can one really visit such a place before one is simply gone for good, Baby wondered...perhaps.

Fortunately, Woman had completed her task, and relieved me from my duty to Baby.  I took those items she wished to call her own in exchange for money, and she picked up the fussing Baby, and cradled it in her arms lovingly.

But then, alas, a cardigan caught her eye, and it pleased her.  She wished to admire it on herself before deciding to own it, and she turned to me beseechingly.

"Do you mind holding her while I try this on?" quoth she.  My blood ran hot then cold.  My arms came up in a gesture of defense, and my feet took one or two shuffling steps backward.  Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion as several thoughts at once clamored for my attention.

Of course you can hold Baby...what could possibly go wrong?

What if I drop it...have I ever actually held a baby before?

You won't drop it, and really, can it be that much different from holding a cat?

Yes.  Yes it can be very different.  For one thing, cats land on their feet if you drop them.   Babies...erm...bounce.

But you were sort of getting on, you and Baby.  It's actually rather cute when it's not screaming...

But it can turn on you in an instant.  Oh sure, you're friends now, but any moment Baby will transform into a shrieking rage monster with huge, pointy teeth, and a taste for entrails.

Yes, better not.

"Oh, um...no, I'm not really..."

"Oh, OK."  Seeming to sense my fear, Woman set Baby back in the croller and proceeded to contemplate the cardigan.

I let out a deep sigh, and congratulated myself on having narrowly avoided disaster.

But this is a dangerous road I walk, pretending to like children.  Sometimes (and I only confess this to you because you are my closest confidant) I even think it might not be pretend.

They terrify me, and yet I am oddly intrigued by them.  After all, was I not once one of their ilk?

It is an interesting question.  Very interesting, indeed.

Regards,
Julia


PS-The above is a slightly exaggerated true story.  Also, I had a conversation about dinosaurs with a little girl yesterday, just so you know I'm not a complete monster.  We decided that while we would not like to meet a dinosaur in person, they are really cool.