moonchild's Page

It started with a haunting memory, and a burning desire within . . .

. . . all of my life I felt that I was different, preternatural if you will. I saw things different, felt and reacted to situations different, even as a child I felt that after contact with other people, they would seem to experience a physical and/or mental drain. It seemed that people were drawn to me and I found that with little or no coaxing, could discourage someone’s plans and make them incomprehensively convinced that my way was better.

. . . as I gaze into your eyes I feel your hunger beckoning . . . and slowly we start the dance.

I always felt that I could commune with nature and animals decidedly better than my counterparts. After a day playing out in the fields, I would bring home, stuffed in the pockets of my clothes, frogs, turtles, snakes and lizards . . . as an animal would bring gifts back to their lair. I was never stung by a bee, or bitten by a dog. The night possessed me, in mind and spirit, and running through fields under a moonlight sky catapulted my soul to the stars.

I was dealt a harsh blow at the age of five when I contracted polio and was paralyzed from my waist down for nearly a year. The memory of this ordeal only reaffirms my belief that I was on a different path from others and that I knew I would soon recover in totality, only to be tested again.

Reflecting the stillness in a single dark flame . . . will you bleed for me?

During my childhood, I experienced several accidents, which should have rendered me incapacitated . . . but I walked away unscathed. I fell out of a moving car, thanks to a faulty door handle, without a scratch. I also fell from the top of a slide on the playground to the gravel below, without a bruise.

My best friend, confidant and teacher was my cousin Bill . . . as children we were inseparable . . . we would explore the finality of death by roadside . . . we lived in the country and road kill was just a part of everyday life. We knew each others thoughts. I lost him, one afternoon, on a farm road, where he left 250 feet of skid marks, when a car hit him on his motorcycle while he was doing 60 miles per hour. I lost part of my soul that day . . . although I believe he is still with me. We moved from the country into a working class neighborhood on the south side of Chicago, to a new school, new environment . . . new strangers and no one to tell my deepest, darkest secrets to.

. . . senses sharpened, almost dizzying . . . a hunger that will not be still . . .

I was raised in a very middle class, working family, believing that there was no other spiritual possibility other than Catholicism and after my stint in grade school did not return or practice this belief again. I knew that there were other avenues or teachers in the world capable of explaining the mysteries of the earth, the stars and beyond. We are schooled to believe certain unequivocal destinies when we should be schooled in believing choices are possible to determine our own destinies and that no path is forbidden.

As the 70’s approached it seemed no one cared what you did to sustain your high. Remember, it was cool to be weird. There was a lot of pot smoking and drugs were always available . . . did you ever try “incense and peppermints? Another mind manipulation, a sign of the times, that the hippies tried to get you to believe actually worked, but in all reality, didn’t . . . it was probably the leftover LSD. I never indulged, my high was being with people . . . to read and feed. I loved being close to people. To smell them, breathe in their essence and lure them, make them feel ultimately wanted and then, well . . . quietly drain them. I would play, like a cat with its prey. . . touching, feeling electricity undulate through my fingertips, slowly pulsing through me . . . pulling at my center . . . and asking for more.

. . . lead me to a place I belong . . .

As time passed, I went through a dark phase where most of my movement was done after the sun went down. The light made me lethargic and fuzzy . . . my drain game with people continued to fascinate me and I still had no clue who I was supposed to be. As a child, my grandmother said that I was in tune with others thoughts . . . I was always hearing someone talk, but when I turned around, no one was ever there. I looked for and befriended night folk to keep me company . . . as to say, people that moved around more at night such as musicians, and such. I never thought it was possible that there could be a subculture of people that thought and felt as I did. My primer was the books that were written, in theory and lore, suggesting that anything to do with vampires was, well, unproven and non-factual. My eyes devoured them anyway, knowing that there is always fact in lore. How then, can I explain this feeling . . . this pull . . . this hunger? Surely there were others, but where?

. . . time hangs heavy like a slow burning candle . . .

My dad had a boat that was my sanctuary on weekends. We would cruise up and down the river, stopping at the yacht clubs where I would perfect my craft, to unknowing strangers who just thought I was a “weird chick”. The sound of the water at night, lapping against the hull soothed me. The night always increased my energy level and rejuvenated me. I felt more alive under the midnight blue sky that was dotted with millions of twinkling stars than at any other time during the day. I maintained my day side job mainly to make money to live on. . . I never relied on anyone but me. Surely there was a way to explain all of these feeling that I was having. It had been literally years since my first inkling that there was something wild and wonderful about my soul. I never thought for a minute that these feeling that I harbored in that small place, for so long . . . the ones now that were radiating though me like waves running rampant down a swollen river, were evil, yet, I knew not to invite criticism by outwardly admitting my thoughts to anyone.

. . . and when does it end . . . after I have tasted your being . . .

I suppressed the feelings that were once so strong in me. I couldn’t find answers, my questions were stifled, smothered by time. I had no one. . . so I wrote, read and decided to bide my time. I listened to harpsichord music that would actually depress my mood so that I could pen my darkness on paper. I became an adult and would not notice these feeling rising in me again for many years.


. . . and then I found cyberspace . . .