The one thing about Narcisa which I’m constantly reminded of is that she really doesn’t have to create any specific artwork or poetry.

She is Art itself. And, on some weird, psycho intelligence level of pure animal alien intuition, I think she really knows it…

When I woke up in the late afternoon today, the apartment was completely covered in millions of tiny little white balls of styrofoam, all flying around like snowflakes, blowing about crazily in the wind of the ceiling fan. Still groggy and half asleep, looking around the little room covered in jumping, flying, dancing little white balls, I didn’t know what the fuck to make of it. Narcisa was chasing around the room with a broom, trying in vain to somehow curb the unmanagable flurry.

“What have you done now, ya little maniac?” I blurted out.

“Don’ to be angry to me, Cigano,” she cried in childish desperation, her big expressive eyes shifting around the room like a crazed little jungle cat. Narcisa. The little girl who ate all the cookies. It was impossible to be mad. I just sat there looking at her. Narcisa. Living art.

“I go to open these e’stupid thing for look what inside,” she cried, pointing to the my little leather bean bag chair, as I gawked at her, bleary-eyed, too befuddled still to even laugh. “I open it the zipper and… BOO!!! All these million of the little e’shits it come flying out on my head an’ BOO!!! Now is the e’snowing in these place… Is NO my fault, Cigano!!! How I gonna know these thing all inside? E’stupid sheet!” She yelled, suddenly kicking the beanbag like a pissed off 5-year-old, causing a new flurry of the little dancing white balls to fly out into the spinning whirlwind of the fan.

“Is e’snowing on the Rio de Janeiro, Cigano,” she squealed in delight as I scrambled over to zip the bean bag closed and contain the mayhem… Still groggy, I stumbled off into the bathroom and threw some water on my face in preparation for another day with Narcisa. While I was still brushing my teeth, she slid up beside me like a ghost in her little denim miniskirt and tattered skimpy tube top, looking like Lolita meets Burning Man on LSD. I knew what that meant. Time for the good morning wake up fuck.

I was half awake by now but my dick was still sleeping. Narcisa told it to wake up and it did. “I been the good girl, Cigano,” she whined as I stared absently off into space, watching the little white balls dancing around the apartment like thought balloons blown to smithereens as her brain exploded like repeating fireworks. But we do love the crazy girls, don’t we, boys?

“I have for letting you e’sleep for all the day and I no make the noise an’ bother to you, no?” I had to agree.

She really had actually let me sleep for more than four hours today. That in itself is a small miracle. And she was in a very good mood. Another sweet surprise. That’s Narcisa, a walking, talking universe of surprise, drama and high-risk adventure… super-charged with an electrical overload of raw life force that, if somehow ever harnessed, focused and directed, could light up the whole world forever.

A rock star without a band. A general without an army. A burning bright shooting star of the apocalypse. Narcisa. A living work of unschooled, unrehearsed authentic outsider art and absurdity. A genius. My goddess. My eternal nuthouse Muse.

NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção – registrados na Biblioteca Nacional como ficção com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa viva ou morta se trata de pura coincidência.

It’s the third hundred-fucking-fifty degree day in a row here in Los Angeles and I’m completely deranged. I peel myself out of the chair in the office to lay paralyzed down by the pool, over and over like a fucking rat race while Griffith park is slowly burning down and my head is imploding because there’s no oxygen in the air anymore. Coughing cause I can’t catch my breath. It’s pathetic. Thank God I can laugh at myself.

Why is sitting around so exhausting?

I whimpered and limped in to the elevator like a squashed roach and crawled back up to the office to sit in my shitty chair and burn my ass three times already today. Now I’m having delirious jealous day dreams of Narcisa smoking crack in a cold dark cave… Oh to be Narcisa. Without the pipe. That’d be ideal.

I wonder what the fuck Jonathan and Narcisa are doing now. Does she know how lucky she is to be sitting on the back of that motorcycle cruising through Cabo Frio, or Penedo, or Resende or São Paulo, or wherever they may have ended up today on their roadtrip through the jungles of Hell. Atleast that Hell is moving and changing and green.. and alive. This Hell is stagnant. I’m grateful for my writing and editing to keep me busy and my general appreciation of awareness on days like this where I’d normally be shit-housed by 2pm and half-way on my way to being in a total blackout. That kind of shit happens in the summertime. It’s just what people like me do.

But it’s really not bad. I have fun all day doing what I’m doing. And the nights are sublime. They cool down and Candy I can just sit on the balcony of the Man Mansion in Laurel Canyon or at the Cat and the Fiddle and play lazy games of backgammon and collect our thoughts over coffee so I can prepare for the next sleepy haze. My Grandpa’s death has made the last few days a haze.

Yesterday I spent the day dragging myself around and wringing myself out like a wet towel, wiping the sweat off my Blackberry until it was so sweaty and dirty I could taste the salt coming off of it every time I answered it and the trackball got so slimy it just stopped working. Contacting so and so for a review… following up with others for some sign of life. Following up. Following up. There are no signs of life. I feel a great calm in this. I have some peace of mind for a moment. I wonder, does Narcisa have these moments?

It looks like everyone’s checked out this weekend. I don’t blame them.

She’s been up for three days again now. And, once again, she has clearly crossed the invisible line again into those dark realms of pure pounding psychosis.I don’t know why it excites me so, but it does…..Up to a point anyway.When she’s consumed with that heart-pounding, eye-popping fear and adrenaline rushing paranoia of her self-induced paranormal insanity, I can instinctively smell it, the hormonal stench of a frightened helpless dying alien animal exuding from her.And it turns the predator in me on like a light. And that’s when I just had to leap on her and devour her and fuck her again and again today.I got her pinned down and put it to her long and hard and good a couple of times… and it WAS so good. Good like unanesthetized screaming bullet-wound surgery, beautiful and raw and essencial like a tiger leaping on a gazelle, like a vampire seducing a victem, like a junkie shooting a mainline speedball, so crucial and intoxicating and real, it took me right to the edge, that forbidden zone between life and death… so wrong it’s right. So bad it’s good. So good and necessary and true it has got to be very very bad…But the real down side is that now the insanity don’t stop, won’t stop, can’t stop, and now its too fucking late…Now she’s crossed over again, and now its been getting real real ugly again.For the last hour, since she finished smoking the last crack rock that left her ears ringing to where she held her hands over them, eyes darting around like terrified mice while I fucked her into a daze… since then she’s just been sitting there on the floor, staring at her own crumbling demented image in the mirror, peering openmouthed into the bottomless hell of her own eyes, deep deranged angry pools where raging demons live… open portals where the crazed angry spirits come pouring out into our world again now.Spirits with ugly faces and ugly names like Self Pity, Self Hate, Self Obsession, Narcissism and, ultimately… Self-Destruction.I’ve seen them all my life and I know ‘em quite well. I watched them kill my whole fucking family off before I was old enough to know I was alive…Ugly spirits of an ugly ego sickness, running amok and opening unseen gates of trauma and terror and hate in my own battered psyche.And I know that’s why I’m here today…And I can feel it again now, the impending danger, crackling between us again, like some invisable high-voltage deadly serpant, even as I scrunch up my forehead and fight to resist the blood-pounding, compelling urge to just walk over to where she sits tweeking like an over-wound plastic toy, and slap her so hard it would dislodge her teeth from her deranged fucking cranium.But I do resist, knowing full well that, though my furious blows may dislodge her head itself from her body, nothing on a brutal physical plane of rage could ever banish those invisible hourdes of malivant entities posessing her now. I know my own insanity and violence would only make it all worse.But now all the warning signs and symptoms of our common soul sickness are present again, inaudable bells and sirens freaking out wildly behind my eyes… and now I know we are slowly, silently suiting up again for war…But today I also know from past skirmishes that no battles in this war are ever won with an angry headlong assault. That’s just what those bottom feeding spirit parasites are hoping for.So today I’m gonna sit here and play it cool this time. Cool as a fucking cat, the way I’m supposed to..Cuz I’ve seen this old horror movie before, been watching it all my fucking life. And the last time I forgot it’s just a movie and lost my shit and lost my temper on her, I almost screwed the game up for us both.Because last time her tormenter spirits goaded me into anger, my ensuing knee-jerk slap in her face had only served to push her right over the edge into her own raging furious violent frenzy of retaliation and mindless vengeance that almost got us both killed or locked up.So this time I’m not falling into that fucking trap again.If she wants to act sarcastic, cold, evil and mean, let her…Despite all evidence to the contrary, I know it’s not even her stirring up all this shit anyway.Einstein said it: Reality is an illusion, albiet a persistant one.So today’s only battle plan is to keep my cool and kill em all off with an overdose of kindness, patience, compassion…Love.After all, isn’t she just a very sick person, just like me and you and all the rest of the poor demented chatterung monkies hopping around the world calling themselves the fucking spearhead of evolution?Today I will remember that Narcisa is not my enemy.Today I will remember that my only enemies are my own trauma-fed memories and phantoms and rattling skeleton bones of an unbearable past that doesn’t even exist now today, except in the churning halls of everpresent psychic illusion.Today I am free, and today Narcisa is simply a friend in need of a firm and loving hand. That’s all this is about. Remember….

It really helps to learn from past mistakes and old battles lost, to know just why you lost and how and where exactly you fucked up. So as not to repeat the same fucking mistake and end up in the same violent, gut wrenching swirling writhing snake pit you fell into before.Again and again and again…Because you can’t ever get out of that pit, not really, not until you’ve learned whatever you went in to learn about the nature of those scary hissing, poisonous vipers in the first place.The most you can ever do otherwise, is just change places in the snake pit. Swap the rattlesnakes for Cobras, Black Mambas for some other poisonous deadly motherfucker. But you’re still there in the same fucking pit. Until you lift your thick fucking skull right the fuck outa there.Then you finally can really climb out and up to wherever’s next in the game…It helps me now to see that there really are all these multi-colored psychedelic karmic trauma triggers laid out all over the fields of this crazy, compelling relationship, like land mines just waiting for the unweary soldier to trample on in a hasty, fear-fueled rush to bloody battle, or a yelping yellow piss trail of cowardly retreat.The main boobie trap here today for my consideration and avoidence is the very clear fact that, whenever Narcisa smokes herself into this kind of loathsome altered state, she seems to have perfectlly and horribly opened up some nasty looking dimentional door that replicates and perfectly chanels the exact same demented energy of my own insane, drunken, angry, unstable, raging, violent, abusive mother at her very very worst.Childhood trauma flashback trigger crack attack..Perfect!!!That’s something to know. And it’s another psychic boobie trap to be neatly sidesteped today.Just another karmic trial, another test to pass….So today I just sat there and ignored her while she hissed and spat and cursed at me, knowing full fucking well that this was simply another trap, or, better stated, a lesson….And, while these tests may seem real harsh and even brutal at times, they’re never random or unfair.How could thry be? When you begin to have a basic understanding of the dynamic metaphysical laws that neatly govern the workings of the universe, you begin to know that all personal relationships are nothing more than lessons to be learned – trials and purifications for the mind and soul..And then, in the middle of a raging psychadelic battle to the death, you suddenly remember that all these trials and purifications are always applied to each one fairly, never randomly or injustly, and in perfect acordence with one’s own individual ability and need to fully experience and benifit from that exact test.Cuz it’s a spiritual axiom that no burden too heavy to carry is ever placed on anyone’s shoulders.. So much for the dubious comfort of the pathetic old innocent victim game I used to play so well.So, If Narcisa is my burden and my curriculum today, I mean to carry her with a big old shit-eating grin, goddammit, without complaint or recrimination..That’s the mission today.Cuz God knows I sure ain’t no bleeding Jesus saint walking on fucking water, so I fugure that’s the very least I can do here for us both…But still there are limits to be observed and fine tuned…So after sitting for two hours straight watching her cook her brains and babble incoherantly to herself, I’d really had enough.

I have somehow, through trial and error all along the dangerous gut-wrenching course of life with Narcisa, begun to learn to know and respect my own limits… And believe me, for a wild animal, just like Narcisa that I too was raised to be, that’s a very good thing.So I told her I was going to go to the beach.It was a beautiful hot summer day. Of course she told me she wanted to go too. And of course, a half hour later while I sat waiting still, she told me to just wait a little while more..Yeh right, just wait a little while more, while she smokes some more crack and stares herself down in the mirror, looking for the miniature marks in her face where the invisible conspirators have been inserting tiny machinery into her bloodstream to affect her brain waves so they can tune in and control her by remote frequency command from distant evil stars…She began to explain how insects are really tiny robots, that mosquitos and flies and such are all these little robot helicopters with sophisticated alien homing devices, and they were all around her now, so she just had to wait a little while longer and smoke some more crack to adjust to their vibrational frequency and crack the code they’re using so she could get up and come with me to the beach. Bla bla bla…No thanks.Elmer Fudd says: “cwackheads is the cwaziest people!”She got very angry and indignant when I told her I didn’t want to wait for all that shit, that I was just going to go and have a swim and come back later.That did it.I guess that just kicked her right in the old “daddy abandoned me” bone.Ouch!She started insulting me and calling me evil and selfish and ugly and stupid and ignorant and hypocritical, acusing me of being on THEIR side, conspiring with all the tiny mutant alien miniature helicopter pilots and shit, poor thing…But I knows my boundaries, baby!So finally, mostly to avoid slipping up and cuffing her upside the ear, I just got up and walked away, leaving her there talking to herself in the mirror. I really didn’t want to argue. I just wanted to go to the fucking beach. A matter of psychic survival.What can you do?So I did what I usually do, I got the fuck out of there and went to the beach alone.Fifteen minutes later I pulled the bike up on the big rock at Leme and went right down into the water. I dived under the first wave and came up just in time to catch the next one.And I rode that watery momentum, crazy raging holy water bubbling and crashing all around me, feeling good, feeling the sun and the air cleansing every cell of my corrupt old being as I tumbled around in the swirling foam, coming up for air, smiling, laughing free, feeling the raw energy of life life life all around me…And right then it was all so clear and good and right again. And I was reminded again why I’ve always instinctively come right here to these holy healing waves whenever it seemes like the walls are gonna close in on me and Narcisa.It’s like a big fucking washing machine for the soul.And as I rode ‘em in, wave after wave, I vaguely wished that she could be there enjoying the moment with me, the sun and waves and water and air… Life on earth.I wished she was there again laughing and moving and living there beside me, the way she used to be… instead of holed up in a dark corner arguing with her possesive old demons and phantoms who have enslaved her body and mind and soul so completely now that she doesn’t even know they’re there anymore because now they are her and she is them and that is just fucking that today..Until she dies from it or has some big ephiphany and finally wakes up from the long terrible mutant nightmare that she calls life on Earth today….Meanwhile I just keep hanging around, riding the polluted crazy wavelengths of life on planet Earth, enjoying this hysterical, passionate wild ride as best I can as I try try try to make some kinda sense of it all.Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção – registrados na Biblioteca Nacional como ficção com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa viva ou morta se trata de pura coincidência. 

I decided to post this week’s weekly blurb with a little bit of history. Underneath the blurb you will see an excerpt from Jonathan’s other memoir Scabvendor, which might give a little insight on their relationship…

“Jonathan Shaw is a fucked-off hunk of shit. A fish asshole cunt-sucker!”
- Charles Bukowski (1978)

A NIGHT WITH BUKOWSKI

The root problems of the writer are personality problems.- John Gardner

Stubby fingers pounding away at an old Royal typewriter. Classical music playing from a radio on a kitchen counter next to an empty whiskey bottle… Bukowski is sitting at a cramped breakfast nook by a window in his kitchen, wearing a wife-beater and boxer shorts, writing. He moves his head in a strange rhythm to the music, like a prizefighter, bobbing and weaving in a motion so subtle, only the benevolent spirits of his poetry respond…

He stops typing just long enough to fish a half-smoked cigar out of an overflowing ashtray, surrounded by a dozen empty Miller beer bottles. He shoves the cigar stub into his battered, junkyard face, lights it, and resumes his work. He hears a timid knock on the living room door…

“Go’waaay!”, he shouts automatically, as he types on.
Several short raps on the window beside him get his attention.
“Who arrre yaaaa, whaddya waaant?” he growls.
“Hey, I’m sorry to bother ya”, I say. “I write for the Free Press…”
Bukowski mumbles distractedly.
Standing on the dirty concrete porch, I talk to the window, playing my last card, “… I got some beer…”

Bukowski starts to say something, then stops, editing himself. He surveys the empty beer bottles standing like little ghosts around his typewriter. Finally he speaks, in a weary, W.C. Fields-like drawl. “Yeahh, alriiight… just hold onnnaa minnit.” He pounds out a last line and stops. He grabs a dirty kitchen towel off the counter, throws it over his work, and gets up. The big man steps into a pair of ratty slippers and walks, slouching, across the little living room to the door.

I’m standing on the porch, looking down at the cement… hallowed ground. No welcome mat. Shivering nervously shifting my weight from foot to foot, holding the heavy case of beer. It feels cold in my hands in the summer air that smells of cat piss and night-blooming jasmine. I hear classical music playing behind Bukowski’s window. A baby cries and a television blares from apartments across the courtyard. A gunshot pops off in the distance… Awkward as a schoolboy on a blind date, I stand by the dirty screen door and wait…

Suddenly, the door opens and Bukowski’s big, battered face is there before me. I’m standing in the presence of Genius… and it looks like it’s about to knock me flat on my ass.

Without ceremony, Bukowski reaches into the cardboard box I’m holding like a temple offering. He casually extracts a can of beer and cracks it open. Without giving me another look, he turns and disappears into the little bungalow. My eyes scan the cement porch, my brown leather boots, the cuffs of my dirty jeans…

“Jeee-sus, kid, ya just gonna staaaand out there? Bring it in-siiiide,” he drawls from the darkened room. I step over the threshold.

Later, I’m sitting around a cheap coffee table covered with empty cans. An empty pint bottle of whiskey sits on Bukowski’s end like a captured Queen in a chess match. A pile of my poetry sits out on the table between us. I reach into the empty cardboard box and crack open the last can of beer.

“Heeey, giii-me thaat”, Bukowski protests. I ignore him, drinking the beer.
“Soooo, yer a wriiiiiter, haaah?” he says finally.

I pass the half-finished can over. Bukowski takes it and guzzles it down. He burps.

“Weeeelll”, he says, looking drunk and rather nasty now. “If yer a wriiiter, what ya do is ya wriiiite, get it? What ya don’t do is sit aroooouund taaalking abooouuut wriiiting with other guys who wriiiite. You wriiiite. And then, ya wriiiite some moooore. That’s it, baby. But… if ya got nothing to saaaaay, then youre just another bum with a ten dollar typer, with alotta taaaalk, and shit for braaiiins… And, to be brutally honest, Jono, yoooou impress me as a self-conscious punk who needs to do some liiiiiving…”
“Who you callin’ a punk? Ya old fart…” I hear myself say, instantly regretting it. Too late…
“YOU! YA LITTLE CUNT LICKIN, FISH LIPPED MOMMA’S BOY. PUNK. PUNK. PUUUUUNNNNK!!!”
“Motherfucker”, I yell, rising to my feet, fast, knocking beer cans off the table.
“Yeeeaahhh, I fucked your mother. And I’ll fuck you too, fish fucker,” Bukowski taunts, coming at me like a train.

Drunk and crazed, I take a swing at him and feel my fist connect with the rough, bearded skin of his face. Not phased, Bukowski clobbers me in the ear. I see stars. Now it’s two of us, drunken poets, trading drunken blows, I taste blood in my mouth and keep hitting him. But Bukowski is getting the best of me, pounding away with those big, red, ugly mitts.

I crouch low, defending my face, and try to head butt him in the gut, but he grabs me like a bear, and we both wrestle to the floor, toppling over the coffee table which cracks and splinters. I’m rolling round on the dirty wall-to-wall carpet in a spinning chaos of beer cans, pages of poetry flying, pissed and gasping like some savage, lumbering beast of old, an ugly, deformed, drunken puppet, breaking everything in it’s terrible path…

Finally, breathing hard, bloody and sweating we both stop, laughing hysterically…

“Geeeeez, kid”, he says finally, “ya fiiiight just liiike a giiiirl I useta fuck in a toiiii-let…”
“Was that before, or after she shit in yer mouth?” I snap back.
“Shit, I shiiiit bigger than you… Look at my beautiful cofffeeeee taaa-ble. You oooowe me for that, ya little shit…”

We end the night sitting on the floor, drinking, trading insults, reading poetry, and toasting to each other’s speedy demise as the sun rises, emerging like a punch-drunk sea monster over the smoggy purgatory of Bukowski’s doomed Los Angeles…

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.

Narcisa is the only person I’ve ever known who smokes crack-cocaine as a totally psychedelic- or “mind expanding”- drug experience.

For her, of course, tea and cookies at Grandma’s house would be a psychedelic freakout carnival ride to Alpha Centauri.

So why should her unique and fiercely authentic approach to crack addiction surprise me?

Or anything else about my Narcisa?

It’s all a big crazy cosmic three ring circus, with elephants and acrobats and flaming human cannonball clowns!

The monkeys are really loose tonight!

She just took another big hit of crack… and boom!

Suddenly it’s like there’s a pounding roomfull of hyperactive, acid-tripping electrical monkeys running amok all around me now…

She scampers up the wooden support pole, disappearing like a greased weasel into the loft, deftly avoiding the more traditional ladder approach usually preferred by slow-witted, clumsy human beings…

And now she’s up there, tumbling around, crazy, frenetic, jerky, bouncing movements I can hear, but, still wrapped up in my writing, I don’t bother to look up and see…

RUSTLE RUSTLE… CRASH! BUMP BUMP!BANG!!!

What the fuck?!?

Then – BOOM!!!

Here she comes, Jesus H. Fucking Christ!

Narcisa, flying down like Haley’s fucking Comet over my head in a perfect red-assed baboon somersault, landing right on her perfect white adolescent ass on the sofa with a goofy look of surprise on her face as astonished as my own…

Okay…Whatever.

So I just take note of the event and go right back to my writing as though nothing unusual had happened, with only a quick, offhand comment to Narcisa.. “The monkeys are loose again, huh, baby?”

I’m used to it by now…

But just when I think I’ve seen it all…

As if by way of an answer, she suddenly plops herself right down on my lap, like 90 pounds of shivering cataclysmic chaos with her colored pencils and a sheet of paper.

Okay… She swiftly sketches out some alien geometric form resembling an unbelievely complex crop circle…

“That’s beautiful,” is all I have time to say before she’s up on her feet again, creeping across the room like a shellshocked Alaska King Crab.

I watch in utter baffled fascination, knowing anything can happen next.

And it does.

Suddenly she’s wrapped her wirey, naked frame up into a powder blue sheet like a Hindu sari and she’s methodically tearing a powder blue plastic garbage bag into another smaller sheet and wrapping her long brown hair up in it like an alien Maharaji’s royal turban.

She sits down again there beside me, looking like some weird outer space Mata Hari acid vision…and as I stare at her in total amazement, suddenly she cocks her head back like a hungry coyote and howls like a cat in heat.

“MEE-OOOW!!”

I laugh and laugh and laugh!

The monkeys are loose tonight

How I love my beautiful, terrible, inimitable dakini, Narcisa!!

How I love Narcisa!

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.

NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção – registrados na Biblioteca Nacional como ficção com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa viva ou morta se trata de pura coincidência.

Things are getting better around here.Even as so many weird, seemingly malevolant “outside forces” appear to be gathering around us in the form of insane, abusive religious fanatic relatives and phsycotic, bottom-feeding parasitic stalkers, bubbling right up from the stinking depths of Hell itself to harass and persecute and crucify us daily for our art, our love, our chosen lifestyle, for all our “godless, evil, immoral ways”…Even with all that depressing ugly, soul-stifling evil shit going on lately, on some other deeper level, personally, as this unlikely couple, we’ve oddly been getting better somehow, Narcisa and I…Growing closer and closer every day.I don’t know just how that happened. And I don’t know if it’s a blessing, or a curse really…But we’ve paid our admission and we’re on the big fucking ride now, once and for all…

And all along this hair-raising, teeth-rattling, unpredictable spookhouse roller coaster ride, things are rattling and clattering, moving and grooving and changing… morphing and shape-shifting all around us now.As usual…Violent, turbulant winds of change… as if to somehow perfectly reflect the ever-changing, totality of the surreal landscape of our very existance itself…It’s hard to even believe it, but it’s been well over a week now since we’ve even fought or tried to completely destroy each other…Thats huge! Memorable! A cause for celebration and joyful rejoicing!Even our traditional Sunday night knock-down-drag-out was somehow quietly averted this week, simply passed over and forgotten like some unimportant missed date…And suddenly, shit, it’s Tuesday afternoon again already, after a long lights-out crash day… and now we’re waking up, almost like a normal little couple, to coffee and crackers and cigarettes…Waking right back up to our nasty old cosmic whorehouse tricks.Fuck fuck fuck, smoke smoke smoke, go go go…No fights. No discussions. No crazed screeching, nose bleeding death threats or arguements or rabid vendettas or violent rebuttals…Not a fucking peep…That’s historic in itself.Damned if things aren’t getting better between me and Narcisa.And that’s a start.I find myself hoping once again. A start. Hope. A prelude to Narcisa getting better at last, to her wanting to get better, finally wanting to live again…Why not? After all, Narcisa and I are nothing more, in esoteric terms, than two sides of the same fucking coin… A unit. A team. An agreement…I asked her this morning if she wasn’t a little worried that our little habitual rituals and routines were starting to become a bit… How did I put it? Predictable…Predictable?She just looked at me.”You know, baby,” I said sheepishly. “Fuck fuck fuck, smoke smoke smoke… Sleep sleep sleep, eat eat eat… Defecate… How about us turning the page, before some ignorant, ranting moralistic morons with their fucking bibles and guns come along and turn it for us?”"No, Cigano! We DO turn the page!” She said with such a firm conviction, I just sat there quietly and nodded her on.”No only fuck fuck fuck, smoke smoke smoke now… Also think think think,” she said, “talk talk talk, write write write, art art art… Creatividade, Cigano, what you say ’bout that, Hein?”Holy shit. She’s right! We’ve been doing all that and more together lately, in our own dysfunctional little way….And she’s been cranking out the poetry like a fucking maniac, too. Good poetry. Solid poetry. Some of the best, most honest, soulful poetry I’ve ever seen. Heard. Lived…Things are really getting better…Better.Amazing.It would appear that those dark-minded, stinking evangelical assholes and dickless do-gooders and shit-gobbling, low-rent stalkers who’d like to drive us apart out of envy and sour grapes for our perceived offenses and transgressions of their bullshit hypocritical self-imposed morality codes are really only serving to strengthen and unite us more and more, super-charging our crazed and obsessivly passionate kinship with a new and powerful spirit of allience and an iron-clad solidarity.Ha ha ha!Today she awoke from her latest peaceful 24-hour crash, getting her troubled little head ready for the latest mission to start again.She sat there on the sofa, happily watching tv while I picked away at my Blackberry, furiously composing the latest blog entries.She squealed in delight like a happy child watching the latest adventures of Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie.Totally surreal.”Cigano! Put it on our blog page that Narcisa’s favorite TV personalities are Paris Hilton and Nicole… Do you know them, Cigano? Put it in the blog, an’ say that Narcisa love them an’ she wanna meet them…”I told her I didn’t know them, but that my main girl in Hollywood, Alessandra probably did. Alessandra knows EVERYBODY!Narcisa’s eyes lit up at the news as, dutifully, like some kind of sleepy whorehouse Santa Claus taking an order, I wrote it all down.”Narcisa’s favorite TV stars are…”Then I stopped and asked her for some more names.She just gave me a blank look and went back to watching the Paris and Nicole show.No more?”That’s it, Cigano. Only these ones…”"That’s not a very long list for a questionaire, baby,” I said.Questionaire?She glanced at me blankly again, before turning her full attention back to the blaring nonsense chatter of the TV box.I guess its a step up from staring at herself bug-eyed in the mirror for hours and hours….I asked her why she liked those bimbos so much, hoping to maybe fill out the list a bit, make it more interesting, whatever…”You can put it that Narcisa like them because they are very slutty… they are tall an’ skinny… an’… extravagante! Very extravagante an’ controversial an’ FREE… An’ I am… How do you say? I am in LOVE with them too because they are completely retard!”I started to write it all down. Suddenly she grabbed my arm, as if I might be about to unpin a grenade or something.”No, Cigano! Is better you don’ to put it that I say they retard, because maybe then they no gonna LIKE Narcisa an’ they never gonna call…”I told her it was alright to say they we’re retarded, because they are.I explained that for people like that, “retarded” was probably like a term of endearment or something.She made a thoughtful face and was silent for a moment as her bright, bottomless hazel eyes scanned the TV screen greedily.Then she looked back at me and said, “I like them the most because they REALLY retard… like you can fuck them in the ass an’ then they just gonna look on you like… ‘Wha’ the fuck just happen, man?’ You know?”What the fuck just happened, indeed.Yeh, baby, things are getting better.Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção – registrados na Biblioteca Nacional como ficção com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa viva ou morta se trata de pura coincidência.As vários fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.

I been thinking of mold today, as the unique smell of it clings to my senses like a vague past life recollection.Living here in the tropics, things tend to go moldy pretty fast. Mold and mildew just accumulate when things aren’t aired out regularly.Narcisa’s clothes usually sit in a damp pile in a corner on the floor, going moldy.Narcisa digs through the pile and puts on some clothes and walks around all day smelling of mold and ashes and crack-tainted sweat and sex and life and death and dirt and blood and lust and endless, unsatisfied want, fear, anger, passion, adrenaline and…Something Else there are no words I know that can quite describe.Maybe something like a spiritual mold…

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.

NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção – registrados na Biblioteca Nacional como ficção com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa viva ou morta se trata de pura coincidência.