There are times when I just need to get away from all this terrible,
compelling madness for a few hours. Rest my body and my mind.
Sometimes, like today, I can feel her draining my energy, like a
psychic vampire sucking away my lifeblood. And still, with all of
that, I feel guilty for leaving her alone. I guess that’s all part of
the deal. Our common co-dependant sickness. I guess the best I can do
at times is live this and document it a moment at a time, in the hope
of someday being able to make some sense of the many details of this
strange, compelling psychedelic whirlpool I find myself sucked deeper
and deeper into, the amazing kaleidoscopic matrix of Narcisa’s mind.
 And I ask myself at various points and pit stops along this endless
circular journey, why am I here? What is the point, the lesson, the
moral to this immoral story? Like its all a big cosmic joke and I
wanna know who’s the joker.

Earlier tonight she was all lit up like an amusement park, laughing,
joking, telling me all kinds of crazy stories and accounts of hair
raising adventures across the world of her imagination and reality,
memory, hallucinations, visions, torments, trials and hard-learned
lessons. More and more lately, we laugh and talk and really make love,
as opposed to the restless, compulsive fucking for money for drugs
that’s habitually been the standard foundation for our relationship
for so long its hard to even imagine it suddenly being any other way.
But suddenly it is.

Now we find ourselves abruptly redefined as friends, lovers,
confidantes, partners in crime and the odd business of getting to know
each other and ourselves through the context of our crazy interactions
and occult idiosyncrasies.

 Lately she’s been allowed to spend her solitary crack riddled time
more and more at the house I take care of for my Gypsy friend Dolo up
in Sao Conrado.
She’s managed to convince me and I’ve gladly let myself be convinced
that this way at least she can take her drugs in a ’safe’ environment,
away from the noxious infernal influence of the other crackheads and
crazies at the Casa Verde, or up in the favela, surrounded by
gun-toting bandidos and hateful eyes of the everyday citizens of those
crime-ridden slummy communities.

Honestly, I don’t know if any of it’s doing her any good, but I’ve
been trying to at least inspire her to do something productive,
something creative with her time up there toasting her brains out in
her new luxury crack house with the millionaire swimming pool and
panoramic view of the ocean.

 And, sure nuff, she’s been really writing up there and cranking out
reams of brilliant poetry. And it’s got me thinking maybe there’s big
hope for her here if she’s only given a chance and the space and
support to really EXPRESS herself and maybe focus some of her
paranormal vision and genius, that through her own crazy psychic
verbal expression she may yet find a path to salvation by way of this
haphazard encounter with the poetry of her very soul.
 It’s my hope and love and trust that seems to have inspired her to at
least want to try, even if she would still rather die than quit
smoking crack.

 Today she actually told me that nobody had ever treated her with as
much love and respect and trust and belief as I have. She has
convinced me that I am slowly helping her by giving her hope and a
will to live, and I hope and pray it could somehow be true, even as I
still have my own doubts about the inherent wisdom of such a hopeful,
even naïve attitude when it comes to a hope-to-die mentally deranged,
traumatized crackhead.

 But conventional wisdom seems to constantly fall flat on its face
every time I try to apply it to Narcisa. It’s just the nature of her
being as an alien, a cosmic magic mirror of some secret sacred realm
in the deepest hidden chambers of the multidimensional matrix of this
whole wild experience, this dramatic, passionate, confusing meeting of
acid-warped hearts and minds living a common hallucination, bathed
unto drowning in a raging sea of love and terror, just for today.
Shit.

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.