As the taxi bumped through Botafogo traffic, Narcisa began to smile brightly.
“Is SO good this day, Alessandra,” she said.
“Why’s that?”
She paused a beat, thinking with gleaming eyes.
“Is like this. I don’t expect I EVER gonna leave the house again. I CAN NOT to leave the house because I’m always e’scared of the peoples and the things are going to kill me, or rap-ed me, or arrest me. Or the extra terrestrial shit. Some crazy shit gonna happen to the Narcisa all the time, and all the things like this. You know? That shit man, I e’smoke, and then I become the crazy girl. Afraid of the shadow! No to ever leaving even my little room!” She said, waving her hands around, then she thought a second longer. “But now I am here, in the taxi cab. And the sun is so good on my face. And I’m HAPPY to be alive. I WANT to do thing with my life. I don’t want to smoke the crack right now…. Is crazy! And you are here, and we gonna go to my favorite place on the whole Rio. You gonna love the Parque Lage, man.”
She was silent the rest of the ride.
Upon arrival at the park gates, she descended the cab like a queen from a horse-drawn carriage. I  grabbed  my purse, payed the driver and clumsily followed behind, scratching the mosquito bites on my ankles, making “psst psst” noises at a nearby cat. The cat scurried over to Narcisa and me and a did a few laps of 8’s through my legs as Narcisa leaned down to pet it. This went on for a minute, until she grabbed me by the hand.
“Let’s go find Cigano,” she said and we walked up the cobblestone driveway to the building where the art school is.
Jonathan was waiting for us next to his bike, typing away on his ratty silver laptop.
As we greeted him, a couple more cats came around, weaving through our respective legs, until they too realized we had no food and went back into the big tropical brush to tend to their cat business. There were many cats. Beautiful cats, everywhere.
We walked through the big entry way of the colonial-style art college into a big courtyard with many rooms off of it where art was being displayed. Narcisa yelled at a plant.
“Why you looking on me like that!??!” She said to a leaf on which
someone had placed a sticker of their face. “This is the most e’steew-pid art exposition I ever see. Ruining the plants to make the shit art that no one even notice? Re-tarded!”
“Do you want some pastels?” Jonathan asked Narcisa, poking his head into the little art supply store.
“Yes, Cigano. Right now, and the psychedelic color only. I’m e’staying here with my friend Alessandra now. Go!”
I felt a slight surge of panic as Jonathan disappeared into the little store. We were alone now. Babysitting Narcisa. In public. I lit a cigarette and thought about all the stories I’d heard of Narcisa in public places. Crazy stuff.
Off crack now a full eight hours, Narcisa was a ticking time-bomb. I shrugged it off as she told me a story about Israel, half-ready for an overdue critical meltdown.

PAST RIO ADVENTURES

NOTIFICAÇÃO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção registrados na Biblioteca Nacional com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor Jonathan Shaw e Alessandra DeBenedetti. Os personagens mencionados são inteiramente fictícios. 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 várias fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.

She finally got tired of smoking crack and juggling coke bottles.
Attention span of a hyperactive puppy. She put on her tried and true cosmic waif denim mini skirt and psychedelic hand painted tattered tank top. She donned her purple shades and slid up beside me, panting like a raped drooling Lolita.
“What’s the plan, cigano?” she half whispered, half croaked, looking like an evil pirate.
I knew that was my cue to take her up in the loft bed and fuck her back to life.
She asked me to put some jazz on and I did. As I delved into the world of her sweet little chicken pie, she asked me who was playing the saxophone. I distractedly mumbled “Coltrane,” as I tasted her crack-scorched tongue with mine.
She surprised me by saying “John Coltrane?”
I said yeah, lost in her insane universe of endless surprise, while she ran her long witchy fingers up and down my back, delicately playing me like Coltrane playing that saxophone.
Finally she said “Hurry up, Cigano.” And I did. It was easy as I drank the vile wine of her stinking breath.
But I could tell she only half wanted me to hurry up and finish.
Against her will, she was getting excited too.
I can always tell, even if she can’t. Weird.
But it was already too late, I was already working the roller coaster car up to the top of the big hill and then suddenly, wheeeeeeee, I’m coming and dying and screaming and drooling like a rabid rottweiler, into her mouth, her cunt, her soul, as she plays me like John Coltrane’s fucking saxophone… and she is fucking me to death, and Iam dying again and again in her arms, coming, coming, and she’s laughing now, giggling just like Lolita, and she’s got my heart curled up like a sleeping cat in her crack-tainted claws, and I do not fucking care.

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008.

NOTIFICAÇÃO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção registrados na Biblioteca Nacional com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor Jonathan Shaw e Alessandra DeBenedetti. Os personagens mencionados são inteiramente fictícios. 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 várias fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.

 ”Like the cat with nine lives, the Ego has a marvelous capacity to scramble back to safety – a little ruffled, perhaps, but soon operating with all its former aplomb, convinced once more that now it, the Ego can master all events and push on ahead. The capacity of the Ego to bypass experience is astounding and would be humorous were it not so tragic in its consequences.”
         - Dr. Harry M. Tiebout, M.D.

It has been brought to my attention that somewhere between my adventures part 1 and my adventures part 2, that the “real” part 2 had gone missing, making what I had originally posted as part 2 actually part 3. From this point forward the blog you may have read as PART 2 shall now be officially known as PART 3, even though it still says part 2 and the blog you are about to read from this point forward is now the official part 2. Should this not make sense to you, that’s okay, it doesn’t make sense to me either. Basically what I’m saying is that I’m retarded. Please read the following for further clarity.

PART 2 “THE LOST BLOG”

A week into my visit, the Dakini woke up with a white hot Bundsen burner under her skinny ass and decided she was done smoking crack “forever”.
I was across town sleeping in the notorious little apartment Jonathan had given me the keys to when the phone rang. I didn’t answer it at first, too exhausted to come down from the loft bed, just waiting for the machine to pick up so I could hear the message:
“Hey Sailor! Me and Narcisa wanna come meet you for breakfast at the little bar downstairs, whaddya say? Gimme a call when you’re up.”
I fumbled for my cell phone. What time was it. 7:30. Assholes. I’d been up till 5 editing the rewrite of Narcisa Our Lady of Ashes. But I got up. I knew I had to. Even in that half asleep state, I knew Narcisa was already having a rare and glorious day and I didn’t want to miss any of it.
 The fact that she actually wanted to leave her “laboratory” was a huge miracle. That she was willing to venture forth from the
little room in which she has locked herself for weeks and painted and grafittied all the walls with strange cryptic speedfreak writing, poetry and crazy scrawls, designs and psychadelic mandalas, the place that she refers to as simply her “cubicle”, was a rare and unexpected occurrence I didnt want to miss.
 The fact that she also. wanted to eat breakfast?   Wowzers!!
 This was going to be a glorious day for all of us, maybe all of Rio De Janeiro….
I jumped out of bed and called Jonathan back, thrilled at the prospect of spending some quality time with Narcisa, who I’ve grown quite fond of, if not a little too fond of after spending several months working on projects in her honor.
  I threw on some clothes and went to the little bar downstairs from the now-legendary, and palpably haunted apartment that was the real-life scene and scenario of most of the disturbed actions that inspired the now-infamous book, Narcisa – Our Lady of Ashes.
  I ordered a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice and a double cafezinho with a half a kilo of sugar.
I sat there for a few minutes, chain smoking Hollywood cigarettes and watching the cab drivers drinking their beers, vaguely wondering how they could possibly be wasted already. I got up and walked over and talked to the huge green parrot that sits on a perch by the cash register.
Time went by.
I sat back down, starting to doubt that they were going to show. They live in an unpredictable little version of reality, where it seems that anything goes, and I really do mean anything…
Sure enough though, just as I was about to pay my tab and go back to bed I heard the familiar growl of Jonathan’s motorcycle.
“Tudo bem?” Narcisa asked me as she ripped her helmet off.
“Tudo bom, e voce?”
“Tudo legal” She answered, as she kissed me on either cheek.
This human-like behavior caught me way off guard, I gotta say.
Being kissed by Narcisa is like being blessed by the pope, being touched by the hand of a president, being anally probed by extra terrestrials. I don’t know… It was an honor, to say the least..
And as Narcisa sat down and barked off her order to the waiter who hadn’t even made it to the table yet, even while blowing large pink bubble gum bubbles and chattering in five different languages to invisible spirits only she can talk to, I knew it was gonna be just the beginning of a very strange and interesting day indeed….

“PART 2″ (which is actually part 3)

After sufficiently stuffing her face with everything she ordered, and then eating the shrapnel, Narcisa promptly informed Jonathan and I that we would be taking a field trip to the Parque Lage, the famed place of many of her crimes, such as this one:

“Soon I getting com-for-table inside there, Cigano, I make light up an’ go for take it one big hit an’ then, boo! I look him an’ he sitting right over there at the rock by side of me…”
“Who!?”
“The e’scorpion!”

And this one!

“an’ then it come all for sudden the big e’sploding with the… morcegos, how to say it? The bat. Bat! Hundred the bat Cigano, an’ all come fly fly fly out on the back the cave, hundred the terrible little bat, flipping flipping all over me, squiking like the mouses an’ the rats, attack on to my head, flopping flopping squiking an’ fly fly all over my eye. “

Let’s not forget this one:

“Yes, the monkey, Cigano! They attack-ed to me! An’ they all e’stand-ed ’round me all e’scream on me, an’ they make the throw the thing on to me, the branch an’ the rock, all thing like these.”

She also informed me that she and I were taking a cab and that I was paying.

“Ey! Vamo pra Parque Lage, okey?” She screeched at one of the cab drivers who was at that time enjoying a beer.

The cab ride to the Parque Lage was interesting, not as interesting as the ride HOME, but that is for later. She told me of her childhood in the small town of Penedo, about her siblings and about her love for babies, her hope to one day have one, which was another surprise to me. Narcisa was starting to seem more like a girl than this ghost that I’d always viewed her as.

NOTIFICAÇÃO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção registrados na Biblioteca Nacional com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor Jonathan Shaw e Alessandra DeBenedetti. Os personagens mencionados são inteiramente fictícios. 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 várias fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.

>>>AQUI<<<

I opened my little notebook and began to write, the way I always do sitting at the Leme rock, my open air office. I’ve written enough crap sitting there over the years to publish several books.

For some reason, I get my best inspiration sitting by the water, either there, or at one of my other offices at the other end of Copacabana by the old fort, or sometimes over by the big rock of Praia do Diabo, by Arpoador, in Ipanema. I’ve been writing in these places for years and I’ve always felt the presence of some effortless inspiring force there with the waves at my feet. I’ve been told it’s because I’m a Filho de Ogum Beira Mar, a son of Saint George who rides his white steed along the shore by the crashing waves.          

I’ve always felt safe and protected and inspired when sitting by those waves, so I go with it. But since I’ve been running hard and heavy with Narcisa, I mostly do my thing at Leme, since it’s my seaside office closest to home. I like to be able to just get up and go whenever she calls me. Seven minutes by motorcycle to home. Seven minutes to Narcisa.

Seven minutes to Narcisa.

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008.

NOTIFICAÇÃO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção registrados na Biblioteca Nacional com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são inteiramente fictícios. 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 várias fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.

After sufficiently stuffing her face with everything she ordered, and then eating the shrapnel, Narcisa promptly informed Jonathan and I that we would be taking a field trip to the Parque Lage, the famed place of many of her crimes, such as this one:

“Soon I getting com-for-table inside there, Cigano, I make light up an’ go for take it one big hit an’ then, boo! I look him an’ he sitting right over there at the rock by side of me…”
“Who!?”
“The e’scorpion!”

And this one!

“an’ then it come all for sudden the big e’sploding with the… morcegos, how to say it? The bat. Bat! Hundred the bat Cigano, an’ all come fly fly fly out on the back the cave, hundred the terrible little bat, flipping flipping all over me, squiking like the mouses an’ the rats, attack on to my head, flopping flopping squiking an’ fly fly all over my eye. “

Let’s not forget this one:

“Yes, the monkey, Cigano! They attack-ed to me! An’ they all e’stand-ed ’round me all e’scream on me, an’ they make the throw the thing on to me, the branch an’ the rock, all thing like these.”

She also informed me that she and I were taking a cab and that I was paying.

“Ey! Vamo pra Parque Lage, okey?” She screeched at one of the cab drivers who was at that time enjoying a beer.

The cab ride to the Parque Lage was interesting, not as interesting as the ride HOME, but that is for later. She told me of her childhood in the small town of Penedo, about her siblings and about her love for babies, her hope to one day have one, which was another surprise to me. Narcisa was starting to seem more like a girl than this ghost that I’d always viewed her as.

NOTIFICAÇÃO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção registrados na Biblioteca Nacional com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor Jonathan Shaw e Alessandra DeBenedetti. Os personagens mencionados são inteiramente fictícios. 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 várias fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.