Despite the feeling of freedom the wide open road offers, my mind is still habitually attached to the what-ifs of reality and my consciousness keeps visiting the part of my brain that holds all the doubt and perhaps logic. The part that is saying what are you going to tell your mother is battling the part that says you are twenty- two years old and you can do what you want. Both parts think it’s a good idea at this juncture to surprise everyone with the supersized bottle of chardonnay I have stashed in my glad bag suitcase.

“Does anyone have a bottle opener?” I say, preparing myself for the praise that is sure to come flying.

“Yay Amy… you have wine?” Roxanne cheers from the back of the cavernous black hole. I look back at her with a wink and a smile, and as I do I catch Dominic and Jonathan sharing a look.

“What are you, crazy?” Jonathan says, a little too loudly for a second date. I swear there is an echo from the black hole that is the back seat.

“We’re driving!” He says as he grabs the bottle and quickly stashes it in a mysterious hidden compartment. The way he said it you’d think I broke out an UZI and a suitcase of cocaine. For someone raised on sips of icy Coors being passed to her in the back seat of the car, or holding on to a cold, sweaty glass of pink wine while her mom shifted on a turn, this was not a big deal. Even I can remember the good ol’ days of legal drinking and driving, and he was old enough to actually enjoy them. I guess he had a legitimate reason, us being in the car and all, but if this man thought he was going to tell me how much to drink, this was definitely not going to work out.

I pause to collect myself. “Oh, right… sorry. I guess the spirit of New Orleans caught hold of me…” I say. I look back to Roxanne and roll my eyes. Then out of Dominic’s line of sight she flashes me the silver pull top tab of what I know to be some kind of large can of malt liquor and quickly stuffs it back into her fish-shaped purse, putting fingers over her lips miming a silent oops. Under the guise of playing some music, I ask Dom if he wants to sit in the front for a while and I go join Roxy in outerspace.

“How far you think we’ll get tonight?” Dominic asks.

“We’re only going as far as Virginia.” Jonathan answers.

“You guys wanna get a room tonight then?”

“No…” Jonathan pauses. “I wanna get a room… and you wanna get a room.” He says, emphasis on the separate pronouns.

I clench my teeth and look at Roxanne to see if she catches this. She looks back at me as if she’s containing a 5ft. 2 in. body full of explosives, shrugs her shoulders, and silently passes me the large beer. Well, there you have it…separate hotel rooms. The courtship is over. Don’t need a secret decoder ring for that one. I’ll have to bang him tonight.

I fumble nervously through some tapes in the frigid darkness. I always hate playing D.J., forever fearful I’ll be judged on whatever I select. Now I don’t even know what half the shit is, Wanda Jackson… Steely Dan… Mott and the Hoople… what the fuck is a hoople… Fania All Stars…all old people shit… old …old…old.

I hand the tape box to Dominic. “Here Dominic, you pick something. I can’t see back here.” Dominic is a stand up comedian and has been uncharacteristically quiet since the hotel room discussion. Shellshocked I guess at being thrust into the loving arms of my best friend. And poor Roxanne, Dominic didn’t even drink. Her malt liquor buzz probably wouldn’t make it out of Pennsylvania much less all the way to Virginia. She’d be stuck in there sober with him. She did like him and everything but I know Roxanne and she needs liquid courage just as much as I do. And if Jonathan’s behavior thus far is any indication, I’d be in the same boat. My people pleasing gene takes over and I worry for everyone. Everyone except Jonathan. Something tells me he’ll be just fine.

I start to be thankful that we are in this piece of shit van and I will the speedometer to cooperate with me and not go past 55 m.p.h. I am in no hurry to reach Virginia which now especially I cannot think about without that other word popping up, the one that sounds so much like it but means something so different. Roxy and I are getting a warm buzz from the beer. We discover we like Wanda Jackson. We get excited about New Orleans. All the food we’re going to eat and all the loose liquor laws that we don’t have to break. A slight fuzziness softens the edges of the picture that has unfolded itself before me. I try to get comfy, propping up all my kidnapped bedding that is already streaked with black motorcycle grease and rest my head. But somewhere still in the back of my mind to the tune of the grumbling motor, right past “Virginia vagina….Virginia vagina…” and to the left of the big, neon white elephant all wrapped up in a sober sex banner lies the sleeping crocodile of knowledge that sometime between now and tomorrow night I must call my mother and let her know that “Surprise… you don’t have to pick me up at the airport!” ‘Virginia vagina…Virginia vagina…” I laugh to myself. Thank god for malt liquor.

I am awakened what feels like seconds later by the puttering of the slowing engine and what feels like speed bumps. There are bright lights flashing through the windshield. I sit up and am taken aback for a minute. There is a Wal-mart… there are trees… it feels like home. For a brief moment I allow myself to breathe. We pull into a seemingly untouched by time, fifties style, stone walled driveway of a Holiday Inn and I see a row of bright white license plates smiling mockingly… “Virginia is for Lovers.”

to be continued

DEAR READERS,

IT HAS JUST BEEN BROUGHT TO MY ATTENTION THAT OUR COMMENT CAPABILITY HAS BEEN BROKEN FOR QUITE SOME TIME NOW. THANKFULLY, JONATHAN’S SUICIDE ATTEMPT WAS NOT SUCCESSFUL AND HE IS RELIEVED TO KNOW THAT THE REASON NO ONE HAS COMMENTED ON ANY OF HIS BLOGS IS NOT BECAUSE HIS FANS HAVE STAGED A PROTEST AGAINST HIM.

LET’S PUT THE PAST BEHIND US AND MOVE FORWARD PROSPEROUSLY, WITH LOTS OF COMMENTS FROM THE GRACIOUS PEOPLE THAT MAKE SCABVENDOR POSSIBLE.

THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONTINUED SUPPORT.

 Alessandra

AD: It seems like you quote Nietzsche alot. Is he your favorite author to quote from?

JS: Not at all… I just happened to stumble across a book of Nietzsche at the exact time I was going through the whole process of writing and editing Narcisa, and then the Narcisa character just spontaneously became like this idiot savant spouting out Nietzsche all the time in the middle of all her crazy, psychedelic crackhead rants…

Nietzsche does happen to be a very quotable thinker, of course, but, like most things about the whole journey of writing Narcisa, it was never anything like a premeditated thought. It just sorta fell into place and there it was… It’s all grist for the mill for a writer, ya know, and I really do believe that truer words were never spoken pertaining to the creative process one goes into while constructing a work of fiction… so Nietzsche just wound up getting thrown into the soup…  And then when I decided to put quotes at the beginning of each chapter heading, it just seemed appropriate to use a bunch by Nietzsche…

to be continued

 I hear the van before I see it. There is a loud squeaking of what sounds like some kind of deteriorating belt mixed with the chugging of a not so steady engine. He’s pulled up all the way onto the sidewalk and the headlights blind me as I make my way to the front door and climb in. Roxanne is in the back and I throw her my stuff.

      “Hey Amy!” She greets me excitedly.

      “Hey!” I say.” I cant believe we’re doing this!”

      “I know!” She beams. “Its so exciting!”

      “I know… so exciting!” I beam back.

I look over at Jonathan. He seems just as giddy as us as he grins widely and bounces a little in his captain’s chair which I notice actually swivels as he moves. I take a closer look at the van. Its pretty old, probably like its driver had hit its hayday back in the early eighties. The dash is filthy and covered with brightly covered Iggy Pop backstage passes. The large ashtray is overflowing with crumpled butts of the propeller shaped filters of parliament cigarettes. It looks like a million tiny little plane crashes. I can see a bit of sidewalk through a crack in the eroding floorboard. I turn around to pass Roxanne the red cup and as I look at her again I notice that there is no back seat whatsoever, leaving plenty of room for his old triumph which stands uneasily on its ancient kickstand. There is a dusty boombox also from another decade and a lot of uncomfortable looking protrusions that I guess the seats used to be screwed on to. The windows are all blacked out and the dingy grey walls are covered with miscellanaeous tags and black magic marker skulls and crossbones. “Death is certain” appears more than once. It smells like gas and it is frigidly cold.

      “Are you sure this thing can make it to Texas?” I ask, sincerely worried.

      “What are you… kidding?” He is shocked. I may as well be accusing him of murder. “This is a great van…this is what you call a real workhorse… I could drive across the country ten times in this thing…This is a great van!” he asserts as if defending the honor of his own mother.

I knew there was no argueing and something about his blind faith made me believe him. I suddenly understood how he could talk someone into paying a thousand dollars for a tribal armband.

We pick up Dominic somewhere down eighth avenue and we head south for the Holland Tunnel, one of the few ways off of the island of Manhattan. Its dark out and all the lights are twinkling in the city that never sleeps. I’ve never driven out of it before, in fact, never been in the passenger’s seat of a car here. The view is a lot different from that in the back seat of a taxi. I have butterflies as we emerge from the tunnel. The flittering lights of the city are behind us now and there is nothing but the darkness of night ahead.

I hear Iggy’s scratchy voice from the tape player, “I’m a passenger…and I ride and I ride…” . It’s a strange new sensation leaving all that activity, all that hustle and bustle that I love, that I am used to as our little party on wheels bounces down the highway leaving nothing behind but a trail of abandoned responsibilities and black smoke.

to be continued

So  I’m up here in LA for the next month on some weird and somewhat unpleasant biz. But there’s many good and necessary things going on, and the usual ongoing spiritual, physical and psychic training for me here too of course. So it’s all working out for the good — as it always has and does. People like me are like cockroaches. You give us poison and we just keep getting stronger, and we want more…

Got several book signings and readings coming up here and in New York over the next month before I go back to Brazil. Then I may be coming back up again soon to talk to agents and publishers about getting the next few books out in bigger editions.

My friend and partner, one of the main people who inspired me to write Narcisa is coming up on one year clean and sober herself now. People like her are living proof of the miracle of Redemption, God bless her.

Today’s the 56th anniversery of my incarnate experience in this surreal holographic time and space loop of material manifestation. I will spend it stumbling through my bizarre childhood memories at the luxurious home my alcoholic mother died in and forgot to leave me — before the govt. comes to take it all to build more bombs with the proceeds.

God bless Mom, she really meant well, even if she couldn’t usually do very well in this life. She was severely damaged by the raping and ransacking of her own childhood and just couldn’t get over it. I know she’s cheering me on as I ransack her house from whatever inter-dimensional rehab she’s checked into now.

As the weirdness of my worldly experience would have it, my mega rich and famous father, another damaged human being, to say the least, also died right after her — and he did me exactly the same!!! The star-crossed lovers who produced yours truly hadn’t spoken in 40 years. My illustrious father actually cut me out of his extensive and anally-prepared Will and Testament purely out of malice. I think he needed to hate me all my life in order to justify having kicked me to the curb while I was still in the crib.

“You deserved it! You were a little shit!”

Those were some of his last words to me when I asked about his sudden about-face with the child he had lovingly planned to bring into his wonderful, glamorous world.

Poor bastards. They had it far worse than I ever did, and I’m just very very grateful today to have survived and surpassed my upbringing – if you could call it that. I like to tell people today that I wasn’t born, but hatched. May my son someday be able to say he’s a better man too for having had a dysfunctional freak like me for a progenitor.

For all of these brutally true stories and the strength, intelligence and humor to convert them into gold today, I am truly grateful. And I’m grateful for the faith and courage and talent those two characters gave me to be able to give something back to somebody else today.

I’m especially grateful to a universe which has been so generous with me for just allowing me to hang in here long enough to experience all this love and horror with the wonder and curiosity of a child who has finally outgrown torturing small animals and has now got himself a nice new toy called life.

The books move on, the stories mount in range and intensity. And this crazy life gets more and more rich and exciting — and baffling too all at once. Poetry brings it all into the realm of good, thank God.

The war of spirit and matter, light and dark, animal instincts and Divine Grace rages on too, as I continue my journey through it all as a faithful warrior, curious correspondant and decorated veteran. For that I am grateful – if not always gracious.

Thank you all for your support.

JS

AD: One alcoholic helping another, right?

JS: Absolutely. That shit is like some crazy healing magic… At some point when this guy was lamenting to me about how hard it all is, being in recovery and living with someone who’s suffering the torments of the damned from the very same stuff you’re recovering from and not being able to help them because they’re just not ready to throw in the towel or whatever, and how terribly frustrating that is, I was just tempted to tell him to read Narcisa… I dunno, I just got the feeling that it would help him and comfort him somehow, at least on the level of letting him know that he’s really not alone in this kind of shit. We all go there… it’s life, it’s the human condition. And while we were talking there, I just felt this incredible bond with this guy… and I guess that bond I felt was the thing you just called the universally relatable dynamic…

    This is basically about humanity and its struggles, about human relations and the power of love and our human interdependency and interaction to heal and reveal our own deepest secrets to us, all our fears, traumas, hopes and dreams and all sorts of essencially human things that these two characters are dealing with in this book, about the way we all ultimately act as therapists and healers for each other in the course of our relationships with one another, even our most fucked up relationships — especially our most fucked up relationships, cuz nothing happens without a reason…

      So in that sense it’s sort of about the laws of attraction and the transcendent nature of the human spirit in interaction with other spirits and how we all need each other in order to see ourselves… At least that was always my basic intent while writing it and contemplating what made these two characters tick….

       And it really is my sincere hope that Narcisa will speak to people and serve them on that kind of a deep gut level and let them see themselves, even through the crooked looking glass of a teenage crack whore and her codependent gypsy partner in crime… cuz it’s not so much about them, per se as it is about the essencially human dynamic that emerges through their twisted, fucked up relationship. 

     At the end of the day, Cigano and Narcisa are you and me and the guys down the street. On some levels, even if somebody never smoked crack or fell in love with psychotic crack whores in Rio de Janeiro or whatver, on that deeper human level, everybody’s been there… so I just hope that some of the universal truths expressed in the book’s handling of these characters and all their crazy ups and downs can ultimately transcend their particular stories and whatever particular characterization or label or make or model and be able to just sorta reach into people’s hearts on a deeper level and help them take that fearless, unflinching look into their own soul’s heart of darkness, just like they did for me while I was writing about all this shit. 

    That is the power of myth, I believe. All roads lead us inward and all roads eventually lead to our enlightenment. I really do believe that… And I hope to have been able to express the essence of that concept a little through my telling of this particular little fairy tale or horror story or whatever…

     I splurge for a cab ride home from work, stopping at the liquor store on the way home for a couple of jumbo bottles of cheap Chardonnay. I need something to steady my nerves. I have to pack. I hate packing. How are you supposed to know what you feel like wearing tomorrow, much less days from now. I try to think what I would want if I could only wear one thing for the rest of my life. I throw a few of my favorite vintage dresses and my favorite old holey jeans into a black plastic garbage bag. Over a few coffee cups of the cheap wine I try to explain the situation to Stephanie who is expecting to share a cab ride to the airport with me in a couple of days. She is hard to smooth over.

      “But you don’t even know this guy Amy..”

      “It’s fine…” I reassure her, topping off our cups. “He’s Jonathan Shaw.”

      “Are you sure its ok?” she asks.

      “Yes!” I huff. She exhausts me with her counterculture naivete. “Its fine… he’s like really famous… plus you should see his house… he owns a whole building in Chinatown…” I say, trying to reassure her knowing there’s nothing like the smell of money to calm a  girl’s nerves. “Now , can I borrow your red glamour girls slip dress or not?”

      “OK…” she relented, “But you better bring it back!”

      I hear a horn beeping outside. “Shit, he’s here… I gotta go…”

      “Amy… he’s not even coming in?” Stephanie asks, suddenly appalled. This, from a girl who last week when she’d brought home a one night stand told the guy to please not leave his number?

      “Guess not…” I say as I pour my wine into a red plastic to go cup and throw the second bottle in to my garbage bag. Remembering that he’d said I may want to grab a blanket, I go to my closet-sized room and grab my pillow and down comforter. My bare twin mattress looks so lonely now. The black floral print Betsey Johnson curtains are the only evidence of  life. I hear the horn again. I turn off the light and shut the door.

to be continued