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The Ego is made up of the persisting elements, in the adult psyche, of the original nature of the child. Certain aspects of the infant’s psyche may be usefully examined. There are three factors which should receive attention. The first is, as Freud observed in his priceless phrase “his Majesty the Baby,” that the infant is born ruler of all he sees and surveys. He comes from the Nirvana of the womb, where he is usually the sole occupant, and he clings to that omnipotrnce with an innocence, yet determination, which baffles parent after parent. The second, stemming directly from the monarch within, is that the infant tolerates frustration poorly and let’s the world know it readily. The third signifigant aspect of the child’s original psyche is its tendency to do everything in a hurry…”- Dr. Harry M. Tiebout, M.D.I picked Narcisa up in front of the Casa Verde just after she’d presumably smoked the last of her crack. Her eyes were bugging out of her head like she’d seen a ghost or a batallian of ghosts and she most likely really had, that’s what days of sleep deprivation and self-induced crack psychosis will do to her or anybody else. She really looked bad. Worse than a few hours earlier, and she didn’t look too good then. Shit.We got up in my apartment and she was still tweeking hard, looking around like a scared animal, waiting for all sorts of demons to come scrambling out of the woodwork and eat her alive or whatever. Jesus. She’s up, then sits down then jumps up like she sat on a nail. Then she runs over and turns out the lights and I say no no no no no, I don’t want to sit in the dark so she puts the light back on and slithers over and cowers in the corner like a sick old dog.  And still with all her spun out fearful terror show of horrors and frights and spooky self-inflicted misery, still she has the arrogance to complain about the music on the jazz radio, saying it’s too slow and depressing, it’s for old retarded people and the light is too bright, and then she’s just ranting and complaining in general, complaining to complain, making these little tsk tsk noises at everything in sight, not to mention things that are mostly invisible to me. The good news? All this is a sure indication, I’m thinking, that she’s coming in for a crash landing, that no matter how much she smokes at this point, the shit just isn’t working for her anymore and she’s endlessly vexed because of that very fact.  Anyway, I go over to where she’s sitting on the floor and I try to sit beside her and she shrinks away from me like I was Turd Man or something so I just get up and go over and sit on the sofa and pick up my little notebook and start writing. Then she looks at me with the most paranoid suspicious look of utter contempt and asks me why I’m always writing in that book, as if I was writing out her ego death or something which, in a way, I am.I’m definitely exposing her diseased insanity for her to take a good look at. That’s for sure. But that’s the problem. She will not look, just absolutely refuses to read the book I just wrote about her…

She knows I’m still writing about her and she doesn’t like it one bit. I just stopped and looked over at her pissed off frustrated indignant face and that was it. I had to restrain myself from blasting her in the mouth with a knuckle sandwich. There’s only so much senseless insanity and abuse a man can take- though there are those who would say my capacity for shit-eating is boundless when it comes to Narcisa.  Finally I just looked at her and said, “Ya wanna know why I’m always writing in these little books? Ill tell you why. I do it so I don’t have to end up like you, ya miserable cunt… Bored, restless, irritable, discontent, critical, paranoid and pissed off at everybody and everything all the time, living in a constant state of mute, indignant, powerless terror and hate and self-pity. That’s why I’m always writing in this little book. So as not to have to sit festering like you in the shitty sewer of a frustrated, undisciplined mind, so I don’t have to be constantly seeking some unattainable chemical or emotional relief from the prision of all these trauma-based emotions and a constant state of boredom that would have me sucking on a crack pipe just like you if I didn’t do something creative with the terrible thoughts and visions that plague this untended shithole mind of endless trauma memory you call your ‘self’! Thank God I have a little book to write in and channel my thoughts and fears and nightmares into some form of creative expression, some semblence of sanity for somebody who’s every bit as capable of murder and suicide as you are. An undicsiplined, unoccupied mind is the most dangerous instrument of destruction in the world and I got a bad brain too, just like yours, filled with memories of harms and fucking hurts and spiders and rats and bats and things that crawl in the shadows - but I DO something with it so it doesn’t run my life into the gutter like yours does to you. You just go on in the living hell of a stifled frustrated poet. You’d really be better off dead.”"Fuck you, Cigano! Bla bla bla, that’s all you know for do is talk you e’stupid words that mean nothing. I got nothing to lose an’ I wan’ nothing, so what I gotta do anything for? I just wan’ for die and go ‘way from these shit world an’ all you shit peoples!”  ”That’s cool baby,” I said, almost driving her to a violent reaction, but not quite. “Anyway it could be worse, Narcisa… It could be me. So have a nice death, baby. And may it come soon. I’ll be swimming in the ocean and riding on my motorcycle and eating delicious meals and fucking lots of pretty girls, traveling around the world signing books I wrote about people like you and their bad brain and having a pretty good time, thinking boy it’s too bad Narcisa can’t be here to enjoy all this but she had to go and kill herself and she didn’t even know she just killed the wrong person, stupid cunt!” Sure enough she fell asleep while I was still talking and I waited till she was really out good before I put a blanket over her and thanked God for having let me survive nicely another one of her shitty little pity-parties. Then I rolled over and slept the sleep of the righteous once again. Ah!

And now she simply is destroyed and getting worse by the minute and I just want to cry cause I remember how, before I came down to Rio, we talked for hours on the phone like excited kids and made all these big plans to go traveling and go to the beach and all these fun things and I told her I’d written a book and she said she wanted to write too and where is it all now? Ashes ashes ashes and she is dying and I am mourning and I wish wish wish it could all be different like in her once sweet innocent fairy tale mind and I curse this disease that destroys lives and dreams and hope and love and turns it all to ashes.

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.

NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos neste site são contos de ficção - registrados na Biblioteca Nacional 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 vivo 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.