“Jonathan Shaw’s passionate descriptions of the surreal, paranoid jungle he inhabits capture the haunting poetry of his soul…Scabvendor is an original and compelling work…” -Hubert Selby Jr. 2003, Author of Reqiuem For a Dream and Last Exit To Brooklyn
Holy fuck!
Sometimes I think she’s actually starting to like it as much as I do…
Shit.
A 2-hour long roman gladiator fuck-a-thon where she finally surrendered again and again to the inevitable ego death of multiple orgasms, before passing out and getting fucked in her sleep for another couple of hours…
I finally threw in the towel.
Just as I rolled sweating off her like a sated preditor, she woke up grinning like a lottery winner.
“You should be paying ME for this kind of fucking, baby,” I told her.
She just kept grinning shyly like a drooling idiot child.
“That’ll be the day, Cigano.”
But I knew from that shit-eating grin that I had her.
Narcisa was in love.
And not just with her own image in the mirror…
Shit.
A sexually-traumatized, man hating lesbian whore from the day I first met her.
Then a confirmed, card-carrying crack addict…
Now, maybe she was gonna be a dick addict.
And I was her connection.
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.
Finally it’s 6 in the morning and the sun is coming up over the bay. As I ride her up the hill to cop, I can see the first pin point of a devil red sun peeking through the steamy tropical cloud cover out over the green hills across the bay.
And we’re riding along and she’s clinging to me on the back of the bike again in the fuzzy warm afterglow of the last hour’s super intense lovemaking… Yeh I will really call it that now.
Because somewhere in the course of our ongoing habitual crack stupor dementia sex party, we’ve somehow stumbled across some invisible line between fucking and lovemaking…
As she clung to me with that drowning rat desperation, I could actually feel that subtle shift again…
It’s as if she’s somehow being infused with the very will to live as I screw again and again her hard into the mattress, into the physical world, back into life itself, injecting her with lust and love and passion and some weird abstract will to just keep living for one more fucking day, filling her being with a variety of living, tactile sensations and earthly energy… And sensations….
Sensations.
It’s kinda funny, but since I’ve been back with her, after our four month seperation, lately now, whenever she gets hungry for snacks, for sustenance between bouts with the crack monster, whenever I ask what she wants to eat she invariably tells me “sensaçãoes”.
Sensations.
The first time she said it, I thought she was just waxing poetic, speaking metaphorically, talking in tounges again….
Whatever.
And maybe she was.
Unconsciously. Speaking in symbols, esoteric poetry rhymes, riddles, speaking the language of the subconscious, talking the tongue of angels… the way it always is with Narcisa.
“Sensaçãoes”
It turned out though to just be the name of some new potato chip brand she’d sudenly become all fanatical about since the old times.
It used to be “Baconzitos,” these fake-food bacon-flavored corn chips that, if you leave them out on a plate for five minutes, they go all soft and stale, and taste like little chunks of bacony cardboard.
But there’s always some strange subtext to these things with Narcisa…
The other day she decided to try something new.
She bought a pack of Cheese flavored Cheetos or whatever…
dog-shit cheetos, originally uploaded by Scab Vendor.
She didn’t really buy ‘em for the taste or even the sensation now anyway. Now she’s just become totally addicted to the little cards that come in the packages of chips. Some childish “Dungeons and Dragons” type game. She’s got the whole fucking collection going now, all these little cards with with silly little pictures of weird little creatures with exotic little names like “Pegasus” and “Scarlet Witch” and “Golden Angel” and “White Dragon”. She says she must have the elusive “Black Dragon” card now to complete her set, so we can play. Sweet child. Narcisa likes to play play play, God bless her. But now she desperately needs the “Black Dragon” card, and she keeps getting me to buy her endless bags of these fucking chips and opening em up and eating whatever’s inside… Whatever the fuck it tastes like. Whatever… We were at the beach the other day, sitting at my little office kiosk at the end of Copacabana, hanging out, watching the waves, both of us stinging with the endless boredom that seems to consume us both during any of her periods of self-enforced abstinence.
She’d just bought this new bag of cheese flavored chips from the kiosk boy.
She opened it up and started munching away.
She even offered me some, probably trying to munch her way faster to the precious card hidden at the bottom of the bag…
I wasn’t hungry though. Especially since having noticed a lingering smell of dog shit in the air.
Fucking people bringing their stupid mutts down to my beach to shit.
Fuck.
Soon enough, Narcisa was bored again, her habitual state whenever suffering from any significant period of prolonged abstinence from the crack.
“Let’s get the fuck out, Cigano. I wanna go. Go go go! Moooove!”
I got on the bike and she got on behind me. I could still smell it as we pulled away, the vague lingering odor of dog shit in my nostrils, so I didn’t mind getting out of there anyway.
We rode off down the beach, Narcisa muching away at her chips behind me, like a contented baby cow.
Half way home! as we pulled up to a stoplight, there it was again.
The irritating smell of dogshit.
I told her and she said I was just imagining it.
Whatever.
One of us had probably stepped in shit. She told me they say it’s good luck and I told her they probably just say that to feel less pissed off for having stepped in a pile of stinky old dog shit, that’s all.
The light turned green and we blasted off down the beach and the smell was gone.
When we pulled the bike up in front of my place a few minutes later, we got off.
And there it was again, that unmistakable dog shit smell.
I told her I could definately smell it, and now she said she smelled it too.
At my insistence, she checked the bottom of her shoes.
No dog shit.
I got off the bike and looked at the bottom of my own boots, first one, then the other.
Clean.
Nothing.
Weird.
We walked up into my building and got into the elevator as Narcisa munched and crunched away, finishing off the chips.
“Black Dragon!” She squealed, jumping up and down. “I got it, Cigano!”
I scrunched up my nose, smelling dog shit again.
What the fuck?
Our feet were clean. Maybe we’d sat in it or something. I turned Narcisa around, checking the seat of her pants.
Clean.
Then she handed me the empty Cheetos bag.
“Maybe you smell inside the bag, Cigano,” she smirked.
I don’t know what I was thinking she was thinking I was thinking.
I put my nose up to the bag and took a wiff.
Dog shit!
“THAT’S where it was coming from!” I howled. “Ya KNEW! You been fucking with me the whole time, ya little witch.”
“Is the new flavor, Cigano,” she cackled madly. “Swiss cheese!”
Swiss cheese.
Dog shit.
Shit.
Pure chemical shit.
But that’s Narcisa, weaned on the worst junk food and junk tv… mixed with advanced esoteric occultism, massive preteen LSD experimentation, Nietzsche and years of adolescent prostitution… just for shits and giggles.
Narcisa.
If I can just survive her long enough to keep fucking her and loving her back to earth and somehow breathe her alive for long enough, she might very well just continue to surprise us all.
The other day while she was flying high on day three of another crack mission, she picked up the new book by David Icke that I’d been reading. She turned to a page and copied a phrase sown on one of the stolen postcards she always carries around to bend and shape into all her weird geometric patterns.JS and David Icke
David Icke, originally uploaded by Scab Vendor.
“I don’ need to read any book Cigano.” She declared firmly.
I just looked at her, waiting for further explanation.
“Waste of the time for the Narcisa,” she continued.
I waited. She spoke.
“Only what I need do is open any book on any page an’ right there is the thing I need to see…”
Later on, after she’d flown off into the steamy night like a psychedelic vampire bat, I looked at the postcard lying on my table and saw what she’d scribbled there.
Another clue for me who finds himself compelled, for whatever reasons that even I cannot fully know, to try and decipher her mind and her life… like a underworld miner, digging up whatever hidden message is there for us all.
I looked at the postcard.
I read it again and again.
This is what it said, I swear to fucking god:“It is the same with so many children consuming chemical-infested food and drink who become subject to hyperactivity and other behavior modification.”That’s it.
Now, not to change the subject, but I really do believe that everybody alive should read up on David Icke’s research as quickly as possible. If they all did, I feel it would probably start the ball of truth rolling to heal the whole fucking planet…
Regardless, that one particular phrase, out of everything in the whole 400-plus page book, is exactly what Narcisa spit out of her crooked little paranormal snout, her psychic mental computer that day. Then she left it sitting there scribbled on a postcard on my table for me to contemplate her prophetic existense once again.
And once again, I am reminded not to take anything concerning Narcisa for granted at its face value.
Ever.
Junk food, behavior modification, hyperactivity.
Dog shit-flavored Cheetos.
Hmmmmm… David Icke
david icke, originally uploaded by Scab Vendor.
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.
A lot of the stuff I wrote in my soon-to-be-released book “Narcisa - Our Lady of Ashes” was certainly made up, changed, exagerated or extrapolated from actual real life people and events.
It would simply be impossible, however, to give any real life account of someone as surreal and shadowy and ephemeral as Narcisa.
Not to mention that she’s as secretive about her “real” life experience as any KGB spy or CIA operative. Unless, of course, she’s smoked just the right amount of crack, and the moon and all the stars are lined up just right with Alpha Centauri for her to start spitting out some psychedelic version of her personal information like some cosmic acid trip-dispensing slot machine… But even then, the voracity of her accounting of the “facts” is surreal, and questionable at best.
On those rare occasions, I’m just glad I have this little fucking blog, where I’m not constrained by literary considerations or poetic dramatic worries or any of that shit… Here, I can just keep digging into the seemingly bottomless archeological pit of her bizarre existence, not knowing or even caring if any of it’s true, or if she’s making it all up.
Whatever.
And so what if I’m filling in the blanks from my own twisted imagination?
Whatever.
At the end of the day, she and I are just these oddball funhouse mirrors into some deep mysteries of each others’ twisted, tangled, mangled souls….
Meanwhile life goes on as she just keeps giving me more and more to look at and wonder about… maybe it really WILL all end up as yet another fucking book after all…
I really don’t want to write another “Narcisa” book.
I don’t.
I think I really just want to get the fuck off this demonic merry-go-round somehow, once and for all, and I swear to Christ I just don’t know how… Just like her, I really DO want it all to stop.
But, like her, I don’t have the slightest power to make it all stop.
Shit.
An hour later, of course, as we get back on the motorcyc after yet another paranormal cataclysmic fuck, I don’t care anymore, I don’t care, don’t fucking care. This is love. And you take that shit wherever you can find it and don’t ask too many questions.
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.
Now she slithers in like an alien sex goddess, gliding across the room, and I follow in her shadowy wake like a cat’s tail, twitching in a flourescent alley, all alert, all attention, awareness… focus, sex starved again, dying again and again to feel her hard, wirey body grinding away, all portals to Heaven and Hell wide open as I put my dick deep inside and die again and again.There’s no more time for dialogue.Now its an emergency. Fuck fuck fuck!!!Now I can taste and smell and feel her crack tainted sweat lingering around me like a graveyard fog, swallowing up my hostage soul again.I wait for brief relief again as she dances, slinky and alive like a firey crazed lizard, tormenting every cell of me… Again.And now she’s got that good old manic style acid flashback psychedelic groove going again, dancing, balancing, juggling, shape-shifting like a wild formless energy channel, an otherworldy cosmic wormhole, a hypnotic occult source…And it’s amazing, splendid, terrifying to watch her moving like a thunder storm, earthquake, tsunami, a hurtling comet, an alien spacecraft coming down down down on my tranced out sleepy, sleep-deprived head again and again now…Yeh, baby!
There’s nothing more erotic and compelling I know of than watching Narcisa gyrating, grinding, shaking, morphing, seducing herself, turning herself on as she dances before the mirror. My dick’s so hard now it wants to fly off like a rocket into outer space with her again again again.This is what I fucking live for and die for today.Narcisa.Time goes by like an endless reel of surreal, paranormal, multi-dimensional bughouse imagery…She’s been up smoking the rock for two days again now and yeh, she’s finally hit it again, that paranormal free-fall time-warp looney tunes anything-goes zone that she lives and dies for too…And now she’s weaving those invisible patterns of sacred geometry again, conjuring up crop circles out of pure empty space again, carving those invisible inter-dimensional portals into our third eye vision again, her hard, boyish ass tattooing imprints of apocolypse poetry with an invisible tool of profane animal lust into the secret codes of my soul’s perpetually confounded hard drive memory…And I wait here like a lurking jungle predator for her to finally wind down off the chemical fueled suicide mission that keeps her traversing the sky forever… Waiting for her to take the inevitable kamakazi dive into my arms with the inevitable husky rasp language shreading my audio-perception as she breathes that crack demon wind into my hungry mouth. Again…”Fuck fuck fuck. Smoke smoke smoke…”Our own secret code for the endless moment we’ve been living for from the very start of this crazed, addictive death dance.And here it comes again… Sacred union. Dick and pussy molded together again into one holy rolling unstoppable infernal mechanism of infinate momentum, insatiable, tragic, perfect Want, lust, passion, sensory overload, trance trance trance magic…But I can’t get near her yet as she lusts after her own unattainable image in in the mirror I bought her today, after she broke the last one in some deadly tussle with God knows what the fuck she let in….And now she’s dancing in the mirror again, exciting her inscrutable primitive narcissist’s libido, gyrating wild and crucial and free…Narcisa.
She gets herself so excited by her own dancing image and I get so excited too, as always, drowning in a swirling sea of bottomless lust, watching her lusting after the impossibility of herself.Narcisa.And suddenly she is on fire again now, and my dick is stiff in my pants and it hurts hurts hurts, oh God, this is the ultimate definition of Want.I slide up behind her and grind it hard into that ever-compelling infinate space between her pounding winding grinding gyrating hard butt cheeks… and she plays with my lust. Just like some sleek, beautiful, deadly cat taunting a mouse, finally pushing off me again with her elbows, like a high diver taking a bold plunge off into outer space in the endless depths of her own acid eyes in the mirror of Narcisa Narcisa Narcisa forever now.E agora? What now?I’m held a willing hostage in this crazy shining holy force field of Narcisa, waiting for death or redemption, lost lost lost in the fathomless sea of hunger and lust and insatiable, endless Want…E agora?What now? 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.
A few hours after her last big violent raging apocalyptic temper tantrum freakout, well along into her next crack mission now and cringing under the merciless lash of induced psychotic paranoia from the drug, now she was all contrite and repentant again, suddenly consumed with guilt, ashamed of her terrible violent behavior, swearing that she was really gonna ‘control’ herself from now on.Well well…I told her what I knew about the persistent old junkie myth of ’self control’.”I used to be just like you, Narcisa… pissed off all the time… and super violent, crazy uncontrollable mood swings unstable temperment, volitale as a walking time-bomb…. I had no idea there was anything wrong with me. I thought that’s just the way it goes, thought my problem was everybody else… I had to go to hell and survive it, then eat shit and die a thousand deaths to get clean and stay clean for awhile in order to finally fucking learn that it doesn’t do ya any good at all to just spend all yer time sitting on a big wound up spring trying to ‘control yerself’… What the fuck good is all that ‘control’ when you know, ya really fucking KNOW you’ll just freak out again one day and send it all to hell?”… ”What’s the use in kidding yourself, baby? When you’re fucking nuts the way we are, there IS no fucking ‘control’. If there was any ‘controlling’ this kind of insanity, I wouldn’t have wound up being a hopeless fucking drug addict in the first place. I woulda just ‘controlled’ that shit and I’d still be having my fun today. All I can tell ya is that if you ever wanna get better, You’re gonna really need to start to try and see what’s lurking down in yourself that makes you get so fucking violent and crazy in the first place… instead of wasting all that energy sitting on a fucking big old spring that’s just gonna pop loose again and fuck it all up, like it always has before…” Finally I stopped talking and just watched her silently, wondering if any of it was getting in..Silence..”Who invented the spring?” She says suddenly.I dunno.I just looked at her.”I did, Cigano. I did,” she mumbled incoherently.Whatever.Just another typical conversation with Narcisa.The end.
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.
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…
Now she’s dancing across the room with a jar of greenish cloudy water she keeps vomiting into as she wiggles that magical moribund ass around and around like an alien hypnotic death bomb of pure obsessive fascination.I can’t take my eyes off that gyrating perfect ass that’s jumping into my mind, teasing every brain cell, as my dick gets harder and harder till I think its gonna snap off in my fucking pants.And I only want to unleash it into her sweaty warm fever hole again and again and again.And she doesn’t stop, can’t stop, never stop, go go go…. spinning and dancing around and around like a crazy, endless wind up toy… and she is the most perfect creature in the devil’s arsenal of terminal torment and temptation and insatiable, endless Want.When I try to take her jar of bile away and throw it in the toilet, she fights me off, clutching it possessively to her breast like it was some precious treasure trove.”Leave it, Cigano! I wan, for know what it is coming out from my organism now….”How could I argue with such impeccable bughouse logic?Narcisa.Psycho art of the highest fucking order…
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.
