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Narcisa smells of mold.Like a pair of grave-robbed dead man’s shoes dug up from the cemetery and laid out on the sidewalk of Rua do Catete to be sold by the legions of garbage-picking trash scavengers and beggars and alcohol-guzzling bums sitting out there like black-winged dusty vultures in Narcisa’s stomping grounds at all hours of the day and night.A moldy smell surrounds her like an unholy aura all the time now.I know it’s not actually her though.It’s only her clothes, that vast collection of shirts and skirts and dresses I’ve bought her over the years. All the stuff that’s laid stored away for months in drawers and cabinets in my little closed-up apartment, while she sat in the Evangelist Christian brainwash farm and I traveled the world, writing her life story, trying to find somecure for the common malady of our uncommon, unfortunatelove…And when I finally came back to Rio, reanimating her like some shabby roadside sideshow Frankenstein, she came home with me and dug hungrily through the drawers, unearthing all her pretty clothes she couldn’t wait to get back into.But they all smelled like mold now after sitting so long in aclosed up apartment in the tropics where everything, including her,must be aired out periodically to avoid the smell of mold.Well, she didn’t care much and certainly wasn’t gonna wait for me to air anything out or wash it before wearing it, fala serio, Cigano,go go…And so off we went on our first night back home together, my girl looking beautiful and delicate as a fairy angel ghost, smelling of raw sex and life and death and mold and ashes ashes ashes….Narcisa.Our lady of ashes.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.