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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.