Blog

She finally got tired of smoking crack and juggling coke bottles.
Attention span of a hyperactive puppy. She put on her tried and true cosmic waif denim mini skirt and psychedelic hand painted tattered tank top. She donned her purple shades and slid up beside me, panting like a raped drooling Lolita.
“What’s the plan, cigano?” she half whispered, half croaked, looking like an evil pirate.
I knew that was my cue to take her up in the loft bed and fuck her back to life.
She asked me to put some jazz on and I did. As I delved into the world of her sweet little chicken pie, she asked me who was playing the saxophone. I distractedly mumbled “Coltrane,” as I tasted her crack-scorched tongue with mine.
She surprised me by saying “John Coltrane?”
I said yeah, lost in her insane universe of endless surprise, while she ran her long witchy fingers up and down my back, delicately playing me like Coltrane playing that saxophone.
Finally she said “Hurry up, Cigano.” And I did. It was easy as I drank the vile wine of her stinking breath.
But I could tell she only half wanted me to hurry up and finish.
Against her will, she was getting excited too.
I can always tell, even if she can’t. Weird.
But it was already too late, I was already working the roller coaster car up to the top of the big hill and then suddenly, wheeeeeeee, I’m coming and dying and screaming and drooling like a rabid rottweiler, into her mouth, her cunt, her soul, as she plays me like John Coltrane’s fucking saxophone… and she is fucking me to death, and Iam dying again and again in her arms, coming, coming, and she’s laughing now, giggling just like Lolita, and she’s got my heart curled up like a sleeping cat in her crack-tainted claws, and I do not fucking care.

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008.

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.

I opened my little notebook and began to write, the way I always do sitting at the Leme rock, my open air office. I’ve written enough crap sitting there over the years to publish several books.

For some reason, I get my best inspiration sitting by the water, either there, or at one of my other offices at the other end of Copacabana by the old fort, or sometimes over by the big rock of Praia do Diabo, by Arpoador, in Ipanema. I’ve been writing in these places for years and I’ve always felt the presence of some effortless inspiring force there with the waves at my feet. I’ve been told it’s because I’m a Filho de Ogum Beira Mar, a son of Saint George who rides his white steed along the shore by the crashing waves.          

I’ve always felt safe and protected and inspired when sitting by those waves, so I go with it. But since I’ve been running hard and heavy with Narcisa, I mostly do my thing at Leme, since it’s my seaside office closest to home. I like to be able to just get up and go whenever she calls me. Seven minutes by motorcycle to home. Seven minutes to Narcisa.

Seven minutes to Narcisa.

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008.

NOTIFICAÇÃO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção registrados na Biblioteca Nacional com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor Jonathan Shaw. 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.

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.

We have evolved. We are gemstones being polished. We’ve come a long long way since the times we lived it all like some terrible nightmare, since the time I finished writing the book, Narcisa and came back to her
for further instruction. Now I’m back and the instruction is going deeper. There is much work to be done.
We’re sitting around the pad, remembering different incidents I wrote about in the book.
“Remember when you threw that fucking chicken across the room, baby? That fucking shit, man, I’m still picking up pieces around…” I laughed.
Progress. We’re actually laughing about things that almost killed us a year ago.
“I paid the big karma for that shit, Cigano,” she laughed.. “They make me kill and pluck the chickens for four month in that shit Jesus place…”
I laughed and laughed and laughed. She is my goddess. My love. My princess. My angel.
The devil who tempts me and the exterminating angel who rescues me, one bloody battle at a time, from the bondage of illusion and ego and self.

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.
NOTIFICAÇÃO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção registrados na Biblioteca Nacional com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor Jonathan Shaw. 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.

“Don’t try and be wiser than your own wisdom,” I said to her as I dropped her off today.
For once, she was paying attention enough to ask me what I meant.
Maybe because I was leaving for the night and wouldn’t be there anymore to interfere with her insanely disturbed, unbalenced thought process.
“I dunno, princess. It just came into my head to tell you that. I don’t know what the fuck it means. Maybe you should think about it while you sit up smoking crack till your brain melts like a plastic doll on a bonfire… Don’t try and be wiser than your own wisdom… I guess that must mean something like, don’t let your intellect supersede your intuition. That’s probably what’s fucking you up most of all, if ya ask me…”
With that she walked away up the dark path up to the crackhouse as I turned the motorcycle around and blasted off into the night.

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.
NOTIFICAÇÃO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção registrados na Biblioteca Nacional com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor Jonathan Shaw. 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.

After putting the crack monster to bed, JS decided to wake me up out of my own hazy sweaty slumber so we could take the motorcycle over to Copacabana and meet up with his new friend, an airline pilot, whose
name happens to be Captain Kirk. He had been telling me about this guy since he met him on the beach a few days ago in Leme, so I said alright even though I was sleepy and begrudgingly I threw my clothes on and stumbled down the stairs to the garage, rubbing my eyes and holding onto the banister of the big winding staircase.

I hopped on the bike and we blasted into the Rio madrugada.

When we pulled up in front of Help, the quintessential gringo whorehouse, we saw a group of pink-faced middle aged whiteboys sitting around a table yelling at eachother like typical kracker-jacks and, without greeting them, Jonathan turned to me behind him, rolled his eyes and said “no fucking way”. I was totally fine with that because at the very moment he turned around to look at me I was struck with what seemed like a mild case of Dengue Fever and was positive that I was- at any given time- about to start shooting excrement from every orifice of my body.

“Okay” I gurgled and he fired up the bike, but before he pulled off, I heard a funny Southern drawl behind us.

“Hay there buddy”.

 I looked at the guy. Then I looked at Jonathan. Then I really looked at the guy, examined him and the skinny nappy whore who dangled on his arm like a fucking arm-hemmheroid. I looked at the beer in his hand.

Then he spoke. “Man, this whore right here just loves me! I donno how ta tell ‘er I only like em if they’re more than a hunderd keelos”. Jonathan winced, looked at me, shrugged and chuckled.
You have got to be kidding me. This is Captain Kirk? This is the guy you woke me to come meet at 3 in the morning? No. I leaned over and dry heaved as my preconceived notions, and whatever bug was infesting my stomach got the best of me.

But as soon as he started talking, it was only friendly intelligent things that came out of his mouth and I warmed up to him. He seemed to appreciate Narcisa and what Jonathan was doing as a writer and it really felt like he was one of us so I got off the bike sat down on the black and white bubblegum spotted tiles, afraid that if I stood up I would wind up on my face anyway so I might as well go down gracefully.

Jonathan was hungry and decided we should go to the pizzeria down the street. I thought if I walked a bit I might feel better.

We sat down at a little table and Jonathan ordered some sort of pasta dish that I’m becoming nauseous thinking about and Captain Kirk ordered a beer. He told us stories about his travels and the general
misconceptions of being an airline pilot. He told us that he was planning on working in South America for a few years until he could save up enough money to go back to Kansas City to drop acid, live on
the river, attend Burning Man and write the next great American novel. Right on to that.

I was starting to feel a little better after drinking some soda, thank God. After about an hour of rapping back and forth about real estate, flying commercial planes, and corrupt politicians Captain Kirk said
“OH- BRIG- GOT-OOOOO” and paid the tab and we walked back toward the ho-stroll where the bike was parked, me having gotten through the night without shitting myself and also learning, once again, for the
nine-millionth time, that you really can’t judge a book by its cover.

Even if the cover is a Gulf War vet who has a thick southern accent and a fat-girl fetish.

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.

 She is poetry of the Apocolypse in fire-breathing action.
 I stopped on the busy street corner, as she emerged from the bathroom of the cafe where the poetry reading was going on.
 She’d decided at the last minute that it was more important to take a dump than participate in the reading.  Now I  stood looking at Narcisa in awe as the words suddenly flowed from her mouth like a rushing wind of abstraction and absurdity.
 Narcisa. Living Theater of the Absurd…
  “The feces has never been so solid.. An’ while I defecate today, I am whole time
thinking, ’shit of a civil code! Fucking constitution! Shit shit shit!!! So-call Civil “rights” that require the imposition of Duty on the e’stupid cit’zen!!! Race of cows. Fuck it the goverment!”
  She spat the last word out like she was expelling a demonic entity.
 I confess, I didn’t understand a fucking word she was saying, but I listened captivated in amazed fascination as she ranted on.
 I noticed a few people standing nearby were also staring. The usual.
  “I would even prefer it the fucking church, man, the sacerdotes, the confessional, repitious prayers to altars repleat with so-called “sacred” imagery. Christicious crusifixations! Shit shit shit, Cigano. IS ALL SHIT!!!”
  ”What were you doing in that bathroom for so long, baby,” I asked, for want of anything else to say.
  ”What e’ stupid question, Cigano. ‘What you doing in bathroom?’ I am looking inside to it my own poo-sy!”
  “What didja find there, baby?” I said, laughing.
  “I find it she dirty an’ cold an’ dry from the disappointment.”
  “Disappointment?” I said with concern. “Have I somehow let her down?”
  “No is the disappointment at you, Cigano,” she said sweetly, eyeing me suddenly with that same warm, loving concern.
  “I only say these like the metaphor for the whole fucking shit civilization in general.”
 Oh well. That made me feel much better. Whatever.
 ”Must to develop a formula to ENLARGE things, Cigano, got it?”
  I just sat there and waited for her to conclude.
 Suddenly, as if she instinctively felt all those eyes on her, she abruptly turned to where a group of astonished onlookers had gathered and stood staring.
 She had finally and definitively decided to  abandon her constipated  little haunted realm of self obsession and a thousand broken mirror images of herself in all her forms of madness and psychedelic enlightenment for just long enough to deliver an eloquent and bizarre little message from the shadow world to the remnants of the poetry reading she hadn’t had the patience to attend. She let it all fly.
  “Imagine a gigantic penis,” she announced dramatically, looking right at the crowd of astonished people standing there like baffled sheep.
  “A giant penis, peoples, got it?? Throwing liters and liters of flying sperm to rain down on the head of the whole marching military band of humanity… For see it if maybe they gonna grow a crop of brains in the rotten graveyard of they dead fucking imagination. Okey, now. Show over. Thank you, come again…”
  Then she jumped up on the motorcycle behind me and barked like a dog “woof woof woof!” As I fired up the bike and rode off laughing, still thinking of the expressions on the faces of the people back there.
What a show!

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008.

NOTIFICAÇÃO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção registrados na Biblioteca Nacional com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor Jonathan Shaw. 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.

Of course a couple of hours after disappearing she called me.
I picked up and right away she starts in.
“Why you don’ try to understan’ me, Cigano? I jus’ wan’ it some the company, cuz I tired for to e’smoke all alone. I’m up on Santa Teresa, if you wan’ for come an’ see me…”
Tuesday night. The streets are dead as a graveyard. The good old herd mentality, the sheeple mind. I hate it.
They all go out and clog up the beaches all at once, and they’re all out of their pens, all herded together like chickens. Now they’re all gonna have to go back in their pens all at
once tomorrow… the dreaded work day morning, and they’ll all go and sit in their fucking cars in their fucking traffic jams and honk their fucking horns at each other like bleeting cattle, as they all go to sit in their little boxes of tedium and mediocrity.
But now it’s night, the end of a day of slovenly, mindless activity, and they’re all drunk and slow witted and fat and ugly and corrupt and stupid, taking up space all milling around like cockroaches on a shit heap with their bratty kids and yappy poodles and their bicycles in their leisure clothes and their beer-bloated brains and football fireworks and all their fluffy sound and fury, as
they all work themselves up into a zombie stupor of vile idiocy so they can all go home and plop their fat asses down in front of their televisions and get their brains shit on by the big boys they will never see or even know are there, controling their miserable little sheeple existance from the boardrooms and main offices of the corporate mind-control prison they all live in from cradle to fucking grave. What bullshit.
So I split from the dark crashing night waves and I ride the bike up there to Santa Teresa, and there she is, sitting in a dark, weedy plaza with her dyke, who it turns out isn’t a dyke at all, but
just another young drug addict who’s escaped from the loonie bin and that’s why she’s got that ugly crew cut.
They like to do evil shit like that to rebellious, curious feral young girls in the loonie bin. Kill the soul.
It’s all part of a big, bad Babylon plan to suppress free thinking and rebelion against authority. And it’s especially important for the dark masters to repress all the holy powerful sex drive in woman.
Disable the goddess and stifle the heartbeat of the human spirit. Topple the magnificant monument that all women are born to be, and turn em through the brainwash shame game into an
androgynous race of mediocre, beige, sexually frustrated, tv watching, bible toting, fat-assed manly uglies like Narcisa’s sluggish old mother.
Shit.

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.
NOTIFICAÇÃO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção registrados na Biblioteca Nacional com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor Jonathan Shaw. 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.

When we got back from the cop spot, I let her in the gates of the big dark empty house.
I got back on the bike and split to go home for a while.
She told me to come back for her in a couple of hours, assuring me that after this next run, she’d come home with me to crash.
I didn’t really believe her, even though she’d already been up for four days now.
But I told her I’d come back in awhile to look in on her. Whatever.
It was 4 in the morning by now, and the streets were quiet as a tomb. It had been another hot, sunny day, and all the sheeple had worn their little sheeple hearts out to exhaustion with the beach and the beer and the barbecues and football and family, and… Now there
wasn’t so much as a stray bum stirring in the shadows as I made my way
home.
There it is again! The good old herd mind.
It was a depressing sight. Another shitty night in Rio. Now it was late. Graveyard late. Cold. Dark. Empty. Dead.
I parked the bike in front of the door of my building. Even the doorman was comatose and took his sweet time to let me in.
What is it with these fucking people? Cloned-out computer programs, just like those suit and tie guys in the Matrix movies!
Shit.
When one sleeps, they all gotta sleep!

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.
NOTIFICAÇÃO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção registrados na Biblioteca Nacional com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor Jonathan Shaw. 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.

Self pity. Self justification. Self obsession. Self destruction. Poor Narcisa.
I think about the crimes and punishments of my parents; My stepfather’s pathetic laments, even as my mother lay dying on a shit-stained matress in the next room from the ravages of a life of
madness and untreated alcoholism. How he stood there and cried like a baby, saying, “I never thought this was how we would spend our lives in the end. All our plans and dreams…”
So much for the fucking American Dream. Death on the installment plan. Shit.
Denial. The belief that the satisfaction of their primary instincts for wealth and power and prestige and material comfort, sex and luxury will somehow open the gates to an artificial garden of eternal
happiness, the childish belief in a man made plastic paradise… The road to insanity and death. Self delusional, egocentric Ignorance of life’s true purpose and value. And intellectual pride. Oh yeh. Pride and fear. That unholy pair has killed more addicts and alcoholics over history than all the liquor and drugs and wars and scourges and plagues and diseases of mankind combined. Shit, I saw it kill my whole family off before I was old enough to know myself, or start my own dark descent into its ugly world of trouble and doom, seeking that same artificial paradise. Shit.
I just remember looking at my stepfather that day with a mixture of
pity and utter contempt.
And now here we are, me and Narcisa, reliving the whole nasty
scenario all over again like a recurring nightmare merry-go-round of
horror you can’t ever get off. Shit.

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.
NOTIFICAÇÃO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção registrados na Biblioteca Nacional com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor Jonathan Shaw. 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.