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“Jonathan Shaw. There are many words different people may use to describe him. What some may see as only a shallow, brash and impetuous incendiary; actually is a true philosophical, transcendent soul. With layers of insight waiting to be peeled away.” - By Lizzy Garcia

READ THE FULL ARTICLE HERE

Posted on LACityzine’s blog, and on Johnny-Depp.org, the article’s a pretty extensive and deep interview with JS regarding his tattoo career and his writing career. [click either link to read the article]

….Kerouac is on the verge of a stroke trying to follow the beat, Baudelaire horrified, shaking like a little girl - and Bukowski can’t get enough from the fish-ass taste on his tongue:
Narcisa, Our Lady of Ashes is here and she is yanking them out of their rotten graves to rape them with to most powerful of all drugs: reality.
This is a story of commitment. Commitment to love and the absence of consequences; like every great love should be.
From page one till the end, it is hard to take a breath of air. And forget about pure air by the way. There is not the slightest moment of hesitation by the author to dive head first into the deepest realms of hell, have brunch with Mr. Goat Head in person and let the reader be shat on with pure pain. No compassion whatsoever.
After going through so much immorality on every holy-fucking page of this Goddamn-Bible of Hell, I found and learned one solid moral:
“Love is a piece of maggot-infested, putrid meat that hangs on a hook of an abandoned Butcher’s shop in hell. Only those hungry and brave enough to eat it like a fancy carpaccio will be blessed by the sickness, the wounds that only God himself will heal and transform…”
I got all this and more from this book. Salve Jonathan Shaw,  the most authentic person I know.

- Antonio Luiz “Tonico” Monteiro de Carvalho

Here is the foreward to Narcisa: Our Lady of Ashes, written by the amazingly talented and beautiful Lydia Lunch.

You can’t save anyone from themselves. You will lose everything by attempting to play savior.

You will never heal the wounded. You cannot repair the damage already done by selfish parents, vicious ex-lovers, child molesters, tyrants, poverty, depression or simple chemical imbalance.

You can’t undo psychic wounds, bandage old scars, kiss away ancient bruises.

You can’t make the pain go away. You can’t shout down the voices in other people’s heads. You can’t make anyone feel special. They will never feel beautiful enough, no matter how beautiful they are to you. They will never feel loved enough, no matter how much you adore them.

You will never be able to save the battered from battling back at a world they’ve grown to hate. They will always find a way to pick up where the bullies have left off. They will in turn become bullies. They will turn you into the enemy. They will always find a new method in which to punish themselves. Thereby punishing you.

No matter how much you’ve convinced yourself that you have done absolutely everything in your power to prove your undying devotion, unfaltering commitment and unending encouragement, you will never be able to save a miserable bastard from their self.

The wounded will always find a way to spread their pain over a vast terrain, like an emotional tsunami which devastates the surrounding landscape. An ever-expanding firewall which will singe everything and everyone in its wake. The longer you love a damaged person the more it will hurt you.

They will mock your generosity, abuse your kindness, expect your forgiveness, try your patience, sap your energy and eventually murder your soul. They will not be happy until you are as miserable as they are. Then their incredible self-loathing will be justified by the perpetuation of a cycle from which there is little recourse.

Once you enter their free fall, it will be virtually impossible to turn your back on them. You will be racked with guilt, frustrated by your own impotence and made furious for ever buying into their shit in the first place. Of course the more damaged, the more charismatic. The more brilliant. The more sexually intoxicating. The more dangerous to your own mental health.

Love is a battlefield, a landmine, a slaughterhouse, a refugee camp, a whorehouse, an insane asylum, a prison. A purgatory of abusive repetition rippling off into infinity. A twisted funhouse mirror which mimics Dante’s Nine Circles of Hell. Where the lonely souls of the eternally damned dance a wicked dervish. Steeped in the desperation of those determined to throw themselves deep into the pit of a flaming volcano seeking a baptism of fire. In search of paradise, nirvana, heaven, a return to the Garden from which they have and always will be banished.

Jonathan Shaw’s ‘NARCISA — OUR LADY OF ASHES’ is a heartbreaking tome of diseased lust which oozes a poetry of bloody sweat and sperm. A grotesquely beautiful love song steeped in the perpetual twilight horror of an unbearable trauma bond. Where the twin Furies of Addiction and Codependency bitchslap you with a big dick whose own insatiable hunger attempts to feast. And in return it feeds back to the victim-turned-victimizer a mad love whose overwhelming sex magick is magnet to the darkest forces of our own primordial essence.

‘NARCISA’ is mandatory reading for anyone who has ever been fucked up, fucked over or fucked with to their very core in a fit of possession. Anyone who’s been blindsided by love and lust, shackled by passion to a lowlife scum-sucking junkie vampire whose devastating beauty and raw animal magnetism painted them as Dark Angel and Ancient Mystic. A Purifying Fire-breathing flesh-eating Demon whose warpath and wrath against the world and everything in it, by some twisted kink in our own psyche, became the tortured path we willingly spiraled into in search of our own redemption. In the desperate hope of saving our mirrored reflection from the bottomless pit of love’s eternal negation.

Lydia Lunch
Barcelona  2007

READ LYDIA’S BOOK, PARADOXIA. IT IS TRULY AMAZING.

I picked up Narcisa at bedtime, thinking that, like many books people give me, it would literally bore me to sleep. Quite the contrary! I stayed up, compulsively turning the pages, and read the whole thing in one night! Wow! What a story! How the author lived to tell it, only Jesus knows. Jonathan Shaw is a true Alchemist. In his work as in his life, again and again he has turned shit into gold.

- Inger Lorre (The Nymphs, Motel Shootout)

Found these today, thought I’d share them.

CLICK FOR LARGER IMAGE

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Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.

 1. Can you explain to me exactly what is the post-modernist tropical muralism in South America? What inspired you in it?

IM GLAD YOU BROUGHT THAT UP… not.

IT’S REALLY JUST A LOAD OF LANGUAGE, SOMETHING I MADE UP CUZ I WANTED TO USE SOME BIG FANCY WORDS FOR THIS ART MAGAZINE INTERVIEW… IF YOU CAN’T DAZZLE EM WITH BRILLIANCE, BAFFLE ‘EM WITH BULLSHIT, THAT WAS BOB SHAW’S MOTTO… HE WAS MY TATTOO MENTOR… NO RELATION, SAME SURNAME… MY LIFE IS FULL OF COINCIDENCES LIKE THAT, ALWAYS STRANGER THAN FICTION…

ANYWAY, NOT TO CHANGE THE SUBJECT, I THINK IT WAS JUST MY FANCY ARTSY WAY OF MAKING REFERENCE TO THE KIND OF NAIVE HAND PAINTED MURAL ART YOU SEE ON SLEEZY BAR AND WHOREHOUSE WALLS  IN PLACES LIKE BELEM, SURINAM, HONDURAS, MEXICO, SHIT LIKE THAT…

HAHAHAHA 

2. What are dockside dives like?

IF YOU GO TO VILA MIMOSA AND WALK ALL THE WAY BACK TO THE END OF THE 2ND ALLEY ON YOUR LEFT… OR THE BAR ACROSS THE STREET FROM THE ‘SCANDINAVIA’ IN PRACA MAUA…. AHH QUE SAUDADE DO MEU RIO!!

2. Can you tell me a little bit about your family? Mom, Artie, Bob Shaw?

INSANE GENIUS ARTISTS WITH PARANORMAL, DISTURBED INTELLECTS AND LOADS OF TALENT AND CHARISMA  AND… VERY BAD LIFE SKILLS,  WARPED SOCIAL ATTITUDES, PSYCHIC DAMAGE AND ALCOHOLISM… MUCH SUICIDE, VIOLENCE AND TRAGEDY IN MY IMMEDIATE FAMILY OF ORIGIN… IT’S A CONSTANT THEME IN MY BOOKS AND OTHER WRITING, NOT TO MENTION MY PERSONAL LIFE….. FUN FUN FUN…. MY MOTHER ALWAYS CALLED IT ‘THE CURSE’ AND SAID IT WAS HEREDITARY…SHE WAS MOST LIKELY RIGHT, I THINK.

I WAS ON THE STREET AS SOON AS I COULD FIND MY WAY OUT OF THERE. LEFT HOME RUNNING FOR MY LIFE AND NEVER LOOKED BACK TILL I WAS MUCH OLDER AND SOBER AND TRYING TO MAKE SENSE OF IT ALL. I STILL AM TRYING TO MAKE SENSE OF IT. IT’S A FULL TIME JOB. I THINK THAT’S WHY I’VE BECOME A FULL TIME WRITER. WHEEEE!!!

MY  FATHER WAS A PRETTY GOOD WRITER, NOT NEARLY AS GOOD AS ME, IT WAS ALWAYS HIS BIG AMBITION THOUGH, AND HE COULD NEVER QUITE GET IT… HE SHOULDA STUCK TO MUSIC, THERE HE WAS A GENIUS… HE PUBLISHED A FEW BOOKS BUT NEVER MADE TOO MUCH SUCCESS. HE’LL BE TURNING OVER IN HIS GRAVE WHEN MY BOOK NARCISA HITS. HAHAHAHA — NOTHING MORE MISERABLE THAN A FRUSTRATED, OVER INTELLECTUAL WRITER, EXCEPT MAYBE A DRY DRUNK, AND ARTIE WAS BOTH, POOR BASTARD.

I’M GONNA SEND YOU A COPY OF MY OTHER BOOK, SCABVENDER IF YOU WANT TO KNOW MORE ABOUT MY FAMILY, I WROTE ALOT ABOUT MY FUCKING NIGHTMARE CHILDHOOD AND MOTHER AND FATHER THERE.

3. What can you tell me about Bukowski and Burroughs, how meaningful are they to your life and writing?

I LEARNED TO WRITE BY READING ALOT- I HAVE NO FORMAL EDUCATION WHAT EVER, LEFT SCHOOL AT THE AGE OF TWELVE AND RAN THE STREETS, SO IN THAT SENSE THEY [OTHER WRITERS IN GENERAL] ARE  MY REAL AND ONLY TEACHERS AND GURUS AND SO VERY VERY MEANINGFUL TO MY LIFE AND WRITING …

BUKOWSKI WAS A BIG EARLY INFLUENCE AND HE’S ONE OF THOSE WRITERS WHO, ONCE HE’S IN, HE’S IN FOR GOOD… HE WAS ALSO AN ACQUAINTANCE WHEN I WAS JUST A YOUNG PUP, FIRST STARTING TO EXPLORE POETRY…  VERY COOL AND HELPFUL EVEN IN A WEIRD KINDA WAY.  

THERE’S A CHAPTER IN THE BOOK IM SENDING YOU CALLED ’A NIGHT WITH BUKOWSKI‘ THAT GIVES YOU AN OVERVIEW OF OUR RELATIONSHIP BACK THEN….

BELIEVE IT OR NOT, I HAVEN’T READ ANY OF HIS SHIT IN OVER 30 YEARS, JUST STARTED AGAIN THIS WEEK SITTING IN THE BATHTUB TO UNWIND AFTER A FULL DAY EDITING MY NEW BOOK NARCISA… 

BUT EVEN THOUGH I DON’T REALLY WRITE LIKE HIM, AND EVEN AFTER ALL THESE YEARS, HE’S STILL A BIG AND BENOVOLANT INFLUENCE…

BURROUGHS LESS SO… 

I READ HIS BOOK JUNKIE WHEN I WAS JUST A TEENAGER GETTING STARTED AS A JUNKIE MYSELF- HEROIN, I GUESS THAT WAS ALWAYS ONE OF MY BIG AMBITIONS TOO… ANYWAY MY OTHER BOOK SCABVENDER DEALS WITH ALL THAT….. OH YEH BACK TO BURROUGHS, NOT TOO MUCH TO SAY THERE, I LIKED ‘JUNKIE’ COULDN’T FUCKING READ NAKED LUNCH OR ANYTHING ELSE HE WROTE… SORRY. I MET HIM A COUPLE TIMES WITH JIM JARMUSCH WHO’S A BIG FRIEND OF MINE AND WAS FRIENDS WITH BURROUGHS… 

FUNNY YOU MENTION THEM TOGETHER, AS I WAS JUST SITTING IN THE BATHTUB THE OTHER NIGHT AND READ SOMETHING BUKOWSKI WROTE ABOUT WSB AND IT WASN’T TOO NICE..

4. How resolved is your head in relation to your dad?

IT’S A LIFETIME OF WORK, GETTING ‘RESOLVED’ TO THE FACT THAT HE ABANDONED ME IN THE CRIB, IF THAT’S WHAT YOURE TALKING ABOUT… YOU CAN READ SOME OF MY IDEAS ABOUT IT AND HIM IN SCABVENDER: CONFESSIONS OF A TATTOO ARTIST.  

IF YOU’RE REFERRING TO HIS FAME, I DUNNO, IT REALLY NEVER REALLY EFFECTED ME MUCH, SINCE BEING THE BASTARD SON OF A FAMOUS PERSON AIN’T ALL GLAMOR…. WHEN HE DIED HE LEFT ME… NOTHING. NOT EVEN A PHOTOGRAPH… CONTINUO POBRE, POREM SORRIDENTE!

5. Alcohol recovery?

THAT’S A BOOK OR TWO IN ITS OWN RIGHT… A FEW CHAPTERS OF SCABVENDER ALLUDE TO IT… I WAS AN ALKIE AND A HARD DRUG ADDICT FROM THE  AGE OF 12 UP TIL ABOUT 7 YEARS AGO… I’M AN ADHERENT TO THE 12 STEP PHILOSOPHY AND IT HAS SAVED MY  LIFE AND GIVEN ME BACK MY SOUL….

BTW - I CAN’T PUBLICLY ADMIT TO MEMBERSHIP IN ANY ‘ANONYMOUS’ FELLOWSHIP, BECAUSE IT IS ANONYMOUS,

BUT IT’S OK TO SAY 12 STEP PHILOSOPHY, OK?

IF YOU READ MY BOOK NARCISA, IT PRETTY MUCH SUMS UP THE MIND OF ANY AND ALL WHO SUFFER FROM ADDICTION, ALCOHOL, DRUGS, WHATEVER, SHE IS AN ARCHETYPAL CHARACTER….

I COULD SAY SO MUCH ABOUT RECOVERY, I BETTER JUST SHUT UP AND SAVE IT FOR MY BOOKS….

I LOVE THE TWELVE STEPS!!!! BEAUTIFUL!!!!!!!  THE BEST!!!!!!

6. What are your musical favorites and what authors got the best of you?

MUSIC. LENINE, TOM JOBIM, ETC ETC ETC… ALL THE USUAL SUSPECTS… TOO MUCH AND TOO MANY TO NAME. NICK CAVE I LISTEN ALOT LATELY, BUT IT’S JUST OVERWHELMING TO EVEN BEGIN TO ANSWER A QUESTION LIKE THAT… BETTER JUST  FORGET IT… SAME WITH WRITERS… LATELY I LIKE ALOT OF JERRY STAHL, THE LOVELY LYDIA LUNCH, BUK, RE-READING CELINE, HENRY MILLER, DE RIGEUR, JORGE AMADO, MAYRA GOMES, — E CLARO– GARCIA MARQUEZ,  IT JUST GOES ON AND ON… KEROUAC, THE BEATS, ETC, YOU KNOW…

7. Plan on ever being on the screen again?

I ONLY DO GAY PORNO NOW. TALK TO MY AGENT.

8. What do you miss the most in life?

I TRY NOT TO MISS MUCH… LIVE EVERY DAY LIKE IT’S THE LAST..

9. What happened to your studio? Why did you give up on comercial tattoo?

IT WAS MAKING ME SICK AND CRAZY –  I DID WHAT I HADDA DO… DIDN’T YOU READ THAT THING ALESSANDRA SENT YOU? — THE BIO SHE WROTE ABOUT MY TATTOO CAREER, IT’S LIKE 19 PAGES LONG, TALKS ABOUT ALL THAT SHIT…. SO DO YOUR RESEARCH MY FINGERS ARE GETTING TIRED RSRSRSRS

NEXT…….

10. You were the founder and managing editor of International Tattoo Art Magazine, right? Many people consider you to have been the one who brought tattoo art into the mainstream. How do you feel about where its all gone from there? Are you still involved with the tattoo media, magazines, conventions?

YES I DID FOUND ITA AND NO I’M NOT INVOLVED WITH ANY OF THAT SHIT, THEY ARE ALL A BUNCH OF BOTTOM-FEEDING CORPORATE BLOODSUCKERS…..

I REPEAT — READ THE BIO BY ALESSANDRA FOR MORE IN DEPTH ON ALL THIS SHIT…

11. What about your big 18 page cover story with Iggy Pop in Trip magazine? Some say it was most in-depth piece on him ever. How did that all come about?

NEXT……. IGGY IS A VERY OLD PERSONAL FRIEND WITH A SIMILAR WORLD VIEW AND NASTY OUTLOOK ON LIFE… WE GO BACK…. I JUST HAPPENED TO DO IT LIKE A CASUAL VISIT WITH AN OLD FRIEND, THEN TOOK IT AND PACKAGED IT UP WITH SOME NICE FOTOS AND A GOOD TRANSLATION AND SOLD IT TO THE HIGHEST, MOST PRESTIGIOUS BIDDER, I LOVE TRIP MAGAZINE, BUT I HAVE NO AFFILIATION WITH THEM… IT WAS A ONE OFF. LOTSA FUN, BUT I DONT WANNA MAKE A CAREER OF INTERVIEWING ROCK STARS, NO NO. 

12. What were some of your biggest early influences in the art world?

THE E.C. COMICS — VERY IMPORTANT STUFF, BIG BIG INFLUENCE ON ME FROM AN EARLY AGE… DARK SINISTER READING FOR IMPRESSIONABLE CHILDREN OF THE APOCALYPSE… HIGHLY RECOMMEND IT FOR KIDS TO TURN THEM INTO PSYCHOPATHS LIKE ME!!!  

THE ONLY FIFTIES COMICS WORTH A SHIT — 

NOW THE SIXTIES, THAT’S ANOTER STORY, WHEN I STARTED DROPPING ALOT OF ACID AT AGE OF 12 IT WAS ALL ABOUT ROBERT CRUMB AND THE OTHER ZAP COMIX ARTISTS,  LATER, I BECAME FRIENDS WITH ALL THOSE GUYS AND EVEN HAD SOME ART SHOWS TOGETHER….

IN BRAZIL IT’S ANGELI, REBORDOSA, BOB CUSP ALL THAT, GREAT STUFF, OK I’M DONE NOW….

Marilyn Manson has added NARCISA: OUR LADY OF ASHES to his Top Friends on MySpace!!!

Click here to add Narcisa on MySpace!

It’s 2 am and she’s laid out as beautiful as a poet’s holy vision right there on my sofa, the most perfect vision I have ever dreamed.And I touch her and run my hands over her sleeping form, feeling like I’ve just touched an angel.

And I can die happy now, because, just for today there is peace and fulfillment and beauty in my eyes and hands and mind. Gloria a Deus.

She wakes me up out of a deep slumber, hissing like the devil, yelling, spitting like a pissed off Bobcat, hurling curses and deranged demands across the room like an infant dictator throwing dangerous toys in a very bad mood.

“Hungry! Where’s the food you ijiot? Why you never got nothing for eating in this e’shit place, e’stupid?”

I’d only woken up for a piss. I even crept across the room ever so silently so as not to disturb the sleeping crack monster, knowing instinctively the havoc that would dredge up from Below.

But it was no use.Just as I got halfway across the room on tiptoes, BAM!

It all started, the insults flying like bullets in a favela drug war, the idiot chatter of the TV ringing in my sore brain now like a fire alarm and I’m awake. Shit.

I look at my watch and it’s 7 in the morning. Shit.

Narcisa.

I ask myself for the thousandth time why I put up with it, keep eating her shit.

But I already know the answers and they are many and they are complex and, worst of all, they are quiite understandable and valid.

I’ve even written and published an entire book in my obsessive, desperate attempt to come to terms with why a poet would willingly subject himself to being “pussywhipped by the eternal muse”, as my old friend Ratso Sloman wrote in a blurb after reading “Our Lady of Ashes.”

But then I think, if it was good enough for old Bukowski, well what the fuck, right?

I recently watched a great documentry about my old literary mentor and drinking buddy. And therein I learned that he too was a glutton for a good, old-fashioned pussywhippin’.

I highly recommend that film. I don’t remember the name of it or who made it or any of that shit and I’m in Brazil so I won’t be able to find out, I got no internet here and could care less…

But… it’s in a yellow box and it’s worth a look I think. Anyway, it’s too bad I was too young at the time I was hanging out with Buk to even think of asking him about all this muse-pussywhipping shit…But It didn’t seem like any big issue at the time… And we were both too drunk mostly, anyway.

Whatever…And as long as I’m name dropping here… (Isn’t that what your supposed to do in a fucking internet blog?)…I dunno if its just another odd little Narcisa ‘coincidence’, but when dealing with an eternal muse - pussywhipper or not- I find it best not to assume too much, an assumption being the mother of a fuck up… or a crack baby, whatever… Gibby Hayes, are you reading this?

Pay attention!

Coincidence. What is that anyway?

A nickname for Infinite Intelligence at work. Whatever..Anyway, it is odd that, out of 59 million songs on my iPod, which, miraculously, she still hasn’t broken or burned to a crisp or dropped in the toilet or lost or sold for more crack, probably because I have learned to sleep with one eye open and, like any good lion tamer, I NEVER turn my back on her….

But anyway, out of 59 million possible songs on the iPod, its quite the ol’ coinkidink that she keeps playing my old homeboy Iggy’s memorable album “Avenue B” over and over again and again and again.

Shit!

It’s like the universe reminding me I’m not the only one who’s had to jump through these fiery ass hoops for the sake of art - or young pussy…Is there any difference, I ask you?

Really… Aint that what all the songs are about?

Think about it and lemme know….

But, back to whatever point I was making, If you don’t know that album, you should…

Especially if you’re bored or perverted or vouyeristic enough to be reading THIS shit!!

Avenue B

“Avenue B”, while, of course NOT his most rockin’ work, or anything like that, IS brother Iggy at his most human and honest and accessible and… vulnerable. And that’s saying a lot when it comes to an artist like Iggy - not that there are any other artists like him that I know of.

But I do know he will greatly appreciate “Our Lady of Ashes” and relate to much of it- as you will see if you listen to “Avenue B”.

Yeh baby, we’ve all been there, and those who ain’t been there yet, enjoy it while you can, cuz you suckers are all going there too, if not in this life, then in the next.

So get ready for a good old fashioned cunt-flaying, whoever you are, take it from me…

And, after all, if it’s been good enough for all the great minds of history, from Adam to Napoleon on down the line, then it’s good enough for me- just like that old time religion, boys!

But TWICE as much FUN!

And pretty good exercise for body, mind and soul for folks who don’t get out much- and I’m not so much talking about pussywhipping as I am the whole wonderful world of sex and pussy itself - fun for the whole goddamn family, can’t get enough of that stuff!

Especially if it happens to be the right size, shape, color, texture and vibrational field… All of which my darlin’ Narcisa just happens to be for me - homicidal psychotic crack whore or not!

Which all boils down to one simple equation: I am FUCKED!!!

Just for today…Which brings us to another baffling question, kids…Is it better to be fucked and know it? Or to be secretly cornholed in your sleep?

I’ve always subscribed to the belief that the worst fucking is always the one ya don’t know yer getting.Just as the most insidious form of slavery is where the slave thinks he’s free - which seems to be the case with, oh, about 98 percent of the human race.

All that having been said, I prefer to know that I’m fucked, and even know just WHO I’m getting fucked by, and, if possible, why.

When it comes to why, I have a few theories. But it mostly all boils down to this:

Like the good Dr. Freud said, “If it ain’t one thing, its the mother.”I don’t think that’s an exact quote, but you get the idea, right, boys?

Yes, my dear old mom was an insane and beautiful, charming, charismatic hopeless alcoholic… a bitterly abusive, violent female enigma, who, nonetheless, had enough going for her in the pussy department to have fucked and seduced her merry way right to the top of the Hollywood food-chain, back in the day, ending up holding the eternal pussy-cat-o-nine-tails over such illustrious asses as Billy Wilder, Artie Shaw and Caesar Pavese, the great Italian poet- not to mention a venerable A-list of the most powerful studio executives, way way back in the good old glory days of Hollywood.

MY MOTHER

And even with all that, her once promising career as an upcoming starlet was deep-sixed along with the rest of her life by the dark, unrelenting curses of alcoholism and drug addiction… and an even more insideous addiction and lifelong flirtation with the bottomless pit of disillusion and eternal sorrow known as the American Dream.

All this morbid drama played out right before my young impressionable eyes before I was old enough to know I was alive.

My first childhood memories, in fact, are a surrealistic montage of awful scenes of alcohol-fueled ultra bloody violence, suicide and assorted human tragedy.

So is it really any fucking wonder I’d eventually end up living and loving my way into full-blown recreation of all that crazy shit? Maybe as a means of unconsciously looking back, deep down into the festering wounds of childhood.

Hopefully as some sort of a cathartic experience or spiritual epiphany, right boys?

Cuz otherwise it would all be just way too morbid and senseless and creepy to endure - at least if not for all the great SEX!!!

That’s definitely the bait in the old mousetrap, boys!

And a whole lot more!

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.

Narcisa’s become a plumber now.After going through every single ball point pen and every tin can and scrap of tin foil and roll of scotch tape and paper clip and safety pin and god knows what else I got in my kitchen cabinets and drawers here in her never-ending quest to build a better crack pipe, she’s finally taken up the dubious craft of do-it-yourself plumbing.Yup.I came home today to find the kitchen faucet missing, just a gaping hole atop the kitchen counter with this sad little stream of water dripping dripping dripping away.What the fuck?It all made sense, of course, when I stepped into the room, only to find Narcisa sitting there on the floor sucking away at a burning rock from the amputated faucet.Great.She’s like this big old bug-eyed rat, gnawing steadily away at my home.I just looked at her, and she looked back at me with that ever-loving shit-eating grin of hers which always ensures immediate forgiveness, no matter how outrageous the latest offense…

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 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.