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We were sitting around the pad in Sao Conrado tonight, looking out over the ocean at a spectacular sunset, enjoying another calm moment in our newfound paradise of domestic bliss.
 She was sitting in one of the big old armchairs, drawing an amazingly complex multidimensional projection for Alessandra’s birthday present, listening to Artie Shaw’s wailing big band clarinet. I was kicking back on the sofa reading a very good book I just stumbled across called 7 tattoos. Very good book! Enthralling writing by some dude I’ve never heard of. Since I picked it up this morning I’ve been unable to put it down, which is pretty rare for me.
 Suddenly she says, “I wrote a book once.”
 What?!
 ”I turned around and faced her.
 ”Fala serio. Are you serious?”
 ”I wrote a book, yes,” she repeated blankly.
 ”Where is it?” I asked.
 ”Thats a good question,” she said.
 ”You don’t know where it is?”
 ”Nope. Don’ to remember… I was sixteen year old,” she added, as if that fact should explain all. Which, knowing a bit about Narcisa’s adolescence, it in fact did.
 ”It was called ‘Incognita’.” She said.
 I was amazed. I am usually amazed by Narcisa. I was amazed again. Anyway.
 ”What did it deal with, this book you wrote, baby?”
 ”Philosophy,” she declared nonchalantly.
 Of course.

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 mother, the self-righteous, unrepentant born-again Christian “chocadeira” or “egg layer” as Narcisa has aptly named her, continues to try and harass us, accusing me of being a corrupting influence in  the life of her poor, innocent, well-bred little offspring.

It’s really pathetic how these simple-minded evangelical twits’ warped minds operate. But its predictable, cuz in the absence of the acceptance of a coherent value system to keep the old ego in check and teach one to look inward at the true source of their problems and basic dysfunctions in human society, they’re simply compelled to construct a blame-oriented system of beliefs, always looking outward in search of a convenient scapegoat, an easy villain. The devil.

Now I’ve been given that dubious distinction by this pious old cow. I’m the one who is collaborating and facilitating and enabling Narcisa in her unholy quest for self-destruction. It is one point of view, of course, and quite an easy one to be tricked into, especially in the absence of any notion of personal accountability for karma or consequences in the evangelical doctrine.

Still, I’ve even asked myself many times if there isn’t some truth there, if I’m not indeed feeding her insanity, deluding myself that I’m helping in some way with my love, my belief, my own dubious good example of how an addict can become happy, useful and whole…

These are complicated, agonizing questions that obsess my thinking all day long. And, try as I may to find an answer, the more I live this life with Narcisa, the more I’m convinced there’s no easy answers for us here. So I go with the flow a day at a time, confident of one thing only: that nothing happens by mere happenstance or random accident. No way.

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.

She’s reading aloud from the dictionary as if she were reciting the most soulful beautiful poetry, with such expressive tone and cadence and fire! For the previous two hours she spoke in so many brilliant discourses that I got absolutely lost. She took a big hit a couple of hours ago, then she lay on the floor on her back and started talking:

“I am only a doll, a toy, a homeless defenseless young girl out in
the world, on the street, the rubber doll to play with. Toy to burn
out and use up, exploit, destroy, throw away. Plastic. Disposable. The
little toy for the men on the streets for play with and throw away. I
am a toy. Disposable. Cheap. Plastic and rubber. To play with and
break and throw it out when is used up and no fun for play with no
more…”

Then she just shifted. She started talking with this happy, playful little girl voice with the sweetest little smile, giggling mischievously, and I knew it was on: spirit possession. There’s this entity that takes over sometimes, a little girl. She likes to sing and play and tell me childish little stories. It’s a benevolent, playful spirit, like a sprite or nymph or something like that. It doesn’t come around too often, usually only when she’s been up for more than a couple of days. But it’s quite charming when it does possess her. And it likes sex, it likes to get fucked, long and hard. And it excites me to no end. I think of it as the ‘Lolita spirit’. More than anything else, that’s part of what always keeps life with Narcisa constantly exciting and compelling. Multiple personalities. She’s many many women and girls with many faces, all wrapped up in one dizzying paranormal totality of experience. People say she’s crazy. And what if she is. I guess that would make me crazy too, since she’s the only girl in the world I feel compelled to want to experience as every
lesson and teaching and challenge for the evolution and edification of my soul, my very life itself.

Hours later, it’s all shifting, changing, morphing, never stable or predictable and now Narcisa is gone, really gone, left her physical and spiritual body open to OTHER beings. I guess this is what it means for a person to be ‘unbalanced’. Completely disconnected from themself.

The drug has taken her over completely now. And the various entities that accompany her are weighing down her entire being. Nothing I can do to pull her off this vicious cycle merry-go-round that is running off its tracks and spinning wildly, digging a hole down down down into the deepest regions of Hell.

What to do? I know she can’t step off this infernal machine. I gotta get off. But how? When? Were trapped together on this dirty little journey.

She’s reading some book she found on the street today, reading it as if it contained the secrets to the universe. Whatever. Insanity. Paranoia. Disease. Dysfunction. Reading out-loud, fast, crazy, driven, spouting out words and theories like a sidewalk preacher babbling bible phrases. Now she’s reduced to this futile cocaine-driven babbling, beating her lips compulsively and furiously like a demented wind up toy, a plastic doll, burning out, running out of energy and soon she’ll need more of the drug cuz she can’t stop and she goes goes goes. Nonsense. Nothing. Breaking through dimensions into another alien reality and this is her way, her only path to enlightenment, and I must respect it beyond all the well-intentioned common wisdom and theoretical knowledge and information available in this current, albeit pathetically limited reality-view. This shit looks to me like pure, indominable psychosis, the hamster wheel, and it goes round and round and round and she can’t get off and I can’t get off and this, my little friends, is Hell.

Just for today. As, momentarily I abandon all hope again and again and again…

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.

After a marathon 40-hour crash, finally she emerged like Sleeping Beauty from her coma, stretching her long elegant frame with a sleepy, cheerful groan. “Aiiiiiiiahhh…”
She was hungry like an animal of course, so I went downstairs to the little boteco and brought up all the breakfast stuff she likes.
Fried eggs and ham on fresh baked French bread, a hunk of soft white Minas cheese melted on another loaf of bread, fresh squeezed orange and passionfruit juices, sweet light coffee and chocolate milk, and half a dozen pink bubble gums. Bubaloo, of course.
The rain had finally stopped and the cloudy sky looked crisp and clear when I opened the shudders. The world outside smelled unusually fresh and green after our long, rainy, timeless hibernation.
She sat up on the sofa looking puffy and disheveled. She greedily devoured the food I set down before her right out of the brown paper bags.
By the time I brought some plates in from the kitchen, she was already done gorging, laying back on the sofa burping loudly, moaning, whining for me to cover her with the blanket. She was cold, shivering in the warm humid air.
I was breaking a sweat from all the running around.
I put the blanket over her emaciated frame. I started back toward the little kitchen with the empty plates and ravaged paper bags when her hand darted out from under the quilt like a silent albino cobra, grabbing at my shorts.
“Don’ go, Cigano, don’ leave me ‘lone now.”
“I’m just taking this stuff to the kitchen, princess. I’ll be right back…”
“No! E’stay with me now, Cigano. Don’ go!” She cried, as if I was about to board a one-way flight to The Peoples Republic of China.
I laughed and set the stuff back on the table. Then I sat on the sofa beside her, working myself down behind her under the cover.
“No no, Cigano, is not the enough e’space for you here,” she whined.
“But baby, you said to stay here with you. What am I supposed to do, just stand here? What?”
“Shut the fuck up, Cigano. I wanna smoke the crack now. Fuck fuck, e’smoke e’smoke, go go go! Let’s go up in you bed.”
I knew it was time for sex so she could go get her drugs. I also knew it was gonna be a bum fuck. But we tried as best we could.
I got it in there and worked it for awhile until she passed out. I worked it some more as she began to snore lightly, intently watching her comatose pink mouth as my dick got harder and harder deep inside her, fucking her long and slow, the way I like to do when she’s sleeping, lost in the endless, timeless obsession, the warm, sweaty holy limbo realm of fuck fuck fuck.
I coulda stayed like that all day, drinking her sleeping breath as I held her taut skinny carcass, running my hand through her dirty hair, smelling her intoxicating odor, feeling her warm white flesh all around me, swimming in her eternal crazed sacred essence…
Then she woke up. Narcisa never wakes up in a good mood when she’s coming off a crash, especially when she wakes up with a dick tucked up inside her. And me sweating on top.
She freaked out.
“No no no no no… Get off me, get out get out get out!” She screamed, raising her hips off the bed, expertly popping me right out of her tight little snatch like a Pop Tart from a toaster and that was fucking that.

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.

 Tonight she got a big bad buzzing bumble bee up her ass again about some fucking thing or another.
 I could only guess… at her mental state, since she doesn’t have the slightest ability to express her feelings in calm dialogue. At least not when she’s in her shit.
 Which is often.
 Every time I try and talk about feelings or memories or traumas with her she tells me to shut the fuck up, shunning any meaningful discussion like the Plague.
 She only wants to forget forget forget it ALL and have fun. Fun fun fun…
 But it’s long gotten past the point where the drugs she takes to have her fun and relief are any fun or relief anymore at all. She is simply living in a dark, twisted little world of self-induced psychosis and blatently irrational self-justified, self-authorized, self-obsessed self-destruction.
 And still she insists, MUST insist she’s just having her innocent, harmless adolescent little fun.
 Today I watched her take a big hit of crack then choke on it like a cat hacking up a hairball. Finally she vomited a handful of greenish bile into a baseball cap she’d been wearing, casually dumped it out the window, then put the cap back on her head.
 That was it.
 After that, I just hadda split and let her have the rest of her big fucking fun alone for the rest of the day. Even a fucking lovesick hungry buzzard like me has his limits. I split.
When I finally went to look in on her many hours later, her deep-seated self-induced abandonment complex was on full blast and she just started brewing. Brewing and brewing, till, before I knew it, another violent, embarassing public scandal was in full raging insanity.
 Now I’m sitting all alone at my little sanctuary by the rolling waves at the far end of Copacabana under a cloudy full moon sky, waiting for dawn and trying to put it all together.
 It all started cuz she spent the last 12 hours locked in a little room smoking crack alone. Now, I know I left her alone, knowing full well that Narcisa doesn’t like to be alone. But what else could I do?
 Thinking about it all now I’m thinking that, for someone who hates to be alone, it’s really quite ironic that she’s chosen to dedicate her life to the constant pursuit and adulation of the one drug that most completely and effectively cuts one off from the human race like a gangrous limb, sucking her right down into a swirling whirlpool of paranoid, psychotic, self-obsessed dementia and endless isolation.
 I know she felt abandoned today after two days being left alone to smoke in the big abandoned house on the hill. But I couldn’t stay around her to watch her doing what she does.
 Not today.
 She’s been up for a few days again. And now she’s gotten to the point where she hasn’t bathed or changed her clothes in a whole week now. What the fuck?
 I’m the only one left who can tolerate her shit, and even I can only take it in small doses now. Its very sad, but there you have it.
 So when I finally went back after all those hours to look in on her, she’d already gotten herself worked up into a pretty good little snit about being left alone.
 She never said it, since Narcisa rarely expresses herself in a conventional sense. Narcisa acts. Tonight her act consisted of walking off haughtily as an offended queen until she found a crowded plaza to sit in smoking a joint. When I caught up with her, she studiously ignored me. Finally I got back on the bike and started it up.
 ”That’s it, Cigano. Just run away like a little bitch,” she snapped loudly for all the world to hear.
 ”I’m not running away. I just wish you would get on the bike so we could go and talk without an audience…”
 ”What’s wrong, Cigano? You afraid what people gonna think?”
 ”Lissen, baby, I’m not gonna continue this discussion with you here. If you wanna come with me, maybe we could go for a little ride and talk.”
 ”You wanna talk, Cigano, you can talk right here,” she declared loudly, digging in her heels. Heads turned to watch the show. Narcisa loves an audience for her scandalous tantrums. She was just getting started.

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.

12 NOON-

I finally managed to roll over and go back to sleep and within 5 minutes I was awakened again by a series of disturbing noises, telling me she’s up. And in perfect synchronicity of course, right on fucking time to disturb my questionable bit of rest is the rustle of potato chip bags and its crunch-crunch-rustle-rustle-bang-crash... all this to the background soundtrack of the chattering moron box on which she’s watching Saturday cartoons.
But one thing I’ve noticed over the years with Narcisa, is that all this indignity hardly ever leads to violent confrontation as it once did in the past.
I think we’re both actually smoothing out a bit with all the time and suffering and separations…
Smoothing out like two raw gemstones bashing against each other in a tumbler - because that’s how the jewelers refine rough stones, by putting them in a tumbler and letting them bash up against each other until all their rough edges are smoothed out and they’re ready to be fine cut into precious gems. ( See Alessandra’s Blog, Thoughts on Things)

The trick, though, is to always put like stones together in the polishing process; diamonds with diamonds, ruby with ruby, etc. Cuz if you put a diamond in conflict with an emerald, the softer, weaker stone will be pounded into dust while the other will be left there all alone.
Just like people.
I have honestly come, over the years, to believe that me and Narcisa are surely enough of a like kind to benefit from all this sort of violent contact together.
Two pirate criminals of uncommonly high intellegence and spiritual evolution, albeit both steeped in years of selfishness, nasty habits and covered in all sorts of creepy unconscious emotional trauma scars.
So over the years we’ve pounded and bashed up against each other in a long war of almost unbearable conflict.
So far nobody has killed anybody or died in battle yet.
A real blessing, from where I’m sitting now, counting my blessings.
Meanwhile we seem to be slowly, quietly adapting to each other’s obnoxious solitary ways and nasty habits, much like two wild tigers locked in a cage together coming to some. Sort of an uneasy truce. My big hope is that this could all really evolve into some marvelous symbiotic kinship, after so many blazing, fur-rending, near-death rumbles and bloody skirmishes…
At least that is my thinking for today, and my daily hope…
That over the ragged course of so much time and adventure and violent conflict and dangerous drama and give and take and common experience spent in each other’s company, we might even come someday to live in something like real harmony.
Like two battle-scarred warriors teaming up for the common good or the common bad, a real cataclysmic battle, but this time the two of us fighting side by side, instead of as adversaries.
Who knows? Stranger things have happened in the course of human affairs.
It has been said that, in spiritual terms, when there is an alliance between two former adversaries, it leads to a stronger than average bond. The best analogy I’ve heard is this:

Back in the day, doctors used to worry about the pregnancies of women who had previously undergone c-sections, fearing that the mended flesh, traumatized and weakened by the operation, might bust open from the pressure of the new pregnancy. Then they discovered that the area where there was scar tissue that had mended after an injury of previous trauma was actually much STRONGER than the normal tissue.

It’s an interesting concept.
And love is powerful.
I really have come to believe in miracles, the suspension of belief and disbelief as well, through many real-life demonstrations over the last decade since I’ve been seriously seeking spiritual guidance and healing for the basic conflicts of my heart. Conflicts that almost took me to the cleaners myself with liquor and drugs and all sorts of self destructive living in general, just like my little friend, Narcisa.
Love is powerful
And so is sex.
A powerful hands-on healing magic, even in the greasy blood-stained hands of crippled monkey-brain pirate terrorists like me and Narcisa..
Something is happening with us and, while I don’t know exactly how to define or ‘handle’ it, I am smart and experienced and maybe just intuitive enough not to take anything for granted now.
And I do believe that if we can somehow just manage to survive this rough, violent, terrifying tumbling process, its entirely likely that it might smooth us both out enough to actually become a pair of strong allies. Hard, precious stones being shaped and cut together for some larger purpose..
If we don’t die in the process, of course..
So far I can actually see sometimes how this bizarre, twisted relationship has served us both well in many ways.
It’s certainly given us both plenty of fuel for contemplation - enough for me to even write and publish a whole fucking book on… Maybe more…
Not to mention the other more personal book I wrote for Narcisa, all in one crazy month-long sitting, while she was holed up in that stupid Jesus camp.
That book was 200 pages long and entirely hand written in Portuguese, our common language of choice, even though we both speak English and Spanish pretty well..
I wrote it mostly sitting on the rock at Arpoador beach, in a spiral notebook.
And at the exact moment I finished the last page of dense marginless writing, my cell phone rang and it was her, calling me for the first time in months with her accumulated concentration camp phone privileges to ask me when I was coming to visit.
Then she asked me where I was sitting right then. When I told her “Arpoador,” she told me she already knew it, that she’d actually visualized me sitting at the exact spot where I was sitting at that moment, just as I’d finished the last sentence of her hand-written book.
And I wasn’t surprised, just another typical telepathic paranormal phenomena moment with me and Narcisa, cuz that’s how strong the invisible bond is…
Such extrasensory synchronicity and empathy surely merits more than just one fucking book, no?
So, like it or not, here we go again…
Thanks to my fire-breathing, crack-smoking, shit talking, everloving eternal Muse, Narcisa.

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 been nagging me to get her a full-length mirror for weeks now. She says she needs it to practice her balancing acts and juggling and acrobatic moves with, but I know she just likes to watch herself dance.

I like to watch her dance too, so I got her the mirror, a meter-long full length affair in a cheap wooden frame.

Now she carries it around the house with her everywhere she goes,propping it up in front of herself, looking at herself as she goes through her weird, spun-out days and sleepless nights tweaking and doing whatever the holy fuck it is she does.

She’s spent the last few days up again, all spun out, tongue tied and paranoid, like some bug-eyed zombie ghost. I sat around and sat around waiting for her to reanimate, and… nothing.

Finally I gave up and left her there alone walking around in terrible little circles of doom.                              

After a bowl of hot spicy vegetable soup and fresh bread at the Paderia Santo Cristo, I went home.

I climbed up the little ladder to my loft bed, turned on the classical music channel, and sunk into a fluffy cotton cloud of pillows, drifting away into the happy realms of deep sweet delta unconsciousness. Sleep.

Of course she came back to life around midnight, just when I’d finally fallen out, just in time to wake me out of a sound sleep, dragging my high-flying astral body back down to this accursed bloody, beaten earth.

She’s like some glowing white nocturnal albino moth flying up out of a musty tomb to haunt my nights, wings fluttering eerily at the doors of my own demented psychic perception.

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.

Reading NARCISA: OUR LADY OF ASHES is like sliding into the world your parents warned you about. Jonathan Shaw’s had his knife on the pulse of the underworld for over thirty years. Now he’s cut it open, for all to taste the filth. Wanna be thrown against a brick wall of words? Crack this book…

-Howie Pyro (The Blessed, DGeneration, Danzig. Author of Confessions of A Rat Fink with Ed “Big Daddy” Roth)

This is what life has put on my plate today… And it isn’t so bad, all things considered!
In fact, it’s great.
Now its three o’clock in the afternoon, and with the usual clockwork precision of her bizarre timing she’s just woken me up. Just as I finally got to sleep.
Shit.
We had a listless, terrible fuck where she watched cartoons on TV and groaned impatiently telling me to hurry up. Then she went to get her fucking stash of crack.
Now that she’s had her medicine, of course she seems to be in a much better mood. Of course.
When I dropped her off at noon, I even grabbed her pussy as she got off the bike and said, “go have fun and warm up the chicken pie, cuz ill be back soon and ill be hungry.”
I noticed an extra little twitch in her perky chicken tail as she wiggled it off down the road to damnation…
Now we’re sitting back together on my veranda looking out over the city and the bay. She’s rooted a book of Henry Miller out of my bag and she’s reading out loud in English, not making the least bit of sense. But the tone of her voice itself has made my dick hard again in anticipation of a much better fuck than the morning chore.
That had at least gotten her off her lazy ass, even if it was only to go smoke more crack and start the whole viscious cycle of her life over again.
The work of an Eternal Muse is never done, and now she’s up juggling coca cola bottles on the little veranda.
She’s doing pretty good, so far. She hasn’t bopped either of us in the head, and that’s a bit of progress from a coupla weeks ago I’d say.
One of her big dreams is to join the circus - there’s a bit in my book “Our Lady of Ashes” about taking her to join the circus, which is neither here or there…
Narcisa is a walking talking three ring circus, or more like a psychic freak show.
Yesterday she got into a fight with a vulture that landed on the roof of the Casa Verde while she was up in the attic smoking.
I didn’t ask her for details of the skirmish and of course none were forthcoming.
She told me she chased the bastard off, representing her percieved or real impending death, and that was all I needed to know, I guess. When I prodded her for details, all she said was, “That’s why I love to e’smoke. Because it kills my memory, Cigano. Got it?”
I got it.

I didn’t ask her for any more details. Its just as well, I suppose..I like to make up my own details anyway. Between my own paranormal imagination, and her surreal reality, it all makes for a pretty interesting existence.
  Sometimes I feel like I can read her past and her whole life story,         receiving crucial nonverbal information and impressions with my         dick’s inner antenna while I’m fucking her.
   It’s an interesting, if sometimes terrifying game for sure, and often     quite enlightening. And stimulating for us both, I like to think.
   But it could all just be a figment of my own warped, LSD-spiked          imagination.
   Narcisa, with all her staggering ‘true-life’ accounts, the marathon       fucking and endless battles of will, seen through the distorted             psychedelic lens of the crack she smokes… The danger, the vultures,   the Dakini dance hell-fire coke bottle juggling, the battle scars and     bruises and tattoos and abrasions on my battered hide and my           soul…  the book, her shadowy midnight declarations and apocolyptic   prophecies, and all the abstract poetry of her insane twisted                 existence and quasi-mythical life story and unrelenting death wish…   all of it.
 

What the fuck?
It seems like it’s always been this way for me… all my life, one big, long, surreal delirium dream, or nightmare. And I guess its the same for her too.
So it’s no wonder that we’ve somehow found each other and come together for whatever this foggy hallucinatory journey is taking us, along a polluted tributary of the big, long cosmic stream.
She is my acid queen, my mirror image cosmic fishbowl cross to bear or to burn.
And, just for today, I have no argument with any of it.

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.

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.