:: Mardoux Mardoux... ::

::31.3.03:: Well, quem viveu, viu. VOltei pro Rio de Janeiro, mas maravilhosa que nunca!! (A cidade, eu?) Voltei em época boa, dia de festa e muito Sol! Passei na praia ontem, depois de acordar um pouco de pilequinho pela mega super festa que rolou ontem em Santa, eventualmente comemorando com os amigos e amigas o meu doce retorno. Muita música boa, muita dança, muitas fofocas em dia e muuuitas coisas boas!!!! Ok, foi soh um pequeno começo. Mas o que alimentei durante a minha viagem parece que vai se concretizando, e nisso voltamos ao ano de 1996, o oficial ano da chutação de balde. Parece que uma outra coisa vai tomando forma, e cresce dominando tudo, e os dias sao mais curtos e as noites mais longas, e os pensamentos tristes e críticos ficam estacionados no parquinho murcho escondido atrás da cabeça. Taí, uma nova descrição daquela que havia ANOS tinha sido dada como morta, mas quando menos se espera, reaparece: Pam is alive. E eu, com uma nova corzinha latinoamericana, back in business. Rio de Janeiro, 30 de março de 2003. :: Marcia Furriel 12:45 a.m. [+] :: ... Comments: Enviar um comentário

[::..perfil..::] "...[R]eturning to the Red Drum for sets, to hear Bird, whom I saw distinctly digging Mardou several times also myself directly into my eye looking to search if I was really the great writer I thought myself to be as if he knew my thoughts and ambitions or remembered me from other night clubs and other coasts, other Chicagos--not a challenging look but the king and founder of the bop generation at least the sound of it in digging his audience digging his eyes, the secret eyes him-watching, as he just pursed his lips and let great lungs and immortal fingers work, his eyes separate and interested and humane, the kindest jazz musician there could be while being and therefore naturally the greatest--watching Mardou and me in the infancy of our love and probably wondering why, or knowing it wouldn't last, or seeing who it was would be hurt, as now, obviously, but not quite yet, it was Mardou whose eyes were shining in my direction, though I could not have known and now do not definitely know--except the one fact, on the way home, the session over the beer in the Mask drunk we went home on the Third Street bus sadly through night and throb knock neons and when I suddenly leaned over her to shout something further (in her secret self as later confessed) her heart leapt to smell the "sweetness of my breath" (quote) and suddenly she almost loved me--" DO LIVRO The Subterraneans [::.. perfil sarcástico..::]