:: Mardoux Mardoux... ::

::16.4.03:: E ontem teve festinha, de aniversário da minha irmã, Li. Uma mulherada (pra variar) em casa e eu gastando a minha saliva mostrando pra Renata as fotos (c/ detalhes) do Peru. Foi bem divertido, eu bati um monte de fotos e já botei umas pra revelar. Essa minha sanha por fotos está prestes a aumentar ainda mais, pq eu não vou resistir e vou TER que comprar um digital da Nikon que eu cobicei de um amigo meu...Não vai ter jeito. Fora isso, temos uma promessa de feriado looongo, com direito a cenários novos, muito estresse e pouco tempo pra praia. Mas tem mais festinha na quinta, e nessa eu pretendo me acabar. Essa minha neo-fase-abstêmia-por-associação acho que passou. É sempre bom uma cervejinha com as amigas, ou um belo vinho com belo acompanhamento...E um pisco, por que não? Pisco Sour, a bebida do Peru, carajo! Graças a Alá, a TPM passou. Agora to calminha (mezzo), meu cabelo ta ótimo e as idéias um pouco refrescadas. :: Marcia Furriel 12:18 p.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..::]