::19.4.03::
Mil vezes merda. Merda, merda, merda. Queria chutar o pau da barraca agora, botar a calça, bater a porta, pegar o carro, parar na porta da casa dele e dizer mais uma vez, pela trocentésima vez, tudo. Ou então fazer uma lobotomia, mudar a cor do cabelo, de continente, de sexo. Ou então abrir a porta da minha casa e ver que o entregador de jornal é o Ralph Fiennes, e ele veio aqui só pra ficar comigo.Ou então acordar um dia, ir pra praia e nunca mais voltar. Ou então virar cantora em uma espelunca qualquer, ser a mulher do dono e me afundar em drogas pesadas, indo morrer com 27 anos, na banheira do meu trailer.
QUALQUER COISA, menos a sensação de impotência, saudade, raiva e tristeza que se abateu agora, sobre a minha pessoa. VOu entrar no clima PASCOAL e rezar, vou até saber mais sobre a paixão de Cristo, ou vou deitar agora e chorar sem parar, só pro pessoal do trabalho ter o prazer de me ver de cara inchada mais uma vez. JESUS CRISTO, por quê eu simplesmente não faço a fila andar??????
COmo diria uma grande coleguinha nova minha, CUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!
:: Marcia Furriel 2:41 a.m.
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"...[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
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