:: Mardoux Mardoux... ::

::14.7.03:: WHAT TO DO, WHAT TO SAY? São tantas coisas para serem “postadas”! Vou fazer uma listinha de tópicos, pra ajudar a não esquecer de nada... 1) Sexta de madrugada, minha internet em casa de volta, meu ICQ querido! 2) Sábado: O churrasco que não fui, o Anima Mundi que eu fui, as unhas, o metrossexual do David Beckham. 3) Sábado ainda: a Super Brazooka, O frio, A galera, A desolação. 4) Domingo de tristezas e alegrias, o jogo de vôlei. 5) Domingo, mais Anima Mundi, mais internet, meu ICQ querido, meus amigos esquecidos, meus novos amigos, o amigo de sempre, o mirc, a aparição desagradável, tensão, raiva, sacanagem da grossa, a vontade de chorar, os meus cds novos. 6) A semana nova: minha cirurgia, a data de hoje (14 de julho). Ufa....Listinha mais sem fim! Com o tempo eu vou lembrando melhor, escrevendo melhor e tal... :: Marcia Furriel 7:05 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..::]