::30.8.03::
BARBAS E AFINS...
Lá em casa temos assinatura de jornal (Globo). Mas eu não moro sozinha, moro com 2 irmãs e minha mãe. Logo, eu NUNCA consigo ler o jornal, porque se eu levo de manhã pro trabalho corro o risco de nem conseguir mais entrar de volta, sob pena de várias porradas por ter carregado tudo comigo. E quando eu volto pra casa, o jornal já está devidamente espalhado por todos os cantos, alguns embaixo do Mio, o gato-patriarca, alguns despedaçados pela Blanche ou pelo Jota, os outros membros felinos da família. Me resta ler os jornais via internet, aqui no trabalho, o que acaba sempre reduzindo o número de informações que eu obtenho. Sempre leio as manchetes principais, o segundo caderno e algumas colunas que eu gosto. Ontem foi lindo ler o Artur Dapieve, já mandei até para a Pops, caso ainda tivéssemos alguma esperança de mantê-la aqui. Hoje a MELHOR foi a do João Ximenes Braga, falando sobre dois dos meus temas preferidos: metrossexuais e homens de barba. Hahahahahahah.
Vale a pena conferir.
E eu só digo uma coisa:
CADÊ MEU METROSSEXUAL DE BARBA, HUMMMMMM?????? Droga.
:: Marcia Furriel 4:56 p.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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