::20.8.03::
%#$#$&!!%^%^#
Post resmungão: fiquei esses dois dias sem postar nada tentando ver se passava o meu momento Urso Resmungão. Não adiantou. Hoje, pleno meio de semana, venho RECLAMARaos meus amigos, PRINCIPALMENTE OS QUE ANDAM SUMIDOS, que me deixem COMENTÁRIOS FOFOS.
ISSO INCLUI: Mancha, Alden, Luciano...É, eu sei que vocês lêem, tá?
Estou carente, e naquele momento mais...Márcia de ser: me sentindo feia, chata e burra, e gorda. Mais do que tudo, burra. Mas isso é assunto para um SUPER POST RESMUNGÃO, que realmente...ninguém merece.
Os amigos que são freqüentadores assíduos e exímios comentaristas, o espaço é todo de vocês, como de costume.
AINDA BEM que hoje tem night e amanhã teatro, senão já dava por encerrado o expediente do sorriso pelo resto da semana. Sorriso esse que já anda forçado, graças à minha super empolgação com essa novela nova....APESAR DO FÄBIO ASSUNÇÃO.
Benne...é isso.
:: Marcia Furriel 4:27 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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