:: Mardoux Mardoux... ::

::16.2.04:: FIM DE FIM DE SEMANA A semana começou e eu nem percebi. Se não fosse a Rê ter me capturado para sair ontem a noite, eu ainda estaria aqui, sentadinha, pensando em quais objetos de valor eu tenho para vender e comprar mais HDs. Minha prostração é química, acabei de descobrir. Vai passar, mais alguns dias e passa. Mas o ódio tá batendo forte, muito forte. Só falta pedir pra nascer homem na próxima. Mas deve ser tãaao chato... Tentei em vão ir a um bloco ontem. O bloco é que não compareceu, hahaha. Como um lindo porto seguro, fomos parar no Jobi, com calma, com mesa e sem flamenguistas cheirando a cerveja para nos importunar. Um dos poucos lugares no Rio de Janeiro aonde eu me sinto realmente à vontade. E o MELHOR caldinho de feijão também. O domingo passou, a segunda passou, falta ainda estudar o Gropius e os holandeses. A prova é dia 2 de março. O carnaval é agora. :: Marcia Furriel 9:23 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..::]