:: Mardoux Mardoux... ::

::26.3.04:: JUST CHECKIN' OUT No ápicE da atividade do ócio, acabei caindo na cama depois do almoço e babei até por agora, na vã idéia de que iria estudar deitada (isso nunca dá certo). Acabo de acordar, o cd player continua tocando Cartola, e eu nem sei o que vou fazer da minha vida. Nem mesmo nesse final de semana. Chama-se nostalgia do futuro. Acho que vou ver um filme. Ou voltar a dormir. Fita meus olhos Cartola Fita os meus olhos Vê como eles falam Vê como reparam O teu proceder Não é preciso dizer Deves compreender E até mesmo notar Só no meu olhar Não abuses por eu te confessar Que nasceste só para eu te amar Gosto tanto, tanto de você Que os meus olhos falam o que não vê Fita os meus olhos... Ainda há de chegar o dia Que eu hei de ter grande alegria Quando você souber compreender No olhar o que eu quero dizer Fita os meus olhos... :: Marcia Furriel 5:06 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..::]