:: Mardoux Mardoux... ::

::16.3.04:: Mistress Hide Nada de consequências. Retiro-me do foco por não suportar mais luz, luz sobre os meus próprios atos, minha fraqueza e o enorme ciclo de repetições a que me prendo, desde sabe-se lá quando. De volta ao núcleo, o que é essencial e indestrutível dentro de mim. Meu núcleo é a semente de tudo, o germe, mas não só isso. É o ponto final de todo o sofrimento, é de onde não passo, nada além. É também para onde deve tudo retornar, todo o bem que jogo no mundo (o pretenso bem), todo o amor que houver nessa vida, eu quero ele lá, pulsando e protegendo o núcleo. Desfacelada, como de costume, depois de mais uma sessão de "mais do mesmo". Fragmentada, diria o professor. Desconjuntada, despedaçada, desmontada. Como uma boneca de pano, como Frankenstein, me perdi em pedaços. Partida em miríades de espelhinhos, cada um refletindo o espanto. :: Marcia Furriel 10:42 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..::]