:: Mardoux Mardoux... ::

::29.4.04:: DAS ARTES DE SER MULHER Se eu tivesse um pingo a mais de coordenação motora, eu não precisaria de manicures para fazer as minhas próprias mãos. Mas, infelizmente, sou erradinha e torta o suficiente para não saber fazer praticamente NADA com a minha mão esquerda. E preciso frequentar salões de quando em vez, em prol da estética ocidental contemporânea, e coisas afins. O difícil mesmo é não conseguir de jeito nenhum entrar nas rodinhas de assunto, quando os temas são: 1) Será que Alexandre Frota está mesmo com Aids? 2) Vale a pena fazer chapinha em cabelo ruim? 3) Tina Turner tinha mesmo quantas perucas? 4) O marido da Madonna é realmente gato? 5) Qual o melhor programa: o do João Kléber ou o do Ratinho? No desespero de tentar achar respostas (só sei mesmo a da pergunta 4), prefiro ficar olhando pro teto, de cara fechada, e esperando angustiadamente que eu não tenha muitas cutículas, para poder sair logo de lá. As meninas devem me achar a mais antipática do bairro, mas sinceramente...não dá. Preciso comprar uma revista NOVA. :: Marcia Furriel 4:19 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..::]