::18.11.05::
COMIN' UP
Estou um pouco de saco cheio de blogs, mas ainda sinto uma coceirinha na mão toda vez que passa pela minha cabéca um motivo bom de reclamar, ou uma boa música pra comentar, ou mesmo uma fofocazinha básica pra fazer. Estou tentando remodelar as cores, mas também ando tired demais pra pensar nessas coisas. Ando, pra variar, no meio de dúvidas cruéis, que dessa vez, e acho que só dessa vez, não incluem relacionamentos amorosos. É coisa mais baixa mesmo, coisas de dinheiro, de profissão. Nota-se logo que comigo o buraco é mais embaixo. Eu me tornaria empregada doméstica se tivesse a certeza absoluta que seria eternamente feliz no amor. Até numa casinha de sapê (mas de preferência que fosse nos Alpes Suícos, ou nas Bahamas). Infelizmente, ou felizmente para esse blog, certas coisas não mudam. Eu não tenho certezas, e disso eu tenho certeza. Vai ver é coisa de peixes com ascendente em gêmeos, dois signos que tem dois desenhinhos cada. Ó, dúvidas cruéis.
:: Marcia Furriel 12:58 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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