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phd042409s

no you can’t, cecilia.

Anúncios

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Feeling Fucked Up

Lord she’s gone done left me
done packed up and split
and I with no way to make her
come back and everywhere the world is bare
bright bone white crystal sand glistens
dope death dead dying and jiving drove
her away made her take her laughter and her smiles
and her softness and her midnight sighs—

Fuck Coltrane and music and clouds drifting in the sky
fuck the sea and trees and the sky and birds
and alligators and all the animals that roam the earth
fuck marx and mao fuck fidel and nkrumah and
democracy and communism fuck smack and pot
and red ripe tomatoes fuck joseph fuck mary fuck
god jesus and all the disciples fuck fanon nixon
and malcom fuck the revolution fuck freedom fuck
the whole muthafucking thing
all i want now is my woman back
so my soul can sing

Etheridge Knight (April 19, 1931 – March 10, 1991)

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Minha tragédia está terminada; li em voz alta, bati palmas e gritei: “Ah, Púchkin, seu filho da puta!”

(Carta a Viazemski, 7/09/1825)

***
E tem as cartas que ele escrevia bêbado, também.

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sempre suspeitei

I am Elizabeth Bennet!

Take the Quiz here!

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pra quel

Oxalá

Oxalá, me passe a dor de cabeça, oxalá
Oxalá, o passo não me esmoreça

Oxalá, o carnaval aconteça, oxalá
Oxalá, o povo nunca se esqueça

Oxalá, eu não ande sem cuidado
Oxalá eu não passe um mau bocado
Oxalá, eu não faça tudo à pressa,
Oxalá, meu futuro aconteça

Oxalá, que a vida me corra bem, oxalá
Oxalá, que a tua vida também

Oxalá, o carnaval aconteça, oxalá
Oxalá, o povo nunca se esqueça

Oxalá, o tempo passe hora a hora
Oxalá, que ninguém se vá embora
Oxalá, se aproxime o carnaval
Oxalá, tudo corra menos mal

(Madredeus)

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Emily Dickinson

After great pain, a formal feeling comes --
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs --
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?

The Feet, mechanical, go round --
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought --
A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone --

This is the Hour of Lead --
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow --
First -- Chill -- then Stupor -- then the letting go --

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Can someone just come out and say this? What the fuck is the risk in being a counterculture hero for the white male? What’s the big deal about being on the Keroacian road? These dudes get to play around with self-imposed marginalization all they want, with little consequence. They still get laid (are more likely to get laid), they still can ultimately get married, get a job, have kids etc, which is, like, the countercultural worst case scenario. Best case scenario, and certainly what these so-called rebels have in mind when they hit the streets in their skinny jeans clutching a J.D. Salinger novel, is that they will be immortalized as heroes—gods– of the countercultural revolution. There’s no risk, therefore there is no courage.

It’s not sexy for a woman to have an existential crisis. If she goes on the road, she is basically putting her life on the line. Her sexual viability may persist, but she’s transformed into a loathed “slut” (no actual sexual behavior necessary to earn the title), her long-term desirability is thus compromised. If she rebels against the confines of mass-cultural beauty (and I don’t mean growing side-bangs and wearing torn jeans), the countercultural male rebel isn’t attracted to her anymore. If she spends all her time reading and writing poetry and making art and being dedicated to a cause, she is compromising the possibility of marriage, family and happiness.

For the man, rebellion is a day job. For the woman, she must give all.

eu adoro esse blogue.

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