Rosângela Cardoso
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rosacardoso.bsky.social
Rosângela Cardoso
@rosacardoso.bsky.social
3 followers 11 following 250 posts
Locutora... Fã de um monte de coisas, atualmente hiperfocada em IWTV
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“If I created a woman the way I wanted her to be, for many people it didn’t work. With male characters, I could achieve almost anything I wanted.” — Anne Rice, Called Out of Darkness (2008)
I think I’m happy today.
But I’ve forgotten what happiness feels like, so I’m not entirely sure.

bemditorosa em 10/30/2025 12
Ah, how I love Hilda Hilst. Sylvia Plath. Clarice Lispector — especially Clarice, and her women made entirely of thought.
And Hilda, the bacchante, composing immodest poems just to see what others would make of them.
I suppose that masculine reasons, bathed as they are in privilege, must be neatly combed and well-arranged — yet they may ruffle their hair and shout without ever losing themselves.

Even what we write is expected to behave.
I’ve been brooding over that curious idea that lives in almost everyone’s head.
Which idea?
The one that says we, women, when defending causes — fair or unfair — must do so softly and calmly, so as not to “lose our reason,” as girls are so often taught.
Before we fall asleep, and before independence falls upon us, I’d like to share — not a single thought, but a whole flock of them — that, once gathered, take the shape of something I usually call a brooding.
Thinking is a vice for the anxious — even for those who, like me, disguise the nausea and the turn in the stomach with a smile.
Yeah. Only at a much faster pace. I get enchanted by the girl at the bar, blink, and she’s already gone?
And why the hell didn’t Guy grab the damn book?
Only 6 episodes for The Vampire Lestat?! Are you serious?! All that waiting for just six episodes!
Each episode needs to be one hour. Lol
a man with long hair wearing a striped suit
ALT: a man with long hair wearing a striped suit
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Death, disguised as care.

What rains outside is life; what rests inside the jar is the impossible dream of stopping it.

Between mud and formaldehyde, here I am — poet, lover, scientist of the impossible — trying to live without losing, trying to preserve what only exists while it melts.
“I won’t harm you. I want to preserve you.”

And the delirium begins: a glass jar, large, clean, eternal.
Inside it, me — motionless, perfect, harmless. Purity replaces mud.
But then something breaks. From the middle of acceptance, a voice is born — cold, meticulous, almost loving:
I learned — or pretended to learn — that that’s just how it is: water turns to mud, and the mud is me, mortal, astonished by the obvious.
Public Confession (Restricted): Diary of Madness No. 28

There are days when the world rains inside. And no umbrella can protect you: it comes, soaks, stains, repeats.
The free feminine would be Akasha;
the controlled feminine is Louis. And thus Rice perpetuates her own liturgy: she worships the mirror, and she destroys the woman.
On Anne Rice’s altar the blood is beautiful, but the womb is forbidden. She canonizes pain and excommunicates creation. Every time a woman touches creative power, she is sacrificed. Every time the feminine attempts to be born in full, it is locked into a male body and called Louis.
He is the doll that speaks, the crucifix that sighs. Everyone wants him, but no one wants him free. He is the Claudia who survived — because he was born a man.
The Fetish of Fragility
In Rice, pain is eroticism. She turns vulnerability into emotional currency and suffering into spectacle. To love Louis is to love what does not react. To desire him is to desire what remains docile, even after death
The Fetish of Fragility
In Rice, pain is eroticism. She turns vulnerability into emotional currency and suffering into spectacle. To love Louis is to love what does not react. To desire him is to desire what remains docile, even after death.
He remains fragile, human, wavering — because his weakness is profitable, in fiction and beyond. Rice lacks the nerve to kill him, but she works hard to hollow him out.

He is desired by all,
so long as he remains fragile and human.
But Rice does not save him — she condemns him. Louis is a prisoner of her aesthetics, kept alive only to suffer with elegance. Unlike other vampires, he does not gain strength over time.