::27.3.03::
Estou aqui na Bolívia, no aeroporto mais alto do mundo, que nao por acaso se chama EL ALTO. Como sou pao-dura, resolvi quedarme acá hasta mañana tempranito, quando vou voar para o BRasil. Vou dar um rolé pela madrugada no aeroporto, talvez comprar uma revista, qq coisa....Mas 20 dolares por 9 horas em um hotel NA BOLIVIA ninguém merece! Fiquei bastante triste com a despedida no Peru, até porque meu filme acabou e nao pude tirar as fotos de família que queria...Uma pena, mas fica pra uma próxima vez. Que eu nao sei quando vai ser, nem acho que vai ser tao cedo, infelizmente...Pero ainda uma vez mais irei a Cusco, com certeza, e ainda uma vez mais terei tempo para conhecer a familiarada Ramos e Gálvez que deixei no Peru. Ok, agora comecei a chorar na cabine da internet do aeroporto. COisa mais ridícula.
Estou com saudades de todos, e já disse isso...Nem sei se alguém fica lendo essas coisas que escrevo, mas isso aqui, meu caderninho de viagem e minhas fotos MARAVILHOSAS sao coisas especialíssimas para mim, inolvidables.
HASTA MAÑANA BRASIL!
:: Marcia Furriel 8:33 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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