::13.8.03::
SOME OVER THINKING...
Ô dia…Vim dirigindo e pensando em um trilhão de coisas. A sorte de ter comprado um óculos escuros beeeem grande e que esconde bem a minha cara. A raiva de ter bebido um pouco demaaais ontem. A dor de cabeça que não parava. O horror de ter que aportar de manhã cedo num hospital público, sem precisar MESMO, e ainda assim ter que ver um monte de gente sofrendo, gente velha sem ninguém pra cuidar, corredores feios pintados de verde água, médicos insuportáveis. E a contínua tecla da procrastinação, das milhares de coisas na minha vida que são adiadas. Adiadas, guardadas, recolhidas, engolidas a seco.
Fiquei vendo a minha mãe desesperando, praticamente implorando pra eu falar qualquer coisa, soltar qualquer verbo. Não falo nada, não quero ninguém, não me digam nada. Vou voltar para a minha névoa, ainda que tenha que passar o resto do dia nesse maldito computador.
Nessas horas, o que adianta? Ou quem?
:: Marcia Furriel 11:57 a.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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