::30.9.03::
THE FIRST TIME I SAW PARIS...
Ontem foi dia de HAIR. Eu não chorei não...Cantei quase todas, balancei os pezinhos, tirei o sapato, me emocionei mais uma vez, como todas as vezes que eu vi esse filme: como eu quis ter a idade que tenho agora, ali, naquela época. Leia-se o final da década de 60, movimento hippie, contracultura a todo vapor, amor livre, essas coisas...Passei um bom tempo imaginando que eu seria bem mais feliz se pudesse ser radicalmente contra tudo o que era estabelecido na vida.
O papo era esse, no “so-called” Ateliê Odeon, e tinha a ver com essa história de “marginalidade”...O filme passou, e a vontade...Não sei, talvez também tenha passado. Mas eu percebi que os desejos eram maiores do que esses, e percebi, hoje de manhã, que é tão somente um desejo profundo de fazer diferente, de fazer MELHOR, de cortar todas as cordas podres e lançar meu barquinho no vento tranqüilo das doces esperanças.
And be the president of the united states of love.
Depois, a tentativa frustrada de arrumar um chope gelado na Tijuca, o cd do EBTG tocando e eu rodando sozinha pela Lapa, tentando achar um buraco pra “cair” de volta na Zona Sul.
Que história é essa de neguinho fechar túnel de madrugada, hein????
Hoje volto ao Odeon, meia-noite, para seguir na seqüência, caindo nos malditos anos 80, e ver Fama, e cantar também, óbvio. Confesso que queria estar mais contente com tudo, mas bateu uma vontade de acolher...É mesmo, bateu o momento mãe, e o que eu queria agora era dar colo e carinho, e fazer alguma coisa, qualquer coisa, pra deixar um menino feliz.
Let’s swin to the moon?
E para fechar o post, voltando ao Everything But the Girl, voltando às doces esperanças...
Meet me in the Morning
EBTG
Meet me in the morning
I'll have the motor running
Down icy lanes, under a glass blue sky
This is living
This is living
I haven't come to be a stranger
I haven't come to break your home
I haven't come to harm your children
I've come to be your love
Don't let the grass grow under your feet
The sands of times keep running
For now at last I'm down on the street
With the engine running
Meet me in the evening
I'll have the log fire burning
Down frosty lanes, under a darkening sky
This is living
This is living
I haven't come to be a stranger
I haven't come to break your home
I haven't come to harm your children
I've come to be your love
:: Marcia Furriel 5:41 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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