::2.10.03::
SCHEDULE
Sono, sono, muito sono! Esse negócio de ter que trabalhar enquanto rola o Festival não tá tendo a menor graça...Ontem eu perdi algumas cenas do filme, porque simplesmente não dava mais pra abrir o olho. E o resto da noite foi um pesadelo só. À partir de agora, pelos meus cálculos, tenho mais umas 10 horas de sono, até sábado à noite, pra dormir.
Hoje tem The Wall, amanhã tem filme+Matriz, e dessa vez eu NÃO POSSO deixar de ir, não é garota?:-) Sábado de MANHÃ, eu disse de MANHÃ, cenários novos para montar, sábado à tarde, 2 filmes pra ver, acabando tudo às 21:30h da noite.
ARGHT! Vou precisar de muita coca-cola, guaraná em pó, etc. E depois de tudo isso, domingo cedo (ma non troppo) TEM QUE fazer Sol, pra gente poder tostar na praia como deve ser...Já estou quase desistindo de ver o documentário do Lucio Costa se fizer Sol, porque acabei de saber que teremos uma legítima New Orleans Brass Band tocando em Ipanema às quatro e pouco da tarde. Num domingo de Sol, imperdível.
AFE, e ainda tem a sessão BÔNUS de Rocky Horror no domingo...Será que eu agüento???
:: Marcia Furriel 7:16 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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