::12.10.03::
When I cannot sing my heart I can only speak my mind
Quando eu começo com essa história de passar dias e dias ouvindo Beatles, sempre acaba vindo à cabeça o tamanho das letras deles, isto é, como TUDO foi dito nas letras de todos os discos, desde Please, PLease Me, até o Let it Be. Cada vez eu estanco em um, e geralmente paro no Revolver (got to get you into my life, pararaparapaaan) ou no Abbey Road, meu favorito, óbvio, cantando Oh Darling até sairem lágrimas. Diferente, dessa vez. Parei no White Album, com Blackbird, While my guitar gently weeps e principalmente, I'm So Tired. E estou mesmo. Dormi atéeeee às 5 da tarde hoje, como prêmio de descanso, e acordei renovadíssima, pronta para um Baixo Gávea. Mas o cansaço vem de outra parte. Cansaço de ter que trabalhar tudo, ter que me aplicar, ter que ligar. Once again, não quero causar constrangimentos para ninguém, mas quero a minha vida limpinha e cheia de felicidades. Em qualquer lugar. Cansei foi de me esforçar para fazer isso acontecer.
:: Marcia Furriel 7:08 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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