::30.11.03::
O BUQUÊ.
O casamento foi legal. Não chorei, como previsto (eu previa chorar, entendam). Minha prima, grávida de 6 meses, estava linda!!! Tudo meio pobrinho, mas na verdade o que interessa não passa nem perto dessas coisas, não é? Ela estava feliz, minhas primas-tias também, várias fotos, família, amigos, bolinho com guaraná. Definitivamente not for me. O padre resolveu ser do tipo funny, e era de uma tristeza só. Falei com mamãe: se um dia isso tudo for pra mim, e ela realizar o sonho de me ver batizada (pro meu casamento ela caga), eu vou fazer tipo Seinfeld: armo um palquinho, um microfone, pego uns 5 padrecos por aí e dou 30 minutos para cada. Quem tirar onda de engraçadinho ou pregar que " a esposa deve ser muito legal e boa e tudo na vida e calma e quietinha na vida do seu marido..." tá fora.
É, talvez seja mais difícil conseguir o padre do que o marido em si. Ah sim, eu não peguei o buquê.
:: Marcia Furriel 11:13 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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