::22.12.03::
JUST MY IMAGINATION
Estávamos passeando no parque. Depois da nossa primeira noite juntos, nosso primeiro cigarro, nosso primeiro porre. O dia estava nublado e frio, e os nossos casacos de lã às vezes impedia os abraços mais fortes, e os nossos beijos demorados. Minha única e inesquecível noite com John, parece que ninguém nos percebeu, sozinhos, sentados na beira do lago congelado, enquanto ele me contava da sua garota, da sua difícil garota. Eu só queria confortá-lo, ele só queria diversão. Passamos o início da noite congelando no bar, entre conhaques e vinhos, conversando sobre as verdades da vida, o amor e, principalmente, os sofrimentos. Ele me falou das escolhas difíceis, das solidões, da garota que ele tanto amava, das tristezas e alegrias que ela lhe dava. O bar fechou, e fomos andando até seu hotel, trocando confissões secretas e picantes. Sua garota, ahh, ele suspirava quando falava nela, e ficava alguns segundos sem dizer outra palavra. Sua garota tinha algo irresistível, mesmo que doloroso, e ele simplesmente não saberia fugir disso. Seus amigos não simpatizavam, ele sofria, mas não se importava: no final, qualquer minuto com ela valia a pena. Sua voz era fina demais, mas ele suspirou mais uma vez quando lembrou dela. Seu perfume, um tanto doce, mas ele não disse mais nada depois dessa lembrança. Entramos no seu quarto, ele se jogou na poltrona, fumou outro cigarro e confessou pra mim: ela era a garota, a dele, eterna, inseparável, irretocável, com seus medos e principalmente, com seus defeitos.
Me abraçou, tirou meu casaco de lã, passou a mão delicada em meus cabelos, me olhou demoradamente e suspirou, pela última vez naquela única noite. Oh, girl...
Girl
Lennon/McCartney
Is there anybody going to listen to my story,
All about the girl who came to stay?
She's the kind of girl you want so much it makes you sorry,
Still you don't regret a single day.
Ah girl, girrrrl.
When I think of all the times I tried so hard to leave her,
She will turn to me and start to cry,
And she promises the earth to me and I believe her,
After all this time, I don't know why.
Ah girl, girrrrl.
She's the kind of girl who puts you down,
When friends are there, you feel a fool,
When you say she's looking good,
She acts as if it's understood,
She's cool - oh.
Ah girl, girrrrl.
Was she told when she was young the pain would lead to pleasure?
Did she understand it when they said
That a man must break his back to earn his day of leisure,
Will she still believe it when he's dead?
Ah girl, girrrrl.
:: Marcia Furriel 4:53 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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