::6.1.04::
AGRADECIDA
Li no blog do Pentimento: O Cesar Maia Maluco da Cabeça resolveu que quer botar o nome do novo Circo Voador de John Lennon, em homenagem a vocês sabem quem. Li também, no mesmo blog, que isso só vai gerar comentários do tipo: John Lennon é o cacete, viva a cultura nacional. Hahahah, Já imagino até o cartaz colado num viaduto qualquer. Realmente, nada como alguém mais sensato, assim, como quem não quer nada, lançar o nome do Cazuza para o local. Tudo a ver, ninguém reclama, fica tudo bem. Até porque, o que CATSO tem a ver o John Lennon com o Circo, alguém? Alguém sabe?
Passou dias atrás, no telecine, DUBLADO, Curtindo a Vida Adoidado. Eu resolvi gravar, o vídeo tava ligado, foi bom assistir mais uma vez um filme tão clássico da minha geração. Conheço gente que já matou aula no colégio pra ficar assistindo na sessão da tarde. Assim como tem gente por aí que quando eu conheci (faz alguns anos), nunca tinha visto!!! Vai saber...A música que eu escolhi entonces, para abrir a seleta musical dois mil e quatrense (eu adoro falar isso!) vem do filme, e é a melhor, definitivamente, para se cantar no chuveiro, assim como Ferris fez.
Danke Schoen
Wayne Newton
Danke Schoen, darling Danke Schoen.
Thank you for all the joy and pain.
Picture shows, second balcony, was the place we'd meet, second seat, go Dutch treat, you were sweet.
Danke Schoen, darling Danke Schoen.
Thank you for walks down lovers lane.
I can see, hearts carved on a tree, letters inter-twined, for all time, yours and mine, that was fine.
Danke Schoen, darling Danke Schoen.
Thank you for funny cards from Spain.
I recall, Central Park in fall, how you tore your dress, what a mess, I confess, that's not all.
Danke Schoen, darling Danke Schoen.
Thank you for seeing me again.
Though we go, on our seperate ways, still the memory stays, for always, my heart says, Danke Schoen.
Danke Schoen, Auf Wiedersehn, Danke Schoen.
:: Marcia Furriel 11:54 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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