::8.2.04::
FESTAS TROCADAS
Enfim fui de novo na Matriz sábado, ver colé. Interessante as meninas de salto alto (bem, eu tb estava), e de roupas coladinhas. Interessante ver o cara invadindo o banheiro feminino para exercer atividades excusas dentro da cabine, interessante ouvir Feira de Acari e It´s Automatic, e dançar com a minha irmã. Aliás, isso foi o mais interessante de tudo. Apesar dela ser chaaaaaata até não poder mais (peixesXáries, não temos jeito), nós gostamos de dançar juntas. Senti falta da "tchurminha" da Brazooka, mas lembrei como É BOM dançar de olhos fechados e sozinha, ainda mais vestida com o meu já famoso vestido LÉINDO que tem saia rodadinha. Dançar pra não dançar, já diria a Rita Lee. Após uma pequena intervenção noturna (obrigado, obrigado, amiga!!!), resolvi que era a hora de usar o vestido, sair por aí e fazer um movimento qualquer. E hoje, como os dias às vezes fazem, amanheci com o Sol na cara, e isso só pode significar uma coisa...
:: Marcia Furriel 2:06 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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