::11.2.04::
PEDIDOS...
Sons da madrugada. Etta James cantando Don’t Explain. Queria um cigarro, mas não, definitivamente não quero mais cigarros. Queria uma simples demonstração de afeto. Não, não sairei para tomar chope. Queria acordar minha mãe, que voltou pra casa hoje, e pedir pra dormir com ela. Chorar no cantinho? Não, não há necessidade. Já está passando, o inferno astral. Esse ano vou pedir de presente um livro e um afago. Vou querer todos os meus amigos, todos os possíveis e impossíveis, pensando em mim. Vou desejar uma vida feliz para mim e para as minhas amigas. Vou desejar menos celulite. Vou copiar vários cds e dar para os amigos. Vou dançar em algum lugar, provavelmente nas tradicionais Casas. Vou abraçar alguns (poucos), porque, vocês sabem, não sou muito de dar abraços. Mas exijo meu afago secreto.
:: Marcia Furriel 2:50 a.m.
[+] ::
...
|
| [::..perfil..::] |
"...[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
|
| [::.. perfil sarcástico..::] |
 |
|
