domingo, 1 de janeiro de 2012
Waiting to enter the dressing room
I was there in the dressing room. In fact, it was on the dressing room, dressing room simply because I cannot stand. I was in the room adjoining the dressing room, lying on a couch while waiting for the moment I would have to enter the dressing room and change clothes to do the part. Just go into the dressing room for it and get out of there as fast as possible. Before I wanted to say here how much I admire some discerning.
When I was a kid, liked to sit in the last book in the classroom. He did not like to talk to anyone and do not notice me like that. Still am. I'm a little ashamed of myself on nights when drunk, I usually talk a blue streak, making me notice and grossly pop scholarship (the only scholarship that can burn).
On those nights I'm naughty, exaggerated, even a slut bag. The next day I'm ashamed of me. I really like is people who do not discrete point out why and maybe even call me a lot more attention. And he went there. I was lying on the couch. The writer. I knew who he was.We were not presented, fortunately, since I do not feel comfortable with it. So I was awarded the opportunity to remain anonymous and I was given the right to just observe. Quiet, cool, in a remarkable way.
He sat there, and the bags appeared, of course. And asked for autographs, and he asked to take pictures with them. Damn phones. Today, every case has a phone with a camera and he always wants to take a picture with you. And he had no real idea of who you are exactly. But he thinks you should be important and then fucked. And he patiently autographed books and took pictures and shook his head and smiled patiently as a monk. And his wife was also extremely kind to everyone. And I was there, lying there, just watching and somehow, trying to remain supportive. Then the second bell rang and I had to go to the play.And during the time I was listening on my MP3 Blues before going on stage, I thought the writer discreet, patient guy who does not seem to be accustomed to any kind of hype, but at the same time is gentle and try to be pleasant with people who require your attention.
I realized then that there are still people out there like him.Guys who just want to do their job and they know that the trailer has a bunch of boring he will have to endure. I felt a little stronger, somehow, a friend of a guy who will never be truly my friend. But I went there to make the play, feeling less alone. And I could understand a bunch of things just to look into the writer. There, sitting on the couch, accompanied by his wife, so understanding about it, but a little more comfortable (at least I thought) with all the harassment and inconvenience.
I spent the rest of the night thinking of the writer, in his behavior, his way cool, which I have long admired and who now only confirmed the impression. I went back to the hotel, with a little more peace, thanks to him. I enjoyed lying on the couch, watching, admiring and learning from Luis Fernando Verissimo. Discreet as it is, should not even have an understanding of how sometimes it is important for some desperate souls like mine.
When I was a kid, liked to sit in the last book in the classroom. He did not like to talk to anyone and do not notice me like that. Still am. I'm a little ashamed of myself on nights when drunk, I usually talk a blue streak, making me notice and grossly pop scholarship (the only scholarship that can burn).
On those nights I'm naughty, exaggerated, even a slut bag. The next day I'm ashamed of me. I really like is people who do not discrete point out why and maybe even call me a lot more attention. And he went there. I was lying on the couch. The writer. I knew who he was.We were not presented, fortunately, since I do not feel comfortable with it. So I was awarded the opportunity to remain anonymous and I was given the right to just observe. Quiet, cool, in a remarkable way.
He sat there, and the bags appeared, of course. And asked for autographs, and he asked to take pictures with them. Damn phones. Today, every case has a phone with a camera and he always wants to take a picture with you. And he had no real idea of who you are exactly. But he thinks you should be important and then fucked. And he patiently autographed books and took pictures and shook his head and smiled patiently as a monk. And his wife was also extremely kind to everyone. And I was there, lying there, just watching and somehow, trying to remain supportive. Then the second bell rang and I had to go to the play.And during the time I was listening on my MP3 Blues before going on stage, I thought the writer discreet, patient guy who does not seem to be accustomed to any kind of hype, but at the same time is gentle and try to be pleasant with people who require your attention.
I realized then that there are still people out there like him.Guys who just want to do their job and they know that the trailer has a bunch of boring he will have to endure. I felt a little stronger, somehow, a friend of a guy who will never be truly my friend. But I went there to make the play, feeling less alone. And I could understand a bunch of things just to look into the writer. There, sitting on the couch, accompanied by his wife, so understanding about it, but a little more comfortable (at least I thought) with all the harassment and inconvenience.
I spent the rest of the night thinking of the writer, in his behavior, his way cool, which I have long admired and who now only confirmed the impression. I went back to the hotel, with a little more peace, thanks to him. I enjoyed lying on the couch, watching, admiring and learning from Luis Fernando Verissimo. Discreet as it is, should not even have an understanding of how sometimes it is important for some desperate souls like mine.
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