Pois bem, o ultimo post foi um fracasso. Trata-se de um conto baseado no livro "Nick Adams Stories", do Hemingway. Pois bem. Entrei pro musical do colegio, que vai ser "My Favorite Year". Dessa vez eu tenho um papel pequeno (Steam Heat Dancer) e que nao vai me gerar muitas preocupacoes. Ferias de fevereiro serao em Chamonix-Mont Blanc, na França. Comecei a reler o Particulas Elementares, do Houllebecq e me lembrei da primeira vez que eu li, em onibus lotados e tardes quentes. Vou fazer um favor pra voces e nao descrever toda a melancolia. Tambem estou lendo "A Biblia Envenenada", Barbara Kingsolver. Leiam.

anglófonos, deliciem-se.

The sun touched the window at the Majestic Hotel a little bit before ten. Jacob could feel the warmth coming from the curtains. He didn’t want to get up. The sweat in his back and the wet sheets made him feel stuck. The day was very hot. The room was invaded with his smell, he thought. The light breeze in the outside stayed in the outside. He didn’t want to move. Jacob lifted his head and saw the rest of the room. The bed next to his was untouched, the cabinet drawer was open and a hand held the remote control. His father was asleep at the couch, and had in his lap a TV guide. The noise from the TV annoyed him.
Jacob sat up in the bed for a few seconds, waiting for something to happen and make him move forward. He remembered one time his father rented a house a few feet away from the sea, and the afternoon they arrived Jacob wanted to go back home because he was afraid the ocean was going to take the house away.
He open his eyes as widely as he could and tried to wake himself up, passing his hands in his very dark hair. His knees cracked as he got up in his feet. He was a tall young man. Jacob turned the TV off and turned around to see what reaction would the old man have. His face was wrinkled and hairy, and you could see the wholes that age had carved on his visage. He moved. Jacob moved to, so that his father could know he was awake.
He chose the refrigerator. Opened the door and started counting the spaces the bottles had left. There were four bottles in the ground, next to the couch, and one was probably on the couch. He grabbed the greasy milk carton and tried to make as much noise as possible while closing the refrigerator door. His milk wasn’t as cold as he wished it were. Jacob sat against the wall, his legs touching the cold floor. He could watch his father’s lips moving slowly and his hands looking for his glasses. He seemed scared.

“Good morning.”
“Good morning, dad.”
His father’s breath could be heard from outside of the room, Jacob thought.
“It’s a sunny day outside.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Do you want to go out for breakfast? Have a nice omelet and some good beef? What do you say?”
Jacob’s father said that loudly.
“I’m pretty good.”
Jacob didn’t feel hungry at all.
His father was tying his white snickers, sitting on the edge of the straightened bed. He would, after that, comb his hair, that was scarce, and be ready in a minute.
“You should open this windows. Fresh air is good for you.”
The old man got up, pulled a comb out of the cabinet drawer and started combing his thin hair. As he lifted his arms you could see the sweat spots in the back of his shirts and in his armpits. His breath could be heard from outside the hotel.
Jacob reached for his knee and felt the sweat on it. He had walked towards the bathroom, a tight bathroom, and was washing his face. It was a hot day. The cold water got into his hair and ears, and he liked the feeling, still wet, but fresh.