8:103) Ginny Little 31-JAN-98 17:00

and the blue guitar sings from the rhythm of his lousiana and down home chicago roots. he leaves the stage and suddenly appears in the balcony where i always sit, since jr. highschool when we hunkered down in seats to kiss in the darkness, to stare at the pinpoint lights and moving clouds that create the ambiance of a theater older than my grandparents. i don't have to close my eyes to imagine i am in venice, or prague, or paris. the architecture, the lighting, the overhung balconies, where we once watched bonnie and clyde and romeo and juliet when they first came out. but it is the flutter of my stomach as the boy took my hand and kissed me long that i remember, so long ago? and lonnie brooks comes up to my world and sits in the chair next to me, whining on his blue guitar, sweat beaded on his black face, play for me big daddy. he plays with his tongue and the women all look at one another with mouths open and we all know what we're thinking. and i laugh and he laughs and the cr