And our care lies in the telegraph poles and the taxi to the station

[sovay]

Today I had blocked out for work interspersed with lying on a couch, but then shortly after dinner I discovered that the Brattle was showing Ida Lupino's Not Wanted (1949) which I had not been able to see in New York in November, and so I raced out into the black-ice night to view an incisive and compassionate drama about what may still be called unwed motherhood and it was great; I hope to write about it and I may go back for The Bigamist (1953) tomorrow. Then I got on the bus to come home and despite my loudly broadcast signals of reading this book, not making eye contact, not interacting a man talked to me about his medications, his roommates, what a beautiful girl I was, who were my parents, was I going home to my boyfriend, he has a good memory for faces, he hopes to see me around soon. I kept hoping he would get off the bus before I did so that he would not see even in which neighborhood I lived. He did not. He tried to call my stop for me. So I got home in a rather more elevated state of adrenaline than I had left the theater. But I'm three for three so far on Lupino's filmography and that's nice, Mrs. Lincoln. I am trying to decide if I would call this one, too, a noir.

Comments

[sovay]

and a guy halfway across the bagel shop from where we were sitting was staring at us fixedly and then called out to us and asked why Wakanomori was clearing his throat all the time, and was it because he was nervous and did it have to do with the guy himself because he'd noticed that people would do that around him sometimes.

Wow, that's a self-fulfilling prophecy.

It's a thousand times worse to be trapped on a bus with someone who is trying to browbeat you into, what, a date or something I guess.

I guess? Has anyone in the history of ever gotten a date with someone from harassing them on a bus? Because if he thought he was charmingly chatting up a receptive audience, he was wrong.

Jerk.

Yeah.

*hugs*