All night I heard two voices from out here in the hall

Today contained far more public transit frustration than it really needed to, but in the evening lesser_celery came over and I showed him The Legend of Hell House (1973), which I love and he hadn't seen. It went over well. The obvious direction for next week is some other title containing the word "house," because he was joking that he couldn't remember if he'd seen The Haunting of Hill House or The House on Haunted Hill, but I am afraid that way eventually lies Obayashi.

I feel as though I'm writing more about my daily life than I have in a long time, but less about my thoughts. I find myself wanting to do something literary and unethical, like write in detail about the people I love: I don't know what point that would prove. I admire memoir as I do most genres I can't (have no idea whether I could) write, but I don't know if I want that much of myself in print for others. Then I don't know why I write that sentence, because it's not as though my recurring motifs are especially hard to decode. I think of myself as relatively transparent. It surprised me in January to find out how little I had let some people know.

(I looked to see what I was doing this time last year, in case it was diagnostic; looks like writing about British noir. Draw your own conclusions.)

That five-questions meme has come around again, this time set by rose_lemberg:

( I am so glad you stayed true to your obsessions. )

Comment if you want five questions of your own. On the interminable bus this afternoon, I thought of a title for a chapbook of ghost poems. There would still need to be more history.