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

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.