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I was running late again today (another mostly sleepless night) and then boarded the wrong bus (second time that happens). Got off past the long bridge, waited forever for the street signal to change, only to get almost hit by a bitch in a cabrio. She darted out from the direction of the tennis club, or the funeral home. I yelled at her ("stupid bitch!"), I hope it HURT. Oahahahaha!1! And THEN, when I went to pick up the autoclaved spinner bottles, the dolt who runs the steam scene handed me a vessel straight from the dryer into my bare hands, burning my fingers. It happened too fast (obviously I saw HE was wearing gloves), and no way could I have allowed those expensive jimmies to drop and break. Finished "The subtle knife" and Tabucchi's "La testa perduta di Damasceno Monteiro". I don't care about plots at all when the flavor of the city and the culture looms so large. Oh for a plate of Oporto tripe. Saw Bresson's "Pickpocket" and Louis Malle's "The thief of Paris". I was in a terrible mood, cranky, bloated, hateful. "Pickpocket" bored me to death, the second somewhat less so, but I still exited bitterly questioning my way of life, constitution and future, something which is usually reserved for that "hour of heroes", as Napoleon put it: 4 AM. |