I had a picture book on Hitchcock films when I was fairly young. Can't remember what-all I saw of his in college. It was in the early Baltimore years after that that I really got into them. A bunch of his films that hadn't been available for decades were suddenly out again, like the dazzling-technicolor wonder The Trouble with Harry, and the Charles screened many, often in double feature.
I went to a lot of double features in my twenties.
Last week on Friday I had the day off work and spent almost all of the daylight part of it embroidering (on the work shirt that was part of my '70s outfit for the concerts that started that night) and watching the first many episodes of Nurse Jackie, which I'd seen all of before, and which are now on Netflix. I figured something I'd seen before would be good cuz I'd be looking at the needle & floss & fabric pallette most of the time (or rethreading the needle, often, it turned out), and could half-follow the story by listening lazily, and not miss anything much. It was quite an experience, though, watching that show a second time, from the fresh early days, not only knowing, like I did the first time around, in the way one knows (or oughta know), how badly things were going to go for [the] Jackie [character] and (sorta worse) for the people [characters] who were involved with her, but really knowing in specific detail how exactly and in particular that crushing reality [fiction] was going to go down, cuz I'd already witnessed it. Seen the consequences play out. Even if I didn't remember ALL the details. It was a new variation on pathos, like I was in flashback, only I wasn't. Cuz, like, it don't get any more inevitable than I've already seen the rest of this show, and it's over now, and what's gonna happen is what's gonna happen, and I really do already know what these people [characters] are in for. Like post-acceptance, a la post-modernism, with just a touch of rerun deja vu.
So now it's the end of the short workweek after the concerts. T's out today. I skipped Wednesday to sleep a lot, and there was also Monday off for MLK Day. And the trainee is out this week. And next week I'm passing her on to another second reader, and we'll hunker down to get through the rest of a winter that's about to bury DC/Balto but has barely snowed on us up here, and the next work holiday isn't until Memorial Day, and the new chorus season will start, and Victor's quitting he told me yesterday and I thought about in the night and why and yeah, considering, along with other chorus things, and a string about chorus has been broken, hyperbolic-sounding exclamation that is actually not hyperbolic at all. And I found out somebody's therapist is somebody else's therapist, which is different from finding out (as I have twice) that the person I'm dating has the same therapist I do (which is weird and sort of startling) but is still something kinda like that, and also not. And I've started carrying bags of books out of the house in earnest, and may well get back into that project now. I hope so. I aim to. And I'm not done embroidering, either.
Meanwhile, I carry a sort of soul sickness. Its intensities come and go, as does the relative dignity with which I perceive myself as bearing it. At least now I know I am entitled to it, when it is what I am experiencing; I recognize the bogusness of the other attitude, when it's in me, and even most of the time if/when it's in someone else. And I can see it and feel it and acknowledge it without being stuck in it. Stuck with and stuck in aren't the same thing, after all.
So now walk the dog, back to work, walk the dog and eat something, and into town for the movies tonight, where I might even take the chance afterwards to peek at Carol again, in a double feature variation, even though I don't have the stamina that way I once did.