Up 7:30. Watched SNL – “satire” basically empty, except perhaps for Michael Che. Don’t know why I bother. One of Jay-Z’s songs was O.K. Worked on misc. to-do list; communicated w/ band and studio (Figure 8 in Brooklyn) about Nov. dates. Out at 11:30.  Read about 25 p. of China Mieville, October on train to Lincoln Ctr. Saw The Crimes of Monsieur Lange (Jean Renoir 1936) in NYFF. Deceptively light film that interestingly prefigures Breathless in the on-the-lam hero’s fascinating w/ American pop culture (here, Westerns), and advocates collectivizing your workplace and killing your boss. Cinematically, it’s not The Grand Illusion, but the penultimate death sequence is great, w/ the protagonist rushing past windows at the edge of the screen as we watch the action in the square. Jacques Prévert has a writing credit. Ran into Eric Meyers just after. Used hr. between movies to respond to another round of logistics on rec’ing dates. Went back for One Sings, The Other Doesn’t (Agnes Varda 1976), which had opened the festival 40 years ago, w/ the director speaking briefly before. Complicated (and perhaps overlong) work, but basically an avowedly feminist quasi-musical about abortion rights, child-rearing, and domestic arrangements seen through the eyes of two friends, one (the singer) more bohemian (and an evident alter ego for Varda), one less. The agitfolk chansons sung by the protagonist and an apparently real group called Orchid, w/ words by the director, have not dated well, but the handling of her disappointment w/ an Iranian husband was subtler and more self-critical than it looked like it would be at first. Headed to Chelsea, passed a boomer saying to another, “The Stones’ songs have stood up time better than the Beatles’—they were just pop.” Got a bite, finished day’s quota (50 p.) of Mieville, found a coffee place (Variety on 25th at 7 Av, worth remembering), made myself start a graf on music publishing so I can get into it tomorrow afternoon. About an hr., just over 200 words. Walked over to Sid Gold’s, heard Joe McGinty sing his own songs at the piano, w/ violin, cello, sax/clarinet. Train home, read ½ of of Catherine Blauvelt, Here High Note, High Note, from Prelude, that odd poetry imprint run by n+1. Rather “pure” torqued-syntax lyric (“For likeness, we are massy, one leap and close.”), pastoral/”gurlesque” (still a thing?) vocabulary, sunny tone (for contemporary poetry). Reads quickly if you’re not looking to ferret out the subject matter/lyric occasion. Motto: “The image has the last word.” Near home, swung by Espresso 77 to catch the end of an art opening w/ music, but it was over; just as well. Home just after 10, Bree getting ready for bed. Lights out by 10:30 (though I should have charged devices/recorded expenses).

Skipped poetry notebook, didn't listen to a record. Otherwise, had the day I meant to have.