Joan Didion. Even in her darkest moments, made Los Angeles seem cooler and more bearable.

I think of her when I swim in Sacramento’s American River; Didion’s childhood spot.

College girls everywhere, from the late 50’s and beyond, have tilted their heads in wonder of this owl. Languishing in privilege, but always looking. Looking out. And tangling with bad boys.

Her speaking voice conjures images of rambling wood houses, fruit trees, mockingbirds, heat-waves bouncing off ground, and urban glamour. A fascinating fusion that is nostalgic to a small-city, California wilderness girl who can drive a graveled serpentine cliff road just as easily as a bicycle in Greenwich Village.

My only gripe with Ms. Joan: if you had to name your kid after my favorite state in Mexico at least pronounce it f**king correctly. Rest in peace, Quintana.

Disorder, Impermanence, Chaos, Painful Honesty, Haunted by Reptilian Spirits, Restlessness.

Author: Subterraneans

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