Scorpio 28° (Nov 20)

 

On November 20, I awake in Wellfleet and my diary from that day reads:

Cousin Jim let slip today that he loves having us here and hopes we’ll continue to stay. This coming off our washing machine dying its full death before we left for the UK last month. He made clear he wasn’t going to buy a new one, that it was on us; which would be cast into a strange light, admittedly, if he didn’t want us to stay on come end of lease next year. But one never knows. So now we know he is smitten and as keeping this place is such a cinch—touch wood—we have a couple more years of phenomenal daily beach walks ahead.

Joan Didion probably tops the list of authors, in her case, essayist and novelist, whom I’ve never read but wanted to read. I saw Griffin Dunne’s documentary and not only loved it; but it loosed in me a spree of creative expression, such that I was determined to watch the doc again the next morning, which I did; I long to see it again. S. has been a rabid fan since the stone age but being no kind of white woman, I wasn’t rushing to read Didion because, anyway, I don’t read, a fact, I’m now determined to change. And I chose Didion to read.

I read the preface and whereupon realized I am reading a book of essays, all?, most? of which have been published, thirteen of twenty?, in the Saturday Evening Post? Anyway, she speaks of writing the Slouching Toward Bethlehem essay and having to drink gin and waters 20 hours a day, and take Dexetrine, and all I thought was, ma’am, how could the writing of an essay in a magazine cause all that. Trying writing a 560 page treatise with sidebars and three hundred relationship appendixes over five years. Even I, l’ homme qui resist pas,” waited until the fourth year, and until 5 o’clock, then 1PM, to drink tiny lemon flavored vodkas to push through till 7.

Girl, get over yourself, thought I.

But tonight I might actually read some of Didion’s actual writing. So I might understand her position better tomorrow. I won’t end up doing so until the very last week of December while floating around off the West Indies. Poor me.

 

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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