“In retrospect it seems to me that those days before I knew the names of all the bridges were happier than the ones that came later, but perhaps you will see that as we go along. Part of what I want to tell you is what it is like to be young in New York, how six months can become eight years with the deceptive ease of a film dissolve, for that is how those years appear to me now, in a long sequence of sentimental dissolves and old-fashioned trick shots…” Joan Didion, ‘Goodbye To All That’
There are two things I can’t stop thinking about: the next president. And the desert. I already pleaded with you about the former. But here is what I have to say about the latter: I want to move there. Suddenly I have this almost physical hunger for erie purple skies and endless sandy roads and craggy alien rock formations and no neighbors for miles and maybe a small town where the old cowboys wonder what I’m doing out in that square house with yellow curtains (I’m writing. Of course) I am in love with New York City in a very deep way but lately I have this strange feeling about the desert and all of the stories that are growing there.
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