Dusting Didion Renée Richichi
My late mother spoke of nothing but depravity in her final years. The 1970s were just the 1960s! Too much shit happened to cram it all into one decade. No time left. None at all; just tall men climbing into small European cars. A period you should waste no time rushing back to, Mory! She spoke nonsense, blurting out the uncomfortable and often inappropriate. It’s the colic that’s got me! Did you call George Schlatter about my set? Tell him it’s good enough to open for Tomlin. Better yet tell him it’ll bring the boys home from war! My mother used to tell me the greatest gift is grief. When I go, find Didion. She was the only one in that whole lot worth a damn. Naturally, I immersed myself in the art of Joan Didion as my mother’s health plummeted deeper into the red, and her memoirs proved truer than any of my mother’s mumblings of her. On the surface, Didion is the inaccessible 32
