The Year of Magical Thinking

by Joan Didion

The way I write is who I am, or have become, yet this is a case in which I wish I had instead of words and their rhythms a cutting room, equipped with an Avid, a digital editing system on which I could touch a key and collapse the sequence of time, show you simultaneously all the frames of memory that come to me now, let you pick the takes, the marginally different expressions, the variant readings of the same lines.

remember thinking that I needed to discuss this with John. There was nothing I did not discuss with John.

Why make this call and not just say what you wanted? His eyes. His blue eyes. His blue imperfect eyes. and what i want to know is how do you like your blueeyed boy