On Blue Hour

After a week-long heat wave Berkeley settled into its cool and breezy self. I crossed these tracks during blue hour, a time made memorable by Joan Didion’s Blue Nights. You can read her description of blue hour here.
I’ve lived in Berkeley for almost two years. Most young people land here because they’ve been accepted into UC Berkeley. They spend four years here and then take small leaps into nearby cities like Oakland or San Francisco. I moved to this collegiate hub a couple years after spending my own four years at UCLA. My velcro-fastened acceptance letter from UC Berkeley offered spring admission, which felt like a backhand compliment, like being invited to a party on the condition that you show up several hours late. As there is only so much food, drink, and room on the dance floor, you may arrive only after the other guests have settled in, only after enough of those guests have departed early.
UCLA gave me the the opportunity to live in Los Angeles and love it because I didn’t have to deal with the discomforts that would make me hate it. Admittedly, my version of LA is skewed because my travels were limited to where my feet and the bus could take me. Given that my everyday revolved around campus, I saw no utility in owning a car in a city that vows to make driving a miserable experience. “Driving” is putting it far too kindly, as what LA traffic actually requires is that you sit in your motionless car, surrounded on all sides by other motionless cars. As the exhaust slips in to mix with the stale air blowing from your AC, you unwillingly gaze at a sky littered with billboards of famous people and their movies. If I did that every day I would become anxious thinking about how much time I spend not getting anywhere. A quarter-life-crisis in driving form. It leads to daydreams of using my feet to traverse sidewalks, swimming in the color blue. Berkeley is lovely. But Joan Didion promises there’s nothing like blue hour in New York.
Labels: Notes, ,

Blue Nights

“Memories are by definition of times past, things gone. Memories are the Westlake uniforms in the closet, the faded and cracked photographs, the invitations to the weddings of the people who are no longer married, the mass cards from the funerals of the people whose faces you no longer remember. Memories are what you no longer want to remember.”

Blue Nights, p. 66
By Joan Didion
Published 2011
Labels: Memoir, Quotes,

The Year of Magical Thinking

“As a child I thought a great deal about meaninglessness, which seemed at the time the most prominent negative feature on the horizon . . . No eye was on the sparrow. No one was watching me. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end.

The Year of Magical Thinking, pp. 189-90
By Joan Didion
Published 2006
Labels: Memoir, Non-fiction, Quotes,