The Genteel. So, I saw Joan Didion read from her newest, Blue Nights, on Tuesday evening. It also happened to be the week I was thinking/writing about the idea of “privilege.” I mean, when Slate ran this piece on Didion’s privilege + her addressing of it, I (sort of) got really fucking annoyed. I’ve been criticized for being so-called privileged (“a Rosedale gay” or some other so-not-even-close-to-the-truth combination of words), which – in its purest, most literal interpretation – means to say that I’m rich and spoiled (and stupid?). And, to some, even delusional. Sigh. But when Didion addresses the question/those critics in Blue Nights, it’s odd? I agree, after my friend Anupa pointed it out, that if one’s not aware of one’s own privilege (which extends beyond rich/poor to include minority/not, gay/straight, male/female + the list goes on), they face becoming out of touch with reality, as is often the threat with public decision makers, for example. (Rob Ford, anyone?) But watching Didion read, and even reading the work for yourself, what does anything matter when the words are so beautiful, and you can see the trauma and endless fatigue of what seems like a 100 years war. Just there, sprawled across her face, quietly resting in her eyes, and in her words. The rest will soon disappear into white noise. Here’s a picture of Didion, still making the rounds, doing her thing. Go on with your days.