by Gresham Cash Maria Dolores Vazquez My obsessions run thus: I would like to be with Joan Didion, to be her lover, her wavering infatuation, sweating on a beach towel in Baja while we kiss each other’s necks — electrolytes hard to come by in Mexico. I would like to snare a fragment of her genius, her starkness. When we lie down at night, I would like to take notes on how she sleeps, watch her eyes flutter as her genius congeals involuntarily. She probably wouldn’t sleep, too