"call it our craziness even" | death & spritzers: Vol. 1
in which we begin in a new year, fittingly, with Lucille
Welcome to death & spritzers! Let’s jump right in, shall we?
Back in December 2022, I had my much-loved copy of Good Woman by Lucille Clifton on my nightstand, and one night, knocked over a glass of water, drenching the paperback. I woke the next morning and the pages were still wet, now warping, surely ruined.
I was more upset than the situation warranted. But I loved that book. It felt precious, irreplaceable; I had ruined something, yet again. Couldn’t I do anything right? Oh, if you could only read the dramas I write in my mind!
There’s more to this story, of course, and it was about the book and it also wasn’t at all. It was about me, and the tired stories I was telling myself about myself. I’d been doing it for years. God, it was exhausting.
Either way, I moved the book to my windowsill, and in the coming days and weeks, I would walk in my room and stare — sometimes glare — at the warped pages, which were becoming increasingly bent by the impractical placement. I was punishing myself for something, but I wasn’t quite sure what.
Shortly after, on December 31, 2022, I wanted to read Lucille’s beautiful “into a new year” poem. Even though I knew without a doubt it was likely all over my Instagram feed in addition to being a quick Google search, my stubborn self, still mad about spilling the goddamn water, wanted to read it in my book.
I pulled the warped book off the windowsill, and yes, some pages were ruined — plastered together, poems lost — but not “into a new year” on page 134!
I felt both relieved and also sick of myself and my internal drama. When would I ever stop being so mean to myself for things big and small, and yes, ridiculous, like accidentally spilling a glass of water? For weeks I’d been thinking how Lucille deserved better than to have her beautiful poems drenched in water by someone too careless to protect them. But then as I ran my fingers across the warped, stuck-to-each-other pages, I realized: actually, I deserve better than all this.
So I went out and bought myself some peonies and eucalyptus, because it made me happy, and it felt good. I came home, and put the flowers in a vase on my writing table, along with some other cherished reads. I put Good Woman on the table, too. I poured myself a glass of water, and I wrote a poem. Here’s an excerpt:
I am thinking about a poet, Lucille,
& regret that I ruined my copy of her book that night
in 2022
I spilled water on my nightstand,
the pages now stuck together, warped —
Reminiscent of those tired things
I said to myself
about myself
all those times before— enough already!
Turned out, I wasn’t quite done with the remnants of my Good Woman copy. In 2023, I started making collages. I had a large canvas that I wanted to turn into a collage that paid tribute to my mother Rexanna, and I remembered another favorite from the collection, “poem on my fortieth birthday to my mother who died young” — and as luck would have it, that was another one I salvaged. I made this big, wild thing and I called it “Journey into the familiar unknown (like mother like daughter)” and you better believe I wrote another poem, too:
It felt only right, going into another new year, trying out something new, to revisit my remaining pages of Good Woman. I made these two collages, and I didn’t even have to buy myself flowers this time to like myself again, because I already did.
I’m feeling increasingly anxious as we near inauguration day, and worried about what’s going to unfold for our country and the world. But with yet again a little help from Lucille, I am reminded of “the life thing in us that will not let us die.” — and am still looking for that light in us, and of us.
Call it craziness. Call it whatever you like.
I hope your new year is off to a kind, forgiving start.
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