 |
|
|
|
|
 |
 |
|
||
 |
 |
|
||
|
||||
 |
|
|||
|
||||
|
||||
Memorial con GrappaAugust 24, 2006 August 24 is the first birthday that my friend Lisa Barnett isn't around to celebrate -- she would have been 48 today -- and I recently learned from Julie Phillips's new and brilliant biography James Tiptree, Jr.: The Double Life of Alice B. Sheldon that Alli Sheldon was also born on August 24. (Tip may have had his own birthday. I don't know.) The occasion seemed worthy of observance, not to mention that I had this nearly full bottle of Grappa Julia on top of the fridge, which I bought on Lisa's recommendation. It may be the vilest form of alcohol I've ever ingested. Lisa said it attracted women but I ask you: what's the point of attracting women if you're retching and making terrible faces when they get to you? For years I meant to give the grappa to someone who would appreciate it, but Lisa was the only person I could think of and she died. So the grappa was ready for ritual disposal, lest I die and my survivors mistakenly regret that I hadn't had the opportunity to finish the bottle myself. My first idea was to do a little celebration at the barn so both Allie (whom Lisa never met) and Rhodry (whom she did, once, in the parking lot at Readercon during a torrential downpour) could be present. Afternoon light was too bright, and there were too many people around. So around 9:30 p.m. I knocked off work and started gathering stuff: candles, a goblet, two red pencils whose points are fast approaching their erasers, several of Lisa's books (Armor of Light, Point of Hopes, and Point of Dreams, all co-written with her partner, Melissa Scott; and Teaching Young Playwrights, which Lisa edited from the papers of Gerald Chapman, who also died way too soon), Skunkatena the wind-up skunk (Lisa was a dog person; need I say more?), and of course that bottle of grappa. With these I made a little altar in the middle of my bedroom floor, in between the two more-or-less permanent altars: the pine coffee table where I build and rebuild things with blocks and various objects, and the cedar chest I inherited from my grandmother, which is currently where I spread my guitar music and related paraphernalia. I half-filled the goblet with grappa. Bravely I sipped and even more bravely I swallowed. The stuff is every bit as disgusting as I remembered. I took another hit, then I sat down and tuned my guitar so I could sing Bob Franke's "Thanksgiving Eve," which had just pointed out that it was perfect for the occasion. This is the chorus:
Then I sat in the middle of the floor surrounded by candles, poured more grappa into the goblet, and lit a match, with the idea of ceremonially incinerating the red pencil stubs in flaming liquor. It didn't work. Apparently nastiness by itself is not flammable and a higher alcohol content is needed before it will catch fire. After meditating a while, I reached for Teaching Young Playwrights and opened it at random. Random, hah: it opened to the pages that I've reread more than any other, on "Resolution / Earning the Resolution" (page 86 if you've got a copy handy; if not and you're a writer, not necessarily young and not necessarily of plays, I recommend it; it might not attract women but it tastes better than grappa).
Some resolutions come too soon, and some characters remain on stage long after they're gone. Hail, Lisa; hail, Alli; hail, Jorge Luis Borges too. He also was born on August 24 and belongs in the company. The grappa, goblet and bottle, I carried outside and across the road, where I not quite solemnly poured it all down the storm drain. You probably don't want to eat any fish caught in Vineyard Haven harbor the next couple of days. Inside again, I extinguished all the candles and put the books away. Merry meet, and merry part
|
|
|||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
 |
|
|||
 |
|
|||
Home - Writing - Editing - About Susanna - Bloggery - Articles - Poems - Contact Copyright ©
Susanna J. Sturgis. All rights reserved. |
||||