86. Encapsulating the Ephemeral – Jenny Boully

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How then do we encapsulate the memory in a way that also preserves its transitory nature?

When memories make themselves manifest, they alight like butterflies—fleeting, momentary, ineffable, seemingly uncapturable. The task of the writer then, having had the epiphany embedded within memory, is to relate not only the message from the dream embedded within the memory, but to also articulate, in language, that nebulous nature of the memory. How then do we encapsulate the memory in a way that also preserves its transitory nature?

– Jenny Boully

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Prompt:

Pick five items from the list below.


popcorn * lettuce * iceberg * cotton candy * puffs * sugar cubes * dandelions * buttercups * pallbearer * clothesline * National Geographic * fire ants * watermelon * sunflowers * ticket stub * campfire * satellite * fish scales * baby powder * quilt * broach * barrette * tin can * bingo * Ferris wheel * frisbee * legumes * lima beans * caterpillar * earthworm * mockingbird * wagon * shaved ice * envelope * rotary phone * silk glove * single shoe * postcard * diner * cheese * houseplant * canoe * sharpened pencil * glue * lunch box
 
Then, write one memory associated with the item—or write associations you have of this item—in 200 words or less. Limit the use of “I.” Refrain from stating any emotions. Like dreamscapes, rely on images to convey feeling. Assemble these memory fragments into a collage-essay. Give it a one-word title.

Bonus: For the future, or to grow your memoir-fragments, you can make your own lists of random words, pick words at random from various books and dictionaries, or have friends generate lists.


Anonymous

Sigh

Sugar Cubes

China teacups on a white tablecloth

Breakfast buffet in a London hotel

It’s okay to put two sugar cubes

in one cup of tea.


Fish Scales

Flashing, dashing, giving new meaning

to silver fish, as light as water

drawing eyes and minds alike

Hands try capturing it on paper

and fail.


Mockingbird

Title on the paperback book

Dark brown braid and green shirt

Red letters for the dictionary pronunciation

Not exactly known, not unknown either.


Silk Glove

Long for the opera

Black for the night

Hole from a rip

and Gift from a death.




Canoe

Silent slide of metal, ripples

Dark forest on the banks and darker water

on the lake

The only chatter comes from a beach we cannot see

Who knows why the boat floats empty?


Anonymous

Senses

    A canoe glides silently through water as morning mist hovers over the calm surface. A pair of loons welcome a traveler to their heaven.

    The anticipation in honored as a fish pulls heavily on the line. Fierce combat, then the prize is landed. A prayer of thanks before cleaning, fish scales sticking to fingers, then plucked free by the fillet knife tip.

    Smoke signals home base as the canoe changes course. A warm, crackling fire greets the traveler, flames licking dry wood, reaching upward greedily. Coffee pot on, smells of burning wood, folding chairs set by the campfire ring. 

    Tires crunch the granite base, bikes roll forward, beautiful scenery on either side of the path. Deep gorges, clear blue lakes, aromatic pines, wild turkeys, songbirds and then sunflowers. A gaudy display; huge heads with bright yellow halos around smiling faces. Bees busy at work. 

    Back at camp, the watermelon is cut. Tough, green skin leads to the crisp, sweet, juicy center. Large mouthfuls of red, cool comfort. Water drips off chins, seeds spit into the camp fire. 

    Heaven


Bren Wong

Location: Saskatchewan, Canada
About: I'm an aspiring writer and long-time journaler. My inspiration was the random objects that held meaning for me.

Fred the fern

Fred the fern is thriving in its final home facing the filtered sunlight of the afternoon. All living things need a name to identify them from others, and Fred is a steadfast and traditional name, as good as any other moniker.  It used to live in a sterile office that was more of a cubbyhole than proper working office. The office was dominated by a 3-dimensional printer that gathered dust and an L-shaped desk. No pictures or personal mementos decorated the space.

The small cubbyhole was transformed into a welcoming counselling lounge. It houses an inviting sofa with a fuzzy throw. A small basket of rocks lays on the coffee table. Soft curtains now hang on either side of the tidy window. If the occupants need it, there is a box of tissue. 

Although he would have been in good company, Fred has moved on. He, then, shifted to a tidy office when its owner vacated the cubbyhole. Fred’s temporary digs were shared with a friendly woman with a wide grin, and a green thumb. She could be absent-minded and he didn’t receive watering regularly. If you reached out to feel the green fronds cascading downwards, you would find one stem that was bent almost at a right angle but continued growing. That stem is a lot like life, when detours occur in a straight, narrow life. It will yield to the obstacle, and growing around and over it.


Genelle Faulkner

Location: Boston, MA
About: I'm a 30-year-old science teacher who lives in Boston, MA. I've been isolating in my apartment with no other souls. This entry was inspired by my time growing up in Jamaica with my mom, the first section is my mom's description of what she wants for her funeral.
Age: 30


June Kim

Location: New York, New York
About: I picked the word "barrette" and wrote a poem about a childhood experience in which I was dancing for my parents in our living room. During the performance I got dizzy smashed my head into the coffee table right where the barrette was clipped. I was taken to the emergency room and was horrified that they had to shave off part of my hair so they could stitch up the wound.

The barrette 

Barrette in the hair, arms in the air 

Dancing for mom and dad

Showing off my skillz

Spin and spin and spin

It’s fucking full of thrills 







Balance no longer stable

Head hits the coffee table 







Blood spilling out - hole in the head

They scream and shout

Barrette might make me dead 







Stitches are needed

To the ER we go

That’s what you get

When you have a big ego 







So embarrassed to go to school

Bandage around the head

Nothing you can do

But carry on ahead


Rachel Gallagher

Location: Valencia, Spain
About: I'm living in Valencia, Spain, through the pandemic. My family is home together, in Washington state, living in the log cabin in the woods that I grew up in. I miss them, I love them, and many days I wish I could be with them in this difficult time. I wrote this as an homage to my childhood and my family, it's a small glimpse into the fairyland love story that was growing up.
Age: 24

Mockingbird, campfire, lima beans, silk glove, houseplant


There’s a large campfire in the backyard that was a pond when the previous owners lived in this house. On summer nights once the sun set, the campfire would rage high and hot, and we would find green baby stink bugs crawling in the grass like little legged lima beans. Beside the fire, through the backdoor that leads to the basement, my mother’s favorite copy of To Kill a Mockingbird rests on a pile of photo albums. She’s sat outside in an adirondack chair she made years before, relaxing in the heat from the fire, moving her hands in laughter, her ringed fingers glittering and shining in the firelight as if she wore silk gloves. The same hands she dug dirt with, to find homes for the plants in the garden and balance the spider monkey houseplant hanging in my little sister’s window. The window in my sister’s room catches the morning light, and I could find her sleeping in a puddle of sun every day. Although it was bright, she’s still snoring lightly, mouth ajar and eyes closed in a dream.


Tara Rudman

Location: Sebastopol, California
About: I am a visual artist working primarily with paint and I write memoir.
I was first attracted to the word Ephemeral. The prompt word list stimulated my sensorial memory and I was excited about how these memories could be arranged together into a dreamscape collage.
Age: 65

The Quilt

Curls of paper thin wood drifted from the sharpened pencil. The scent of grandpa’s workshop - giant metal disc with shark like teeth and sawdust catching in the light from the paned glass window. Grandmother took the trout she had caught that morning - she lay them one by one on the wooden block. Taking the scaler she scraped along the sides of each, releasing the scales which then lay glistening. My boyfriend had brought me a Star quilt - a multitude of small diamond shapes in pastel colored cotton, iridescent as soap bubbles. Anxious silences, laughter, squeals—

In the shadow of the oaks a friend picked a dandelion for us to see remarking on its perfection. On the verdant hillside covered with buttercups children foraged with Easter baskets. The vintage quilt looked contemporary - colors clear and without print -pieced together then quilted by hand in tiny stitches. I lay it across my bed where it shone brightly.

A delicate sphere of pinnacles, each holding seed encased in a star shaped fluff.  “Now see, it takes a photographers eye!” Someone said. My friend gently blew, making a wish.


Vida Pedersen

Location: Corvallis, Oregon
About: I am an activity director at a retirement community. Each and every journal prompt has provided me with inspiration and something to look forward to. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Age: 32

Becoming

My dad props his feet up on the porch railing. He smokes a cigar and eats an entire watermelon on his 50th birthday. My mother’s sunflowers bob their heads in the soft, summer heat. Behind their fluff there are buttery seeds. We save all the earthworms we can find on the playground and the boys rush over to grab them and throw them in a puddle. A frisbee can double as a camping plate. My dad wraps a turkey sandwich in wax paper, ties it with a burlap string, and tucks it in my lunchbox.