In my last post, I shared Brando Skyhorse's homework assignment of creating a MEMORY INDEX, i.e. without overthinking, assign a person, place or thing (specifically connected to you) to each letter of the alphabet, and then write a couple of sentences about each of those words.
"Aliens": This 1986 sequel to the movie, "Alien" clobbered me with the realization that women can be powerful warriors; that there is such a thing as a mother who will defend a child to the death. I was so enthralled with Ripley [the warrior/mother] that I purchased a gray undershirt and a brown leather bomber jacket similar to the ones Ripley wore in the movie. I still have the undershirt and the 1986Time Magazine cover story. The tag on the gray top says it's a "Gloria Vanderbilt". I own designer underwear? Did I get this at a yard sale?
OTHER WORDS: Art, Ashes
Barrette: My mother told me that I used to stand up in my crib and remove one of the barrettes holding back my hair and scratch out letters on the wallpaper with the metal clip.
Cicada: The 17-year cicadas reached the height of their appearance in Pennsylvania the day I was born.
- Girls OTHER: God, Gay
History: In sixth grade I created a scapbook about history, cutting out the letters H-I-S-T-O-R-Y in large white block letters. Contrasted to the black scrapbook paper, HISTORY appeared alive. Fluorescent. Every page inside was about famous assassinations, beginning with Julius Caesar's. I had an assassination fascination.
- Icing OTHER: Isolated
- Jack/Johnny: childhood crushes
- Karen: the blood sister I lost to multiple sclerosis
- MOTHER OTHER: Mirror, Mondays
[NOTE: While proofreading, I realized that I wrote the following memory in the present tense.]
Rust: In sixth grade I ride a rusty old bike in my bare feet, and when I apply the brakes, a loose piece of metal slices open the back of my left ankle. Behind me as I walk home are bloody footprints that I can't hide. My mother sees the blood and tells me to hop through the garage to the basement laundry tub. She fills the tub with warm water up to my ankle. She presses against the cut. The water turns red. She calls my father at work who quickly drives home. I wait in the basement with my left leg elevated over the laundry tub. My mother gives my father the name and address of a doctor. "He doesn't know who we are," she says, "That's why you're going there. He is expecting you." My father drives me to what looks like a regular house. It is dark outside except for a porch light. The doctor carries me to a back room where I see a stove and a refrigerator. I am in a kitchen. The doctor places me on a kitchen table and tells me to lie down. He says that I will need eleven stitches and crutches. My father stands next to the stove. I can't go on the sixth-grade field trip the next day because I can't walk without crutches. I sit alone in a classroom reading about the 100th anniversary of the battle of Gettysburg. Many soldiers are shot and there are probably bloody footprints everywhere.
- Television OTHER: Tub, Teeth
- W_ _ _ _: name of closest high school friend
- Yesterday: the Beatles' song
Zebra: My mother reminded me many times that whenever our family visited the Pittsburgh zoo, I insisted on seeing the zebras, even when no one else in the family wanted to.
Please feel free to share any letters and their word associations in your MEMORY INDEX, including accompanying stories/memories.