Seasonal Memories.

"I am a new day rising. I'm a brand new sky to hang the stars upon tonight. I am a little divided... It's times like these you learn to love again. It's times like these, time and time again."
- Foo Fighters, "Times Like These"

You know how certain times of day and certain types of weather make you remember different things? Or make you feel a certain way? For me, sunsets in the summertime always make me think of playing basketball as a kid in my driveway and trying desperately to shoot a 3-pointer.
On the other hand, crisp, sunny mornings in the Spring make me think of sitting in my bedroom--either first learning to play the guitar or playing with my G.I. Joe action figures (quietly, though, so as not to wake my parents in the room across the hall).

But here's a question:
Why do these certain times of day or season bring back those memories?

For instance, right now, I'm sitting INSIDE typing this blog entry as the sun partially makes its way into the bedroom. It's cool outside, sure, but it's not cold. Yet, I don't really know that. I'm inside.

So does it matter that it's a cool, crisp, Spring morning? It shouldn't, right? Especially here in California where there really are no seasons and the only way to determine which one you're in is by the month on the calendar. January, April, August...they all mean sunshine out here. So
why wasn't I thinking about launching plastic missiles with Commander Cobra on a different sunny morning in a different month of the year? I'm not doing anything special to make that memory dawn on me (such as surfing e-Bay for vintage Joe toys, for instance...), so how come it happens now. At this time. During this part of the day. And how come I couldn't imagine this memory creeping up on me in any other type of setting?



This memory fits this moment, and this moment is unique to this season. It's something that I'll never be able to adequately explain...or even understand. Still, whenever a cold chill passes through my body as I stare up at the dark clouds forming in the sky, I'll always think of nights playing baseball against our town's rival team. And when I smell freshly-cut grass mixing with a slight whiff of smoke, I'll think of climbing the monkey bars in my backyard.

Though I don't know why these memories occur to me the way they do--at the times they do--I do know this: I hope they never stop. I'd miss them.


This Entry In Song:
Albert Hammond, Jr. - "In My Room"
Eric Hutchinson - "Back to Where I Was"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

This All Looked Better in the Brochure, Sir.

"So just lay your head down low. Don't let anybody know that it's hard to live in the city."
- Albert Hammond, Jr. - "Hard to Live (In the City)"

The first month of California living: an overwhelming discomfort and displacement.

That's the reality of "the dream." For the first brief while, this place was absolutely everything that an outsider could imagine it as, at least on a physical level. The palm trees, the intense sunshine, and the overall rosy tint of the landscape were all too easy to become absorbed by. The fact that our apartment building offers a large swimming pool and hot tub also lent itself to that special secluded resort ambiance; our own piece of paradise. But those things slowly became overshadowed by the bigger issues.

Jobs were hard to come by. Also, there is no such thing as "easy" or "quick" travel in Southern California. Everything is a process within a process wrapped in a debacle.

Let's start with the job hunt. I'd spend hours online applying to literally hundreds of jobs that were posted on the major career search sites. Then I'd spend a few more hours driving up and down the streets of North Hollywood looking for any door that had a "We're Hiring" sign posted behind the glass. And when none of that was successful, I even resorted to using Craigslist. I need not tell you at this point that situations were dire. But with a bit of persistence and a couple of fruitless interviews, I was finally able to land a job as a security officer for Universal Studios. The hours were meak, the pay was mediocre, and the job description read like how-to guide on death by sheer boredom. But it was a job that let me afford to live in my little resort. And I suppose I could have done worse. As it is, I have the privelage of just patroning In-N-Out Burger instead of donning a paper hat and stepping behind the fryer. That I could be thankful for.

Also, my place of work afforded me the rare occurance of being able to use public transportation instead of my car to travel. This is lucky because I'm compelled to say that if I had been forced to take the 101 or the 405 to and from work everyday, I would have long ago ceased to be. Coming from the Midwest, I'm used to driving 10 miles in roughly 10 minutes. But "no way," says LA. On the contrary: I'd consider myself lucky if I could get to the city in less time than it takes to catch, kill, and cook a turkey.

But those are the prices to be paid for living in such a "happening" place, I suppose. And, again, things could be much worse. I could still be unemployed and without any mode of transportation whatsoever. Or I could be blind.

That would probably be worse.

This Entry In Song:
Albert Hammond, Jr. - "Hard to Live (In the City)"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake