the sound of an American Summer…
I grew up in a neighborhood that left personality at the door. It seemed like an elite club of the non-fun.
I had a couple of “regular neighborhood” friends. I’d go visit them and see what life was really like for any other kid.
California summers are American. The grass and bike rides were so summer time. My favorite part was how the weather was absent. It was so perfect you couldn’t feel it. You were never hot, never cold, never out of beat with contentment.
I started to become so familiar with certain aspects of California summers that the tiniest things would define my memories. It was like a specific recipe made up of the same things every year. Fallen acorns on the grass, swimming until 9 p.m., rainbow jello, building rollerblade ramps out of wood so splintery and dangerous it would crumble, sneaking fireworks when they were illegal…
This life, the kind I’m explaining, has a feel. It’s memories are harshly impossible to reconstruct in someone else’s mind. It has a motion, sound, trust, want, air, aspiration, faith, and emotion.
How else do I put it? It has a sound… to me it sounds like this. Disregard the lyrics.. I don’t even know what they say. The sound is the feel of my American summers.