sinatra and i go way back.

most all my songs and writings come from some memory. some are farther back than most, others are only a day old. someone told me that you start to develop memories when youre about three years old. im guessing if one thinks back as far as they possibly can, the farthest moment or memory they will recall will have been from their third year of existence. i dont know what the science is behind that, i dont even know if its an accurate statement. all i know is what i remember; my earliest memories, at whatever point they are from. i wonder if they somehow effect what i write.

its something that ive been thinking about for awhile and i feel it deserves proper reflection. it is after all, my life. im not sure at what point or in what order most of these memories occurred. i do know they my earliest ones took place at the house i used to live in, in Woodlyn, Pennsylvania. most of my earliest memories involve my parents.  i know for sure they arent fabrications constructed from stories told by friends and family after the fact. i know that because i feel it in my stomach.

the first one is the living room. frank sinatra. the summer wind. im being held and im being swayed back and forth. my dad used to dance with me at night to that song. the memory exists for a second. hes facing away from the entertainment center, his back towards the hallway that would lead to the stairs, and hes facing the open living room. boom. memory over.

i remember when my brother was born; at least going to the hospital to see him and my mom. i was small. i have a snapshot in my brain of looking up at her as we came from the hallway and into her room. there was a propellor hat. not mine of course. but for my brother. my mom was young. ironically she was roughly my age now. mom always looks the same in my childhood memories. really young and beautiful. which she is. anything with her is hard to pinpoint a time period; with dad its easier because you can see how much hair he has. its funny, but its true. he’d appreciate that.

the next takes place right on the couch in the that same living room. when you look at the room coming down from the stairs, the couch is pushed up against the far left wall. its not a big room. but its warm. there i am, laying on dads stomach, and hes tossing me high into the air like any responsible adult would, and catching me as i half piss myself from laughing and half from fear. every kid in our family loved when he did that. hes singing some song about his beard, or whiskers, and them scratching on my face. i cant recall the words. i bet i could though.

these are just a few. but if i dont get them down somehow im afraid they could be lost. this will be a new exercise. writing down memories. in both song and word.