Penny Lane, man.

I’m on the couch with my family on a Sunday night listening to the likes of Simon and Garfunkel, The Who, Elton John, Lynyrd Skynrd, and Led Zepplin. We’re watching the cult classic film Almost Famous, set in the 70s based on an aspiring rock journalist following a band that are skyrocketing into fame - with all the glory to document accompanying fame. Penny Lane man, it’s all happening.

For two hours, their ears and eyes are demanded by the screen and sound system. Nights like these have become few and far between, as time always moves forward and we inherently move apart. Tonight however, we move closer. As the sounds of the 70s sweeten the air and guitar solos touch the strings of our heart we sometimes neglect, for one beautiful moment, I’m inspired by merely existing by experiencing. Perhaps this is how it felt all the time back in the era that inspired the greatest talents that have withstood the test of time. The atmosphere that fills a heart and soul ignites a spark, an ember that never burns out. A fire that speaks so loudly it sings. I’ve always been a writer. I’ve also always been a fan. A hardcore fan. I don’t know how to be a mediocre one, to be honest. The things that excite me absolutely and totally consume me. My mind, the beat of my day, my soul. I pick a new character in myself every week and love them equally. I used to think this was a problem, having so many parts of me. Maybe it’s not all that bad. It wasn’t until piecing together that my writing does not exist without my characters, my interests, my affinity for music, that I’ve understood why. To be able to capture just a mere second of the majesty that is created through the perfect cocktail of G Chords, A Chords, and D Chords, it still not doing enough. If I’m not actively making music I can at the very least be studying it. I can be appreciating it and preserving it in the way my paper preserves my ink. She’s there. Always. All shades of grey. She taught me grey when all I could see was black or white. She taught me to survive my days that felt everlasting. She taught me the peak of all memories and moments attached to sounds more than people or places ever could. She taught me songs that define my childhood in the backseat of of a car in Hong Kong while daydreaming about being anywhere but there. She acompanied me through High School and coaxed me through 5AM sunrises in college. Through every breakup, every makeup, and every car ride that I extended just to finish one last song.

It’s not only about the message or the metaphor, it’s about how the receiver feels it, takes it, and recieves it. It’s the only thing that is so individual and personal yet the only thing that unites us all. Rock music. The sounds of the 70s before we all were susceptible to becoming drowned out by phones, fleeting conversations, and short lived moments. I’m yearning so hard for a time that I never experienced in this life. To learn and to love the greatest artists of all time. Last month I stumbled into a record store in Laguna Beach. It felt like I was home for the first time in a long time. In a different lifetime my old self thanked me. An hour passed before I even knew it and the sweet owner told me to pick out a free pin. I chose the Stones, of course. To go with my Stones hoodies, Stevie Nicks and Bob Dylan posters, and a Rocky Horror piece. I guess theres a trend here. Gay, longing, and appreciating something of the past while always trying to embody these immortal sounds and moments in the present.

A young Kate Hudson stars as the free-spirit Penny Lane in Almost Famous.

Image courtesy of The Sun.

Tangerine is on right now. I’ve replayed it five times since i started writing. The scene in Almsot Famous singing Tiny Dancer makes me cry every time i watch it.

“I need to go home,” said William.

“You are home.” Replied Penny Lane.

This exchange will mean something different to everyone but it means something extra to me. Maybe it’s because I’ve never quite had a home. I still struggle when answering when people ask me where I’m from. Hell, I don’t know — and maybe I don’t need to. Maybe home is the song that becomes the soundtrack of my month or day. Fleeting but lasting. Maybe home is the tune I’m humming to calm myself down on the way to meet a new friend. The playlist I specially curate for my girlfriend. The song that my sister and I belt while driving to the next winery in Napa.

What I’m trying to say is moments are fleeting and memories are eternal.

Might as well have a great soundtrack to accompany them.