She was singing to herself, softly, tunelessly, a song she used to like by the Doors, the lyrics as elusive as the melody- Break on through, she kept repeating- break on through to the other side. That was it. That was all she could remember, and if she missed one thing, if there was one thing she could rub a magic lantern and wish for, it would be music. Alfredo and Geoffrey werent half-bad on the guitar, and the communal sing-alongs were great- righteous, as Ronnie would say- but there was no comparison to flipping on the radio or putting a record on the turntable any time you felt it and just letting yourself drift away into some other place altogether. She used to do that at her parents house, shut up alone in her room while the TV droned in the vacuum below and her father shouted himself hoarse over some seven-foot basketball player and a tiny little hoop, or in the car with her mother nattering on about drapes or the price of veal and a single guitar suddenly emerging from the buzz of static on the radio in a moment of shimmering triumph. Music was like food, like water, like air- that necessary, that essential- and here she was in a break-on-through mood and nothing for it but her own stumbling version caught like lint on her tongue. Drop City, T.C Boyle, pg 333
Posted on: Fri, 31 Jan 2014 01:25:56 +0000
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