Painting red doors black

Was reading Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom!, a second run-through, for college, and whenever I picked up the book I’d put the Velvet Underground’s “Sister Ray” on the record player, over and over, my sound of Quentin Compson trying to break out but turning in on himself in loathing.

My point is that here are a couple of the many ways into hard rock, if someone wants to take them. But then, I can imagine my parents appreciating Hamlet, but I can’t imagine them being him. And I can see the similarities between Mick Jagger’s schematic wrong-end-of-the-telescope analyses of male-female relationships with my dad’s hard-headed, persistent political analyses. But I can’t imagine my dad wanting to blot the sun out of the sky, even in pretend. And my relationship with my parents wasn’t good enough for me to ever explain to them where my dad might have some Jagger inside.

Frank Kogan mining the territory re: hard rock he more or less invented.


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