Post by TheWallsScreamedPoetry on Mar 12, 2005 12:08:59 GMT
Remember, revisit, reconstruct, re-Jim
by Dutch author and Doors fan Ineke Verheul from Utrecht
How along ago is it that I first visited Jim’s grave? My daughter claims she was there too, but I don’t have any recollections of her being there. So it must have been the year before she was born, because she was made in Paris. But that is fifteen years ago. Impossible! My fascination with the how and why of one James Douglas Morrison does not go back that long. There is a clear picture in my mind of the circumstances under which it originated.
I’m sitting in our car – our old Brownie, as we called it, even though it was red – my feet comfortably up on the dashboard. (Don’t worry, I’m not the one driving!) It’s a holiday; we’re slowly driving down a French country road. Dusk is nearly here, but not just yet. The light is a shimmering gold and green, all things are nice and easy.
I put on a Door’s tape and there’s a sudden change of mood. I’m getting a bit sad and when I wonder why, I realize this is the first time the words of a song really come through. It never happened before, for me it was always just the melody and the rhythm. I knew the Doors, of course, way back in the sixties. Their music was great, but it was only one of the many contributions to the mood of the time. There was so much great music, back then. You would dance to it – preferably on your own – or it would make an inspiring background to exciting conversations. But you would not just sit and listen. Surely there were people doing just that, but not on parties. And I was a regular at parties in those days. But now I am doing it, some twenty years later: I just sit and listen. And I am deeply touched. There’s something painful, something slightly embarrassing in these songs. It’s not just the dark mood, it’s more than that. I can’t figure out what it is just yet, but Morrison has certainly set something in motion.
And when I see the Oliver Stone movie some time later, I am appalled. How could this moron, this irritating jerk – to say the least!- have written the lyrics that touched upon so tender a string? It is true, sometimes the most terrific music is made by the most terrible people. Just look at – and listen to!- Wagner. But in this case I just can’t believe it. Stone must be wrong. And if he has not missed the point entirely, at least his image of Jim can only be part of the whole story. So I decide there and then to figure it out myself. I want to know what he was really like, this Jim Morrison, who managed to make me sad through his lyrics. And so I read a lot, and think a lot, and when the picture is complete, I figure the picture might just as well be transformed into a book.
Somewhere during this process of reading and thinking, that first visit to Jim’s grave must have taken place.
And my daughter’s right, she must have been there too, because she was certainly with us on that holiday in France.
So I search old photo albums and there it is: 1993. I started writing the book in ’96, so the incubation period turns out to be a lot longer than I figured.
Memory is a funny thing, full of distortions, omissions and even additions. Anyway, this is what I remember about it. We spend a lot of time looking for Jim’s lot. We start at the entrance of Père Lachaise, hoping to stumble upon it of itself; no way that’s gonna happen, so much is clear once we realize how vast this place really is.
There’s no map at the entrance with Jim’s name on it, as there is now. When I come again some years later and there ìs a map, I still have difficulty finding him. He surely seems to hide in dark places.
Eventually I ask a passer-by, a man in his fifties in a neat suit.
An unlikely source of information,
but there’s no one else in sight.
He does not know who Jim Morrison is. After a moment’s hesitation I tell him Jim’s a poet.
He looks a little incredulous. Apparently he has never heard of a poet by that name. But he knows where the poet’s corner is.
So we follow his directions, but we loose our
way in no time again.
There should be graffiti, arrows and stuff, leading the way to Jim, but we see none of it.
We begin to think about giving up, and then,
out of the blue – there it is after all! It’s a tiny
place, no wonder we couldn’t find it.
I’m surprised to see a policeman there.
As soon as we’re in sight, he starts waving his arms and barking: ‘Allez, vite,vite!’
It takes a while before I realize he’s controlling the traffic. But where’s the traffic? I look around in wonder, but there’s seems to be only one other visitor. In spite of that we’re directed pronto pronto along Jim’s grave, all four of us (or rather, three and a half). No time to hesitate, to wallow in the mire, just one quick look and off we go again!
At first I am a bit sour about this ridiculous way of handling things, but then my spirits are lifted a great deal by an inspiring thought. If Jim would know that his old bones were so painstakingly guarded by policemen of all people, he’d surely (nearly) die laughing all over again. And I wouldn’t be surprised one bit if he does know and has a great time, down under that stone. Because besides a surely existing dark side, humor is one of the many other sides of Jim, and by no means an insignificant one. And it is certainly a side completely neglected by Stone in his damned movie. I silently vow to him and to myself that I’ll give him all the credit for it he deserves, when the time comes. IV.
From TheDoors4Scorpywag 60th Birthday Jim Special December 2003
Ineke is the Author of The 10th Life Of Jim Morrison
order it here....
home.hetnet.nl/%7einode/
by Dutch author and Doors fan Ineke Verheul from Utrecht
How along ago is it that I first visited Jim’s grave? My daughter claims she was there too, but I don’t have any recollections of her being there. So it must have been the year before she was born, because she was made in Paris. But that is fifteen years ago. Impossible! My fascination with the how and why of one James Douglas Morrison does not go back that long. There is a clear picture in my mind of the circumstances under which it originated.
I’m sitting in our car – our old Brownie, as we called it, even though it was red – my feet comfortably up on the dashboard. (Don’t worry, I’m not the one driving!) It’s a holiday; we’re slowly driving down a French country road. Dusk is nearly here, but not just yet. The light is a shimmering gold and green, all things are nice and easy.
I put on a Door’s tape and there’s a sudden change of mood. I’m getting a bit sad and when I wonder why, I realize this is the first time the words of a song really come through. It never happened before, for me it was always just the melody and the rhythm. I knew the Doors, of course, way back in the sixties. Their music was great, but it was only one of the many contributions to the mood of the time. There was so much great music, back then. You would dance to it – preferably on your own – or it would make an inspiring background to exciting conversations. But you would not just sit and listen. Surely there were people doing just that, but not on parties. And I was a regular at parties in those days. But now I am doing it, some twenty years later: I just sit and listen. And I am deeply touched. There’s something painful, something slightly embarrassing in these songs. It’s not just the dark mood, it’s more than that. I can’t figure out what it is just yet, but Morrison has certainly set something in motion.
And when I see the Oliver Stone movie some time later, I am appalled. How could this moron, this irritating jerk – to say the least!- have written the lyrics that touched upon so tender a string? It is true, sometimes the most terrific music is made by the most terrible people. Just look at – and listen to!- Wagner. But in this case I just can’t believe it. Stone must be wrong. And if he has not missed the point entirely, at least his image of Jim can only be part of the whole story. So I decide there and then to figure it out myself. I want to know what he was really like, this Jim Morrison, who managed to make me sad through his lyrics. And so I read a lot, and think a lot, and when the picture is complete, I figure the picture might just as well be transformed into a book.
Somewhere during this process of reading and thinking, that first visit to Jim’s grave must have taken place.
And my daughter’s right, she must have been there too, because she was certainly with us on that holiday in France.
So I search old photo albums and there it is: 1993. I started writing the book in ’96, so the incubation period turns out to be a lot longer than I figured.
Memory is a funny thing, full of distortions, omissions and even additions. Anyway, this is what I remember about it. We spend a lot of time looking for Jim’s lot. We start at the entrance of Père Lachaise, hoping to stumble upon it of itself; no way that’s gonna happen, so much is clear once we realize how vast this place really is.
There’s no map at the entrance with Jim’s name on it, as there is now. When I come again some years later and there ìs a map, I still have difficulty finding him. He surely seems to hide in dark places.
Eventually I ask a passer-by, a man in his fifties in a neat suit.
An unlikely source of information,
but there’s no one else in sight.
He does not know who Jim Morrison is. After a moment’s hesitation I tell him Jim’s a poet.
He looks a little incredulous. Apparently he has never heard of a poet by that name. But he knows where the poet’s corner is.
So we follow his directions, but we loose our
way in no time again.
There should be graffiti, arrows and stuff, leading the way to Jim, but we see none of it.
We begin to think about giving up, and then,
out of the blue – there it is after all! It’s a tiny
place, no wonder we couldn’t find it.
I’m surprised to see a policeman there.
As soon as we’re in sight, he starts waving his arms and barking: ‘Allez, vite,vite!’
It takes a while before I realize he’s controlling the traffic. But where’s the traffic? I look around in wonder, but there’s seems to be only one other visitor. In spite of that we’re directed pronto pronto along Jim’s grave, all four of us (or rather, three and a half). No time to hesitate, to wallow in the mire, just one quick look and off we go again!
At first I am a bit sour about this ridiculous way of handling things, but then my spirits are lifted a great deal by an inspiring thought. If Jim would know that his old bones were so painstakingly guarded by policemen of all people, he’d surely (nearly) die laughing all over again. And I wouldn’t be surprised one bit if he does know and has a great time, down under that stone. Because besides a surely existing dark side, humor is one of the many other sides of Jim, and by no means an insignificant one. And it is certainly a side completely neglected by Stone in his damned movie. I silently vow to him and to myself that I’ll give him all the credit for it he deserves, when the time comes. IV.
From TheDoors4Scorpywag 60th Birthday Jim Special December 2003
Ineke is the Author of The 10th Life Of Jim Morrison
order it here....
home.hetnet.nl/%7einode/