A tick over nine months after Jim Morrison died, I was
born. The entirety of his being on this
planet had occurred and passed prior to my drawing first breath but when I was
a teenager, I thought I was Jim Morrison.
He, or at least his legend, embodied everything seventeen-year-old-me thought he wanted from all of this nonsense. Today, on the forty-second anniversary of his
death I’ve devoted much more time to reflecting on his influence in my life
than is appropriate for a grown-ass-man. (For the record, I had one hell of a good
day.)
"I think of myself as an intelligent,
sensitive human being with the soul of a clown which always forces me to blow
it at the most important moments."
Numerous times in my life, that statement would have been
apropos. The same could be said of a lot
of people if they’re honest I suppose.
It was never what he said in interviews that made him important to me –
it was the music. It was regretfully,
the persona too. He was the consummate
rock star and at a time when I was being devoured at the apex of extremist rock
‘n’ roll stardom (e.g. ‘80s Metal) his story was a grounding influence, as
ridiculous as it must surely sound. In
reality, I would internalize in time (maybe only recently), he was an absolute
asshole on a personal level. That
knowledge is what I’ve tried to rationally reconcile with my past self
today. Yes, there are more important
things I could and should busy myself with but I’m on this deal right now so I
should see it through. When he bathtub
died in Paris, no fewer than twenty paternity suits were pending in courts all
around the world – this in spite of the fact that his beloved Pam had been true
to him through the years of his sleeping homeless on rooftops in Venice Beach
long before his short-lived fame. Some role model, eh?
As I’ve written about ad nauseum on this blog, I grew up in a
small town in the south. Jim Morrison
was the opposite of whatever they
think that ideal is and I embraced it wholeheartedly. He by all accounts was obsessed with death,
primarily his own – I’ve been accused (recently even) of the same. He had an obvious interest in the occult – I
was labeled a devil-worshipper in high school by members of my own church. He was fascinated by Native American culture
and mysticism as I continue to be. I
have a tattoo of an Indian on my left arm even though my heritage is German /
Welsh. His father was a strict
disciplinarian – my father was a Church
of Christ
Who isn’t attracted to his Dionysian vision of what we could
be at some level? Who doesn’t agree that
there
should be great golden copulations in the streets of L.A.
In An
American Prayer, he wrote, Did you have a good world when you died? ...enough to base a movie on? That single line colored my
existence as an adolescent and young man more than I care to admit – possibly
still does at some level. If you think
about it, it’s not as superficial as it appears at first blush. Is that not a question we all should ask
ourselves on the daily? It’s not to say
that your movie should be like his,
but have you lived an interesting enough life?
Do you have a story? Of course
you have and of course you do but he was painted as a narcissist because of
this one passage more than any of the other nonsense he wrote. He was exactly that, but in this instance his
depravity illuminates that which he possibly was seeking throughout his life
that he clearly never found – peace. He
wasn’t at peace with himself because he was different and he couldn’t reconcile
within himself his difference against the acclimating pressure of the rest of
the world. If you read past the drug
addled surface of his poetry, it is easy to see the lost child seeking the
approval of his father, to see the insecure teenager pursuing the approval of
the pretty girl, to see the boy desperately navigating the path to manhood.
Have you ever listened to the words of Love Street Miami
Seventeen-year-old-me would be so disappointed in grown-ass-man-me. I’m okay with that – change after all is the
only constant in life, right? I guess
I’ve finally realized I didn’t know anything about anything when I was a kid. The wonderful truth is that that’s still
true. Whatever I think I know and believe in now is
subject to change at any given moment without warning. As soon as I know it all, I start to
die. I still and will always love his
music and his words and even the ridiculous manner in which he loved Pam but I
certainly see him through a different prism than I did when I was a kid. He wasn't someone to emulate, and he wasn't supposed to be. Seventeen-year-old-me never understood that.
Having said all of that, I still raise a glass to Mr. Morrison
tonight. As misguided as it might have
been at the time, in hindsight his words and music allowed me to explore the
same creative core that we all share. He
made it okay for me to acknowledge the inner
and express it outward. Of course, it
took half a lifetime after that realization to do so publicly and even still
not without a measured fear of ridicule.
Art is mostly background in my life yes, but professionally it’s probably more
relevant. As mundane as the field of
architecture can be at times, it’s as close to making a living as an artist as
I’ll ever come. I would be lying if I
said that Morrison didn’t have an influence on my decision to pursue and my determination
to become an architect.
In a much more profound way, my mother did the same thing
without ever knowing she had. I moved
away from said little town as soon as I could after high school. When I returned that first Christmas, she
presented me with the first piece of art
that I had ever allowed myself to create. Almost immediately after the paint dried, I
had tucked it safely away under the bed, out of sight and I’m almost certain
that I never mentioned it to anyone. She
found it, framed it and made a gift of it to me – it has hung on every wall of
every hovel I’ve called home since. It’s
as significant a moment of validation as I’ve ever experienced.
I’m not sure what the bit about my Mom has to do with any of
this. Maybe, it’s just to acknowledge the
continuum of human growth. Maybe, the
takeaway is that there is something to learn from every single person, place and thing in your
life, past, present and future. Maybe, I'm trying to be more aware of that these days. Maybe, that is The Soft Parade.
Tomorrow is our Independence Day and through no fault of our own most of us will likely celebrate with a cheeseburger and a cold beer or a day with family, friends. We will undoubtedly be bombarded with all manner of patriotic display and be force-fed images of what freedom is. As much as I’m conflicted about aligning grown-ass-man-me with him I can’t resist the power of Morrison’s thoughts on the matter:
Tomorrow is our Independence Day and through no fault of our own most of us will likely celebrate with a cheeseburger and a cold beer or a day with family, friends. We will undoubtedly be bombarded with all manner of patriotic display and be force-fed images of what freedom is. As much as I’m conflicted about aligning grown-ass-man-me with him I can’t resist the power of Morrison’s thoughts on the matter:
"The most important kind of freedom is to be what you really
are. You trade in your reality for a role. You trade in your sense for an act.
You give up your ability to feel, and in exchange, put on a mask. It’s got to
happen inside first."
With a touch of unbridled sarcasm, I say rest in peace old
friend – you eternal wonderful asshole.
James Douglas Morrison
8
December 1943 – 3 July 1971
“No eternal reward will forgive us now for
wasting the dawn.”
