Sunday, 18 November 2012

Hello, I Love You

If heaven had a voice, it would be his. If heaven had a bard, he would be it. If heaven had a beauty contest, he would win it.

If he were reading this right now, though, he'd probably be laughing. For the place that he belongs, is not heaven. He was too adventurous, too intelligent, too...completely out of his mind, to have to be sent there for the rest of his existence. But I know better than to say he's in hell. Hell, is for the unimaginative few, that do wrong without thinking it through, or knowing why. No, he is in a very special place. One, in fact of his very own creation. And the name of the band to which he belonged (I dare not call it 'his band', I've heard that annoyed him.)- should provide me with ample proof of the place I mean.

Beyond The Doors of perception, you will find him. You will find the curly haired genius I'm raving about.

You will find Jim Morrison.

And you won't find him alone. When I shut my eyes and think about what it was that made Morrison, Morrison, the answers fall into my lap, like they were waiting to get there all along. His poetry and his voice are only part of it- an indispensable part, but a mere fraction, nevertheless. There was more. There was alcohol, women, Robbie Krieger, and the police force of the United States of America. The backdrop to his fame. And that's what you'd find with him: that familiar bottle, the air of a high (I mean that quite literally, actually) and a thousand gyrating women, who'd been shipped specially from Hell for him. Or Heaven, if they gyrated Monday through Friday and worked in a soup kitchen on weekends.
Nevertheless, I'm digressing.

Why is it that Jim Morrison makes me- and so many others, feel the magic that music made him feel? I don't know. I don't know what it is about him, that makes me think he's the most beautiful man I've ever seen. I don't know what it is about his lyrics, that makes me laugh, cry, reminisce and float. I don't know what it is about his voice, that makes me feel like he's singing only for me, like I'm swimming in the richness of his tenor, and there's nothing to the world except the things he's singing about.

What I do know, though, is this. No ordinary man can life a life as dramatic as he did, write some of the best poetry of his age (and ages hence), and make a living out of messing with the heads of every solitary person in the world- and not succumb to the unending glamour of insanity.
What I would give, to live in his time. What I would give to be able to experience what he gave his audiences each time he went up on that stage. Everything. And more. But, I suppose, that's the beauty and the sorrow of a live well-lived. There's no going back, and there's no moving forward.

So I do what I can do best with him around me. I play his music, listen to his voice, and write poetry of my own.

Because, love, this isn't The End.

One day, someday, we might just meet. And that's a hope I'm willing to live in.

Come on, come on, come on, come on
And Touch Me, babe,
Can't you see that I am not afraid?


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