So for a few days last week, I was in a (Jim) Morrison state of mind. From posting pics of Jim on this blog's affiliate FaceBook page to reflecting on some of Jim's well known words of wisdom, which are still relevant today.
Although I was born some 7 or 8 years after Morrison had passed in 1971, he has no doubt influenced and continues to influence generations, and I can count myself among them.
Growing up, and even as recently as a few years ago, I had a poster or two of Jim and The Doors on my bedroom walls, I own a couple albums and even T-shirts and a key chain or two. I've read of Jim's poetry and recently, back in April 2010, I went, even though slightly under the weather, to one of the selected screenings of 'When You're Strange'
Ultimately though, the biggest thing for me and an experience I will never forget (as it was one of the things on my list of "to do before I die") was when I got to visit Jim's grave in the Père Lachaise Cemetery back in the early 2000's.
It was there after and then after that I was inspired to make an attempt at writing my first novel. Began in 2004, and then re-vamped (no pun intended) in 2009. With currently three chapters in, it's a Work In Progress.
Below is an excerpt from the WIP, which already has a title, but of which I'll not be disclosing until the work is finished. And here is a poem that I was inspired to create using the titles of some of The Doors most known songs: Mr. Mojo Risin.* * *
Excerpt from WIP which was originally titled 'Pursuit in Paris'
Taking a chance, she quickly ducked down a short path, and hurried to huddle herself between two tall grave stones. Slowly and quietly she inched her way as low as possible and waited. She waited for what seemed like an eternity. All was deathly calm and quiet around her. All she could really hear was her own heart beating loudly in her ears.
Suddenly, she felt herself being grabbed from behind and before she could muster a scream, a hand covered her mouth. She was brought up to a standing position, her back pressed solidly against what felt like a man’s chest. She breathed in deeply, her nostrils flaring above the hand that covered her mouth, and she smelled the scent of blood and aftershave.
Immediately she thought to struggle and try to break free, but her body was rendered immobile, as if in a straight jacket, held as it was, in a vise grip, by the arm across her torso. Unexpectedly her head was tilted firmly yet gently to one side and she felt his lips as they brushed against her ear as he murmured: “You’re not going to get away from me this time, Cherie.”
What the fuck! He bit me! - Then the realization sunk in, as sharp as his fangs. - Bloody Hell …he really is a vampire!
For Josanne the sensation in the moment was intense. Fear and panic began to rise from deep within her, yet no sooner had she felt the penetrating pain than it was accompanied by an unfathomable wave of pleasure, instantly reminiscent of the fistt ime she had had sex.
To Josanne’s embarrassment an unwarranted moan escaped her lips. As she was about to drift into unconsciousness, succumbing to the incubus that fed on her, her eyes glanced over the gravestone that was just within range.
There it stood, that which she had been looking for. That which had brought her into the cemetery in the first place. In the pale glow of the pathway lights, the grey brown, tombstone marked James Douglas Morrison. 1943 – 1971.
And below, the words written in Greek, which she thought loosely translated to mean:
The Devil Himself!
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