James Douglas Morrison 1943-1971

Nothing was quite as humbling as visiting Jim’s grave on a trip to Père LaChaises in Paris.

The Lizard King at rest with other poets of note, his simple marker almost hidden by the large crypts around it.  However, there was quite a path to it.  At the main intersection of the cemetery, the notes started.  Unfortunately, they were written on every available surface — in lipstick, pen, marker, paint.  It was as though the fans were frantic to show the way to his resting place.

Our first visit was about 8:30am.  Very early for Paris, as they love to sleep late and languish over coffee until some more fashionable hour before venturing into the day.  We were surprised to find that there had been visitors at Morrison Hotel before us that day.  Bottles of liquor were sitting opened all around the grave — and a smoking doobie was still sputtering on the ledge beside Jim.  Fresh flowers appeared to have been just placed.  All of this more than 20 years after Jim’s death.

I often wonder:
Did he break on through to the other side?
I’d like to think so.