Jim Morrison looked as young and lively as in the early days when he and The Doors had first got together in Venice Beach. He was sitting on his grave at Père Lachaise, in Paris, smoking a cigarette, one of those awful French ones — most likely a Gauloise — his face shaved, his hair thick. The stones and marbles of his mausoleum covered in graffiti. Ciao Jim, One Step Closer Mr. Mojo Risin. His foot was resting on an empty clay pot, slick boot rolling the receptacle against the stone floor. Its rasping cold sound. The ants on the ground scurried about their business, carrying provisions to and fro. In Jim’s hand lay a bottle of beer. Lowenbrau. He took a hit from the bottle, shook his head, his hair wild in the mausoleum background, blending with the sacrilegious graffiti. A gentle breeze blew from the south, the day hot, sticky, grimy in the way Paris gets in the summer, full of color, history and culture, that whiff of geranium and car fumes mixing with hot tarmac vapors and river vapors to create a sense of belle epoque: a fleeting moment in time when the visionaries of the past came together, ringing the bells of posterity; a time when an entire generation of vibrant men and women set sail for the future, carried on the winds of a post-war society, setting a standard many have aspired to, embraced, lived and died for, all in the name of the summer. The summer that never ends.
‘Hemingway put it best,’ Jim said to no one in particular. There was no one around. It was late in the evening, the cemetery had closed its gates to the public. Only the caretaker was around, driving his little golf cart, making sure the dead had not been disturbed. Jim laughed and tilted his head, tufts of smoke circling his face. ‘A moveable feast. They promised us one, a feast of friends, lovers, sinners, warriors and beasts, and we spend our lives waiting for it to happen.’
The siren of an ambulance screamed in the distance. Jim shook his head, staring at the floor. The ants scurried about, stocking up for the long night. He smirked at their efficiency and their supreme devotion. The bugs will inherit the earth, he thought, and the stars — the stars will inherit the skies, shining their light on all those who need it. Some of them will go out sooner than others, and some will shine long after they have been extinguished.
All will eventually be forgotten because the sky is a vast, mutable organism.
Jim drew on his cigarette, tossed the butt on his gravestone, stubbed it out with his boot and walked away, into the dusky Paris streets, leaving behind a grave covered in bottles.
From the bays of Pearl Coast,
Dive in crystal waters, find a black pearl.