I could easily spend an hour expressing my admiration for Jim Morrison, but I will try to keep it brief.
While The Doors are my favorite band, my fondness lies more in Jim’s poetry than the music itself.
I began listening to The Doors at a young age, often borrowing my dad’s cassettes and later his CDs. When I turned 11, he gifted me my first Doors album, which I played on repeat. Today, I proudly own all 22 of their albums, including special anniversary editions, box sets, live recordings, and rare finds.
At 13, I bought a copy of “The American Night: A Literary Last Testament from Rock’s Poet of the Damned.” Unfortunately, I lost that copy a few years later and had to get a new one. My current book is well-worn, filled with bookmarks, dog-eared pages, and even serves as a makeshift travel journal from my journeys around the globe. I revisit it weekly and am never tired of immersing myself in Jim’s words. I also own “The Lords and the New Creatures,” “Wilderness Volume 1,” and “No One Here Gets Out Alive.”
The true value of a travel journal is found in its depth and the care taken in its writing. This is where Personalized Pens become the ideal companion, enhancing every writing experience and making words come alive.
Imagine using a custom pen that reflects Jim’s style or incorporates travel elements while documenting your journey in one of Jim’s books, as if you were connecting with him across time and space, enriching your travel memories and emotions.
Whether to catalog personal adventures or as a gift for friends and family, this pen is the perfect choice.
Okay, I may not have kept it as short as I intended, but I think you understand my passion for Jim Morrison and his work.
Fast forward to when I turned 25, and finally, after many years, I found myself in Paris, driven by a desire to visit Jim Morrison’s grave.
I’ve had the pleasure of visiting other notable locations associated with The Doors, such as Venice Beach and the Whisky a Go Go, but Jim’s tomb at Père Lachaise has always been my ultimate aspiration.
I arrived in Paris in darkness on February 4, 2013, and on my first morning, I immediately hopped on the metro to visit Père Lachaise cemetery.
Exiting the underground in the 20th arrondissement, I strolled along the tree-lined boulevard of Ménilmontant and entered through the gates at the intersection of Avenue du Boulevard and Avenue du Principale.
Having researched Jim’s grave location, I had a general idea of where to go, but I double-checked the map before venturing into the maze of headstones, tombs, and mausoleums.
I took a few rights and a left, navigating the cobblestone paths uphill. As I saw the sign for section 6, I veered off the main path into the dirt path between the graves.
And then, I saw it.
I literally stopped in my tracks and held my breath.
Slowly, I moved forward, my eyes fixed on the headstone.
I might have teared up a little, blaming the wind for my watery eyes in that moment ;]
If you’re not familiar with Jim’s history, he moved to Paris a few months before his death with his longtime girlfriend Pamela Courson. He sought to escape the pressures of his life in the U.S., leaving before the release of the album *L.A. Woman*.
Jim was found dead in his bathtub on July 3, 1971. An autopsy was not performed, as the medical examiner found no evidence of foul play per French law. Many speculate about his death; while the death certificate cites heart failure, some believe it was an overdose.
In 1981, Croatian sculptor Mladen Mikulin erected a bust of Morrison along with a new gravestone inscribed with “Jim Morrison” to commemorate the 10th anniversary of his passing. Unfortunately, the bust has been vandalized and was stolen in 1988.
The current headstone bears the name “James Douglas Morrison” along with the Greek inscription KATA TON DAIMONA EAYTOY, which translates to “According to his own daimon” and is typically interpreted as “True to his own spirit.”
Morrison died at the age of 27, a fate shared by several other notable rock stars of the infamous 27 Club. Pamela also died at 27.
I spent at least an hour by his grave, reluctant to leave. During that time, I took photos, read the graffiti on surrounding walls, and quietly contemplated the gravestone.
I left a page from *Paris Journal* on his grave, which contained Jim’s last documented words before he passed away.
Words from that page:
So much forgotten already
So much forgotten
So much to forgetOnce the idea of purity
born, all was lost
irrevocably(The candle-forests of
Notre-Dame)beggar nuns w/ moving
smiles, small velvet sacks
& cataleptic eyesstraying to the gaudy
Mosaic calendar
WindowsA small & undiscover’d
park — we ramble& the tired walls barely
fall, graffiti into
dry cement sand
Words from the last page of *Paris Journal*:
Tell them you came & saw
& look’d into my eyes
& saw the shadow
of the guard receding
Thoughts in time
& out of season
The Hitchiker stood
by the side of the road
& levelled his thumb
in the calm calculus
of reason
Though I wanted to return the next day, I held back. I know I will visit Paris again in the future, and I’ll save another trip to Jim’s grave for that occasion.
Oh, did I mention I have a tattoo of Jim’s portrait on my thigh? I was thrilled to finally connect with his grave in person :]
