IRA . Racconti da Kepler
True to his Demons
In 4 Luglio 2016 da Il ViaggiatoreOnce, Rock ‘N Roll Circus
A man makes me come in, he keeps stubbornly his looking down. I feel that he gives a turn of key behind me, and I put on my corridor. I went from Rue Mazarine, no.62. Probably I’ll go out on the Rue de la Seine, 57.
I head straight to the baths, there is smell of disinfectant. They say that the Club will be closed tonight, everything will be thoroughly cleaned. I look at the half-open orange doors that hide the toilets, I look at the not-really-new sink and at the dispensers with blackened edges. I have flashbacks. I see a picture, shake my head. Beyond, the music starts, and now it seems they do it on purpose, because maybe they know what I came to look for. Before you sleep into unconsciousness, I’d like to have another kiss, another flashing chanche at bliss… another kiss…
They believe that I remain impressed by this song, this crystal ship with which he left last night. The poetry dates back to 1964, and it was devoted to the end of a love, the one with the girl of all time, Mary Werbelow. The girl before her, Pamela.
Last days of Jim Morrison – Ph © Gilles Yepremian
No one can know these things more than I do, I am coming to another planet and came to Earth to observe you. I know your future, because for those ones like me it is already past. But this death, I know nothing about it. I have too many elements, but always one is missing. Too many versions and perhaps the final one is yet to be written.
The Alcazar is dark, even during the day. Today, July 4, 1971, it has still not look like a house with large windows, a luxury bistro full of lush vegetation. It is a Club like many others, joined by another Club as many other with a long corridor. Beyond, I will find the Rock ‘N Roll Circus: same owner, same music, same hippies. The Parisians come here to meet the Americans. Americans come here believeing not to be recognized. Last night he was here? According to the aspiring French actress Zouzou, yes. According to the singer and model Marianne Faithful, girlfriend of the young Count de Breteuil, not. According to Pamela Courson, he was at home with her, in the same bed. According to Hervé Muller, deejay at La Bulle, he was in these baths, slumped against the wall, while already in the substrate at the night, drug dealers, cocaine and heroin addicts, friends and enemies and curious of all kinds were passing the news that Jim Morrison was dead.
17, Rue de Beautreillis – Where Jim and Pam lived
I greet the man who looks down, I leave the nightclub of disinfectant smell, with leather chairs and multi-ethnic flavor, but yet so obscure. I leave that mystery that perhaps he wants to unravel himself. Is it true that he wanted to return to live by death? Is it true that here he had found poetic inspiration? That in this so ancient and still beautiful, – even in mockery – Paris, that smiles mischievously if only you cross it under threatening clouds, which does not leave you thinking but it’s holding you to it, he came to die?
The walk up to the Marais is long but my feet have not perceived it. At 17, Rue de Beautreillis, I look up. I guess Pamela, widow for twenty-four hours, embraced by Agnes Varda, Bill Siddons, Alain Ronay. I guess the silent chaos, the heart load of a secret, whatever it is.
I imagine a 27-year-old man who is hunched at his desk. As I look back over my life, I am struck by postcards, ruined snap shots, faded posters of a time I can not recall.
I imagine an arm out of the bathtub, a lifeless face, some wet long hair, a cold body. I imagine the poems, remained to be written, the scream of freedom never come out of his throat, the myth that won on the boy, the Seventies just glimpsed.
I will return here to commemorate what will remain of him, in Père Laschaise cemetery. In the Greek inscription: ΚΑΤΑ ΤΟΝ ΔΑΙΜΟΝΑ ΕΑΥΤΟΥ.
True to his Demons.
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