Jim Morrison was widely recognized as being the front man for the famous 1960's band the doors, and was seldom recognized for his quiet and more reflective pastime - writing. A firework of emotions on stage, Jim led a quieter and more reflective life on the page.

The beat generation of the 1950's an 60's brought with it a tight -knit ring of ANGST writers who were at that time, exploring ANGST, as not something to be feared or dreaded, but rather, a necessary and constant part of living that soon became, acceptable, and almost paramount in that style of writing and feeling.

Jim Morrison only felt alive when he was experiencing some type of ANGST. It "brought him to his senses", and in his mind, made him vastly superior than that of the so-called placid and normal way of life. Jim compared himself to a hitchhiker - always on the verge of change, danger and surprises.

And again, like Rimbaud, he was intent on testing the boundaries of reality.

There is much written on Jim Morrison, and to reiterate any of it as a psychological study or a chronological event of his life and music, would be redundant to the point of torture. Rather, I would like to focus more on an except from Jim's last poem before his death written to his wife, Pam - and invite you to explore, what I believe is the only poetic self portrait he ever painted.

See also the spotlight article in E:Z about Jim Morrison.

Excerpt from "PARIS JOURNAL" by Jim Morrison

….. "Naked we come and bruised we go,
soft pastry for the soft worms below

This is my poem for you
Great funky flowing flowered beast

Great perfumed wreck of hell

Great good disease and summer plague

Great God-damned shit assed mother fucking freak!

You lie, you cheat, you steal, you kill

You drink the southern madness swill
Of greed

You die utterly and alone

Mud up to your braces, someone new in your knickers?
…. And who would that be?

You know, you know much more than you let on
Much more than you betray

Great slimy angel whore
You've been good to me

You really have

Been swell to me…

Tell them you came and saw
And looked into my eyes
And saw the shadow of the guard receding
Thoughts in time
And out of season -
The hitchhiker stood by the side of the road and
Leveled his thumb
In the calm calculus of reason - "

In the midst of this all of this chaos I have written, there is a message:

Between seasons, and the end of an era and the beginning of another, there is a space, where nothing awaits you, but your pen, your pain, and a blank sheet of paper.