BE STILL MY HEART

This is the most gorgeous man I think I have ever seen in my life. He has been dead for over 30 years, and I still swoon when I see this picture of him.

This is Jim Morrison. He was the lead singer and the one who named his band The Doors after a book called The Doors of Perception by Aldous Huxley. Sexy voice, sexy man. Good ol' Jim Morrison makes me weak in the knees when I think of him looking like this and dressed in his leather pants (going commando, of course). I push to the back of my mind the fact that when he died he looked far older than his 27 years, that he was bloated as a result of his alcoholism, and his hair was scraggly and messy. It ruins my Greek god image of him. And he IS flawless in this picture. Look at those perfect cupid's bow lips, those penetrating eyes, a nose that is classic. ::sigh:: Then, there is his hair. Heaven help me, I love that hair. I want my hands in it; my fingers running through it and getting tangled in the curls.

I was not old enough at the time he died to fully appreciate the beauty of his face or any of the fascinating bits of information about him as a person. Interestingly enough, Jim had a superior intellect. He was an avid reader and had a huge collection of books. He was known to ask an individual to choose a book from his shelves and read aloud only one line from the book. And from that sentence, Jim was able to state what book it was from. I cannot think too many people would be able to perform such a feat.

His song lyrics were often dark and moody. Brooding. No doubt his mind-enhancing drug use played some role in the writing of those lyrics. Many of the band's more lighthearted songs were written by his fellow band members. You could always tell the ones Jim wrote. There was a depth to them. Confusing at times, but hypnotic, too. It would have been fascinating to see his genius develop over the years, if he had managed to stay alive.

He had moved to Paris to write poetry, which was published posthumously. He was found dead in a Parisian hotel room bathtub. His death was attributed to a heart attack. Controversy has swirled around him since then. Some believe he never really died. Others believe he overdosed. It really makes little difference. Whatever the cause, he seemed to succumb to the times in which he lived when excessive drugs and alcohol and sex were staples of the music world ala Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin and that generation in general. Talents lost far too early. But, maybe they had already shone the brightest they ever would have. One will never know.

His burial place is in Paris's famous cemetery called Pere Lachaise. His remains are among those of Moliere and Oscar Wilde in a section called The Poets' Corner. Many flock to his grave and leave mementos and flowers and graffiti. His grave is the most popular one visited in that cemetery (and Chopin is buried there, for cryin' out loud!), and the constant stream of visitors who were desecrating the headstones of others around his led to a 24-hour watch being put in effect. Unbelievable! The Doors albums continue to sell. The book, No One Here Gets Out Alive, sells. (I read it!) The mystery remains for yet another generation to delve into.

After all these years and even in death, he is still seducing people through his music, poetry, and his persona.

Closing with a helluva quote that I find appropriate.

"His voice was as intimate as the rustle of sheets." ~Dorothy Parker