WHEN THE MUSIC’S OVER
A beautiful blue sky with puffy pink clouds in Paris this evening. Earlier today, wandering between Bastille and Marais I passed by the apartment house at 17 Rue Beautreillis, where Jim Morrison spent his last days and supposedly died in the bathtub of a third floor apartment. As I was passing an elderly couple was opening the double doors and getting ready to drive their car into the court yard. I wondered if perhaps they now lived in the apartment and what it must be like to take a bath in that tub. Since by most accounts it is very debatable that he really died in that tub, my musings would seem to be a moot point. Current speculation centers around him having overdosed in a nightclub called the Rock And Roll Circus and, to avoid a scandal, he was brought discreetly to the apartment and placed in the tub. Since most of the key players are all long dead and gone, the true story of what really happened on that fateful July night will never be known.
And it probably doesn’t really matter. Jim spends his time these days hosting a perpetual circus in the Cimetière du Père Lachaise, where old fans, new fans and kids that weren’t even a sparkle in their father’s eyes when he died come and stare and supposedly pay their respects. Hell, some of their parents probably weren’t even born yet when he died. Along with his mortal remains and of course the timeless music, Jim’s legacy still remains alive today forty three years after he embraced his own truth that, “no one here gets out alive.” Like so many other musicians, artists, writers and poets throughout history, Jim did it short and sweet. And that was perhaps the only way he could have done it. The sky has turned grey and overcast, night is falling and it’s time for me to saunter on back to my apartment through the crooked cobbled streets of Paris.
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