Grave thoughts: A time of introspection and reflection written in a cemetery in Paris one autumn day.

The photo of Morrison's grave soon after his death that hexed me. 

Grave thoughts: A time of introspection and reflection written in a cemetery in Paris one autumn day.

by rick olivares

Two years ago, I fulfilled a lifelong dream to visit the grave of Jim Morrison, the late lead singer for the American rock band, the Doors, at Pere Lachaise Cemetery in a faraway suburb in Paris.

I was five years old when Morrison passed away in 1971 in the bathtub of his apartment in Paris. I didn’t get into the Doors until I was in my teens. Now what contributed to that eternal fascination was seeing a picture of his graffiti laden tomb at Pere Lachaise. It was bewitching. I was hexed.

Of course, I have since become a deeper fan of the band’s music and Morrison’s poetry; something I also wrote heavily when I was in high school and college.

When I got to his gravesite, there was a steel barrier that prevented anyone from coming close. And there was this big tomb right in front. In some ways, it was like providing some privacy to the most viewed grave in the centuries’ old cemetery. There were other famous or even infamous people interred at Pere Lachaise – French chanteuse Edith Piaf, classical pianist Frederic Chopin, Irish playwright Oscar Wilde, painter Gericault, essayist Marcel Proust, and medieval lovers Heloise and Abelard are but a few…. More on the latter in a bit.

To be so near Morrison’s grave yet so far – it was frustrating in some way. Where was the graffiti? The anarchy sign? The mementoes left behind? As I learned, the barrier was there to prevent the constant desecration of the grave. The man might have been somewhat of a hellion in life but maybe in death, he can have peace.  

I felt a varying wave of emotions when I came to his grave. It was initially and equally disbelief and awe. But that was quickly replaced by fascination as I watched different people “commune” – for lack of a better word – with the dead rock star.

One lady was crying while softly playing “Riders of the Storm”. From the way she looked, she wasn’t even born during Morrison’s lifetime? The surviving members of the Doors had called it quits long before she was brought into this world. How could she get so emotional?

So how did I get so worked up myself to to begin with?

The songs were rebellious. Everything dangerous and seductive and subversive about rock and roll that my parents warned me about. I found that ludicrous. Now all I wanted to do back when I was young was play football and be a musician (and at one point join the US Marines). My parents made sure none of that would happen so you can say that I wasn’t happy that I my life was railroaded and sent to a path that I never wanted; I had to conform to what they thought I should be and not what I wanted to be.

All that all came flooding back at the gravesite. I wanted to be a rock star. I had the requisite angst but I didn’t do drugs. I didn’t smoke and hardly drank. My idea of fun was playing basketball, reading a book, listening to music, hanging out with my friends, or jamming with my band. I have travelled extensively; much by myself. That has afforded me thousands of hours of introspection and I have been glad for that because I learned to face the world and its myriad challenges.

If you’re wondering if I turned out to be a bitter man, well, it’s far from that -- although I did think of committing suicide one late night while walking along the fields of Princeton during a time of extreme depression -- I am a happy man who took the path not usually taken (as you can glean, Frost’s poem, has always resonated well with me).  

Back to the grave… most just looked and spent a long time looking. I did too. Am not sure why after all there was nothing spectacular about the grave. There used to be a cement carving of his head but it was stolen a long time ago. Now, it wasn’t as if Morrison was going to rise from the dead. Most just stared. Some prayed. One shook his head.

And I thought… was Morrison’s life a waste? I don’t think so. He gave what he had and was supernova in the sky for those loved rock and roll. That’s all he had in his short 27 years on this planet.

As for me – I am here (it’s funny because I vainly or foolishly, if you will, believed in dying a rock star’s death) and I have so much more to give. I looked at my two sons who weren’t around during Morrison’s lifetime and said to myself that I have so much more to give in my life.

After what seemed like 20 minutes, maybe more, with the autumn sky giving way to black (the cemetery closes at 5pm), the words to “Soul Kitchen” came to my mind…

Well, the clock says it's time to close now
I guess I'd better go now
I'd really like to stay here all night
The cars crawl past all stuffed with eyes
Street lights share their hollow glow
Your brain seems bruised with numb surprise
Still one place to go
Still one place to go

Let me sleep all night in your soul kitchen
Warm my mind near your gentle stove
Turn me out and I'll wander baby
Stumblin' in the neon groves

Well, your fingers weave quick minarets
Speak in secret alphabets
I light another cigarette
Learn to forget, learn to forget
Learn to forget, learn to forget

Let me sleep all night in your soul kitchen
Warm my mind near your gentle stove
Turn me out and I'll wander baby
Stumblin' in the neon groves

Well the clock says it's time to close now
I know I have to go now
I really want to stay here
All night, all night, all night

Yep. Break on through the other side. We all made our way out of Pere Lachaise.