A great story about visiting Jim’s grave.
The first time I went to Paris, in late August of 1988, I was nineteen years old. I had never expected that I would travel so far. None of it felt real. I visited the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, and the Louvre. Then I visited the place I most wanted to see: Jim Morrison’s grave in Père LaChaise cemetery. His music and poetry had helped me through my turbulent high school years. His image had hung on my bedroom wall. I had worn a button with his photo on my black leather jacket. On the vacant building across from my high school, I had spray painted the same words that I had doodled all over my school notebooks: Jim Morrison Lives. I had self-medicated with whatever I could find (which, thankfully, wasn’t much in those days) and had written stream of consciousness poetry while listening to An American Prayer
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