if there is one band that remains tested tried and true after many many rides into endless night(s). it would be the doors. every single album is perfect and there's not one thing you would want to change. the timeless content is almost still evolving. yet is what it is. like primeval moss. head to the importance of cultural effect and relevancy still on youth and it's like staring at the picaso lithograph which wallace fowlie was given by him for fowlie's dual translation of rimbaud's selected work in which a certain young james douglas morrison voraciously read and reread and wrote fowlie a letter about that is documented in a book fowlie later wrote in his 80's titled rebel as poet: rimbaud and jim morrison.
hey, being compared to jim by wallace fowlie was no and is no easy acceptance - let alone task of personal responsibility that comes w/ a serious statement, meeting and encounter - even this being after hanging out w/ roby and having approval of poetry and i guess way of existence. holy shit, i never did and still do have a hard time taking anyone serious if they have been compared to jim morrison. thank god it doesn't happen but hardly at all.
it wasn't until maybe last summer having bill siddons of the doors who also manages michael glabicki talk w/ me about the living theatre (i was reading a book called the living theatre: art, exile and outrage) and jim at the l.a. house of blues - glabicki telling me the summer or two before in l.a. that bill siddons rarely talks to anyone about jim - that i started to feel not so strange about it all and more famaliar and comfortable w/ myself and my instincts that i always relied on to navigate myself as a young kid that was contagious to be around and had many doors open and yet liked the luxury of sanctuary behind those that were closed.
The diamond shone like broken glass
Upon the midnight street
And all atop the walls were wet
Their white eyes glint & sleek
Then from afar a gnome appeared
An angel flashed on furry feet
The boulevard became a river
While waiting crowds began to quiver
I was in a motel watching
Whiskey in my hand
Her breath was soft, the wind was warm
Someone in a room was born