If you visit here regularly, you already know about my fetish for books, and how I meet them in the strangest of places and take them home with me. Sometimes I could swear these meeting aren’t random at all and that the universe itself sets them up.
Calling me from within a bag of books that had arrived from a nursing home – the last place you’d expect – was “American Nights,” a collection of Jim Morrison’s writings, famous and unknown, gathered from his notes and notebooks. Imagine Jim sitting on the lawn of this nursing home, his glasses lodged half way down his nose, smoking.
I sat with it for a long while, flipping through his troubled words, contemplating how my head is always filled with deep thoughts and philosophical questions and how I always carry around notebooks. I always have to scribble something down in order to arrange my thoughts, to remember my dreams, to quell my fears; I share with you here, the censored, shortened version.
I thought of how much written stuff I’ll leave behind when I die. Yes, my friends, I have traveled this far – stranger eyes have read my words and have thought of Jim (we grew friendly reading his intimate words) and of what he would think about others publishing his writings.
Luckily for me, I’m no Jim Morrison…