the still sea conspires

the still sea conspires
Originally uploaded by imperialviolet.

he never would've said it this way, but i knew he thought i was a pussy.

in a world fire branded for action, i was brainy but ineffectual. a clumsy, clunky, ridiculous kid.

dad didn't believe in God; but the gods he worshiped were mostly manly warrior poets. they were hurlers and shouters and void flauters.

in the grand spirit of abyss hurling, he was genuinely proud (and surprised) about my planned month long solo backpacking trip through europe.

proud that his kid had picked up some balls and was trying 'em out. he pulled out a wad of bills and started counting them. Got up to about $500-

"Aw fuck it, take it all, kid. Have a great goddamned trip."

i knew better than to count my money while I was sitting at the table, so I thanked him profusely and asked if there was any particular souvenir i could pick up for him.

he lit an unfiltered and said-

"there is one thing. visit jim morrisson's grave for me, willya? in paris. take a picture."

i'd always found his obsession with the doors to be vaguely embarrassing.

his beatles thing, i understood. my blood got the beatles. i could see where my dad would have a 10 foot canvas painted of the abbey road cover.

but morrisson? heavy duty lyrics and sturm and drang and the whole 'peyote desert' connection? it seemed a thing you should be over by the time puberty releases its hormonal grip upon your person.

as a kid, dad used to blast the doors, way past '11', and say- "listen up, moan, that's poetry. that's the real shit."

"her sullen and aborted currents breed tiny monsters" jim bellowed.

sullen and aborted currents? um, er, okay. where's penny lane?

now, i said "sure, i'll go to his cemetery" and i do believe i meant to. but I didn't. bought him a book about the beatles instead.

i wish i could forget the look on his face when I gave him that book.

the most gut kicked I ever saw him. i'd seen him outraged a million times. but never wounded. never an open sore.

"got a million books about the beatles kid. i just wanted a picture of morrisson's grave. you said you'd go for me. i can't get why ya wouldn't go like you said?"

why? fuck if I know. but I know it was a chance to step up and I missed it. by a mile.


he was dead within a year. at the wake, his twin brother told me- "your dad was real proud of ya. always said what a smart kid you are."

once, my school had my IQ tested. when mom sent dad the results, he was thrilled. turns out me and jim morrisson have the same IQ. dad had read about morrisson's smarts in the biography "no-one here gets out alive." he thought this was a pretty heavy connection.

"hell kid, maybe there's hope for you after all."

three days ago, i wandered through pere lachais cemetery, in the heart of paris. marble sepultres wrestled with sleek onyx tombstones. the sky was slate. The air, cold steel. i passed oscar wilde and maria callas along the way.

then I found him. his home was properly strewn with flowers and letters and cigarettes and a black lace bra. we spent a minute or two together. i took his picture.

and it felt a little like there might still be hope for me after all.