Saturday, July 18, 2009

And the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls....

My fascination with death, is really not a fascination, but I look at how a culture buries people, I believe says a lot on how they view their heritage and their history. I had been to Bullo-Dong earlier in the year to view the mounds of earth. The absence of markers seemed to emphasize the universal truth that the trappings of life all goes away. Contrast these mounds of earth with Pere Lachaise, the famous cemetery in Paris, one of the first places I went to in Paris...to see the Lizard King.
I know my fascination with Jim Morrison runs deep. It always had, as I was always drawn to a different set of musicians, even now...finding the jewels seems more difficult. Simon and Garfunkel...wrote the Sound of Silence, and somehow, whenever I hear the line "and the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls and tenement halls" I think of Jim Morrison...not a particularly great voice. His words and writing captured the turmoil of the age. The age of violence and searching of America. Much has been romanticized about this time, far different from the British Mod explosion that was in the UK...but America was ripping apart over drugs, the sexual revolution, equal rights, and a war that was labelled a conflict. No matter how you look at it...people were dying in front of Americans on the television during the evening news. It was a time of darkness and light. Where people clung on to hope and were hopeless.
I remember the day, walking in the past in the present...the small grave of Jim Morrison that existed despite his belief that doctors would find the cure for death in his lifetime. Perhaps it is through our recordings...our voices that keep us alive. In sound, in words, in pictures...to be viewed not for the present...but for those who come after.

This weekend I had to come to terms with the completion of a work. Coming to terms with really identifying what the vision is to be, which can be at times a beautiful dance and a debate. A friend wrote to me about poets and prophets, I pondered his words...and still do. As long as poets exist, perhaps there is hope.