"He’s part of every era, stretching his groin towards the naked faces of teenage girls for centuries to demonstrate a different version of GOD." Paris and Jim Morrison (10/12/2017) My mind is a silent one, I like to drop my thoughts through pen. Like the Lizard King and then he’d sing. I, 27 years of age, walk through the streets of Paris reading Jim’s ghost as a roadmap. And yet, I never really knew where he lived, a reptile on a golden street. I wanna turn 28 and report back, tell him that we’ve cracked the code to our confusion, that we don’t need a revolution, just indulge in more illusion, to make this space more habitable. There’s no point to mourn about losing our son. He set his path in stone, now the whole world is on the run. The rain apocalyptic, the scenery cryptic, Jim’s spirit rhythmic in translating the energy of all the people screaming ‘WHY’. Never quite died. Re-runs through the questions of light, waiting for the sun at night, our son’s surrounded by the earth of Pere Lachaise, offered his flesh for school groups to take pictures. The place where he rests, much quieter than a Shaman’s death. Much smaller than a stage and the crowds surrounding it more humble in appearance. I hear his name in ancient flute sounds, on the aristocratic grounds of French history books, on the refugee camps of Canal St. Martin, floating through the memories of a town both he and I considered poetic. He’s part of every era, stretching his groin towards the naked faces of teenage girls for centuries to demonstrate a different version of GOD. I mapped his flag on my teenage girl room door, where his hair curled into my dreams of one day making Paris mine. So I did, but not in time to capture his essence through anything but nostalgia, copied his ways through rumour, engaged in his final age which never ends and planned on going further. Jim, what do I do when I turn older than you? My poorly developed teenage soul tears me back to days when my eyelids closed to roll my sight back in time and have you light the road outside my door, ready for departure. Ready for more. To me you’re always older, a tap on the shoulder to reassure my measure of growing is well within frame. But it’s you who evidently skipped so many beats on my behalf, leaving me to live and age in peace and never twist the image of you as a teacher. SARAH HELENA
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Author"PARIS est un vertige Archives
May 2018
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