Breakthrough to the Other Side and Back (Vanished, Returned: J. Morrison)

Let us begin with the fact that Aldous Huxley was a twentieth-century English writer who started his career with a somewhat restrained critique of both the upper middle class and the bourgeoisified art world, later continuing with a confrontation of points and counterpoints that could be described as harsh and calmly ruthless. His negative utopia—or, using the more commonly employed term today: DYSTOPIA—speaks out against all forms of power, especially the totalitarian state, often employing the tools of relentless satire.

Dystopian societies depicted in various artistic works are generally characterized by severe dehumanization. They often feature various natural disasters, nuclear wars, and similar calamities: famines, poverty, various epidemics, and, not least, pollution of staggering proportions—a complete nightmare, truly. This can be stated with confidence. The common motif is usually an unstoppable decline or degeneration occurring in the future, or their depiction, on the path toward inevitable collapse.

In these narratives, the protagonist typically only gradually realizes the oppressive nature of the power operating beneath the seemingly happy and balanced society, which does not tolerate individual autonomy. Such is Huxley’s Brave New World, Orwell’s 1984, or what we see in the film The Matrix, where a simulated reality created by artificial intelligence is presented, ultimately taking control.

After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music (Aldous Huxley)

It is a fact that the creation of such works often involves a highly visionary process, necessitating the expansion of normal consciousness and perception. The widest possible opening of the doors of perception. The most effective external aid for this is the use of drugs. It is no surprise, then, that Huxley himself resorted to such means. He, for example, most preferred mescaline, one of the components of the peyote cactus, the sacred plant of the Indians.

Incidentally, peyote, some varieties of which resemble ornamental gourds, features as a highly effective substance in the works of Peruvian-born American anthropologist Carlos Castaneda, who studied Native American shamanic traditions. He published a series of books on this topic, which were translated in the former Yugoslavia. Castaneda enjoyed considerable popularity there at the time. It is worth noting that his works received less attention later, in Hungary during the late 1990s and early 2000s, though the author was not entirely overlooked even then. (It depends on whom you ask…)

In any case, along with his similarly capable contemporaries, mescaline quickly found its place in American BEAT literature following Huxley’s lead—see, for example, Allen Ginsberg’s poems!—not to mention beat music. One could say it found a home in the entire beat culture, and later in the hippie world. At the same time, it purchased several houses and luxurious residences in Hollywood. Thus, in the mid-1960s, a young student named James Douglas Morrison could have encountered it in some obscure, heavily alternative bar in Los Angeles. He later became world-famous under the name JIM MORRISON as the frontman of the psychedelic, blues & jazz-influenced hard rock band THE DOORS. (We’re talking about doors here, just as originally with Huxley, not gates, as we see on the cover of the Hungarian translation! But never mind.)

The Doors band, drummer in the restroom (Screenshot)

Much has been written about The Doors (members besides Morrison include keyboardist Ray Manzarek, guitarist Robby Krieger, and drummer John Densmore), and even more about their exceptionally poetically talented, perpetually high, stormy-living frontman, Jim, who was the subject of a film directed by Oliver Stone. He notably enjoyed talking about his own father, claiming he was a pianist in a brothel. In reality, however, Morrison’s father was a high-ranking officer in the United States Navy.

He probably wasn’t too pleased about this, but we didn’t have the chance to meet him to assess his sense of humor.

Brothel and army, perhaps the two are connected

Incidentally, Stone’s film received quite a bit of criticism, but one thing is certain: it effectively depicted the overdriven life that the band members were forced to live in the „genre” they chose for themselves. With all the great breakthroughs and breakdowns, we believe the protagonist is also excellently portrayed. With some modifications, of course, but there he is—forever with Huxley and Huxley’s zombies in his mind’s eye—Jim Morrison, burning out young in his own fire. Who, in the end, may have been taken by the demon of overdose, just like his similarly fated colleagues, the virtuoso Jimi Hendrix and the raspy-voiced Janis Joplin—among the many others who deserved better.

We write all this on the occasion—widely reported in the Hungarian press—that Jim Morrison’s grave statue, which was stolen thirty-seven years ago from the Père-Lachaise Cemetery in Paris by unknown perpetrators, has recently been found. The statue, incidentally, is the work of Croatian master MLADEN MIKULIN from Velika Gorica. According to a brief statement from the French police, the distinguished piece—erected on the tenth anniversary of the singer, lyricist, and poet’s death before it disappeared—was discovered by the financial and anti-corruption brigade of the Paris police’s criminal division during an unrelated fraud investigation. It was found incidentally, and no further details have been disclosed so far, understandably for the sake of the ongoing investigation.

The somewhat unconventional tombstone and its surroundings (Source: Internet)

It is well known that Morrison died in June 1971 in the French capital. One of our old friends from what was then Yugoslavia, from the Telep district of Novi Sad, a certain Tomislav Perić—who has lived in Canada under the name Tom Peric since the outbreak of the last Balkan war—visited Morrison’s grave in 1978 with his fellow “storm riders.” At that time, the statue had not yet been installed or unveiled, but he still remembers vividly the rare experience. Naturally, we summarize only briefly from his Hungarian-written letter—in a sort of plot form—which states that he still clearly recalls how the Parisian cemetery guards feigned ignorance when the three of them inquired about Morrison’s resting place. Yet, they managed to find something that, based on the chaotic scene before them, could hardly be called a classic final resting place. – And thus, they finally understood the reluctance of the French cemetery workers to give precise directions. (Merci beaucoup omitted accordingly.)

P.S. In the attached illustration, we can also see how Maestro Mikulin’s work—which was not yet present in ’78—underwent further enthusiastic artistic interventions after its placement in the famed French cemetery. Previously, only Morrison’s tombstone and the surrounding area bore many curiosities. Among them, the graffiti of a fellow countryman—who had apparently visited before Tom and his friends—read: “ĐOKA JE BIO OVDE.” (So Gyuri left his mark…) And so this is the end, beautiful friend.

THE END

& &

there’s no more. The storm is coming again—can we surf on the wings of the wind?