Projected Rumour

One word leads into another

until they all add up to make a sentence:

In 1970 Jim Morrison was sentenced to three years

in Raiford Prison in Dade County, Florida,

for misusing his words during a Doors' concert there

in 1969.
 

Although no photography was produced at his trial

showing genital exposure, Jim had threatened theatrically

to do so, and the power of suggestion and hysteria

that followed convicted him of a crime he did not

actually commit.
 

Was it lewd and lascivious behaviour in public?
 

Perhaps yes, if you consider bad language to be

detrimental to the health and well being

of an audience populated primarily by teenagers.
 

But do you really suppose he exposed himself

and nobody took a picture?
 

Hundreds of flesh-seeking flash cubes

signaled the use of myriad instamatics that evening,

yet none recorded a single inch of evidence

revealing Morrison's prick at posterity.

[Time Passed Future Opportunity]

Months later Jim and I had lunch together

at the Garden District on La Cienega Boulevard

in Hollywood, weeks before his flight to Paris

where he eventually disappeared.
 

We talked about his trial of tribulation

and the probability of serving several years behind bars

in the slammer.

During the conversation he touched lightly

on his thoughts for the future and mentioned

the possibility of a change in identity.
 

We joked about his putting on blackface

and going underground 'incognegro,'

but that was just because we couldn't resist

the play on words, and it had absolutely nothing

to do with anything racial - just facial.
 

He expressed a desire to drop the role of "teen idol"

and so-called "Superstar" performer altogether - and,

having had it with Hollywood hype, he wanted to get

on with perfecting his life by performing his art;

anonymously if necessary, incognito for freedom

and survival.
 

When lunch and conversation were over

we parted as friends sometimes do when they sense

they may never again see each other:
 

After shaking my hand, warmly, he sauntered

his way...

and I went mine.
 

But before departure he gave me one final choice

of napkin-scribbled words which I shall now write

and ask that you read and recite slowly & distinctly:

"The man who travels

cross-country

in a caravan of one,

is always alone

in unfamiliar places

where he is no longer

a general to anyone in particular."

To be continued...

copyright 1987 ~ all rides reserved

Photo above by Frank Lisciandro:
 

"Leon at his desk

in The Doors office in 1969"