Light My Fire by Ray Manzarek

Author:Ray Manzarek [Manzarek, Ray]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780698151017
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 1999-10-14T16:00:00+00:00

It wasn’t. Felix was a reprobate and Phil was brilliant but unstable, and the three of them together were incendiary. They drank too much. They indulged in strange chemical substances—Asthmador, belladonna, jimsonweed—just to see what they would do. If they had read about a crazy drug they wanted to try it. No heroin, however. Just weird shit, and the more arcane, the better. It was Jim’s “derangement of the senses” phase. He told me about seeing the green lady on belladonna. He started hitting the bottle with Felix. That sot started to impart the “secrets of the tribe” to him. And in a receptive, boozed-up state, Felix’s eye contact diatribes began to make sense to Jim…or should I say “Jimbo.” The jimsonweed had opened the trapdoor to Jim’s id, and out had come the character called Jimbo. A good-old boy. A racist. A fat man who liked the power of domination. A monster. A monster of skin. The creature who would eventually take Jim to Paris and kill him.

Unfortunately, I knew none of this at the time. I had never experienced alcoholism before. I didn’t know the symptoms or how it began. I didn’t know the causes of the disease or its warning signs. But it wasn’t just the alcohol, you see. Jim had the shaman’s crack. The split. The psychotic leaning into the fissure between ordinary reality and what could be called…madness. And the monster could escape through that crack. But so had Jim’s angels. And had Jim served a proper shaman’s apprenticeship, he could have controlled his demon. But, unfortunately, a proper shaman’s apprenticeship had not been served in the West for a thousand years.

And I didn’t know the warning signs. The signs of the fissure. I also didn’t know the secrets of the tribe. Or that they would matter. And I had no idea what derangement was possible under the influence of those weird drugs the unholy three were taking. I saw Jim intoxicated. Out of it. Not himself, but also not yet possessed. It was far too early in the game. The good Jim Morrison—the poet, the artist—was still too strong to be seduced by negativity. But Felix was sowing the seeds and Jimbo was peeking through the trapdoor, and the sleep of reason was going to produce nightmares. Waking nightmares, for me and everyone who loved James Douglas Morrison.

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