I first heard about the book
psychotropically during an acid trip at Venice Beach. Amid the sand dunes and
egotistical, muscle-bound goons, my two colleagues in the quest to turn on,
tune in, and drop out, Hans and Sally, started in about a book that either was
“dark and evil, with accounts of the Old Ones, whose ultimate goals align with
the apocalypse,” or “opens doors to the purest distillation of self, enhancing
the essence,” or some combination of both, which made no sense to me. I had no
idea who the Old Ones were. Geriatric occult explorers? Aged members of the
Golden Dawn, post relevance . . . as if they ever were relevant? I tuned out
and listened in . . .
“Why do you think Morrison’s dead anyway?
He dipped in and it shattered his soul,” Hans said. “Evil shit, man.”
“Not evil. He just couldn’t handle it,”
Sally said.
“Too intense? You saying the concentrated
expression of his talent was too intense?”
“I say he was a mediocre poet and performer
who will probably be forgotten in the annals of history. But for those few
years, he was godlike . . . and so beautiful. Until he got hold of the book.”
Sally’s smile filled the landscape. Flowers
bloomed in her hair and eyes.
Hans smiled, too, but I saw something
black flood out of his face as it melted, waxlike and disturbing. I turned away
and woke up hours later under a star-littered sky. A seagull stared at me under
the blind eye of a winking crescent moon. Its beak moved as lips, mouthing
something I could not make out. It launched into the black heavens, sweeping up
a tornado of sand that reflected the colors of a rainbow in the swirling shards
of broken soda bottles.
I woke into this reality with the
translation of the seagull’s mute words floating as neon dressed in a skirt of
fog before my eyes: The book is the key to your destiny.
In what manner, I did not know. I knew
nothing of the book until the acid trip. Was there even a book? Was this simply
psychedelic mindplay while two tabs of Black Sunshine socked it to my imagination?
It did not matter. I needed to know more. I felt Sally’s
interpretation—enhancing the essence—was meant for me, a poet deserving of a
wider audience. Of accolades and fame nonpareil.
My destiny.
That was a year ago, 1973, me still living
off the dregs of the long dead ’60s. The Morrison in question was Jim Morrison,
the lead singer for the band The Doors. He’d been dead a couple years at that
time, passing under suspicious circumstances in a hotel room in Paris in 1971.
Though much to Sally’s disdain, proving her prognosticating abilities less than
those of Nostradamus, Morrison’s legend has only strengthened since his
passing.
But because of the words of the seagull or
simply a drug-enhanced tolling of the subconscious bell, I knew it was time to
stop drifting.
I needed to find the book.
Tracking it through heresy and whim and
the wily machinations of the occult underground, I made my way to San
Francisco, to talk to minor poet Samael Plotkin. He had known Morrison. He
allegedly knew of the book. I’d heard he had fallen on hard times, lost his
mojo, and was living off the good graces and worn sofas of fellow poets when
not sharing time with shadows on the streets. My muse had been on hiatus for
well over four years at this point. I knew finding the book would bring magic back
to my words.
When I hit North Beach, I asked around and
was given the phone number of the latest acquaintance he was staying with in a
small hotel off of Columbus Street. When I called it, a woman answered the
phone.
“May I speak to Samael Plotkin?”
“You gotta make it quick. I’m expectin’ a
call on this line. Quick, ’kay?” She sounded agitated. Quick or not, I needed
to talk to him.
“Is he there?”
“Quick, ’kay? Lie to me, at least.” Gum
popping with real urgency.
“Of course, I’ll be quick,” I said. Giving
her what she needed.
“Groovy.” I heard her call out Samael’s
name. Muffled sounds and a car honking somewhere within the telephone
receiver’s reception.
“Yes?”
“Samael Plotkin?”
He audibly sighed.
“I
need to talk to you about Jim Morrison and the whereabouts of a book by the
name of the Necronomicon.”
Silence. So silent, I thought he’d hung
up.
“Samael?”
“Why? The past is dead. Let it sleep
forever.”
No matter his reluctance, I could not accept
no as a response. I didn’t need to give him reasons. I needed the book. I’d
heard part of his downfall was a love of liquor. Anything to inebriate and
dance off into the shadows of a mind gone to rot.
“We can meet at Vesuvio. Talk. Drink. My
treat.” Vesuvio was a famous bar frequented by the Beats, next door to City
Lights Bookstore. I let the suggestion hang loose on the line. Giving him room
to allow his addiction to answer for him.
“Fine. But if you want to talk about . .
.” He paused; seconds crawled by, perhaps a minute or more. I remained stalwart
and let the addiction take the reins. Patience loomed as a vulture awaiting
scraps. “If you want to talk about this, you’ll want to be sober. I’ll want to
be sober. Meet me at Caffe Trieste. Noon, tomorrow.”
His willpower surprised me. The tone of
his voice suggested it was a struggle to divert his addiction from what it
really wanted. As if it mattered to me.
“Fine,” I said into the dead line. He had
already hung up.
I
could smell coffee done black and bitter. My nostrils flared, leading my way to
Vallejo Street, and Caffe Trieste, a staple here since the 1950s. Clear glass
reflected bodies in motion, those who passed by me without glancing up,
slightly warped by a curvature in the glass or their corroded auras. I visually
pushed them away and stared inside, where gaunt figures scribbling in notepads
occupied a few tables, scattered about, distancing themselves from each other.
Work of such personal importance, yet most people would never read any of it.
Desperation whittled hope to the bone, sucked on the marrow.
I did not need any of this. My words
carried weight. I just needed—
A figure more gaunt than most waved at me
from the far right corner of a large wooden table in the back. Greasy hair to
his shoulders, a hippie by any other name, but his damaged countenance
suggested otherwise. Plotkin was about my age, early thirties, but even from
the entrance, I could register the weariness in his large, haunted eyes. One
would guess him much older. He raised a mug to his lips as I wound my way
around the pastry display and sat across from him at the table.
Discarding the niceties and small talk
that hindered most conversations, I said, “What can you tell me about Morrison
and the book? Did he own it? By what means did the book . . . enhance his
career?”
Plotkin
pulled the mug from his lips and laughed.
“What do you know of the book?”
“Enough,” I said, whether truthful or not.
My interest exceeded my knowledge.
“You think this is about his career, as if
the book had anything to do with his success?”
“Well . . .”
“Well? That’s your response?” His hands
were shaking. His nose was running and he sniffled as he laughed again.
“My motivation is not the issue here. I
was told you had info on Morrison and the book.” I reached into my pants pocket
and pulled out a few bills, pressing a ten to the table.
He stopped laughing, his eyes narrowing to
the cash on hand. He reached for the ten. I slapped my hand over it, pulling it
to my side of the table.
He turned away, glancing toward the front
door, where a young woman with long blonde hair was walking around, handing out
pamphlets. I could not hear what she was saying. I did not care. Though my
peripheral vision gauged her presence, my focus stayed firm on Plotkin.
“I knew Jimmy. Went to UCLA with him. He was
kind of a prick, but he had obvious talent. Well, to most. Charisma. We met in
Jack Hirschman’s class on Antonin Artaud. Artaud was part of the inspiration
for Jimmy’s stage theatrics, but this was well before the Doors had even
formed. We got to really know each other in a poetry class taught by Albert
Jasper.” I’d heard of Hirschman, a radical poet and professor, though never
heard of Jasper. “We hung out, got high, got laid. A head start on the late
’60s free love agenda.”
“Get to the point,” I said, not needing to
waste time with his roundabout recollections.
“Point being, I knew him. Hung out. Heard
through the grapevine he was interested in an occult book of some curious
merit. This was early in ’65. He thought it would be fab to get a hold of this
book.”
“The Necronomicon.”
“No shit.” He leaned back, then forward.
Antsy. Pupils dropping to the money again. Purpose.
“At a poetry reading in February at
Cinematheque 16—Jimmy wasn’t reading, his interests veered more toward film at
that time, having made some short films, even one I worked with him on, First
Love, which was released to the public—his niggling interest that bordered
on obsession about the book peaked. He was to meet a mysterious woman who
allegedly had knowledge as to its whereabouts.” Plotkin’s eyes glistened, as if
he was visualizing events from the past as they unfolded before him now.
“Jasper was there and started hounding Jimmy to no end about the book.
Apparently, he also wanted it, was quite vocal about this, eyes manic and voice
lifting to interrupt the proceedings. He ranted at Morrison to the point where
he was dragged out of the club and tossed on the street. A couple days later,
he committed suicide.”
The young woman with the pamphlets
interrupted Plotkin’s flow. “Peace, brothers. We’re having a rally tomorrow at
noon. You’re welcome to join us,” she said, handing us both copies of the
pamphlet. Stop This Senseless War Now! While Plotkin smiled dimly, a
mask of understanding, perhaps allegiance, I crushed the pamphlet in my palm
and glared at her. A dark cloud spread across her complexion. Peace was so
’60s. We were well beyond that pipedream notion. No matter illusions otherwise,
Vietnam was a way of life.
“Continue,” I said to Plotkin.
“All for naught. The woman never showed up.”
“What really is the point, then?”
“Your desperation reeks,” Plotkin said,
sniffing the air. “The Doors were off and running soon thereafter . . . and I
kept in touch with Jimmy only sporadically. Anytime I saw him around, he’d ask
if I ever saw that woman, ever heard anything more about the book. I’d respond
in the negative and he’d be off to somebody else, with similar questions.
Rather irritating. I moved on, pursuing my own poetic inclinations. Moved to
Soul Francisco in early 1970. Received a correspondence via the post from a
mutual friend toward the end of the year. Apparently, that woman had finally
shown up out of the blue. Morrison got the book.”
“He finally got hold of the book . . .
only months before he died?” This timeline threw a wrench in my initial
thinking about the book. Morrison was already famous when he got it? What good
was it then, enhancing the essence or . . . or perhaps he was simply weak and
whatever more it could do for him was never utilized. I wasn’t wired that way.
I wasn’t weak that way. Juggling thoughts on the book’s true purpose . .
. perhaps simply having it in his possession for a few months was enough to set
up his legend. Imagine what it could do for a poetic force like me.
Plotkin snapped his fingers in my face, pulling
me back from my wayward thoughts. He leaned toward me, conspiratorially. “Look,
dreamy eyes, do you even know what you’re dealing with? This thing . . . this
book, the John Dee’s translation, as if you even know this much—even know who
he was—is potent. Its origins are sketchy and you don’t want to fill in the
gaps. You’ve hinted it will help you attain some sort of fame. Who told you as
much?”
I heard it all while
tripping, man. I heard of its origins while tripping. But it’s real, the book
is real, so why not the whole picture?
“Fine. Don’t answer me, but know this. The
essence of the Necronomicon, though
perhaps wildly fantastical and quite implausible, is inherently apocalyptic by
nature. End of the world stuff, at the hands of the Old Ones.” Mention of the
Old Ones again, as if these fellas were the substance between the lines.
“Morrison was already into opening the doors of perception.” Plotkin snickered.
“But he did not need the book to help him leave some sort of legacy. From what
I’ve heard, though, the broader apocalyptic aspects can also be stripped to the
core of an individual. Just one person.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The book can lead to a meddling
individual’s personal apocalypse. That’s why Morrison has been in hiding since
. . .” He stopped abruptly: terra incognito. He’d crossed into unknown territory
. . .
“In hiding? He’s dead. Can’t get any more
hidden than death.”
He twitched, rubbing the wrists of each
arm once, twice.
I pulled out the few bills, tossed another
ten on the table. Temptation was lethal, digging talons into his fevered
addiction.
“Listen. Just listen.” He leaned in even
closer, the words for my ears only. The curdled stench of alcohol seeped from
his pores. I would have flinched and backed off under different circumstances.
“As I’ve said, and you should heed my warnings, the book is potent. There are
those who are meant to know its secrets. True researchers of the black arts.
There are those who are not meant to know or, as in Morrison’s case, his
interest was frivolous, mostly harmless. Yet, even at that, the potency of the
book ignited his personal apocalypse.”
Gibberish. Plotkin was spewing gibberish.
Spouting horror stories as fact. Insubstantial. I gathered my cash and stood to
leave.
He grabbed my wrist.
“You don’t have to believe me. I know how
it sounds and know how I look and expect you think me mad. Fine. But it’s
true.”
Against my better instincts, I sat back
down, though left my hand on the cash. But there was one angle his fantasy
inspired me to tackle.
“If
Morrison is still alive, do you know if he still has the book?”
“I’ve heard nothing to suggest otherwise.”
His eyes were glossy, his focus again on the money. He wiped his nose on the
already snot-crusted sleeve of his denim jacket.
“If he is still alive, do you know where
he is?”
He licked his lips and turned to stare at
the black and white photos on the wall. The poets we both aspired to accompany.
Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg, even Hirschman. Only I would succeed.
He reached inside his jacket, into a
pocket that held a notepad and set it in front of him. Dug in some more and
pulled out the nub of a pencil no longer than the first joint of my thumb.
Wrote on the paper and tore it out. Set it next to the two tens.
I read the note: Chateau Marmont 33.
“You heard of Cassandra Christ? She’s a
poet down south. Los Angeles. Does stuff to her body while reading her poems.
Performance art.” I shook my head. I had no inkling of where he was going with
this. “She allegedly confirmed Morrison’s whereabouts a few months ago. Tagged
along when groceries were delivered. Seems Morrison won’t be leaving since his
condition has . . . spread.” Plotkin’s fingers nervously tapped on the wood
table, right above where some forgotten poet had carved into the wood, No Future Here, Not Yours Or Mine.
“His condition?”
“I am the lizard king,” Plotkin said. I’m
sure my brow curled upward, though it had probably been stuck in that position
for much of the conversation. “Just go here”—he stopped his chaotic tapping,
the drum solo now a one-finger affair as he tapped it atop the piece of paper,
the address— “you’ll see. Or not. No guarantees. Cassandra Christ reported this
to those in the know, then disappeared.” His eyes wavered, as if looking
through me. Knowing more, but I didn’t need to know more. I picked up the piece
of paper.
“Morrison doesn’t take kindly to
intrusions,” he continued. “Guests are null and void. Just like your
aspirations.” His smile was a sprung switchblade ready to slice.
“Fuck you,” I said, as Plotkin slid the cash
from beneath my fingers. A fair exchange, exit stage left.
He pocketed the cash and said, “I saw you
read once, maybe five years ago. A small hole-in-the-wall club in Los Angeles.
Maybe Santa Monica.”
I stood up. “What of it?”
“Your words were all surface level. Pretty
on the outside, but no depth. But that isn’t the point, is it? I heard you
talking to a few people afterwards. All ego. All about you.”
“This from a failed poet no more
substantial than a shadow.” I shoved the chair toward the table a little harder
than necessary.
“One of the biggest failures in the realm
of words, perhaps. I know this. But I’m still better than you. I got heart. All
you got is ego.”
“I
didn’t come here to get preached at by a loser.” Plotkin feigned being shot in
the heart. “My whole future is ahead of me. Getting my hands on the book will
seal my fame—”
“You believe that shit?”
We paused, a stare-down without
resolution. Guns forever holstered.
“You’re like a balloon filled with helium,
raising yourself to the highest levels in your own insipid mind, but all it
takes is a tiny prick to bring you down.”
I slammed my open palm against the wooden
tabletop. Just shut the fuck up.
“See what I mean? You’re chasing a book
you don’t even understand, with the idea the book is going to somehow prop you
up to standards you would never achieve otherwise. You hone skills, perhaps you
have a chance at something, but I clearly don’t see skills worth honing. At
least Morrison had talent, a justifiable foundation upon which to flaunt that
ego. You flaunt artifice. Nothing more.”
I turned to leave as the weasel continued
his misguided verbal taunts. Taunts shaped by jealousy, I was sure.
“Give up the ghost of your so-called
career as a wordsmith and get a real job, poet. Flip burgers, poet. Mop the
floor, poet.”
I seethed, though there was no real basis
for my reaction. He was beyond help. Twenty dollars later, he would be drunk
and sleeping in an alley, for sure. Not worth my anger, yet it burned inside.
The jaunt up north to San Francisco
stretched the limits of my old Ford Fairlane, bought on the cheap a year ago
because it had many problems; problems I’d yet to deal with. Back to Venice
Beach, I had only one item I needed to pick up: my never-used gun. The good Boy
Scout, prepared for anything . . .
Los Angeles proper always smelled like car
exhaust, or perhaps that’s hope being incinerated in the hearth of dying
dreams. Nectar to the City of Angels.
As expected, the Ford Fairlane died in a
belch of metallic groans and coughing fumes just outside of my destination in
West Hollywood. As I walked afterward, I passed by the Troubadour, where just a
week ago John Lennon and Harry Nilsson were kicked out of the club for heckling
the Smothers Brothers.
Circling up La Cienega Boulevard, I spotted
the Alta Cienega Motel, the most popular of Morrison’s home fronts in Los
Angeles. So popular his admirers (groupies . . .) have corrupted “the green
hotel” with their devotion, scribbling graffiti on the walls of room 32, where
Morrison had scribbled lines as well. Poetry buried amid affections bland and
pathetic, giving vicarious meaning to lives never lived. Sideshow
entertainment.
I was close to my destination.
Back to Sunset Boulevard, I took out the
scribbled note only to confirm proximity. I knew the location, knew where I
was. To my left, one of the other hotels Morrison frequented loomed large:
Chateau Marmont. I strolled into the lobby and immediately upstairs toward
number 33. Perhaps it was the Hollywood bungalow made famous in the Doors song
“L.A. Woman.” Perhaps not.
It did not matter. I knocked on the door
and immediately slipped my hand back in my jacket pocket. Cold steel was
strange comfort.
I’d spent the summer of my eighteenth year
loafing about Los Angeles with a gang of misfits like myself, disabling
security systems and picking locks of the houses of mid-level celebrities and
wannabe celebrities on vacation. Couldn’t go for the big shots—they had guards
as well as alarms—but those in the middle and waiting for fame or attempting to
hitch a ride with fame were less inclined to do anything but set up security
systems, if that. The skill I learned back then came in handy now as I picked
the lock and furtively entered Morrison’s hotel room.
The light of dusk as it faded into evening
dimly splashed across a table near the open window, thin teal curtains rippling
at the insistence of a light breeze. I had a momentary impression of swimming
underwater. A chair was set askew to the left of the table, while a notepad,
pencil, and lamp sat on top. Further to my left, I could barely make out a bed
and a small end table next to the bed. That was it for amenities. Though I
suspected other rooms had more furniture, it seemed this one was gutted to bare
minimum. There was lots of empty space.
I glanced all around. The door to the
bathroom was closed, but there was no light peeking out from below. If Morrison
lived here, he was not presently here. So much for tales of his hermit
existence.
Still, I padded softly toward the table
and the notepad and read the top page.
American Ghost
I.
After Paris, endless night
I kissed the anus of America
& death shadowed my every step
In the womb of Times Square,
fevers & desire
The South sways large hips
to voodoo fire
Stigmata palm of the golden
plains bleeds
Los Angeles, the mouth,
bringer of disease
moon rises in the palace of nightmares
snakes kiss as an Ouroboros
halo
& hiss as the gods define myths
Blood smeared black on white
sheets
Naked beaches
Home
Rattlesnakes tremble,
radiators rattle
A leather satchel adorned
with strange symbols
(burnt through from the
inside)
A dark companion
A prison cell of words
The scaly prison of self
Fame
Famine of the soul
The Old Ones watch from
halls of mirrors
Smile like crocodiles in
blue cars
And wonder at my wandering
(Quiet!)
Skin pale, translucent
Transformative
I see the truth beneath the
lie
& lie in wait
A passive beast
I am the jeweled lizard
King of the glitzy wasteland
A ghost shedding skins
A man no longer human
Finally free . . .
II.
I lifted the loose page to continue, but
the page beneath bore nothing but fingerprints smeared in what looked like
blood. I re-read the unfinished poem, “American Ghost,” and wondered as to the
meaning of Morrison’s meanderings. Rumor had it, fame was not his friend. Rock
stardom a hindrance to his true poetic ambitions. Perhaps he faked his death
and has been holed up here since . . . and when would he be back?
I noticed some scribbling on the wall,
just like in “the green hotel.” Noticed again a line I’d read only recently: No
Future Here, Not Yours Or Mine. I leaned forward, placing my hand on the
tabletop to get a closer look at other lines, phrases, random words.
Immediately I jerked it away, my fingers filthy with something sticky.
The meager light from outside was not
enough to reveal what it was, so I reached toward the lamp and clicked it on.
The bulb brought only feeble brightness, but it was enough to distinguish a
two-foot wide smudge of indecipherable gel leading out the window. As I leaned
in for a closer inspection, a meaty stench nipped at my nostrils, pushing me
back.
I turned around, taking in the room, lamp
still in my hand. Something was discarded on the floor, behind the chair. Perhaps
a shirt, a jacket. I stepped forward to get a better look when the cord for the
lamp reached its limits, so I set the lamp on the seat of the wooden chair.
Crouching down, I scooped up the item,
taken by the unexpected texture. I rubbed the fingers of my left hand over . .
. whatever it was, and then pulled at the corners to take it in. Pulled at the
shoulders, to be more precise . . . and was shocked at what my eyes beheld. It
was a weird sort of skin, the memory of scales inlayed throughout, yet in the
shape of a man!
A ghost shedding skins . . .
I gasped at the implication, when I saw
through the weird skin, on the table next to the bed—a leather satchel.
A leather satchel adorned with strange
symbols . . .
I dropped the skin, no matter allusions
bizarre, preposterous, and moved toward the table . . . when the shadows spoke.
“This is not for you.”
I hastily pulled the gun from my jacket
pocket.
“Morrison?”
A gurgling suggestion of laughter.
“Only a chosen few are allowed to
experience its gifts. A few others are allowed to dabble, such as Mr. Morrison.
Though dabbling promises nothing of a positive nature, only harsh truths buried
within and brought to the surface. Most are not even given opportunity to
glimpse the book. This is not for your eyes.”
I ignored the words of the one in the
shadows.
“I suggest you move aside. I’ll use this
if I have to,” I said, waving the gun, semaphoring a death warning.
Again with the gurgling suggestion of
laughter. “You dare think you are worthy of the book. You dare think you can
handle it. We—” the voice echoing, a ripple across a vast, empty lake “—the
guardians, cannot allow the fulfillment of your misguided quest.” The words
ricocheted around me, causing me to hunch over, as if avoiding their invisible
trajectories.
I had nothing to lose. Nothing but time. I
fired once and the shadows thickened, as if swelling. I fired again and again,
emptying the gun into the dark shape, yet it did not fall to the ground. Did
not stop its approach. I stepped back once, twice . . . and slipped on the
weird skin, a comical Keystone Kops swooping tumble, the back of my head
crashing into the edge of the wooden chair with a crack, dazed. The lamp landed
on the ground next to me, light tossed in every direction, unsettled.
Shooting stars and twanging guitars and
piping organs, bass drum smack, 2, 3, 4—fading . . .
Shaking my head. A meteor shower. A heavy,
ponderous sound from the direction of the window, plodding, scrabbling . . .
The shadow presence hesitated, dispersed.
Black holes devoured the periphery.
Above me, behind the disintegrated
shadows, a large reptile stretched out across the ceiling, pale flesh . . .
unreal.
I blinked and almost passed out again.
Glimpsed a man’s silhouette as the large reptile turned its head toward me in a
disturbingly human manner. Moaned with the ache as disorientation filled my
eyes, my ears—
Shooting stars and twanging guitars and
piping organs, bass drum smack, a voice; his voice! Muffled, but I heard him.
The large reptile shuffled swiftly from
ceiling to floor and now hovered over me much closer than comfort would permit.
A thunderclap, a jaw unhinged. I raised the gun toward it, to no avail. It
opened its mouth wider and I heard the familiar voice more clearly now,
familiar yet perverted under these circumstances. My vision fluttered as the
wings of a dying moth.
I dropped the gun to fend for myself,
battering at the scaly hide; again, to no avail. The pale reptile’s mouth
opened wider. I heard the voice that echoed from within one more time . . . and
screamed into the cavernous maw as the singer, the poet, the avaricious
creature annihilated my grasp on sanity as what must be the second section of
the poem I’d read mere minutes ago bubbled up from the belly of this beast and
coiled around me as a straitjacket. In Morrison’s voice, I heard it all, my
destiny set in stone for the eons that would follow . . .
“But free in what capacity
The only truth is what’s
left to experience
As the corpse of belief rots
beneath a tapestry of curious darkness
Crematory heat washes over
me
An eternity in the mouth of
Hell awaits all who follow in my steps…”
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