Self - interview

I think interview is the new art form. I think the self-interview is the essence of creativity. Asking yourself questions and trying to find answers. The writer is just answering a series of unuttered questions.

It’s similar to answering questions on a witness stand. It’s that strange area where you try and pin down something that happened in the past and try honestly to remember what you were trying to do. It’s a crucial mental exercise. An interview will often give you a chance to confront your mind with questions, which to me is what art is all about. An interview also gives you a chance to try and eliminate all those space fillers… you should try to be explicit, accurate, to the point…. No bullshit. The interview form has antecedents in the confession box, debating and cross-examination. Once you say something, you can’t really retract it. It’s too late. It’s a very existential moment.

I’m kind of hooked to the game of art and literature: my heroes are artists and writers.

I always wanted to write, but I always figured it’d be no good unless somehow the hand just took the pen and started without moving without me really having anything to do with it. Like automatic writing. But it never just happened.

I wrote a few poems, of course. I think around the fifth or sixth grade I wrote a poem called “The Pony Express.” That was the first I can remember. It was one of those ballad-type poems. I never could get it together though.

“Horse Latitudes” I wrote when I was in high school. I kept a lot of note books through high school and college, and then when I left school, for some dumb reason – maybe it was wise – I threw them all away…. I wrote in those books night after night. But maybe if I’d never thrown them away, I’d never have written anything original – because they were mainly accumulations of things that I’d read or heard, like quotes from books. I think if I’d never gotten rid of them I’d never been free.

Listen, real poetry doesn’t say anything, it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through any one that suits you.

…….and that’s why poetry appeals to me so much- because it’s so eternal. As long as there are people, they can remember words and combination of words. Nothing else can survive a holocaust but poetry and songs. No one can remember an entire novel. No one can describe a film, a piece of sculpture, a painting, but so long as there are human beings, songs and poetry can continue.

If my poetry aims to achieve anything, it’s to deliver people from the limited ways in which they see and feel.

Jim Morrison
Los Angeles, 1969-71
 

The opening of the trunk


Moment of inner freedom
when the mind is opened & the
infinite universe revealed
& the soul is left to wander
dazed & confus’d searching
here & there for teachers & friends.

Moment of Freedom
As the prisoner
Blinks in the sun
Like a mole
From his hole

A child’s 1st trip
Away from home

That moment of freedom

LAmerica
Cold treatment of our empress
LAmerica
The Transient Universe
LAmerica
Instant communion and
communication
lamerica
emeralds in glass
lamerica
searchlights at twi-light
lamerica
stoned streets in the pale dawn
lamerica
robed in exile
lamerica
swift beat of a proud heart
lamerica
eyes like twenty
lamerica
swift dream
lamerica
frozen heart
lamerica
soldiers doom
lamerica
clouds & struggles
lamerica
Nighthawk
doomed from the start
lamerica
"That's how I met her,
lamerica
lonely and frozen
lamerica
& sullen, yes
lamerica
right from the start"

Then stop.
Go.
The wilderness between.
Go round the march.

he enters stage:

Blood boots. Killer storm.
Fool's gold. God in a heaven.
Where is she?
Have you seen her?
Has anyone seen this girl?
snap shot (projected)
She's my sister.
Ladies & gentlemen:
please attend carefully to these words & events
It's your last chance, our last hope.
In this womb or tomb, we're free of the swarming streets.
The black fever which rages is safely out those doors
My friends & I come from
Far Arden w/ dances, &
new music
Everywhere followers accrue
to our procession.
Tales of Kings, gods, warriors
and lovers dangled like
jewels for your careless pleasure

I'm Me!
Can you dig it.
My meat is real.
My hands--how they move
balanced like lithe demons
My hair--so twined and writhing
The skin of my face--pinch the cheeks
My flaming sword tongue
spraying verbal fire-flys
I'm real.
I'm human
But I'm not an ordinary man
No No No

What are you doing here?
What do you want?
Is it music?
We can play music.
But you want more.
You want something & someone new.
Am I right?
Of course I am.
You want ecstasy
Desire & dreams.
Things not exactly what they seem.
I lead you this way, he pulls that way.
I'm not singing to an imaginary girl.
I'm talking to you, my self.
Let's recreate the world.
The palace of conception is burning.

Look. See it burn.
Bask in the warm hot coals.

You're too young to be old
You don't need to be told
You want to see things as they are.
You know exactly what I do
Everything

I am a guide to the Labyrinth

Monarch of the protean towers
on this cool stone patio
above the iron mist
sunk in its own waste
breathing its own breath

Power

I can make the earth stop in
its tracks. I made the
blue cars go away.

I can make myself invisible or small.
I can become gigantic & reach the
farthest things. I can change
the course of nature.
I can place myself anywhere in
space or time.
I can summon the dead.
I can perceive events on other worlds,
in my deepest inner mind,
& in the minds of others.

I can

I am

People need Connectors
Writers, heroes, stars, leaders
To give life form.
A child's sand boat facing
the sun.
Plastic soldiers in the miniature
dirt war. Forts.
Garage Rocket Ships

Ceremonies, theatre, dances
To reassert Tribal needs & memories
a call to worship, uniting
above all, a reversion,
a longing for family & the
safety magic of childhood

The grand highway
is
crowded
w/
lovers
&
searchers
&
leavers
so
eager
to
please
&
forget.

Wilderness

Now is blessed
The rest
remembered