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A few random things vis a vis Errol and Jim.
Just a few things while I'm still trying to get out of working...
Watching 'The Soft Parade' on DVD, I was kinda surprised that Jim (by now in his fat, beardy state) isn't actually that fat. I mean, compared to his former self, sure. But from the back he looks the same, which leads me to suspect that Morrison spent his time hardly eating and drinking a lot. That bit doesn't surprise me, actually. From the back he looks like.... like Jim. But then you look closer and realise his hair isn't merely tousled, it's in a state, you look closer and you realise his cheekbones have disappeared and his eyes are almost hidden. His voice sounds like it's been ripped to shreds or just dried out by alcohol.
It's just like watching Errol Flynn in the late forties and early fifties. He seems like Flynn, sounds like Flynn... Then you look closer and realise that he's actually barely recognisable.
I hate watching them both deteriorate, even though it's fifty/thirty years later. I hate that when he died at 27, Morrison had the body of a fifty year old. I hate knowing that the doctor who checked Flynn out after he died was certain that this man was 75, although he was barely fifty. I hate that neither of them were strong enough to kick it into touch and I hate that their friends didn't know to help more. I hate that they weren't locked in a room to dry out. I hate that they were both living in the days before Betty Ford and the Priory and rehab. I hate that neither of them ever actually knew what it was like to be really, truly content. I hate that showbiz killed both of them and I hate knowing that really it wasn't showbiz as much as it was themselves. And I hate most of all that I wasn't there to at least try and help them. Because bloody hell, I would try. Perhaps, you know, I would've ended up getting narked with both of them like their pals did. Perhaps I would've given up like everyone else did. But I hate that I came along too late to help. That's why I can't ever forget that bloody dream because I want so desperately to help them. I know they've been rotting in LA and Paris for decades, and I know it's absolutely illogical.
I still don't have enough done. I'm not going to sleep until I've finished Chapters One and three, both of which are at about the halfway mark. Which leaves tomorrow for the whole of chapter two and tweaking of Chapter Four. And footnotes. And bibliography. And making sure it all adheres to the anal demands of the American Studies dept. stylewise. And deciding if I'm doing a picture appendix. And proofreading (something I've never done for schoolwork in my life). Then on Friday: printing and getting it bound and handing the bastard in.
And yes, I know this hectic schedule is all my fault. I know that. I'm not apportioning blame anywhere but right here. The buck hath come to a complete standstill. In fact, I'm thinking of having cards made.
And one last thing: there are some fanfic writers who shouldn't be writing if pointing out problems with formatting results in a big flame back. I must be bored if I'm going to FF.net. On the other hand- read Yumi's 'Ordinary' and 'Story', both of which were thoroughly enjoyable.
I'm going now. Go back to your regularly scheduled programming.
Watching 'The Soft Parade' on DVD, I was kinda surprised that Jim (by now in his fat, beardy state) isn't actually that fat. I mean, compared to his former self, sure. But from the back he looks the same, which leads me to suspect that Morrison spent his time hardly eating and drinking a lot. That bit doesn't surprise me, actually. From the back he looks like.... like Jim. But then you look closer and realise his hair isn't merely tousled, it's in a state, you look closer and you realise his cheekbones have disappeared and his eyes are almost hidden. His voice sounds like it's been ripped to shreds or just dried out by alcohol.
It's just like watching Errol Flynn in the late forties and early fifties. He seems like Flynn, sounds like Flynn... Then you look closer and realise that he's actually barely recognisable.
I hate watching them both deteriorate, even though it's fifty/thirty years later. I hate that when he died at 27, Morrison had the body of a fifty year old. I hate knowing that the doctor who checked Flynn out after he died was certain that this man was 75, although he was barely fifty. I hate that neither of them were strong enough to kick it into touch and I hate that their friends didn't know to help more. I hate that they weren't locked in a room to dry out. I hate that they were both living in the days before Betty Ford and the Priory and rehab. I hate that neither of them ever actually knew what it was like to be really, truly content. I hate that showbiz killed both of them and I hate knowing that really it wasn't showbiz as much as it was themselves. And I hate most of all that I wasn't there to at least try and help them. Because bloody hell, I would try. Perhaps, you know, I would've ended up getting narked with both of them like their pals did. Perhaps I would've given up like everyone else did. But I hate that I came along too late to help. That's why I can't ever forget that bloody dream because I want so desperately to help them. I know they've been rotting in LA and Paris for decades, and I know it's absolutely illogical.
I still don't have enough done. I'm not going to sleep until I've finished Chapters One and three, both of which are at about the halfway mark. Which leaves tomorrow for the whole of chapter two and tweaking of Chapter Four. And footnotes. And bibliography. And making sure it all adheres to the anal demands of the American Studies dept. stylewise. And deciding if I'm doing a picture appendix. And proofreading (something I've never done for schoolwork in my life). Then on Friday: printing and getting it bound and handing the bastard in.
And yes, I know this hectic schedule is all my fault. I know that. I'm not apportioning blame anywhere but right here. The buck hath come to a complete standstill. In fact, I'm thinking of having cards made.
And one last thing: there are some fanfic writers who shouldn't be writing if pointing out problems with formatting results in a big flame back. I must be bored if I'm going to FF.net. On the other hand- read Yumi's 'Ordinary' and 'Story', both of which were thoroughly enjoyable.
I'm going now. Go back to your regularly scheduled programming.