Hello Sweetness. 

Jim never talked about Pam, it was his manager who would throw her name into the conversation literally whenever he felt like it wasn’t completely strange or awkward to do so. Jim got silent, I looked away and off we reversed back to different topics. It was a process I became accustomed to since I moved in with him. She came back maybe twice a year and I always stayed at a friend’s house until she went off, galloping with madness, back to Paris. I always wondered what she would think of to plot against me when she was in LA and when I came back to pick up the shattered remains of her husband I found little clues all over the House. She left me mean little messages in the drawers; she would tell Jim about vicious womankind, fucking men to get their money, never tired to number me among those. Pouring sugar in the salt can and vice versa was actually one of the funny, harmless things she came up with. This one time she left, I found a bunch of moths nesting in the room I kept all my clothes. I was never 100% sure it was her but, hell I believed it when I cleaned out the room, throwing the holey lumps out of the window onto the back lawn. Up to this gorgeous July morning her presence was far away, stored in my memory. It has been 5 months since she had been here. I remember so well because Jim was sober at the time, planning on playing tons of Festivals in the Summer. We were happy and relieved and contempt he’d stay clean back then and I remembered she only left me one thing that time. She wrote ‘Thank You’ on the mirror in the upstairs bathroom. In bright red lipstick, thanking me for something she could have never managed. But everything collapsed soon after she had left again. He got worse than ever and I never knew if it was because he missed her or because he just couldn’t stay away from the liquor per se.

[….]

We went to his library which he had tried to keep up to date for me, always ordering books, chasing the perfect edition. He would give me books like other men would hand a woman flowers and jewelry. I always knew that when he covered up my eyes, guiding me to the sunlit library and shove me down to the ground, I would be bathing in dozens and dozens of new and old, leather bound and paper bound books. The smell up here was sweet and soothing, etched in my memory like a Lovers perfume. But right now, all the smiles were far away from me. With Jim and his manager trotting behind me I felt strangely out of place. I saw it the second we entered the room with the high ceilings. There was a note from Pam on the desk and I could tell by the way the two men were circling the paper and me like sharks that something bad was about to break down on me and Jim. “Jim needs to go back on Tour. Woodstock has asked for the Doors to play. There are other venues that want to book them, too. I just can’t see you in the picture here.”
“Bill.” Jims stressed voice attempted to stop his Manager. He was unable to look at me, his eyes pinned to Pams letter on the table.
“She needs to hear this, Jim.” He said to him, and then addressing me again. “Listen, Pam is coming back tomorrow. And she’s gonna stay. You have to leave.”
My mind wandered to the Night Jim and I looked up Woodstock on the 18th Century Map right here in this library. We drank red wine, we smoked pot and he kept singing songs for me. I remembered we made plans that Night. For us, we felt like it would always go on like that. The writing and the concerts and the drinking. But now Jim was too fucked up to even speak up for us. His manager explained things my head never even tried to process. The words came flying at me and I let them glance off like bullets I would never let through to my heart.
“You were never good enough for him anyway …”
I did let these words through. And I believed in them. I felt that with them in my awareness it would be easy for me to live my future as the wreckage I was bound to become when I bumped into Jim five years before. The statement became my justification for the next two years. I know that when I walked out of the library and stole one last glimpse I promised myself that I would fight for Jim. I would give it time and come back for him because I was so sure I could help him overcome all this shit. I know that when I saw his eyes for the last time, saw how upset he was that he never believed what his manager could finally unload on me with his superior sneer. Our eyes, interlocked for the very last time, had one of their familiar soundless conversations ‘I’m sorry and I love you and I will see you soon’. We couldn’t know back then. We couldn’t know we would never see each other again. Couldn’t know how two years later I would read in the newspaper that the man I loved had died in a foreign country thousands of Miles away. There was no goodbye. There was just me, standing in Paris, waking over his soulless shell wishing I had told him about the Phantom, wishing I had walked up Laurel Canyon with him, wishing I had never walked out on him that day.

“We could be so good together” is what he would say and I kind of shrugged it off, happily laughing because I didn’t feel safe enough to believe him and open my heart to the full possibility of getting hurt back then.
It was ’64 and New York was in bloom. Midtown and wide parts of Manhattan were crowded with businessmen rushing home to their Families on Long Island to spend Nights and Weekends away from the City Buzz. But there were areas in Brooklyn and the East Side of Manhattan a new era had already begun. The area where I’d dance to all those glorified Rock Stars, wearing flowery dresses, white lace headbands and shaking my strawberry hair.
The area where Jim Morrison would enter a bar, order a whiskey and watch me dance to his Music. He called dibs on me that Night, ordering alcohol for anyone approaching me, so soon they’d be too drunk to make a move and he’d be the last standing man in this cold Brooklyn Night.
Two years later I moved to Hollywood. I told my dad I did it for school, told my Mom I wanted to become an actress, but truth was, I went for Jim.
Another three years later I stood in front of his House, holding him upright. I had to drive him Home after minute long discussions. He won in a way because he managed to convince me to let him drive the few miles away from Malibu onto Highway 1.
“For the Press” he would say, preventing published photos of me driving a very coked-up Jim Morrison in his beloved Shelby Cobra 500, … but then after impossible U-Turns and uncontrolled speeding he agreed on switching seats after all.

Oh, that was too easy.