On Saturday (May 9) I arrived in France from Germany via airplane. I hadn’t slept much the night before in Berlin and should have napped when I got to my hotel in Paris, but the excitement (and noise) from outside my window was beckoning me to be apart of it. I had been invited to go to an art exhibit at Le Point Éphémère by Erwan, a man who set up a show for me on May 13 at Le Pop In. He met me at my hotel and we took the metro to the gallery. I realized when getting to the location that I had played there last time I was in Paris. I didn’t realize the area was also used for art exhibits.  On Sunday (May 10) I woke up and went immediately to Père Lachaise Cemetery.  I needed to see Jim Morrison’s grave as part of my project and a friend of mine had hidden a note for me to find across the lane from Jim’s grave. First I had some overpriced breakfast next door to my hotel because it was convenient. I ordered a waffle with an arrangement of fruit, whipped cream,  and some Earl Grey tea. At the gallery the night before a French woman told me that this was the most beautiful time of the year in Paris and a great time to get lost in the city. When I left I the restaurant I didn’t know where I was going at first, I had general directions to just walk down Avenue de Repulic and Pere Lachaise Cemetery would be at the end and you would see it. Problem was, all of a sudden I was on a random street I didn’t know. I have no cell phone service unless I am at the hotel so there was no chance of me looking it up. I have a pretty good sense of direction and listened to where my intuition wanted to steer me. I kept walking and eventually saw a sign that said “Pere Lachaise Cemetery”. I found Jim Morrison’s grave which is located in section 6, grave #30. There were a bunch of people hovering around the gate surrounding his grave (to keep people from going physically up to it, I guess people do weird things on it). It happened to be Mother’s Day and I couldn’t help but think about my mom when I was there looking at his grave. One of my earliest memories was listening to The Doors in the car driving back and forth between Los Angeles and Orange County. I used to imagine Jim Morrison as a giant shadow monster and was startled to see what he looked like when I got older.  In 1967 Nico began to compose songs by herself inspired by her friendship with Jim Morrison. Before, she had only sung songs written by other song writers. She was encouraged by Jim to start writing down her dreams which led to her writing her own poems and songs.

Quote from Nico: The Life and Lies of an Icon

“I thought of Jim Morrison as my brother, so we would grow together. We still do, because he is my soul brother. We exchanged blood. I carry his blood inside me. When he died, and I told people that he wasn’t dead, this was my meaning. We had spiritual journeys together..’ ” (Witts 185)

” ‘Jim gave me permission to be a writer,” Nico claimed. ‘He said to me one day, “I give you permission to write your poems and compose your songs!” My soul brother believed I could do it. I had his authority. And why not? His song was the most popular song in America.” (Witts 187)

 (drawing of the stairs at Le Pop In)

On Sunday night (May 10) I met up with Tristan at Le Pop In, the bar that I am going to play a show at Wednesday night (May 13). Erwan suggested I go to open mic on Sunday to get a feel for the place and to tell some people about the show. Tristan didn’t have a guitar accompanying him on his journey but I definitely do so I let him borrow mine. We both performed two songs in front of a French audience and I think it was a good experience for us.  We went back to my hotel and jammed on some songs that we both know and I recorded us playing a song by Death Cab Cutie called Crooked Teeth on my cell phone. (Inserted below).

On Monday night (May 11) I played a house show that was set up by Oliver Peel, a man who puts together indie and DIY shows in Paris. He cooked 6 vegetarian quiches and provided chips and drinks for everyone. Food is always a part of his concerts and that is quite an appeal to people. The show wasn’t at his house, but a friend of his in the music community. Before finding the house, I had some difficulties locating it. I tried to look at the email that was sent to me but since I wasn’t connected to the internet it was in French and no longer translated into English. I had been dropped off on Bis Avenue Pasteur, fully dressed for the concert with my flower headband, my guitar, my merchandise bag, and my backpack. Standing there, sticking out because of the flower crown, and looking like a confused American (at least that’s how I felt) all of a sudden I was approached by about 6 different French guys talking to me and telling me how they loved my fashion and how beautiful I looked. They told me that nobody wears flowers in their hair here or red platforms, which I thought was weird because isn’t Paris supposed to be the center of fashion? I found it odd that me wearing a bright color on my head and on my feet exhibited such a strong reaction from these guys. Since I couldn’t read the email, one of the French guys translated it for me, showed me where the house was, and ended up going to the show. He was 19 and played us some songs on my acoustic guitar. Today I hung out with a French women who told me that “Paris is the center of fashion unless you live here. If you wear anything other than black people stare at you. I don’t even wear skirts out in public because too many guys say dirty things under their breath or make comments at me.”

(candles burning at Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris) – went there today. (May 12)

Poem I wrote:

Canals of crystals
submarines and trains
sabots and systems
destruction and creation
the secrets of the night

ancestral karma
forgotten names
broken crosses on
tombstones

take fire to the wound
to burn away the scar
the gasping moon
yellow fields
love notes in a jar

send directions
a maze
to a certain graveyard

walking down the
winding staircase
pleasantly lost in
the 1600s
where I was
a princess
running down
the
halls
acoustic guitar
in my hand
my voice traveling
up the rafters
into the beams
oh how I would
cry out
laughs
that could be
screams