Tag Archives: Jim Morrison

NANWRIMO Failure — Part Two

So, as I may have mentioned before, there is NO WAY I’m going to have 50,000 words by Saturday.  I don’t even have 5,000 yet.  I WILL finish This Lizard King Club after the holidays, though.  Anyway, since I shared the first chapter, Janis,  I wanted to share Jim’s first appearance in the book, too.  As with Janis, the Jim chapter is a first draft.  There will be lots of revision work ahead.

Jim

Serge, in his previous life.
Serge, in his previous life.

Serge Levenson slammed his bedroom door and kicked his sneaker across the room after his mom told him he would be grounded if he didn’t clean his room, even though it was his birthday. “Why would anyone have to clean the room on the 13th birthday? What is wrong with that bitch?”  He started picking up clothes off of the floor and throwing them in his laundry basket.  He sniffed his favorite gray sweatshirt, thinking that maybe he could wear it one more time before washing it, but it smelled like smoke.  Serge had recently tried cigarettes and marijuana.  So far, his parents hadn’t noticed.  They were both usually too busy to notice him, or at least that is how it seemed to him.  After he had thrown all of the clothes in the basket, Serge started throwing his shoes and anything else on the floor, including half empty Vitamin Water bottles in the closet.  After he forced the closet door to close, he ripped the poster of Alice Cooper from the  wall next to the closet.  “Screw you, Alice!” Serge suddenly hated Alice Cooper, and he wasn’t sure why.  He ripped the poster to shreds and threw it on the floor.  Next, he ripped the Motley Crue and Ozzy posters down, shredding them and throwing them.  “There! Now, it’s clean, you stupid bitch!” He was so mad at his mom for making him do this.  Why does she need to worry about his room?  Serge tried not to yell too loud even though he was super pissed off.  He knew his parents would not let him hire his friend Michael’s band for his Bar Mitzvah if he pissed them off. He was too loud though, because his mom came into his room.

“What is going on here?”  She yelled, while looking around at the damage he had done to his room.

“I am the lizard King I can do anything!” Sergio screamed at his mom. He could see that his dad was watching from behind his mom with a look of horror.

Serge’s mom said, “What did you just say?”

Serge repeated, “I am the lizard King! I can do anything!”

Serge’s mom turned around to look at his father, who whispered,  “They were right.”

Serge’s father was referring to the psychics at the psychic fair they went to back when he was five. There were always festivals and fairs in San Francisco, where Serge had lived his whole life. The psychics had warned his parents that he was the reincarnated Jim Morrison. Rena and Drew Levenson had not wanted to believe that he was Jim because of the invasion of privacy that would come with this role.  There would be so much stress, not to mention the self-destructive tendencies that travel with the soul between life times.  Everyone in the world waited for the next incarnation of the 27 Club.  They were looked upon as spiritual leaders and philosophers.

Now, as they looked around Serge’s room at the ripped up posters of rock stars, and listened to him mutter, “They’ve ruined music. They are ruining the world,” they believed it. Rena remembered the time Serge had stolen his father’s Doors records when he was 11. He took them down from the shelf they were on and threw them to the floor, and he scratched them all with a butter knife. Serge insisted, “These are mine; these are mine! They’ve taken my poetry and sold it!” They had written it off to a tantrum then, but now, now it seemed real. Plus, Serge was at the age where the past life traits become evident — puberty.  After all, he was “becoming a man” as he would become a Bar Mitzvah soon.  Rena felt sick.

Drew grabbed Rena’s shoulders and pulled her from Serge’s room.  He closed the door and walked Rena to the living room.  She walked to the picture window and stared at the Golden Gate Bridge, which could barely be seen with all of the clouds.  Minka, the cat jumped down from the windowsill and rubbed against Rena’s legs. Rena turned around to look at Drew right as he was handing her a glass of wine.  She was raising her hand to her temple, which had begun to throb, and she knocked the glass out of Drew’s hand. The wine fell to the hard wood floor, leaving broken glass and Pinot Noir everywhere.

Rena bent down and grabbed the cat so she wouldn’t walk on the glass.  “I’m sorry!”

“I guess you would rather have a martini,” Drew replied, with a little laugh.

“This isn’t funny, Drew.  This is the end of our lives as we know it,” Rena said, as she cradled the fluffy, white Persian.

“We don’t know that any of this is even true yet.  Reen, he’s going though puberty.  He’s going to have mood swings and say odd things.” Drew bent down and started picking up shards of glass from the floor, piling them neatly into the larger piece of the wine glass.

Rena walked to the couch and sat down with Minka on her lap.  “But this isn’t the first time.  Remember when he was in first grade, after the fair? We were walking to the car and he pointed to that one guy’s Door’s shirt and asked why his picture was on a shirt.”

Drew threw the glass pieces in the kitchen garbage, and grabbed the paper towels off of the marble breakfast bar.  “He was a little kid.  Little kids pretend to be Superman and aliens, and all kinds of stuff. You’re taking this all too seriously.” He squatted and started wiping wine from the floor, blotting up the mess and then wiping the spot again with more towels.

“But this is really odd.  There are just too many instances for it to be coincidence.  And it’s always about Jim Morrison.” Rena walked around Drew to get to the kitchen.  She grabbed the Simple Green spray and walked over to the wine spot.

Drew stood up and took the bottle from her. “Look. Instead of arguing, let’s take him back to Nancy. If you don’t want to go back to her, I can ask around at the office.  We just did a campaign for a psychiatry practice.  Someone is bound to know a good therapist.”

“Doing a PR campaign doesn’t make someone an expert on therapists.” Rena rolled her eyes.  It always irritated her when Drew took charge because he was her teacher when they had first met.

“Fine. Then you pick someone.  Let’s just have him talk to SOMEONE. OK?”

“OK.” Rena walked to their bedroom at the end of the hallway off of the living room and kitchen area.  She closed the door behind her, leaving Drew to finish with the floor.

The Lizard King Club — My Next Novel

My husband and I were riding down Easton Way, on our way to the airport to pick up our son. The satellite radio was set on the Classic Vinyl station, and the Doors’ “Light my Fire” was playing. I started to think about Jim Morrison and how he thought the spirit of a Native American entered his body as his family drove past the accident that killed the man. If you haven’t seen the movie The Doors, or read any biographical material, that probably made no sense.  I offer you these lyrics as clarification.

While I was lost in this thought, my husband said, “Look! Look at the donorcycle guy!”  My husband and I often say that motorcycles (AKA donorcycles) are organ donation machines, and this guy was a great example. I looked over to my right, and I saw a motorcycle rider standing up on his seat and doing a wheelie, while going at least 80, if not faster. I stared at him as he passed us, and I watched him weave in and out of cars. I told my husband, “Stay back.  I don’t want to see it.”  I was wiping my sweaty palms on my pants because I thought for sure we were about to witness the cyclist’s horrible death.

As I stared at him, I could almost hear the motorcycle rider say, “I am the Lizard King. I can do anything,” which is a line from one of Jim Morrison’s poems. The combination of witnessing someone who is that unafraid to die, and hearing Jim’s voice made me start thinking about reincarnation.   As a wannabe Buddhist, I have read about how the Dalai Lama is found.  Each Dalai Lama is believed to be the reincarnation of the previous Dalai Lama. What if all leaders, whether they are artistic, spiritual, or both, were reincarnated?  As I thought about the people I would like to see reincarnated, I realized that most of them were members of the 27 Club, musicians who have died at 27.  So, I thought, what if some of the most famous members of the 27 Club came back, and it was completely normal and expected? How would we recognize them? Could they complete their missions this time around?

So, I have begun writing The Lizard King Club, my second YA novel. While it will still be realistic fiction, for the most part, it will contain more fantasy than anything I have previously written.  I will post excerpts on my blog as I write.  I hope you enjoy reading them, and I would love to hear from you as I write.

Creative Commons License
The Lizard King Club by Lisa R. Petty is licensed under aCreative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.