Mr Mojo Read Online Free Page A

– he would have gone to San Francisco for that. The budding boho was looking to drop in, to be accepted by the new bohemians. Soon he would begin to feed off the city, letting it wrap itself around him, letting its warm neon flow through his veins. But for the time being he threw himself into his work, casting himself as a student of film. Jim Morrison’s own movie was unfolding.
    According to legend, the Jim Morrison movie really began in 1947, when he was four years old. While driving through the New Mexico desert, the Morrison family came across a horrendous road accident, an event which would cause severe repercussions in Jim’s life, and one to which he would constantly refer in his poems. Morrison was convinced that at the age of four the soul of a dead Pueblo Indian entered his body, altering the course of his life: a more than suitable beginning for a movie.
    â€˜The first time I discovered death,’ said Morrison, ‘me and my mother and father, and my grandmother and grandfather, were driving through the desert at dawn. A truckload of Indians had either hit another car or something – there were Indians scattered allover the highway, bleeding to death. So we pulled the car up . . . I don’t remember if I’d ever been to a movie, and suddenly, there were all these redskins, and they’re lying all over the road, bleeding to death. I was just a kid, so I had to stay in the car while my father and grandfather went back to check it out . . . I didn’t see nothing – all I saw was funny red paint and people lying around, but I knew something was happening, because I could dig the vibrations of the people around me, ’cause they’re my parents and all, and all of a sudden I realised that they didn’t know what was happening any more than I did. That was the first time I tasted fear . . . and I do think, at that moment, the soul or the ghosts of those dead Indians, maybe one or two of ’em, were just running around, freaking out, and just landed in my soul, and I was like a sponge, ready to just sit there and absorb it . . . It’s not a ghost story, it’s something that really means something to me.’
    Jim Morrison was the son of a high-ranking naval officer, born into a family with a long history of career militarists. James Douglas was Steve and Clara Morrison’s first child, a bright, healthy baby with fat cheeks and cold, sparkling eyes. Soon after Jim was born, Steve Morrison was posted to the Pacific, where he stayed for three years, entrenched in a war of attrition with the Japanese. His father away at war, the boy spent the first three years of his life with his mother at his paternal grandparents’ house, in Clearwater, on theGulf coast of Florida. When he eventually returned from the war, in the humid summer of 1946, Steve Morrison’s family began a gypsy-like existence, first moving to Washington DC for six months, and then to Albuquerque, New Mexico, for a year. During the next fifteen years, Morrison senior was sent all over America, and was often away from home on manoeuvres, leaving the boy to be brought up by Clara. If little Jim needed a father figure, he certainly didn’t get one.
    The family kept on moving: early in 1948, Steve Morrison took his family to Los Altos in northern California, where they were stationed for nearly four years. Then it was back to Washington DC for a year (while Steve was stationed in Korea), then Claremont, California, for another two. Along the way little Jim acquired a sister, Ann, and a brother, Andrew. And still they kept on moving: when Morrison senior returned from Korea, they went back to Albuquerque for two years before moving on to San Francisco. In December 1958, they returned to Washington, where they stayed for three years, and where Jim attended George Washington High School.
    Although his family were conventional, middle-class Republicans, with solid, traditional, patriarchal