STRANGE DAYS

Narcissistic memoir of, mostly, a love affair with Jim Morrison. When Kennealy met the rock star in the third-to-last year of his life, they shook hands and there was a ``visible shower of bright blue sparks.'' ``What are you?'' Morrison asked. Kennealy replied that she was a witch—a Celtic high priestess (recently, Kennealy has written several Celtic-themed sword-and-sorcery sagas: The Silver Branch, 1988, etc.). Then, she says, she and Morrison were married by her Celtic coven—and, in a ``blaze of love and passion ignited,'' they consummated their union six times in two hours. Morrison (who never lived with Kennealy during their year of wedlock) is a nebulous presence here, impossible to visualize by manner or by the romance-novel speeches supplied for him, and appears mostly as a foil to the Kennealy ego—which is queen-sized. It is also imperious (``[the Woodstock crowd was] some Third World country—one with no food, pidgin speech patterns, indifferent latrine habits, even native handicrafts...if one more person says to me `Good vibes, huh?' I am going to punch him/her in the mouth''); disingenuous (despite taking acid, pot, cocaine, codeine, Valium, and numerous other drugs, Kennealy claims that she was ``not an addict''); vehement (her rival for Morrison's affections was a ``slut, a junkie, a whore, and possibly a murderess''); and bombastic (at book's end, Kennealy interviews herself ``because nobody else ever asks me the right fucking questions, okay?''). Much ado about the high priestess, not enough about the Lizard King. (Eight pages of b&w photographs—not seen.)