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.