Something Wicked This Way Stumbles

What lit my fire while reading the account of Jim Morrison’s short life in Tod Benoit’s informative book Where Are They Buried? is the revelation that in June 1970 Morrison married Patricia Kennealy, described by Benoit as “a practicing witch.”

Just where and what does a witch practice before she sets up her Ouija board shingle outside a clapboard shack teeming with bats and spiders?

I picture a witch academy in a dark, dark forest full of black-garbed klutzes being trained by hook-nosed hags cloned from Margaret Hamilton’s DNA.  Over there is a coven by the oven getting ready to cook Hansel burgers. Nearby are the Arachnid Kids complaining about toil and trouble while running around on the double.  Oafs Third Grade are consigned to the corral area where they are working on swinging their spindly legs over brooms without losing their balance. Wavering before hazy mirrors in the No Fun House are wispy figures smudging concoctions squeezed from thighs of newt and toes of frogs on their faces to get the bilious shade of green that meets the approval of their teacher. In the frozen caves newbies can be found sticking fingers in the icy waters of Styx just before they plop them up and down the spines of their victims. In the studio building chagrined charges are being castigated by their mentors for the weakness of their cackles, one teacher’s bellow overpowering the other voices: “You’ll never get rid of the dunce cap and earn your witch hat. Can’t you get it right? You’re supposed to be casting spells, not spelling c-a-s-t-s!”

On a plateau above the chaos the head witch shakes a head (not her own, just one grabbed from a fence post) and wonders aloud if this group will be ever be ready by Halloween. “These things are really rank and gross in or out of nature. Maggie, my weird sister out West, had the right idea. Oh that this too, too wicked flesh would melt my claws and end up in a pile of goo.”


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