Mrs Morrison's Hotel

The 100% personal official blog for Patricia Kennealy Morrison, author, Celtic priestess, retired rock critic, wife of Jim

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Location: New York, New York, United States

I was, wait, sorry, that's "David Copperfield". Anyway, I was born in Brooklyn, grew up on Long Island, went to school in upstate NY and came straight back to Manhattan to live. Never lived anywhere else. Never wanted to. Got a job as a rock journalist, in the course of which I met and married a rock star (yeah, yeah, conflict of interest, who cares). Became a priestess in a Celtic Pagan tradition, and (based on sheer longevity) one of the most senior Witches around. Began writing my Keltiad series. Wrote a memoir of my time with my beloved consort (Strange Days: My Life With and Without Jim Morrison). See Favorite Books below for a big announcement...The Rennie Stride Mysteries. "There is no trick or cunning, no art or recipe, by which you can have in your writing that which you do not possess in yourself." ---Walt Whitman (Also @ and

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Crossing the Bar

Jim's father, Admiral George Stephen Morrison, died on November 17, in Coronado, California. He had fallen at home and fractured his pelvis, necessitating a 9-1-1 call, and went into hospital on the Friday. Over the weekend, he developed congestive heart failure and fluid in his lungs, and "with no hope of getting home again any time soon, by Monday he had left the planet", as a family member told me. There was a traditional Navy funeral service for this very distinguished military man, including an F14 flyover, at Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery, and his son Andy gave a eulogy. Admiral Morrison would have been 90 on January 7.

I've known about it all along, but didn't plan on posting---but I changed my mind...

I never met the man, but some years ago I was told he had my Kelts books on his nightstand for reading...

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.

---Alfred, Lord Tennyson


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