― John Fowles, The Magus
Jessica
I must admit to being conflicted―surprise, surprise, as Cree would say, and perennially addicted to approach-avoidance situations.
Having established that, it follows necessarily I was fascinated with the idea of not only hearing but conversing with my long-dead Muse.
I must confess to hours of staring at her portrait above my mantel and making many futile imprecations asking in different ways, who are you? and what were you really like? I don't mean in the general biography sense such as you'd find in a Who's Who, but in a tangible, specific sense akin to, when I say this, how does it make you feel?
Yes, if poetry gets lost in translation, then so does the soul, even if the poetess is famous and has countless publications. The problem is not information but the conceit of all those various iterations.
"So, how is this going to work?" I asked Cree, seeking some insight into how this virtual simulacrum was going to be of any practical use to me.
"I'm not sure myself," she confessed, colouring and looking frustrated. "Look, Ryce, I saw you were floundering and when Owen suggested the idea I jumped at the chance for a change-up, but unfortunately, I'm not that computer savvy and this is way beyond my pay grade."
"Well, what am I supposed to do―wait until Amazon delivers a parcel and set it up like some virtual assistant?"
"I'll have to get back to you on the details. This much I know―Owen said be prepared to be transported."
I rolled my eyes. "Seeing as I'm stuck, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. But I'll tell you this much―I don't want to vulgarize Jessica's legacy by attempting to converse with some crude facsimile. So be advised―you've been warned.
"Aye, aye, Capatain," she smirked, " I hear you loud and clear."
After Cree left I spent a long time staring out my condo windows at Toronto wrapped in a drizzly haze.
There is something about moods of weather that incant more than just atmosphere― for me, they're inextricably linked to the past and enduring because they're elementals.
Back in the Thirties Jessica would experience the same melancholy and staring at her sad eyes in the portrait above the fireplace gives me the same sensation as staring at the brooding skyline outside and doing so ties her to this landscape as powerfully as she's made her way inside me.
I pour a glass of wine and toast her portrait as a pean of praise bursts forth from deep inside me, It's all in your poems, Love―Your words make a stream of thoughts that wind their way through me.
If I could project my soul on a wall the way the nerves of the eye can be viewed, I'd see her art made a memory tree, branching out like a river, graphing the mark of her words left on me.