<br><br><center>*She had a look of not altogether belonging to today.*
― Robert Nathan</center>


<br><br><center>![35a12779ee7174f76073f97f89d43f04.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmXHRZGcHmHRbNsnGQoNRHwdHRLX8rycJLvj3DXVXEvE7Z/35a12779ee7174f76073f97f89d43f04.jpg)
*Jessica Lawrence*</center>



<br><br>*I've always felt displaced as one born out of time―I'm sure that's resulted in most of my angst not to mention my failures with womankind. I won't bore you with the details, but it's painful.*

*But somewhere along the line when I was in my teens, I saw a film from the Thirties and it resonated with me. I knew then where I belonged and it wasn't here, in the twenty-first century.*

<br><br>*About the same time I came across a book of poetry called *Musings* by Jessica Laurence. It was a watershed of sorts for me, not in the sense of deep calling to deep, God knows I was unawakened and shallow then, depthless as a facial tissue and in romance, discarded as often.*

*But it resonated and I answered and found my calling. And now I write, reams and reams and some of it garbage of the disposable genre, but I still harbour a nostalgia in my heart for a place where I truly belong.*


<br><br>I closed my laptop, giving vent to a deep sigh―Cree wouldn't understand, but she'd pretend―God knows why. Actually, I do know why and it comes back to me and her and why we're bent. I love the girl, I really do, but it wouldn't be fair. I'm only partially here and the other part back in the Thirties in the midst of the Depression Era.

Oh, and there's another woman― the aforesaid Jessica Lawrence. 

Like I said, *bent*.

<br><br>I don't know why I let Owen Matthews, my publisher, talk me into writing a biography of Jessica. He must have known it would turn to an obsession―maybe that's what he intended. Conflicted writers are all the rage now. Jessica Lawrence and me? Well, it takes one to know one.

My cell starts pulsing and vibrating on the coffee table. I can see it's Cree wanting my apologia―the reason I write about a long-dead woman and also why I obsess about her. She's my book shepherd and literary agent, but something more and that's what worries me. 

She's trying to get me to resolve my angst and barring that, bury it―to inter it alongside a long dead celebrity poetess.

<br><br>"Hey, Cree―just partway through and if you keep phoning I won't finish it."

"Well, good morning to you too. I can see you're up and at it."

"It's a rainy day and you know me―something fetishistic and I take advantage of the atmosphere."

"I didn't phone to check on you, Ryce―I was worried. You looked despondent last night. I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"No worries―just the usual and unusual―half-in and half-out, trying to shoehorn myself into a different era."

"Yeah, I want to talk to you about that."


<br><br>My heart sank. Last thing I wanted this morning was a domestic with Cree.

I knew she wasn't sold on the biography―probably saw it as fuelling my obsession although she hoped the process would finally exorcise the divine Ms. Lawrence once and for all.

"I've got an interesting angle on the Lawrence biography," she chirped cheerily, as if she were happy with the whole thing.

"Okay, I'm listening."

"Instead of burying yourself in dusty tomes and hand-written journals, how would you like to chat with the Muse herself?"

<br><br>I didn't know where this was heading but if it involved spiritualism and hokey seances I wasn't buying. I had no intention on taking short cuts on what could be a life-project that might determine my legacy.

"I hope you realize Jessica Lawrence died before the end of the last century―May 1, 1999, to be precise."

"I know that, silly. But what if I told you a computer geek downloaded all her journals, writings and interviews and resurrected her through a chatbot?"

"I don't even know what that is."

"Well, what if I told you this guy by utilized all those dusty books and faded manuscripts and made it possible for you to chat with Jessica and hear her respond in her own voice?"

I began to shake as if I saw her ghost rising up from the misty streets outside my window.
 



<br><br><center>To be continued…</center>

<br><center>© 2020, John J Geddes. All rights reserved</center>

<br><center>[Photo]( https://images.app.goo.gl/oQnKtK9cyYE1D7dX8 )</center>

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