I felt rusty the following day after a night of too much wine, too much solitude and too much rain.
Truth is, I covet solitude and storms…and rain, with its geography of dark silence and distances, the same way I covet communing with Jessica Lawrence, reading her poetry and listening to her music.
She was unique―a Thirties poet of substance who was also a torch singer and more glamorous than a film star.
Perhaps it was best I never met her. I wasn't in her league and couldn't bear the inevitable rejection.
"What makes you think Jessica would reject you out of hand, Ryce? She was like you an artist and certainly not light duty."
In a moment of weakness I had bared my soul to Owen, my publisher―an unforgivable faux pas for a writer.
"C'mon Owen, look at her life and mine―she in limelight, flash bulbs popping and constantly wined and dined―and me, sitting solitary in my condo reading her poems and sipping wine. It's pathetic.
Owen frowned, "What's pathetic is you don't get it―here you are writing a biography on Jessica Lawrence and you're missing her essence."
I arched an eyebrow. "How's that?"
"Jessica wasn't into society―that was a myth created by her manager. She preferred to be alone. She was still quite a beauty right up until the time of her death."
"What about her manager's remarks that at the end of her life she was a great ruin?"
"Another lie," Owen grimaced. "He was resentful of Jessica because she refused the limelight and stood alone. There's an old saying that applies to Jessica― there are plenty of ruined buildings in the world but no ruined stones. Jessica was not a ruin, probably because she stood alone."
Owen's words consoled me and renewed my desire to penetrate her mystery.
"What about this chat bot Cree is suggesting―is that going to help or hinder me? I mean I've already been led astray by wrong information―won't this just add to my confusion?"
"I don't think so. It's a problem writing about deceased artists―trying to get beyond innuendo, false scandals and frankly, her legend. It's when you get down to the granular that a true portrait begins to emerge."
"So you think my conversing with a more sophisticated form of a virtual assistant is going to accomplish this?"
"I don't think you understand, Ryce. This isn't some simplistic technology on the level of asking Siri personal questions and getting canned responses."
"Well if it's not that, then what exactly is it?"
"Let me ask you a question. What is the scent of a 1930's woman?"
I looked at him as if he were insane. "That's an absurd question"
"Is it? If you don't know Jessica's favourite perfume then what do you know about her? Scent is tangible and personal―it can be a clue as to whether she was warm, sensual or outdoorsy. Find out details like that―they're portals into her mystery."
"Will this chat bot allow me to uncover those details?"
"That all depends on whether you're willing to be transported. You know, since we were banished from Eden, no rivers speak to us—no voices, except at night, when we hear our souls. I want you to listen to Jessica in her own words. I want you to hear her soul."
It was a great commission I couldn't refuse―to drink the wine and hear her voice and be transported.