girl from afar

I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat. ~Edgar Allan Poe

“You see, it’s no good, Musey—I’ve lost my touch. Nothing’s working any more.”

He blinks his huge green eyes as if to say, trust me—it’ll be fine. Well, it may be fine for this Muse Cat, but that’s not putting food on the table for us.

I glare at him; I mean business. He yawns, turns over on the sofa cushion and promptly falls asleep.

Blocked again. I toss my manuscript onto the fire and stare out at the rainy skyline.

The brooding Toronto spring and misty distances take me back to when it all began.

I had been standing in the rain admiring an art deco building from the Thirties when I heard mewing coming from a nearby alleyway. Curious, I poked around some garbage and found a tabby kitten huddled and shivering in a wet cardboard box. My heart melted.

I tucked him inside my coat and took him home. It wasn’t until later that I discovered he was a Muse.

It was his idea to buy the condo to turn it into an artist’s lair. He can be very insistent when he gets an idea in his head.

Oh, you’re probably wondering how this Muse thing works.

Well, I can’t tell you exactly how he communicates with me because it’s different every time—suffice it to say, for a mute creature he speaks with a clear voice, making his desires known.

Our partnership has been quite successful and our books are consistently topping the New York Time’s bestseller lists, but I still feel unfulfilled.

Also, I’m lonely. I always thought being a writer, it was best to remain a bachelor, but now that I’ve had some success, I realize I need something more.

The fact is I’ve been existing in a world devoid of feminine charm. Other writers’ Muses are goddesses—why does mine have to be a male tabby cat—and a grumpy one at that?

I’ve tried dating, bringing several women by the condo to meet Musey, but he hates them all, or they hate him, tiring quickly of his incessant vocalizations.

So, here I am, staring out the window at the rain and complaining to an uncaring cat about my angst. Such is my cruel fate—a servant to an exalted soul in feline shape, whose gift is sacred poetry, but is unable to affect my daily life.

Harry Black, my agent, sees my desperation and tries to help.

“You’re bent out of shape, Paul—you need to give it a break—go on vacation, have a change of scene.”

I shake my head sadly, “Not a chance, Pal—I’ve been struggling with this novel concept for six months and Musey and I have to eat.”

“It might help if you don’t keep tossing manuscripts on the fire,” he offers quietly.

We’re sitting in the Chestnut Tree Café, an artsy retreat for writers and desperate souls, and I‘m in the mood to drown myself in drink—hell, I’d even guzzle Victory Gin.

“I can get you an advance based on your last sales, Paul—things aren’t as bleak as you think.”

“Right,” I bite back testily.

“Look, I’ll be talking to George Leonard of Cornerstone Books today—I’ll send you a text to keep you abreast of how things go.”

“Um, that won’t work.”

He arches an eyebrow.

“I lost my I-phone the other day,” I say, coloring.

“From bad to worse, eh?” Harry chuckles sympathetically. “Not to worry, I’ll call your land line—assuming you still have one.”

“I do, for now—unless I run out of funds.”

He claps me on the back as he gets up to go, “Don’t worry, Paul—just a bit of writers’ block—I’ll see our show goes on—but promise me, no more manuscripts in the fire!”

I nod, and manage a brave smile, but inwardly feel miserable and defeated. And now, the clock is ticking on my reprieve.

Back at the condo, Muse Cat is up and staring at the rain. He’s found a new way to communicate with me.

He’s been walking on my laptop keys and has spelled out a message—aqualung. It’s up to me to figure out what it means.

The way I see it, if he’s got to be a Muse, and not some lovely goddess, or anything attractive like that—he should at least perfect the art of communicating effectively. Or, self publish on Amazon Kindle.

Yeah, I know—that was testy—my bad.

He starts his mewing. It will escalate to moans, growls and incessant grumbles and turn into walking on me while I sleep—and it will end, when I solve the puzzle.

I’ve tried walling him out, escaping behind a locked bedroom door, but he literally throws himself against it. There’s no other option but to find out what he means.

I open Google and skate around a while—skimming and scanning—hoping something will pop. It doesn’t, but at least, it placates my Muse. He’s back on the sofa cushion fast asleep.

Bored, I start browsing my photo stream and make a shocking discovery.

There are a series of photos that have been uploaded to my stream, including selfies of a beautiful girl—who she is, I have no idea, but it’s obvious she has my phone and has not turned off the cloud sync feature.

At first, I’m angry, determined to recover my phone, but as I stare at her, my anger turns to fascination. She’s incredibly beautiful and haunting. I find myself being drawn into the life of this mysterious stranger.

I start scanning her photos one by one and enlarging them, searching for details.

There’s a birthday party photo posted on April 8th, and from a picture of the cake, I find out her name is Cleo. She’s leaning forward to blow out the candles—eyes closed, smiling and face softly lit.

She has long, honey-colored hair and huge dark eyes you can just fall into and never climb back out—or want to, for that matter.

She lives in a townhouse, an end unit, beside a walkway to a park, surrounded by trees. If she sleeps with her windows open at night, it must sound like a waterfall.

She has a long haired calico cat named Winnie and she Photoshops it in various poses adding bonnets and dresses in Jane Austen style. Charming.

I print a photo of the girl and place it on a side table by my bed—she’s the last thing I see at night and the first face I see each morning. My obsession.

Muse Cat wakes me early every day for a week, mewing and complaining. I know he’s got something to tell me, but I just don’t know what it is.

To make matters worse, I should be working on the manuscript, but all I can think of is the girl.

Maybe Musey should branch out from Muse to Matchmaker, because right now my life is just miserable.

I carry on in this holding pattern for the next few weeks, struggling with my manuscript and worshipping Cleo from afar. Every day should be accompanied by the strains of Stormy Weather—it seems the April showers will never end.

Near the end of the month, I finally hit my breaking point.

It’s raining again and Muse Cat’s driving me slowly insane, so I get out and walk the bubbling streets and dream of the girl I’ll never meet.

When I get home, the condo’s dark with the ambiance of a rainy afternoon. Everything seems to exude peace—but, no sooner do I think that, when Muse Cat starts moaning again.

I’m beginning to envy dead people.

I turn on a few lamps, light a fire, and pour a full glass of Shiraz. I figure if I’m calm, Musey will calm down too, but no luck.

I try going to I-tunes on my laptop and select some Billie Holiday bluesy Thirties’ tunes, figuring if I close my eyes maybe I can go somewhere where mewing can’t reach me.

But Billie’s voice is abruptly squelched as Musey begins walking on the keyboard—but this time, a strange song comes on. I’m mesmerized by the haunting melody and lyrics.

I’ve been watching your world from afar,
I’ve been trying to be where you are,
and I’ve been secretly falling apart…

The song goes on, pulling from me every emotion I’ve stifled, it seems, for years. I find tears running down my cheeks—and Musey—well, he’s on the back of the sofa, purring, with a paw on my shoulder comforting me.

When the song finishes, I get up and check the I-tunes listing: Aqualung – Strange and Beautiful (I’ll Put a Spell On You).

A chill steals up my spine—my scalp tingles. I get it, finally!

I scrap my previous concept and start working on my new inspiration— Girl From Afar. Musey promptly falls asleep.

Six months later, the book is in the publisher’s hands, Harry Black’s delighted and life is back to normal—well, almost.

You see, Harry persuades me to use the Find My Phone app and locate the strange and beautiful Cleo. I find out all kinds of details—where she lives, the art gallery where she works, and Chez Denise, the bistro where she eats lunch every day.

It seems I’ve developed a taste for French cuisine and have been spending my lunch hours getting acquainted with this beautiful girl from my dreams.

I think this one will work out.

Musey’s been walking the keyboard, opening my photo stream and staring at pictures of a certain long haired calico cat.

He’s spending a lot of time staring out at the rain. I think Winnie’s put a spell on him.

Find me on Twitter @johnjgeddes or on my site at www.johngeddes.ca