Girlfriend Electric Part 2 Frozen in the Ether

Psychoanalysis is often about turning our ghosts into ancestors. We are often haunted by important relationships from the past that influence us unconsciously in the present. As we work them through, they go from haunting us to becoming simply part of our history.
― Norman Doidge

I My Ghost

I have trouble relating to women—that’s what Margot my therapist thinks.

Harry thinks I’m mad too.

“You were only twenty-three, James—much too young to handle the pressures of marriage, let alone having a best-seller.”

“But that’s all water under the bridge now, isn’t it?”

He smiles his crinkly-eyed smile. Harry’s my publisher, my mentor too—older and wiser—wavy white hair, blue eyes, Savile Row suits—you get the picture.

“If you mean your marriage—yes. If you mean your angst, no.”

“Aw, c’mon Harry—”

He raises a well-manicured hand to stop me, takes a sip from his Pimm’s and whispers conspiratorially, “Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining—made a bundle of money off your angst—just saying, it’s still there.”

“And what exactly do you think it is?”

He winks and sips again, “Don’t know and don’t care. Personally, I hope to hell you never find out—just keep pumping out those novels and we’ll muddle through, the two of us—all the way to the bank.”

I grab my coat and chug the last of my ale. “Well, I’m not going to find truth in a bottle—I’m going home, kick back and maybe even write.”

“It’s just a rough patch you’re going through, James—all writers hit it sooner or later.”

I pause in the doorway to wave goodbye, more depressed than when I came in.

Harry’s already chatting up the waitress. That’s me in a way—always could get to square one—just couldn’t get past it.

I smile bitterly at my older alter ego.

James Randall, celebrated author and man-about-town—made it, but never arrived.

Back home, the house feels bigger and emptier than ever. Why I bought it, I have no idea, other than the fact I just love beautiful things and the romance of a bygone era.

I light the fire and settle in with a glass of Shiraz and a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets.

Ah, the Bard—there was a man who could write about women, but was his personal life as stormy and unfulfilled as mine? Somehow I think so.

A jagged arm of lightning strikes an anvil—the roar cannonades across the sky shaking the leaded windows.

The atmosphere feels charged.

A white orb, about the size of a bowling ball, floats into the room. Ball lightning?

The orb hovers, floating like a huge soap bubble above the carpet. A prickly, tingling sensation creeps up the back of my neck—strange toneless music is playing.

The bubble pops into a prismatic shower of particles, reminiscent of a fireworks burst, but then the sparks coalesce into a shape.

The girl from my dream appears before me, and I’m mesmerized by her presence—unable to speak.

We stare at each other. She’s about seventeen, blonde and graceful—skin lovely as pale rose. I have never seen a girl so beautiful.

I recover my wits and my voice.

“Who are you?” I ask.

She opens her mouth to speak. Her dark lips move, but no words come out.

The story of my life—stuck in adolescent stage fright when it comes to women.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to figure out what caused me to be frozen.

I like women—I really do—but just can’t speak to them even when they’re rarefied and damn near transparent as my beautiful young ghost.

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

Photo