The days settled into a regular routine. Shooting wasn’t full time, as Jessie had anticipated, so she had time to go to the gym, to sort out future possible film projects, appointments and appearances with Deirdre and her army of staff such as her publicist and social media manager, and to check in at her office to pow-wow with Charles. As much as she loved the acting, Jessie’s first love was – and always would be – her music. Her father had ingrained a love of lyric and melody in her that would always remain. When he had died so suddenly, Jessie felt like her last connection with him was music. She had his songs and his guitar. Music was what got her through his passing, through the funeral, through the years with her mother’s monster of a second husband, down to South Carolina, and through a difficult time with Rachel, Sandy, and Deuce McCall. It was music again that helped her survive her few years on the streets when she first came to Vancouver, when she could barely speak and seemed only able to communicate through song.
Jessie heard songs in her head – full songs. Sometimes she thought her father was placing them inside her heart for her to write, to use for healing. She heard complete melodies and lyrics. In fact, at night when she couldn’t sleep, from the time she was first able to remember, there were the songs. She could not recall a time in her life when the music didn’t exist in her head before falling asleep at bedtime, or when things got tough. And these were not songs she heard on the radio – they were complete, original tunes. She felt she was someone’s vessel. Why not her father’s after he had passed? His life had been cut short. Maybe he still had music to write, things he wanted to say.
She considered herself very fortunate – although at times she thought that gift was a curse, something that set her apart from others, because she figured most people didn’t receive or make up original songs every night before drifting off to sleep. As she got older and, seemingly without mercy life sent her its severe lessons, she had no doubt that the music was a gift. From her father? Questionable. But certainly from some higher power somewhere, of that she was sure. It kept her sane and, at times, was her one true and only salvation.
Jessie’s music was soulful and profound. The genre she sang was a blend of indie and popular light rock, and her best tunes were ballads, slow songs whose lyrics asked questions and pondered the universe. She’d had some hard questions to ponder in her life, so it made sense that this was where her mind went during that super-creative time before sleep when her mind was generally the most focused and relaxed. Occasionally her lyrics were answers, of a sort. These were the songs that came when she was hurting the least in her life. They were the most mellow and sublime. The angry songs – and there were indeed a number of angry songs, sometimes disguised in upbeat, happy pop-ish melodies - always came to her when merciless, terrible things were happening to her, when her fully awake mind absolutely without exception could not comprehend a reason for living. Those were the moments that she was afraid of snapping entirely. They were also the moments beyond that level of severe, horrific pain, when she had indeed snapped on some level, and retreated to a deeper place where her mind could heal a little, and later return her to a level of consciousness that she could handle. Those were the days and months when she had lived on the streets because she couldn’t care enough, or be lucid and sane enough, to pull herself together.
These days, her music was still soulful and profound. But it had been less angry these last few years. Josh’s Song, as she secretly thought of the ballad she had written after finding him amongst the smelly food scraps, was lovely and beautiful and serene and hopeful, and it was her all-time favorite. If nothing else, there was certainly something about this quiet, reflective guy that drew the most amazing music out of her soul.
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