This is Wilda, Queen of All. As far as I know, I am not Ancient Egyptian from another life. I just recognise the divine, at least when it is completely obvious, as in the case of Her Furriness. Wilda, as in Wilda-BEAST, which she certainly can be: she's an animal! Wilda as in Wilda-nests all over the apartment, especially in the fabric. My guru--so awake when awake, so relaxed when napping, so free, being completely herself.
This is the photo I worked from, taken by Stanley Butler, the wildlife photographer who lives downstairs:
Here's a bit from the Trixie and Luanda stories. Molly is a thinly disguised pseudonym for Her Excellence.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
There is a crinkling from the corner, not necessary, just a notification. Molly the cat has situated herself neatly in the open shopping bag by means of a perfect 10 standing vertical leap, clearing the edge by a number of soft white belly hairs. She looks out complacently through one of the handles, her nose flushed with self-esteem and spunk, her calico colors glowing richly against the matte brown paper backdrop.
Luanda shoots her the glance she has been perfecting for several months. It is a glance as if over half-glasses and under beetley brows, a dim-view glance, delivered at an oblique angle sidewise with slight head cock. Her I-see-you-missy glance.
But even if she didnt turn back to the sink, where the faucet is blessedly pouring, gushing, frolicking full blast through all the dishes, since Trixie isnt home to fuss, there is no way she'd ever see missy Molly segue out of that bag. It is transubtantiation. It is astral travel. Next thing you know, where will she pop up? top of the fridge? Windowsill? Slat of sun on linoleum?
Whereever she's doing the nonchallant, or the hunker-dose, or the twisty spruce-up groom, whatever she's doing, whereever it is, is sanctified, a Place, a Spot Designate.
Luanda doesnt see. She doesnt even see the white bowl with cobalt flowers turning in her big tan hands, or the waterdrops rivering off the crepey skin landscape over tendons and greenish swelling veins. She is far away, the way she goes, to a place of no designations, that she needs like air.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
An oil sketch of Wilda in her youth:
I'm not the only one besotted with her, by the way. She has quite a large fan club for a small town cat. A friend sang out with full-throated joy, "WILDA!" when she stopped by recently. I hadn't seen her in more than a month, but it wasn't me she was talking about when she said, "It's been so long since I was granted a Sighting! Oh, may I touch?"
