Blessing?

I spoke with a gloomy friend on the phone a few weeks back, when the lilacs were first out.

Nosing lilacs gives me shiver-thrills. It's the scent equivalent of listening to Wilda's purr, a direct drink of comfort and joy.

As we were ending the call, I said, with a touch of the Mary Sunshine Cheer Up Vibe that sets my teeth when I'm grumpy, "Well, I hope you at least get to smell the lilacs sometime today!"

"Uh, yeah..." he said, sounding dubious.

"Don't you like lilacs?" I asked, relentlessly peppy.

"It's just that I'm deathly allergic to them. If I smelled a lilac directly, I wouldn't be able to breathe, at all."

"Oh. So basically I was signing off with a curse--I hope you at least get to suffocate sometime today. Not exactly what I meant...."

"I know what you meant," he said, with just a hint of a smile in his voice.

-------
Here's a first attempt at a video, of Herself, purring.

Book Plate

Librarian Ruth MacIntosh radiated humor, good-heartedness and dignity. Though I only knew her as a library patron, Ruth mattered to me a lot. Any encounter with her always lifted my day.

Ruth had an assortment of playful outfits: full Red Sox and Patriots regalia, a necklace of black bats that came out in late October, and a Wild Things t-shirt that I coveted, with Sendak's creatures dancing across it. They went well with the twinkle in her eye, and contrasted nicely with the aura of unruffled integrity that she always carried herself with.

I loved her lively, intelligent face and asked her several times over the years if she'd let me paint her portrait, or be willing to sit for photos. This request was met with a kind but absolutely emphatic no.

While Ruth was in the hospital, the friend feeding her beloved cat was allergic, and needed to run in and out with just enough time to set down food. I'm known as a cat person, so I was drafted to soothe the extremely talkative, distressed animal. It took a lot of petting and listening, agreeing with every meow, "Yes, I wish she were here, too. No, I'm not her, it's true." but eventually it wound down to purring and even some drooling.

Early this summer I was so honored when members of the library staff asked me to design a bookplate for the collection of mysteries being purchased in Ruth's memory. It's being printed in black and white on labels with a fancy border, so I made the inside part.

We miss her.

Here's a nice article about Ruth from her co-workers which includes a couple photos.

Cat Love

Wilda drawing '08

As I've said before (see post Wilda) "my" cat is my guru. She teaches everything I need to know, and less, which is very helpful. I need to know less. If I didn't stuff my head with human falderall, I could maybe meditate like she does, for a second.

Maine Coon Cat (detail) fabrics

A friend (who happens to be wildly ga-ga about his cat--you can see pictures of the happy couple here) complimented the occasionally serious content of this blog saying, "It's not just pretty pictures of cats and sunsets." Being a stinkwanink contrarian, I resolved to include more cats forthwith. Sunsets can wait.

Kitty, fabrics

Here's what I don't really get: what's so laughable about being seriously in love, as an equal or equal-wannabe, with a cat? It seems sillier, to me, to believe that just being human makes an entity somehow superior to a feline, or to anyone else, like a mollusk, or a turnip, for that matter. Not that we can't have our preferences, and to each her own and all.

Black Cat fabrics

I know a very rapid woman who loves a tortoise. She hates cats. (Her husband is reported to have commented, "She doesn't like anything warm-blooded"). To each her own, as I said. Love or hate 'em, cats mind their own business.

Being Aware, fabrics 30x30" (available)

When I say equal-wannabe, I am not implying inferiority on the part of the human, either. More that the dumb human might long to know herself as equal, equally belonging within the whole presence and wonder of Creation that can only reveal itself when her compulsive comparing and competing quiets. Forgive me if I'm getting too cerebral, too spiritual-smiritual here.

Cat Angel, fabrics

There's nothing like a cat for bring me back to earth when I get abstract. It just takes one of those glances of absolutely detached observation to make a person realize they're bizarrely off noodling in the brain, oblivious to the present where cats and gurus live.

Queen Cat, fabrics

After all, not that much is asked of us. Open the door. Close the door. Open the door. Open the can. Clean the litter box. Follow the simple directions. Is that so hard?

Cat Love, fabrics

Someone told me the suggested treatment for the nasty flu that's been going around lately is to follow a cat all day and do whatever they do. Sleep. Groom. Sleep. Eat a little. Sleep. Wake up. Stretch. The guru does yoga, so you do it too.

Grey Cat fabrics

Wilda!

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?"