Favorite Places

My cat, Anastasia, has a new favorite place—on my lap when I'm sitting on my rocking chair. Not any other time, just on the rocking chair. I have a couple of back issues, so last year I got rid of one super soft chair, which my physical therapist told me I absolutely need to stay away from, and I replaced it with a wooden rocking chair. It's incredibly comfortable, even aside from the back issue. I don't know why I didn't consider it before. So, I sit down to read and Anastasia decides that she needs to be on my lap. She jumps up, fidgets, fusses, and goes in circles and eventually chills. It's cliche and the best.

For my part, aside from loving my new rocking chair, I have discovered what is probably my new favorite place—the front porch. It's been there all 15 years I've lived here, but I rarely use it. I don't know why that is. My partner used to tease me about it for one thing. I don't know why he teased me, and I don't know why I cared. It wasn't malicious, just in good fun. I'm just going to chalk it up to the fact that I've come a long way with my attitude and state of mind. The house itself is pier and beam, so the porch is raised. It's a fabulously old house in an old neighborhood and being there makes me indescribably happy. I just had a long weekend, and sitting our there in the cool mornings was about as close to heaven as I've come in a long time. And another of our cats, Clarice, enjoys exploring the area near the porch while I'm out there.

This makes me think of my favorite place in the world to write—the dining room table. It's only a dining room because we have a table in it. The original house basically has four rooms, one of which is the kitchen. They are all more or less the same size and just make a square. Anyway, we have a large dining room table that barely fits in its room, and it just has a good energy. I can write more here than any other place. For one thing there are no doors between the rooms (except for the bathroom, which sticks outside of the main square.) So, I can breathe and it feels so open. I have been trying to create another space for writing—one that feels the same—so that the dining room table can be a place where we actually eat, but I think that secretly this will always be my favorite space. (I'm sitting at the table as I write this.)

One thing that the other space I'm working on is missing is windows. The space is big enough, though not as open as my dining room office. It doesn't have decent windows, though, and I miss that. The windows that are in the building are all about 7 feet off the ground, so you can't gaze out at anything. When I moved into the room that is my bedroom, the first thing I asked for was for more and larger windows. I feel cramped without them. I only recently discovered this about myself, but knowing it I can't ignore it. So, while this is a beautiful old house sitting on two acres of mowed grass with a back yard partitioned off, when it comes to views it's sorely lacking. Or, so it seemed.

Then one day as I sat at my table working I looked around. The dining room has four good-sized windows and the living room next to me has the same. For the fifteen years that I've lived here every single one of these windows, plus those in the bedroom, have had blinds that have been permanently closed. Closed for probably 25 years, and my partner couldn't really explain why. So, I opened six of them, two in front of me and two to each side, and now the space feels even MORE open. I may never leave this table again.

Honestly, the dark bedroom where I sleep (in a building in back of the house so I can have personal space) would actually make an ideal library. Currently we have all of our books in the back room, one that was added on and is the width of the house. That room also has plenty of windows and they face east. The problem is that the light will not be good for my books. I'm torn, because I love seeing the books there, but they'd last better in the darker room. I would definitely visit that room often, but I don't know about Partner. He doesn't read; he just likes to see the bookshelves with books and artwork. Maybe some UV filters on those back windows? Nobody really looks out of them anyway.

I have to say, in these past few weeks I've learned a few things about myself and my life. I've rediscovered my passion for windows, and a minor case of claustrophobia maybe. I've learned that I love this house even more than I thought. You can discover a lot when you slow down, open your eyes and look around.

Looking Forward to 2020

As I've written here before, I, along with a small group of friends, have been pushing each other to expand creatively. Most recently we tasked each other with coming up with five paintings for a studio show in December. I, personally, managed three... well, two and a half. One wasn't quite done, but the day and hour had arrived so I hung it up. It felt good to have work hanging and shown.

All three pictures I painted were of cats. One was Carmela, whom I've written about here in Bemol Ardiente. The second painting, the one that wasn't quite finished, was of PumKin, a beautiful orange cat that lives in the back yard. (The Cat in the Grass from a few posts ago.) But, the real star of the show was Clarice. Clarice is a black cat who is getting up there in age and who has a lot more white in her fur than she used to. The most prominent examples are two white whiskers that stand out on her face. In the painting (and the picture that I used as a guide) she is looking at the person who is holding the camera and letting them know that taking a picture is not an acceptable alternative to actually giving her attention.

A lot of people, as it turns out, have needy black cats. I knew that people would relate to cats, and I've always been fond of the picture that I used as a model. (Have you ever tried to get a cat to sit for a painting? Just save yourself the tears and trouble and use a picture.) But, I was a little blown away by the response to this particular painting. Looking back, I shouldn't have been surprised. In Carmela's painting, she's sitting on a quilt, in profile with the sunlight gently falling on her face. I find it lovely, and people told me that as well. But Clarice is facing the camera, her body language and facial expression clearly say, "Give me attention.” It’s a much stronger image.

People actually requested to be able to buy prints of the Clarice painting. This is new for me, and I don't quite know what to do with it. Of course I want to sell prints; that's why I painted it. But, that part of me who's not used to selling his artwork is screaming that my art isn't worth it yet, that I should be giving it away until I have developed more of a style, a following and a body of work. I gently shut that part of my mind up by putting a chocolate chip cookie in its mouth. That done, I began to make plans on how to sell prints of Clarice, and create a system that can be used for future paintings as well.

Carmela the cat, who is featured in the second painting, is the main character of a novelette that I wrote, "Carmela's Outside", which is due to be published this year. I've mentioned to the publisher that I have a painting, and they are interested. That is doubly exciting for me, and makes me think that I should focus my attention on painting the cats that are in the novelette. Mozart, Tom Cat, Anastasia and Raku are all quite beautiful, each in their own way. I'm working on finishing up the PumKin painting and starting one on Anastasia.

At the moment I'm having the Clarice and Carmela paintings professionally imaged. That is a logical next step. People have also asked me about buying the original of Clarice, but I’m not willing to part with it for a small amount. I can use the digital image to make limited edition giclée prints, which could be sold for a reasonable price. And, I can send a digital image of Carmela to the publisher for their consideration for use on the cover of the novelette. To get the digital images I am using a photography service here in Austin. I had considered taking the picture myself, but there are other people with years of experience and studios set up specifically for that, so I decided that my time would be better spent painting and I'll let the professionals do a better job at photographing the art than I could possibly do on my own.

Now I'm preparing for the May studio tour. And I'm writing on a mystery novel, until I begin working with an editor on Carmela's book. 2020 is stacking up to be a very successful year. I like to think that I laid a good foundation for it during the atrocity that was 2019. As I fought to retain my life and my sanity, I also made plans for what to do once the storm had passed and I found myself still alive. I don't know how I had the presence of mind during all of that, but I'm thankful that I did.

Check out a few related websites: davincibox.com is Tamara Talamantes' page. She is a graphic designer, among other things, and she is one of the friends who painted and showed work. barryperez.com is, not surprisingly, Barry Perez's page. He's the other friend in the group. Barry is a master jeweler who has been making hand-fabricated jewelry for over 30 years. Lastly, a work-in-progress page is elginstudio621.com. This is the studio where it all happens, a place with great energy and where we plan to have many more events—not just visual arts but yoga and writing and ceramics. Keep an eye on it.

Let's here it for new years, new decades, and new beginnings. Make 2020 a great year.

Unsure How We Got Here

I stumbled across this in my drafts. Not sure why I never published it, but here it is. Dear Charlotte has left this earthly plane, but Clarice continues to amuse us with her vociferation and personality.

My sister has not had an uninterrupted phone conversation since the day her first child was born. That child is now 25 years old and Lottie has developed a habit of distracting herself while on the phone, even if there is no outside force actively vying for her attention. (There generally is.) She has a young son who has often taken the opportunity while Lottie's on the phone to stand on the back of the sofa and lick the picture window, or some other delightful exercise in self-destruction. She even stops talking to me periodically to scold her husband for something that he's about to do that will probably hurt himself or the house. Like that time there was a knife sticking up out of his leg. My sister is virtually unable to talk on the phone any more.

So there's this black cat, Clarice. At the ripe old age of 13 or so she is finding her voice, literally. It's as if the ghost of Barry's cat, Ms. Polly, were here teaching her the ropes of being a drama queen. She has her "I'm too weak to move" voice that she will use to convince the guy who cat-sits for us that he needs to bring her food to her while she sits perched on her pillow on the bed. There is the demanding scream to get our attention, and another similar one when we're being too daft to understand what she's trying to explain. She has diabetes now, and perhaps the extra coddling has encouraged this change. We give her moist food every morning and night along with a shot. The moist food is because it's lower in carbohydrates, and she doesn't seem to notice the shot, but the daily treats have made her feel the tiniest bit entitled.

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The face of despondency. Alas, her moist food bowl has been empty for hours - and still no gravy.

The other day she poked her head in and meowed at me repeatedly while I was showering, much to my confusion and annoyance, and not a small amount of annoyance on her part – getting splashed in the face. We've been leaving the water dripping for her in the bathtub for a few minutes at a time, so maybe that's what was looking for. Another time I was getting undressed to shower when I heard her karate-chop the middle hinge of the bifold door that separates the bathroom from the bedroom. A moment later she was with me in the bathroom, vocally abusing me. In general cats don't like closed doors, and she's a thirsty girl these days. (There is a Very Large Bowl of Water that is changed daily.)

(In case you were wondering.)

Another cat, Charlotte, is having issues using the litter box, so Barry has isolated her in the living room. He put down a small litter box for her. He did all of this to make sure that he could tell when and if she relieved herself. (There are a number of cats inside, so it's difficult to tell which cat has used the box.) I was at work while this was going on and I had called him. There are almost no internal doors in the house aside from the bathroom, so he put a plywood board across the doorway from the bedroom to the living room. 

Our call went like this: "Talk, talk, talk. Clarice! Get out of this living room. This is not your box. *sound of cat landing on the wooden floor on the other side of a piece of plywood.* Talk, Talk, Talk... *Thunk!* 'Meow!' Clarice! 'Meooow!' No, you don't need to be in here. 'Meooooowww! Errrr..' Talk, Talk, Talk... *Thunk! Rattle-rattle* Clarice, get down! 'MEOW!' Talk, Tal... Clarice!"

*Sigh* So much like talking to my sister.

When I got home there was another board screwed into the door frame on top of the piece of plywood and a very perturbed little black cat.

All of this from the cat who, when we rescued her along with several others, did her best to sink into the wallpaper and not be noticed. I'm always happy when people or animals take a chance and express themselves – as long as it's civil and respectful. Perhaps she's taken this a bit too far? She is an old lady, though, and entitled to speak her mind. And, if she's able to jump over a board set up in a doorway, or figure out how to operate a bi-fold door, then more power to her.

But, I shower alone.

Clarice's Original Mother

In 1988 Thomas Harris published a novel titled

The Silence of the Lambs

, which was a sequel to his earlier

Red Dragon

. In 1991

Silence

was made into a movie and was a major success, both in the box office and critical acclaim. With Anthony Hopkins and Jody Foster one would expect that – particularly with Hopkins.

In 2003 a struggling artist named Richella was working in her studio. She rented a large warehouse space – 5,000 square feet or so. She had a cat named Fitzgerald with whom she traveled across the country to art festivals. Fitzgerald was a very large orange tabby, and he was very comfortable on the road. He kept her company while she worked all hours of the night on her pottery, her miniature collectibles fired with a Raku technique.

Richella was a very good friend of mine and I feel that she was troubled sometimes. She told us that she needed the amount of space she had in order to be able to work, due to claustrophobia. So, she worked alone in her studio surrounded by her pretty things and in the company of her cat who enjoyed nothing more than being her entire world.

At some point, though, another tabby peeked in the garage door of the studio. She gave the new cat some food and put it back outside. But, the cat came back, as cats are wont to. She took the cat in to get it fixed and if you've noticed a lack of gender-specific pronouns in this paragraph there's a reason for it. She couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl. She thought girl, so she named her Buttercup. The vet told her it was a boy, so the name was changed to Butternut. When the vet discovered that the cat was pregnant, he used deductive reasoning to establish that she was, indeed, a she. Thus, the name Butterbean was given and finalized.

This caused a bit of an upset in Fitzgerald's life. He only had room in his heart for one woman and that woman was Richella. He could see no reason for the presence of this other cat in their life, regardless of what gender she was before she was neutered. Butterbean was street savvy and could kick any cat's ass that got in her way, so there was a bit of tension as the two got to know each other. (In all honestly, Fitzgerald never got over the betrayal.) But, the ball was rolling and there is no stopping the course of fate.

I think that it can be said without too much argument that Richella was in an unlucky phase in her life with regards to romance. She had a boyfriend at one point around this time. He wasn't much to write home about, so I tried not to pay attention. But, any person has a space in their heart for another human being and sometimes we let somebody into that space whether or not they are truly worth it. It's difficult to say what would have been appropriate for Richella. She loved the movie

The Silence of the Lambs

and all of the prequels/sequels. She also read all of the books. One might not think too much about that, except that she found it to be the most remarkable love story she had ever seen. It touched her in a place that had never been touched before. For those who haven't heard of it, the two main characters in SOTL are Hannibal and Clarice. Hannibal is a brilliant psychiatrist, and he also happens to be a cannibalistic murderer. Clarice works for the FBI and is sent to enlist Hannibal's assistance in stopping another serial killer. Thus begins their strange relationship.

So, when yet a third cat showed up to Richella's studio and it was clear that she wasn't going to go away, this new black cat was named in honor of Richella's favorite protagonist, Clarice. Clarice, the cat, was a timid little thing at the time, and Butterbean was quite the fighter. Butterbean was generally locked in Richella's bedroom, but occasionally the door was left a crack open and Clarice would sneak in to see what was in there (because what cat can leave a closed door alone?) She had her little black butt handed to her on more than one occasion that way.

There has always been something a little different about Clarice. Some cats are nervy or skittish, and that's natural. Clarice, though, has always wanted attention; she was just always a little put off by being touched – even when she requested it. She lived her life among other cats a bit like that. She wasn't certain that she wanted to be there, but there didn't seem to be anywhere else to be, so she abided. Asserting herself had only caused physical harm, so she meekly asked for attention, even though she didn't particularly like it. She spent a great deal of time lying quietly, trying to blend into the background until her need for affection overcame her distaste for it.

Years later, she has come into her own, living in our home now. (This is the same Clarice that I recently

wrote

about – our cat who has diabetes now.) She sits on her corner of the kitchen table and proudly announces that she is in need of attention. It is my job to pick her up (yes, she allows me to pick her up now!) and pet her and coo to her and tell her what a beautiful kitty she is. I have to pet the back of her head, rub her whiskers and this must go on for at least five minutes. She uses her front paws on my arm to perch up and receive her due. She closes her eyes and imagines a life without so much heartache; lets herself forget how far she's come and just live in the moment with me.

And, then it's time to put her down and we both go about our business.

A sketch of Richella demonstrating her art