So it’s been two months since my last post, and, as promised, I vacated Facebook to finish my novel. I’m in the last part, Part III, and decided to break surface on my solitude and recap the last few months of silence. I haven’t missed the obsessive checking of the Facebook newsfeed, but I have missed keeping up with all of you and ZA photos of our new kitten, Big Cypress “Binky Griptite” Moore Fairbanks.
Binky G came from the cat shelter with an adorable personality, won over Rufus fairly quickly, and just as quickly gave us all a case of dermatophytosis, which normal people call ringworm. Most folks know by the time they’re grown that it’s not a worm at all, but a fungal infection caused by dermatophytes, which are microscopic fungi that live on everybody. They are munching on you as you read this sentence. “The world belongs to microbes,” my physician said to alleviate my heebie jeebies at having a fungal infection called ringworm. For word people, the phrase “fungal infection called ringworm” conjures images much worse than the reality, although I don’t know if telling you that “dermatophytes” translates to “skin plants” will delight or disgust you in my now oversharing on our ongoing household episode with skin-plant-itis.
Moving on: so, the new kitten is great, and we love him. For those of you who have been with this blog for the last few years, Binky G reminds me of Rick in uncanny ways, not the least of which is this cat likes to have his belly rubbed, flopping about to make sure you hit all the right spots. I wouldn’t be at all upset if Rick found his way back to me in this little house cat. I always felt our time together was too short, that I would be content to spend a lifetime taking care of that animal, as I will be content to live out as much time with Binky G as we’re allowed.
As for animals, I miss Buckley all the time. And Rufus, well, it’s chilly in Tampa today and this laptop seems to be the most desirable napping zone. Writers need cats, this I learned at Hemingway’s Key West place this summer. That cats need writers is a lesser known truth.
Last week I had the remarkable opportunity to work with Chicago performance artist/head of graduate fashion program at the Art Institute of Chicago Nick Cave for a performance in Tampa. I played the front end of a giant raffia horse named Sage. Truth: the most enthralled audience members were five-year-olds and drunk adults. Truly I say unto you, intoxicated grown ups love the magic of a puppet horse. This experience goes back to my unwavering belief that people, somewhere inside, yearn to rekindle our connection to animals. I LOVE THIS HORSE drunk women said to my fabric head, rubbing my face. YOU ARE SUCH A PRETTY HORSE.
I had a ball and am happy to report I did not slip and fall on the raffia although there were more than a few of us who did.
If Nick Cave or his work comes anywhere within driving distance of your house, please go.
My next thing is this: in two weeks I leave for a dance immersion/research trip to California, where I will reconnect with the women whom I met in Cuba and also in Brazil. Los Angeles and San Diego are happening places for Afro-Cuban and Afro-Brazilian dance, and I remain flabbergasted that we have no such communities in Tampa. I wanted to let you all know that Kimberly, my mentor and who led us on the Cuba trip, is hosting another trip to the island in June. If you have any interest in Cuban culture, dancing or drumming, figure out how to go: Dance and Drum Cuba. With any luck and grace, I’ll be writing another book about these adventures in travel and dance, which, as I’ve mentioned once or twice, are really my adventures with the Mystery.
So, anyway, I need to get back to the book. I just wanted to let you know what I was up to, that I miss you, that writing is really lonely business when it isn’t going well but otherwise it’s sublime, and that I hope you all are doing well.
night night beloveds! Back to the deep.