Walter Crane: Miss Goody Two Shoes, accused of witchcraft. (1874–76)

" … these episodes make me stronger and more resilient."

I would have made one Hell of a Puritan. Always watchful, I'm rarely able to slip anything by myself. I catch myself out and then indict without anything resembling a preponderance of evidence. The merest hint of an infraction, and I'm crawling up my own ass, complaining. I then set about worrying myself back into rough compliance, if that’s even possible. It isn’t always possible. I perform a form of penance, usually accepting the accusation without much questioning before joining in with the punishing portion of the performance. Quickly incarcerated with an immutable sentence, I set about serving my time. Having fallen short, I understand that I will never stand tall. Reform's beyond question. The best that could happen might be that, over time, I find that I've forgotten so that I no longer carry the full weight of my well-deserved burden.

I was painting, an occupation in which I usually exhibit competence. I've had ample practice at my age, so I hardly need to think about how. I opened the can and noticed the color was a little lighter than I'd expected. I was painting a basement concrete floor that had formerly been colored a deep grey-blue, and this coat seemed beige in comparison. Like I told The Muse, who peeked into the proceedings on her way out to another of her interminable meetings, I told myself that the color matched the front porch deck. I was, after all, using paint leftover from that job. Or so I told myself, but my inner inquisitor smelled something fishy. He hung low over me, sneering over my shoulders as I worked the edges along the walls, smearing the border I'd later smooth in with a roller. He continued watching with a questioning gaze as I filled in the middle of the floor, thoroughly convinced by then that I had somehow grabbed the wrong color.

I finished that job guiltier than charged, a severe dereliction of my relatively modest duty. I should have double-checked the color before blithely putting it down. I'd have to run to the paint store and buy a deeper color for a second and probable third coat. I rushed through cleanup and showered, plotting a weak defense. If The Muse was delayed in returning, I might be able to cover my mistake with some less indictable color before she'll notice. Nobody ever needs to care about the color of the first coat. On my way to the paint store, I slid down the basement stairs to check how that sorry first coat was drying. The color looked less damning than it had just fifteen minutes before. I rushed around The Villa to check the front porch deck color, and I'd be damned if it wasn't somehow the same color I'd just left on that basement floor. I went down and triple-checked. The color was fine!

When The Muse returned, she concurred. That color, which had first seemed absurd, had somehow matured to be something close to perfect. It was much lighter than what it covered, but that room no longer seemed like a dim hovel. I could even claim the finished product a rather dramatic improvement over what I'd intended just to carry forward. Sometimes, improvement requires some humbling Indicting, and my internal Puritan might be just the man to make the initially damning accusation. My internal peon must also be perfectly cast to bow his head at a humbled half-mast and commence punishing himself at the merest hint of an indictable accusation. I was later released on my own recognizance after serving no more than a scant few minutes in the torture chamber of my own making. I like to think these episodes make me stronger and more resilient.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #iAlogue , #PureSchmaltz