Unidentified Artist
[after Rembrandt Harmensz. van Rijn]:
The Blind Fiddler
-Alternate Title: Blind Fiddler, Led by His Dog
(1631)

" … all will shortly be Revealed."

And so it came to pass that after a weekend drying in the late summer heat, the new concrete porch portal watched the crew return to remove its forms. Screws whirred out, and pry bars separated painstakingly-prepared form faces, oiled chamfer strips and insets intact. Over a scant couple of hours, the place had a new face, one that was in no way familiar. By morning's end, after all those boards had been loaded into a trailer, the yard was bare for the first time in almost a month, and our new home stood before us. The concrete was darker than it would seem by week's end, as Pablo, our concrete contractor, explained. The finishing had already begun. Each edge would be sanded or ground, imperfections filled with a putty-like substance, then sanded or ground again. They will repeat this process until no blemishes remain. It's painstaking work again, back-breaking in its own way, requiring delicacy this time rather than brawn.

The new face seems massive. There's no way any observer could mistake this porch as a passive presence. It asserts itself, taunting rebuttal. The relation to the pre-existing stairs seems flawless. Still, its size does not seem excessive. The posts to support the roof are yet to be installed, as are the beams that will buttress its lengths. Both should further alter The Villa's appearance. Several people commented that we'd upped the place's curb appeal, a curious term suggesting that we might be interested in selling it, but we're no flippers. The Muse insists that one day we'll quit the place after one of us can no longer navigate the stairs, but I'm happy to leave that contingency in the far distant and unimagined future. I caught myself pitying any future flipper, for The Villa will forever never become tear-down material. It's here for the ages now.

The neighbor said it looks like some ancient Greek temple. Maybe there's a resident oracle in there now. Joel, our carpenter, suggested that we might have a finished deck and beadboard ceiling by Halloween, depending. All construction estimates rely upon the eternal depending because there's always something between here and there, a job promised but not yet finished, a commitment coming way past due. We see our way through these distractions, trying not to dwell on them. Joel leaves with a cheery, "Good thing you're not in a hurry." It couldn't matter if I were. Things take however long they take, estimates amount to fake promises, and everyone knows not to take them any more seriously than they deserve. They preserve mystery until they Reveal the depth of a necessary delusion, the innocently mistaken conclusion, the necessary revision. We are in the acceptance business, changing horses if not destinations. It's better if we're not in too much of a hurry to get anywhere.

We live under simple trances. These hold fears and dreams, hopes as well as wishes, and eventually all become Revealed. We might not recognize the old place after the face transplant. Still, the new identity will surely grow on us until it comes to feel normal again, the memory of its alternate identity fading from accessible memory. The photos we once so proudly shared will seem from some previous century, and the legend and mystery of the home will grow ever more interesting and complicated. The Reveals visit infrequently. As I've been moved to explain several times through this now-waning Summer Of My Discontent, things tend to stay the same, no different, for the longest time until they're seemingly suddenly different and can never flop back to how they were for so long before. Those moments the future's revealed for what it most certainly will likely be become the instants of change. Sure, the state had almost always been invisibly changing for the longest time before it was noticed, but that moment when noticed anchors whatever comes next. There begins the first chapter of the new story, one that will seem unchanged for the longest time, too. All anyone has to do then is to start working on getting used to the new abnormal until repetition renders it normal again.

None of any of this could have been pre-ordained. We dabble in our future with very little understanding of what we dabble in. Every move was serious; every screw helped hold those forms. How quickly that concrete froze. From mud to stone in a matter of hours. From future to past almost instantly and never to return to its former state. Though those pedestals nearly match the design drawings, they seem different in person, for the drawing failed to suggest their massiveness. They seem daunting, easily the most commanding structure on the place. The brick they replace seems downright dainty in comparison. It was there for appearances, never structure, and the flimsiness of that face embarrasses me to remember. It was a disgrace. To hold a disgraceful face to the world couldn't help but influence the content of the lives we lived within. I'm braced for difference to seep inside now, up the familiar pre-existing steps to cross the utterly unfamiliar portal. It's been the same inside for the longest time. I expect it to soon be different inside in some way that could never be reversed. I expect that all will shortly be Revealed.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Grace, #PureSchmaltz