Dreams pass into the reality of action. From the actions stems the dream again; and this interdependence produces the highest form of living. -Anais Nin, (1903-1977)
In my mind, this was a momentous day. In my mind, the day workmen began rebuilding would be a flurry of activity, a cacophonous post-modern symphony of sloshing portapotties, grinding hydraulics, crashing metal dumpsters, screaming men's voices in Spanish and English, bleeping cell phones, attacking hammers and squealing crowbars as a dozen or more workers descended on Casita Moreno in a flurry of industry and creative destruction. In my mind, this day would be the release of all the pent up frustration, twisting worry, and force of will it took to get here, to keep family spirits high and emotional keels even, to wring sufficient dollars from reluctant Allstate (still in process), to believe that this day would come. In my mind, today the unstoppable force of man's desire to build would overwhelm the unmovable object of charred entropy on Moreno Drive and yield the beginnings of a shiny new life.
Instead, we got Jose and Alberto digging a hole. A modest hole, granted, perhaps even a sincere hole. In fact, as I consider it, a beautiful hole. But on this, the first day of new life for Casita Moreno, we got two guys with shovels.
They seem to have brought a white microwave oven which they have put beneath my house. This is a mystery I choose not to solve. I have done so poorly so far.
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