The Binding.

There's a strange house a couple lots down. Amidst the desperate conformity of our neighborhood it must be considered an eyesore, but I like it. It's a mess of colors too close to be complimentary--rust and tangerine, slate and grey. It's a confusion of angles that are neither logical nor artful. It's perpetually under construction and therefore choked in tangles of sheets and scaffolding. An affront, to be sure.

But there's a certain charm to it's style. Combination of styles, really. The colors are definitely pueblo and the iron accents look French, or at least French Quarter. The clapboard sides have a sturdy british feel, but the windows are done in criss-cross Deutsche fashion and may as well be paned with plate sugar. The roof is burnt and vaguely Venetian. The porch is concrete and unapologetically American. There's a tower on it's right face that, while not unusual for this area, is fanciful enough to grab notice. Especially considering that it's topped off with a cap that's part Kremlin, part mosque. I'm not ashamed to say that I've peeked in when passing by in the evening and it's innards are red brick and arches, just begging to be ornamented with iron crockery and a nasty fat cook.

The family is equally elusive. Are they black? italian? latina? indian? eastern hungarian? I'm not sure. Don't really care. I'm more fascinated by the workman that sits outside, more fisherman than painter. Who tugs at his whiskers and casts his stones and grins and clacks and terrifies the stupid soft neighborhood kids. Whose hands are busy on thin air, whose eyes look forward, but whose concentration is obviously on the house behind him.

And it looks like it will all break apart at any moment--some parts claimed by the garden, others swallowed by rocks and earth, others flying off into the sky. I can only assume that it's one hell of a spell that keeps it trembling in uncertain obedience.