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Remnants

He wants to talk about low flow toilets and the decline of the nuclear family structure but I try to force him to digress. I know well how he wears himself out with this.

"Remnants!" He yells.

"Like those of galactic supernovas." I urge him into a tangent.

"Just like galactic supernovas. There, swirling, floating..." He motions with his hands, sets them magically in flight. He mutters himself into a personal tirade that I cannot translate. I say cannot, but of course, we know that I can. I understand every syllable that he utters and mutters and when he writes in his secret fist, I know the vowels from the consonants and I know that this is not a code. I know that it is a language, a language full of beautiful nuances and diphthongs that linger much too briefly before melting away in one's mouth leaving one somehow with both a feeling of accomplishment and of disappointment.

"It isn't wanderlust." He assures me. "It isn't boredom." He goes on.

I try again, "July is Anti-Boredom month."

"What kills," I shudder a bit at how this word sounds actually coming out of his mouth, "It's the conservationists. It is they who are ruining families and the lives of children." He accuses, is silent for a second while I am thinking about the tear on the cheek of the Native American fellow in those old PSA's, then he adds, "With their remnants."

"Like those of galactic supernovas." I concur and he eyes me suspiciously as Eve must have eyed Adam at the first hint of his carnal suggestion. The proverbial jig may well be up. But, alas, no:

He talks about the perpetual mystery needed to sustain desire. Against my better judgment, I catch myself listening. And I get him. I get him, man.

I was heartbroken, I wept like Christ, when I involuntarily discovered how cartoons were made.

I was an innocent, flipping through the three channels that our reception would allow us to receive and I saw. I saw behind the curtain. That blasted infernal, celestial, star studded curtain rent in twain when Christ called out, "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?" They were drawings. My favorite entertainers in the entire universe (a universe where there are such things as infinity and the platypus mind you, but a real talking bunny wabbit...no...that would just be too much now wouldn't it?) were drawings, paintings, with dubbed voices. No mystery, no desire. I settled for Donahue, where all the machinations are obvious and where you get what you pay for when pay with idleness. No mystery. No desire. No motivation to watch other than boredom. July is Anti-Boredom Month.

"It's not wanderlust or any primitive theory or desire to sew seeds all over the world." I believe him. "It's remnants that breed space between man and woman. It's low flow toilets that perpetuate these remnants. Flush!" He passionately exclaims and I can see the incredible lecturer that I have heard them say he used to be. "Flush! Flush! Flush! For the love of God and family and all that is good in this life...flush..." He exhausts himself and slips away into the fog and then the darkness and he is now asleep and resting as well he should be.

I will leave him now. Tomorrow, I will come with news of his grandson. He had his first day of school today. I am worried that he will be like his father.

And his father's father.

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