This morning as I vacuumed the detritus from the kids' movie and popcorn gorging last night in the TV room, I got the old Whitney Houston song "Greatest Love of All" (or whatever the proper title is) stuck in my head. I don't know why or where it came from. As I rhythmically pushed the vacuum back and forth it threatened to really nestle into the gyri and sulci of my brain. I had to do something.
Luckily, I didn't panic. Instead I started analyzing the lyrics and began dictating a sort of thesis of deconstruction in my head. I didn't even get past the first line--"I believe the children are our future." Of course children are the future. They're children and will most likely be here longer than those older than them. What's to believe about that? In fact, they have a bigger stake in the future and it is more in their interest than mine to prepare for it. Perhaps the elderly who, by extension, have less of a stake in the future, should be eyed with suspicion as they are typically the ones who wield power in government and business.
And I went on and on in this ridiculous way, trying to make Derrida proud until, POOF!, the song was gone. Success...until a half hour later when I heard Vanessa's voice echoing throughout the house, "Treat them well and let them know the way. Tell them all the beauty they possess insiiiiide."
I must have been whistling the tune earlier and didn't realize I infected her as well. I've got no cure for that.