In the Bin Ends section of the last issue of The Jackdaw (No. 33, November 2003), which arrived this morning, I immediately spot a single-line item saying that the ancient Aboriginal cave art at Ayer’s Rock or Uluru in Central Australia is being damaged by graffiti sprayed by tourists. Blood surges through my brain. The fuckers should be eaten alive! But I calm down at once without succumbing to despair. Nothing of essence can ever be lost. It is safely lodged between our ears and reproduced from generation to generation. It will be there if and when it is needed.

Addendum (August 3, 2018)

Looking at the paintings that surround me in my livingroom, I am not concerned about their future. Although they are marked by my own experience on earth, each one of them is bound to pop up again and again all over the planet of my birth. That is how they have popped up in my own brain, after all. To my joy, I am among those regaled with the immortal gift of my species. All I am concerned about at this stage of my life is that I remain surrounded by these very paintings till my last breath. What will happen to them afterwards is none of my business, anyhow. Which is why I am delighted by the title of this piece. It spells out in no uncertain terms my own feelings toward my legacy. Bin ends for true. Residua, that is. Alleluia!