She never yelled, but sternly told me to sit farther away from the television. I would scoot backwards on my hands and knees. She would return to the kitchen table. And I would move to my previous position and press my nose against the dusty glass.
The program wasn't nearly as important as the continuity of the lines of resolution. At that proximity, I could watch them cascading down the screen like colored pencils rolling off the edge of my desk, all Rs, Gs, and Bs.