Derivative

At one time, that word referred to something other than a work of art too obviously influenced by another.

My 11th grade precalculus teacher has died. To the surprise of those who joke that people become journalists because they’re bad at math, I declare proudly that I rocked at calculus. I did pretty well in pre-calc, but I’m pretty sure I had the highest grade in my senior year calc class.

And now, I kid you not, I don’t even remember what calculus is for. I don’t know what a derivative is, or how to find one, or even what the symbol is. I’ve used algebra from time to time in my real life, but I guess it’s true, one does not need to know calculus to survive in the world.

Oops

Guess I shouldn’t leave letterhead in my printer overnight, cus it could be used to print out a portion of someone’s grad school application essay. The grammar in this one isn’t as tight, but the spelling is good. Spell-check probably. Still no name.

I was lighting candles in my dreams last night. Using one of those long lighter thingies. Many of the wicks refused to light. Then I dropped a stone Yin-yang candle holder (which I actually own). And it broke. First I noticed something was wrong with the white side, then I realized the black part was broken too. I tried to put it back together, but I couldn’t. Don’t have to look too hard to find symbolism there, but I don’t think it actually means anything. Just a dream about breaking something. Could have been a ceramic Bart Simpson piggy bank, which I bought in Tijuana a million years ago. I think his head broke off before I even got him home.

Mystic Printer

Every once in a while, the printer on my desk interrupts my pensive haiku composing by whirring to life and printing something I didn’t ask it to, presumably something from some other terminal. A few weeks ago I got a couple of pages of a sociology paper. Just now I got a page that talks about constructivism and mystical experiences.

The bizarre thing is, even though the papers don’t make actual sense to me, they’re written quite well. No glaring spelling or grammatical errors, and I rarely read anything that doesn’t need a good copy edit.

I suspect these are coming from the computer lab down the hall. Wonder if it’s the same person each time. That would explain the consistently high quality. Interesting too, that I never get a page with a name on it. Or anything highly confidential.

On today’s brief snowfall, as seen from the shuttle bus on my way to pick up my graded writing assignment. (I got an A)

Flurries in the trees
Drifting, hanging like blossoms
Oblivious me

See how my explanation is several syllables longer than my haiku? For some reason, having nothing to do with the writing class I’m taking, I’ve started counting all the syllables of my thoughts. It started with my having a visceral reaction to yesterday’s weather.

There’s something I’ve been meaning to post about, but instead of wordsmithing my usual way, I was tempted to simply blog:

Those college girls
They really like their breadsticks
Better than pasta?

Cus, doesn’t that just get my whole point across? In case it doesn’t…I can’t get over how much these college girls like their Pizza Hut breadsticks. It has got to be the most popular food item at the trendy cafeteria place. You wouldn’t believe the number of healthy (excuse me, healthful) food items that are available and yet not a day goes by that I don’t see half a dozen girls (at least) of all sizes, picking up a small order of breadsticks to eat as their lunch.

Me, I’ve been getting a Chinese food carrier portion of pasta marinara. I measured it at about 16 liquid ounces (with an empty soda cup). Probably no less fattening than the breadsticks.

Well, sometimes I get a veggie burger or an egg-salad sandwich.

Talk to me Sigmund Freud, tell me all about it

After Rob left, I reset the alarm for 6:30 so I could watch the local news. I dozed back off with the TV on, and incorporated things like, “If you’re driving south, you could see some snow flurries” into my dreams.

But I also dreamed that I had gotten up and into the shower. The water was up to my ankles in the tub and I had a really large bottle of Pantene conditioner. I was nervous and excited because it was my last day at my old job. I had already started my new job, but only part time, and I was pretty sure I liked it, but I wasn’t sure if I was ready to leave the old job, because I’d only been there 13 months (in real life, I’d been there 18).

I kind of barely remember my real last day…

I had a bunch of stuffed animals on my old desk that I had to retrieve. I wondered why exactly I needed to leave the old job, because I was already living with Rob, so what was the difference…

I woke up so relieved that I’m already settled in my new job, and oh, yeah, things have gotten ugly at the old job since I left, and I’m much better off!

Now I can’t stop

Bald eagle soaring
White head clear among the clouds
Patch of blue peeks through

Oops, now it’s gone
Bright sun, you are such a tease!
Blinding me briefly

Morning Haikus

Rain, gray and chilly
Dampening my every day
But not my spirit

***

Broken tree outside
Reversing truck, steady beep
Decapitated

***

Rain falls like diamonds
No sun to make them sparkle
Winter never ends

Splash.

During my walk to lunch, I realized a more glass-half-full version of the last one could go:

Rain falls like diamonds
No sun to make them sparkle
Eager for the spring

Latest

It did not snow. It was, however, bleeping cold. Still is a bit chilly for my taste.

I enjoyed my first observance of a three-day President’s Day weekend since, what, 2001? Unfortunately, Rob was working. Or maybe it’s not unfortunate, as it gave me time to shop and write. And do his laundry.

Didja hear it might snow?

Yesterday I overheard two conversations to that effect within a minute of each other. I’d love to see some snow, as I mentioned on Groundhog Day. What I’m concerned about is these low of 18 days they’re predicting.

If New York got two feet of snow, wouldn’t you call that one of the best snowstorms in history, instead of one of the worst? A bad snowstorm would be one where it came down all wet and sloshy and didn’t stick.

How can Fox execs even look at another sit-com after Arrested Development’s cancellation? Watching the 2-hour finale, my TiVo accidentally stopped on a coupla promos for some midseason whatevers. Seriously, what do people want in their sit-coms? Arrested Development was so funny. Come on!

And how come no one ever recommended Dorothy Parker to me?

Oh yeah, and Happy Valentine’s Day, lovers.