Short letters.

Dear surprise yellow towel,

You are an inanimate object. I know this. 

little towel, who shoved thee?

Still, I wish you could tell me who shoved you into the heating duct, thus contributing to the Coldest Living Room in America Syndrome at our house. And we would never have known, had the contractor not found you, extracted you, and told us. 

If that was a con, it was a long con. Well-played.

Warmer now, no thanks to you,

htms

*

Dear Jacques Derrida,

yo francais!

Since the center of you is nowhere--(a) you are no more, and (b) I assume that when you passed, you immediately deconstructed--you probably weren't around, haunting the room, when my student said this today:

"The first time I read 'Structure, Sign and Play in the Discourse of the Human Sciences,' I was like, I don't get it. The second time I read it, I was, Okay. The third time I read it, I was all, I love you, Derrida."

If your meaning were not infinitely deferred, you might perhaps have found some satisfaction in that.

I know I did,

htms

**

Dear bag of spice drops,

there are none. NONE.

I assume there has been some fundamental redesign, conducted by the Task Force on Optimal Spice
Drop Flavor Distribution. I cannot imagine, however, how this effort could have resulted in the disappearance of all the purples. To repeat: no purples!

It's just not right,

htms

***

Dear lull before the onslaught,

How I am enjoying you. Caught up, for once, on grading, responding to the occasional frantic or not-too-frantic e-mail, talking with pleasure about Derrida, making lists of stuff I'm going to do when the grading is really done:

what is the sign for 'lull'?

• go to the museum
• go to the other museum
• go to the other other museum
• bake the same things I always bake
• bake some other things, possibly
• figure out other crunchy things to make brittle out of
• hang out with grandkids
• read
• take a long leisurely look at my manuscript
• nap
• watch television

Lull, you are but a foretaste, but you are delicious.

htms