Ohad Flinker

I don't take notes, therefore I daydream...

The professor is letting his words bounce all over the classroom, like gaseous molecules in a beaker. Every once in a while the words form meaning of sorts, something about spatial anomalies in Cartesian coordinates, but I am never able to maintain my concentration long enough to follow the theorem through. I wonder what Descartes would have thought of the way mathematics is taught here. The whole discipline seems to be far more impressive and alluring when I don’t understand it. Once all the details sink in, usually some short time after I take the exam, all the mystique disappears. Isolate this variable in that equation, integrate here, find the nth derivative there, perhaps add in a newt’s tongue for zest, and presto, you’ve got your first 20 points to pass another exam, all for the noble cause of obtaining a marketable degree.

Now I’ve lost him altogether, wondering why I bother even staying in class. There must be a more effective way to assimilate this material. I let my mind wander, and with it so does my glance. All those other minds striving to follow an abstract line of thought, the only clues being the professor’s monotonous mathematical banter, broken Hebrew spoken in an inscrutable Slavic dialect, and some visual aid in the form of illegible formulae squiggled across the board. One hundred or so pens race to match his pace, among which mine is not included of course. I don’t remember when I stopped taking notes in class, it seemed like wasted effort, everyone else doing the same job so much better, so I stopped writing and did my best to listen, although even that has turned into a feared chore lately. Sometimes it just feels like a warped rerun of highschool, only more pointless.

My attention is caught by a student sitting close enough for me to smell the faint scent of her perfume, but far enough so I can sneak a good look every once in a while. She is capturing every nuance of the incredibly dull lecture, profusely writing every detail down, probably a good candidate to photocopy notes from. She’s wearing a short black mini-skirt and a white blouse, but I can’t see how far up it’s buttoned. I tend to lose myself in reverie in classes like these, so I turn my glance away periodically so as not to draw too much attention. Gradually, almost without noticing, a fantasy takes shape in my mind. First I wonder what she’s like in bed. Then I try to think of something else so as not to get carried away, even stoop to the level of the lecture again, attempting to comprehend what in the world the Prof. is talking about. But that was doomed to begin with. So I exit the stuffy classroom completely, and start building a scene. Where would I want us to be, what are we wearing, or NOT wearing, is there anybody else around? As I become more detached from reality, unclear images flood my mind. Limbs and lips and fingers in all sorts of places they shouldn’t be, specific details like color or scenery quickly disintegrating. All that is left is a whirl of feelings, almost a dream.

A rush of creaking chairs thrusts me back into the classroom, I am probably the only one left sitting. The girl from my fantasy spots a pencil next to my feet, with an eraser at the other end.

“You dropped your pencil” she says, and hands it over.

I am doing my best to hold back the blood gathering at my neck, “Oh... it’s not mine. I don’t take notes anyway.“

She smiles and just tells me I could use it to find something to erase instead. I really want to find something witty to say in reply, but my mind is still stuck in its nonlinear imagery, and just can’t form the words. So she walks away, mini-skirt and all, probably off to some other class.