Cogs can think.

This morning, it took me 2 hours to drive from Warmenhuizen to my university in Amsterdam - a 60km drive which normally takes me about 45 minutes. The reason? Let me explain by showing how our traffic announcements on the radio start:

And now for the traffic, here’s all traffic jams longer than 8 kilometres and at unusual locations…

Yes. Due to time constraints, they just don’t bother anymore with the “short” traffic jams of 8km and less. This means that between 7 and 9 and 17 and 19, my average driving speed is 30km. On a highway with a 120km speed limit. And that you hit massive traffic jams at 3 in the morning. On Sundays.

The Netherlands. Wonderfully liberal and civilised country, where everybody is (technically) equal. We allow homosexuals to get married, even though they’ll be late to their own wedding, probably BECAUSE THEY’RE STUCK IN TRAFFIC.

Do you really care about what I have to say, Rube? Georgia asks.

Sure, Rube replies, I make my face look like this and the concerned words come out.

And that’s how I feel about my university.

Rewind back to last February. My friends and I are doing our jolly jobs of working for university, when we realise we forgot to sign up for a course called Formulating - in fact, the course had already begun 1.5 weeks ago - one of the prerequisite courses for the Master in Journalism. That was of course our very own stupid fault, let there be no mistake about that.

Anyway we quickly emailed the responsible professor, and decided to hop by our study counsellor, to honestly explain everything, and we expected to be able to join in, even though we were slightly late - professors generally don’t make a huge fuss about such a thing.

Boy, were we wrong.

The professor did not allow us to join. Our counsellor told us she felt very sorry for us, but that she couldn’t do anything about it. No one can force a professor to admit students into his or her classes, so going to a higher level in the organisational hierarchy would be fruitless. We came up with countless possible solutions, looking for any leniency, any flexibility, any help. We didn’t get any. It was hopeless.

We were forced to do an entire year extra, solely to follow one course.

We were dumbstruck. It was another cock-up in a long line of cock-ups - a line I could fill three blogs with for 5 years on end. It also so happened this would become the final wave that would break the dyke - we lost our motivation, our spirit. The cause? Our study is a very broad one, so inevitably, there’s a lot of ‘noise’ subjects that are mandatory but simply aren’t very interesting. We fought our way through them because we knew there’d be light at the end of the tunnel: our Master in Journalism. We were looking forward to it, and we worked hard to pass even the most boring of courses (I passed Statistics with a 7.5/10!), because we knew that once we had bitten through the sour apple (as we Dutch say), we’d be rewarded with what we al wanted to do: Journalism.

Automotive journalism for Marco, television for Levi, sports for Martin, and technology and computing for yours truly.

And that dream was more or less smashed. Like I said, it was our fault - but the punishment is disproportionate to the offence committed. The ever-present cynical part of me keeps saying: this ensures another year of College money for the VU University. That’s 4 times €1565,-. You do the math.

I’ve been struggling ever since with what to do about this. I thought about abandoning my chosen path and focussing solely on translation, which I thoroughly enjoy doing. Were I to do that, I could simply ignore everything having to do with the Master in Journalism, and start a translation-related Master somewhere in February next season, using the first part of the season to follow any prerequisite courses.

You may wonder why I’m so bogged down by having to complete another year - a lot of students fail to complete their study in the assigned four years, so what’s all the fuss about? Well, you have to realise I already threw away two years by studying Psychology, so it feels as if this will be the third extra year. I realise this is idiotic (my current study and Psychology are two separate entities) but hey, have fun convincing my feelings. AS IF THEY EVER LISTEN TO WHAT I HAVE TO SAY.

After months of thinking, I made a decision. I’m going to do the extra year, and also use that year for two other purposes: I won’t be burdening my summer with passing any possibly failed courses, instead doing them next year. In addition, I will fill my time with subjects of my choosing, mostly related to translation, and maybe throw in some Psychology subjects too.

This will still inevitably mean I have a lot of extra time on my hands, which I will put into thinking about starting ‘for myself’ when I’m done with university. Yes, I want to become a freelance writer and translator, allowing me to fill in my own time. I loved translating, most notably writing professional subtitles for Dutch TV, which fascinated me beyond imagination. Translating is like programming in many ways; it’s never done, always full of bugs, and everyone has their own ideas on how to achieve perfection.

But right now, I’ve had it with the VU University. I’ll be picking up Alice/Deesie coming Sunday, The Netherlands has a serious chance at grabbing the title, I kissed and made up with a friend of mine, my parents are healthy, I have the best friends one could ever wish for, and I’m feeling more confident about myself, the universe and everything else than ever before. I don’t want to worry about university any more.

You know what the irony is of all this? If we had kept our mouths shut, and just slipped into class after those 1.5 weeks, no one would have given a damn or even noticed. The fact we decided to be good boys screwed us over.

I also don’t have a lot of interest in being a good person or a bad person, Georgia said, From what I can tell, either way, you’re screwed.

We have a guest lecturer tomorrow. She posted an article online for us to read.

Two scanned images embedded in a Word document.

SHE BETTER BE PRETTY.

Three different stories, three different girls.

I ran into The Goth Girl again today. She was a lot less ‘goth’ this time, and it showed - without her prettiness obscured by weirdness, it was hard for me to keep my eyes off her. And before anyone gets their knickers in a twist again, she, just like everyone else, is free to wear whatever she wants, and look whichever way she wants. Similarly, I am free to voice my opinion on the way people dress and present themselves. The knife cuts both ways, you know.

What’s interesting is that her goth image may actually be her port wine stain. To quote myself, “I guess sometimes it takes an [perceived] imperfection to notice perfection. Which, somehow, I find a very comforting thought.”

I emailed Amy Walker a few days ago (after my blog post), complementing her with her material, and some other chit-chatter. Yesterday eve, I received a very kind reply; she thanked me for my kind and thoughtful words, and some other chit-chatter. This is really one of the great things about the internet; the ease with which you can get into touch with people, people who you admire or want to send a encouraging note to. I felt all warm and fuzzy inside (it is the little things that put the icing on my days’ cakes). I guess I’ll reply tonight.

And, most importantly, I basically spent my entire Sunday with Renate, which is always a good and wise thing to do. We did some shopping in Alkmaar, watched a film in the evening, and had some really good talks (as always). After bringing her home, I realised I still had an assignment to do for today… And it was 02:00. I don’t think I’ve ever worked on university stuff that late.

Anyway, three different stories, three different girls. In order of importance from least, to absolutely-utterly-without-a-doubt most.

After our first class, Marco and I went down to the basement of the university’s main building, to the cafeteria which is located there. It’s noon, so the cafeteria is filled with students foraging for their favourite food (croissant naturel, in my case), and while Marco goes to the fridge to get some milk, I notice a goth-looking girl with a friend of hers scouring around. The goth chick was pretty. Quite pretty, actually.

Marco and I agreed: such a shame to see such prettiness wasted by all-black clothing, piercings, and more of that goth weirdness.

Look, I’m all for freedom of expression, and it’s not the goth style in and of itself that bothers me (we live in a free country, people should be allowed to wear whatever the hell they want), but that doesn’t mean I can’t say it’s a damn shame to see such prettiness hidden by that goth nonsense. Let’s fcuk the system, be non-conforming by dressing and acting like all the other millions of goths out there. Makes total sense.

When Marco and I were eating our lunch outside, I noticed the same girl sitting a few tables down, directed towards me. She had a beautiful smile.

What a waste, what a waste.

Well have I ever.

My new proposal for my bachelor’s thesis has found a home. I’m so happy right now, even Twiek was all confused. “Ey, I’m the one supposed to be jumping around aimlessly, running up walls, and climbing the couches, jumping onto tables and knocking over cups of coffee. You are upsetting the delicate balance of power here.” Sorry sweetie, normal service will resume in a minute. Or two.

Anyway, I’ll be diving into the attitudes people have towards minority languages. I’m going to compare the attitudes people from England (as in, England-proper) have towards Scottish Gaelic and Welsh to the attitudes people from The Netherlands have towards our very own minority language, Frisian.

The reason I want to dive into this is because in the past few decades or so, there has been a worldwide surge in interest in these minority languages, as people (rightfully so) realise that without the proper measures, these languages, and all the cultural information they have inside them, will vanish. Various governments have started promotional programs and the likes to promote the use of these languages. In The Netherlands, the use of Frisian has been promoted heavily since 1956, resulting in Frisian being a compulsory subject in schools, various cities and municipalties officially changing their names to the Frisian variants, and even the province of Friesland itself officially changing its name to Fryslân, the Frisian variant. The Scottish government has done similar promotion of Scottish Gaelic.

Now, if it turns out that the attitudes towards minority languages of people speaking the majority language are similar cross-culturally, then language unions can share methods of promotion on a cross-cultural level.

That’s the idea, in any case. It’s going to be a hell of a lot of work.

The impossible has occurred. My faith in the Race of Teachers has been restored. Slightly.

I’ve been having one hell of a problematic few weeks leading up to the start of my bachelor’s thesis. The first step is finding a subject, which was easy enough for me: I want to make comparisons between English and Scottish Gaelic at the phonetic or grammatical level, hopefully finding some evidence for bi or semi directional influence between the two languages. This is of course a very specific subject, and trust me, it’s a difficult one. My grammatical knowledge of English is fine (although I mostly act on instinct), but on Gaelic it’s of course almost non-existant. This is why I wanted to delve into this - to expand my knowledge on the subject. Sure, I can focus on something easy, but that wouldn’t be challenging.

The second step is finding a tutor for the whole process, a professor who guides you through the process, gives advice, and helps you all-round. This professor is of course supposed to specialise in the field you want to study. And this is where everything started to go horribly, horribly, wrong.

Back in December last year, we were given a special lecture on bachelors’ theses, and during that lecture, we were given a list of possible tutors, including their specialties, email addresses, and so on. I was delighted to see that my tutor of choice, who I had decided upon weeks and weeks ago, was on that list. So, after working out my research plans in a bit more detail, I decided to email her somewhere mid-January.

I went to her personal university webpage, and was in for a shock: even though she was clearly listed as a possible tutor, she was actually unavailable. She’s on sabbatical, and even though that’s great for her, my faculty should not have listed her, obviously. The reason I wanted her as my tutor is because I have very good experiences with her teaching (she taught me an English phonetics & phonology course); she’s very kind, understanding, patient, and calm - exactly what a guy like me needs. Her specialties are English phonology and grammar, so it was a perfect fit.

But, sadly, she was unavailable. I felt very, very angry inside, as this is case number 93594 where my faculty fails to properly do its job of guiding its students through their academic career - trust me, I can fill three blogs with their mistakes and errors, errors that, among other things, will cost Marco and me an extra year of university. FOR ONE COURSE.

I realised anger wouldn’t get me anywhere, so I re-grouped, calmed down, and went over the list again. There wasn’t anyone with the proper specialties, so I chose someone who had taught me before - also with a background in English grammar, but sadly, it wasn’t her prime subject. As a consequence, I nuanced my proposal differently so it fit her specialties better, and went to her personal webpage to find her email address. You can see where I’m going with this, right?

She was also unavailable - pregnancy leave. Great, of course, and congratulations to her on the birth of her new child, but now I felt seriously and truly fcuked. I now know how King Edward II felt right before he died. Bugger, old chap, it appears as if a hot metal poke has been inserted into my rectum.

I didn’t know what to do. I was so fed up with my university, my faculty, all their mistakes, their total lack of leniency, and their utter disregard for the moral obligations that come with being a teacher. I kind of ‘blocked’ on the whole subject, and couldn’t think about it anymore. I got stuck, couldn’t take any further action, as anytime I thought about it I would get too angry to think rational.

In other words, I lost my ability to kiss ass. And trust me, I RULE AT KISSING ASS. It has given me much, much profit. And now, Google hits too. Hi, boys and girls, THIS IS NOT RIMJOB.COM.

Anyway, it took me a while to restore my ability to kiss ass. This week, it was back. I’ve been feeling top-notch ever since February kicked off, and if there ever was a moment to kiss ass to solve this issue, it was now. Two days ago, I emailed my study advisor, asking her for advice. I explained my situation to her, and she was very understanding and sweet. She advised me to contact professor, err, let’s call him professor Locke (a great guy, I already know him very well), since he leads the English linguistics department. The deadline for the research proposal is, uhm, tomorrow, but this situation is beyond my control, so I hope I’ll be getting some leniency here.

I emailed professor Locke, explained my situation again, and he promptly replied that he’d dive into it right away, to try and find someone willing and fit for the subject at hand. A few hours later, he emailed again, stating he couldn’t find anyone, so he advised me to alter my subject, and then get back to him with a few proposals.

Yes, boys and girls, this is what I expect from a teacher. I’ve had so many teachers and professors working against me, that it almost made my cry that I finally found someone who worked with me, even though he is most certainly not obliged to do so. This has restored my faith in the Teacher’s Race for now, and I’m sure that with his help, I’ll get out of this situation after all.

The poke is still there, but it feels as if I’ve been given some vaseline.

You know what? I’m sick, fed up, and I’ve had it up to ^here with my university, my faculty, my tutors, my professors, everything. As far as I’m concerned, they shove it where the sun don’t shine. They don’t take us into account, they disregard us, treat us like shite - all because teachers realise full damn well that they do not need us - but we students do need them.

I’m just fed up. I might explain it all on my blog one of these days, but I’m just sick and tired of it all right now. I really long for my winter break which starts in two weeks; no university from then on until early February.

I’m not the kind of guy to hold a grudge. I just can’t do it. The situation with my brothers kind of forced me to swallow a whole lot of crap for 15 years on end simply because else I would’ve ended up as the biggest piece of grudge in human history (visible from outer space), and as such, I’m a professional grudge swallower (here’s to hoping grudge isn’t a synonym for that other thing). Grudges just don’t feel right, and they make me feel queasy every now and then. I kind of like to see myself as someone who stands above silly grudges and feelings of anger and hate. Of course, I get pissed off and angry all the time, but never for long.

So, what to do with this? I just don’t know. I’m not really angry anymore, you know. It still don’t feel right, and it surely never will, but truly angry? No. I’m just not angry about it anymore. In fact, her and I had such a great time before it all happened, and now, I… I kind of miss all that. It’s crazy, I know, but that’s just how I feel.

I can be an intricate person. When I choose to. It might be time to choose not to be intricate.

Conversation between Martin and me at university during a presentation of a study that used the film “Philadelphia“.

Martin shakes his head and says: “I don’t like this movie. It’s a typical girls’ movie…”

I interrupt him.

“I love this film!”

“…just like The Green Mile…”

“I love The Green Mile!”

I get an awkward look from Martin. I couldn’t resist:

“At least I don’t go to musicals.”

BURN.