Cogs can think.

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.

It is The One Question. The question that has boggled the minds of men since the dawn of time. Well, at least ever since we set foot on the New World. And consequently destroyed it.

I already knew that the world’s sexiest English accent is that of a Southern girl from the States. Texas, that sort of thing. So incredibly sexy. However, I never knew what was sexier: an American accent, or a British one?

Presentations were held today in class, and it was an all-girl cast - a multicultural one at that. One girl tried very hard to sound British, while another girl was straight from the States. I finally had a real-life comparison right in front of me. As a result, I had zero idea what they were presenting, seeing I was focussing so much on the accents. You have to have your priorities straight, you know.

And the American girl won - hands down. The American variant of English is simply much, much sexier than British English. Glad I got that off my chest.

I speak with a distinctively American accent, by the way. You can barely hear I’m Dutch.

Yesterday at university, during an English course, I wanted to hand in a short assignment I was unable to hand in last week, together with this week’s assignment. I walked up to my professor (he’s from Texas, by the way), and said:

“Here’s last week’s assignment. I’ll hand it in now, apart form this week’s, so you don’t mix them up.”

Smiling, he replies:

“Erm, you wrote the week’s number on it. I’ve got a PhD, you know. I’ll figure it out.”

“Good point.”

My professor switches his attention to the beamer he’s setting up for class, and grumbles:

“Now, why won’t the damn picture show up!” Silence. “Oh wait. The cap’s still on…”

I couldn’t resist.

“A PhD, you say?”