(no subject)
Today we - the Dutch nation collectively, or at least the population of southern Utrecht - experienced a rare day of autumn brilliance. I biked to work this morning beside pastures, cast in gold and frost; along the lake, overlaid with leaves (brown and newly fallen); then up and over the white wooden bridge that spans the Crooked Rhine. To my left, the cornfield loomed behind a row of trees. Last week I saw the tractors harvesting the corn and now the maze of stalks has given way to rough earth. The river reflected the sky in a way particular to the low countries, cerulean shot through with darkness, and all around me the fields glowed in the new light.
When last Luc and I spoke, he told me to enlighten him (which in Luc parlance means to inform him of the news in my life). So I recounted the latest from home because I knew nothing else. If only I could have said, "Luc, come with me. Look with my eyes. The leaves have left a trail of gold in the murky canal. The green and gilded hands of the university clock tower tick five minutes earlier than your watch! A stone face spits water from a drainpipe near the bridge..."
Ay me, instead my life proceeds with rather more mundanity than the simple joys of sharing life with the man of my dreams: I ran out of clean pants and was forced to wear my star-spangled bell-bottoms to class. This incident raised no eyebrows among my classmates and I too forgot this seventies shout-out as our discussion progressed. The question centred on whether one can define a visual (rather than verbal) form of argumentation. Like almost every lecture in this class that consists of guest-lectures, I found it interesting, raised some discussion points, and sat back and listened to my classmates argue; although media studies, presented in this manner, intrigued me, nothing can trump medieval history.
I think it's that kind of mentality that makes me unattractive to Luc - a frat boy can only be baffled by my tendency to describe an exhibit of books printed in Zwolle between 1477 and 1523 as fascinating and not to be missed. That and my spasmodic self, coupled with the gnomes-have-stolen-my-bread-recipes fits, not to mention the fact that as Killian so charmingly pointed out over pierogies tonight, "It's not like you'd be a trophy wife, Jade." Although the comment hardly surprised me (because if I were indeed some sort of trophy material, Luc and perhaps other men too would already have looked twice in this direction), it still managed to shut me up. After several moments of contemplative chewing, my repartee to Killian: "Well...I could be an intellectual trophy. Like if a hockey player wanted to seem smart, he could marry me, and people would consider him smart by association!"
Other progress will be made shortly on Operation No-Name - Killian and I are joining a fitness club so that we can keep each other company as we endeavour to bring our physical condition up to par with our intelligence.
Cheers,
Jade
When last Luc and I spoke, he told me to enlighten him (which in Luc parlance means to inform him of the news in my life). So I recounted the latest from home because I knew nothing else. If only I could have said, "Luc, come with me. Look with my eyes. The leaves have left a trail of gold in the murky canal. The green and gilded hands of the university clock tower tick five minutes earlier than your watch! A stone face spits water from a drainpipe near the bridge..."
Ay me, instead my life proceeds with rather more mundanity than the simple joys of sharing life with the man of my dreams: I ran out of clean pants and was forced to wear my star-spangled bell-bottoms to class. This incident raised no eyebrows among my classmates and I too forgot this seventies shout-out as our discussion progressed. The question centred on whether one can define a visual (rather than verbal) form of argumentation. Like almost every lecture in this class that consists of guest-lectures, I found it interesting, raised some discussion points, and sat back and listened to my classmates argue; although media studies, presented in this manner, intrigued me, nothing can trump medieval history.
I think it's that kind of mentality that makes me unattractive to Luc - a frat boy can only be baffled by my tendency to describe an exhibit of books printed in Zwolle between 1477 and 1523 as fascinating and not to be missed. That and my spasmodic self, coupled with the gnomes-have-stolen-my-bread-recipes fits, not to mention the fact that as Killian so charmingly pointed out over pierogies tonight, "It's not like you'd be a trophy wife, Jade." Although the comment hardly surprised me (because if I were indeed some sort of trophy material, Luc and perhaps other men too would already have looked twice in this direction), it still managed to shut me up. After several moments of contemplative chewing, my repartee to Killian: "Well...I could be an intellectual trophy. Like if a hockey player wanted to seem smart, he could marry me, and people would consider him smart by association!"
Other progress will be made shortly on Operation No-Name - Killian and I are joining a fitness club so that we can keep each other company as we endeavour to bring our physical condition up to par with our intelligence.
Cheers,
Jade