Dagbogen

This week was my chance to sample the classes for which I had registered. As was the case during the previous semester, I have enrolled in four courses, though the similarities cease there. Interaction between most of my instructors and most of my classmates for the whole of last semester was hampered to the point that I could only speak to the nearest three or four individuals every lecture and to the professor in question every other week or so in all but one course, which admittedly had but five students. (The other three contained approximately thirty each.) If the first sessions for each of this semester’s courses are any indication, then I will find myself amongst professors with auras representing the far past, the recent past, the present, and the future, and amongst students with camaraderie, which will mark a change from the forced exchanges of the preceding term.

In spite of such stylization and vivacity, I remain anxious. I have set the process in motion whose ideal outcome would be my acceptance to the city’s public university, with gnawing dread that the result might be significantly less desirable. It is true that I have a Plan B ready to be consulted, but it would involve attending a local private university whose Honours College I could never join. Opportunism shall highlight my path to the Bachelor’s Degree, most certainly entailing the acquisition of a Cum Laude title. Compensation is no easy way out, but a hard trek through.

I am uncertain as to what this semester holds in store. The aforementioned descriptions are mere impressions, which may morph if the university decides to refuse me. I should not let it dictate my judgment, yet it will ultimately determine whether this semester leads to the end of my community college tenure or to its continuation. Perhaps I will enjoy the ride while it lasts…

To my dismay, the lady from Denmark has not given me a ring. It is perhaps best that she returned home, for she had sought to introduce me to relatives residing in adjacent suburbs, namely, her nephews and nieces. I would not have hesitated so if they were noticeably younger or older than myself, yet it seems that they are my peers, the generation whom I regard with the most scepticism. Nonetheless, I wish that they have all felt such success as I have experienced today.

I was dismissed from my first job as a standardized testing instructor roughly 350 days ago. In all likelihood, the decision stemmed from my lack of both resourcefulness and impromptu; the former, since I could not retrieve my materials from the headquarters in a timely fashion, and the latter, for it was apparent that I did not know the slightest in paedagogical technique. I received, deposited, and spent my earnings soon enough, but the sting of being fired has remained until today. After a fruitless year of hunting for work, an independent company in the neighbouring county has offered me a chance.

It began yesterday, after I had sorted out a few transcript issues with the registrars of my college. The correction process consumed more time than I had anticipated, and the unpleasant result was my missing the bus. I figured that I had better make do with the next hour. As I walked in the direction of the campus library, it occurred to me that there might be something waiting in the Career Centre, towards which I redirected myself. I entered, located the bulletin board, and flipped through the newest listings. Five or so flyers later, I was staring at a position with a schedule too good to believe: handing out food samples at a grocery in my town one Saturday per month!

Before leaving the premises, I telephoned the company and somehow managed to schedule an interview. Everything thereafter fell into place, and I am now set for my second job. If the schedule persists for the near future, then I may find myself with this company up to the end of my undergraduate days. Unpredictability may serve many fields well, but in the world of employment, stability reigns unchallenged.

Last Thursday was the annual Simbang Gabi (Tagalog for "Church Night"). I had no desire to attend, begrudgingly accompanying my parents and sibling only because my mother was scheduled to recite a reading. We went inside, but before we were able to reach the side aisle, we had already been greeted. The accoster in question was an elderly lady of Philippine appearance and Danish nationality.

She had approached my mother first and switched to me after the revelation of her residence. Her ebullience was matched only by her curiosity, for she explained, asked, and answered with equal detail. She concluded our conversation by mentioning her nephews and sons and implying that one of them could use another friend. She collected my family's phone-number, and said that she would reveal where she was staying when she calls.

I am still awaiting her as a type. I have no idea what to expect, so I will have no expectations. I am to show deference to this guest and those with her, and nothing less.

Everyone acquires his or her particular fear, and equally special is his or her reaction. From paralysis to tremors to sobs, there is no trace of courage, whose emergence would hamper, if not negate any phobias. I grudgingly say that I had the opportunity to face my greatest aversion last Monday and did so unsatisfactorily.

It was night, though not yet at the AM stages. I sought tape, masking or scotch, to wrap the box of the used board-game that would serve as extra credit for my Geography class. Just as my search proved futile, I chanced upon a spool of thick yarn and switched plans at once. I snipped, tied, and bound the package, with Christmas decorations as my only light sources, and was about to make the final knot when a stray finger touched the spool's ostensibly hollow cylinder. It was not empty. I felt a woozy sensation at my fingertips and decided to view the cotton and dust underneath.

I flipped on the electronic candelabra, inspected the spool, and found myself making eye-contact with the corpse of a moth. The spool fell from my hands a nanosecond thereafter, rolling towards the kitchen wall as I scampered in the opposite direction. During that ten second escape, the only thing that I could hear was my heartbeat. When I finally came to a complete stop at the top of the staircase, the only movement that I could make resembled a seizure. As I sunk into my bed, the only thing that I could see was a mutilated caterpillar.

Strangest of all, the following day turned out well: I delivered the game, received bonus points, and later discovered that I would be exempt from my Astronomy final. The subsequent three days did not go sour either. Despite these successes, I cannot resist wondering what I could have done about my mottephobia, now that the garbage men have collected the bag containing the spool.

My grandmother deposited her latest earnings at the bank today, and I had seized the opportunity to tag along. I was delivered to the local library, which stood in the vicinity of a fair Middle Eastern eatery. I was to spend an hour or so taking notes on Icelandic and then walk to the joint for lunch, with the notion that I would not encounter a single acquaintance along the way. Myopia had retribution in store, and struck before I had left the checkout lobby.

What occurred next requires some exposition. Threatened by boredom, I rejoined the German Club at my high school, which has worked in my favour insofar as free rides home. The offerer in question is one of the club's current heads, and it is she who suddenly accosted me at the library. Perhaps my expectations of what constitutes a worthwhile dialogue are in need of lowering, but the exchange that took place between us amounted to less than enjoyable. Questions were dealt and answers were supplied, but after several months of company, merriment was still forsaken. In the end, she went to her project, I went to dine, and much went sour.

I returned from a superb meal and entered the audio-visual room, intent on procuring "Teach Yourself Danish" in order to refresh my speaking and listening abilities, dormant for months. I found what I wanted, and was about to exit when I spotted a classmate with whom I had played a variant of Quiz Bowl. It was too late to avoid recognition, for our eyesights had made contact, and thus I greeted him with the hope of camaraderie. It was soon dashed, when his pattern of feigned chuckles did not abate. I sighed in my mind, wished him well on the essay that he had come to the library to compose, and puckered my lips when he was out of sight.

It is taxing enough to initiate a chat, and to extend it drains still more will. I swore to myself long ago that I would cease my penchant for shirking that which I commenced. If the two disastrous interactions in which I participated are any indication, it would seem that my efforts are globes apart from fruition. Is it really less about the red herring and more about the golden fishing rod?

My aunt recommends the delaying of gratification, and the sorry truth is that I have only hastened the process. At this stage in time, I continue to have as my penchant the consumption of cash for the consumption of chow, which, coupled with my trademark squandering, has often driven me past allowances. I speak of my chequing account, a perpetually subsistent sum that was intended solely for emergencies and now serves as a substitute crutch. Even it has its limit, lest I sink beneath the de facto hidden fee per month. I perpetually and deservedly find myself carrying change and little else. To my credit, I have not yet plead for either bills or coins, though a recent incident may show otherwise.

It was the Thursday of this week. I had bought a bottle of cola with a quarter and a remaining dollar and later charged a sandwich to my debit card. Then I reached the bus station where my mother and I usually meet after work and school, and noticed that I had arrived one hour in advance. I decided to walk to the adjacent Wendy's for a large Frosty and a seat, but once I was settled and counting the contents of my wallet, it dawned on me that I only had enough for a medium. Within the span of less than thirty seconds thereafter, a man laid a dollar on my table, refused an attempt to exchange four quarters, and left after laying down a second bill.

I could have chased after him. I could have swept the table in defiance. I could have placed both his dollars and my cents in the charity box. I actually got my large Frosty, but not what he meant. I did not dare to glance at his face or his other features. I guess that, if the employees ignored our interaction, what happened sub rosa stays sub rosa.

Yesterday involved a now customary visit to the Skokie Public Library, wherein I studied my astronomy textbook and took the corresponding online quiz of the week. After my internet time had expired, I proceeded to the Germanic language shelf in order to examine the Dutch offerings. It was there that I chanced upon "Teach Yourself Icelandic".

Now, I had been skimming grammatical topics in Icelandic for the past fortnight or so out of ennui, but I wanted to postpone formal study until my final undergraduate years. It might be that I was reminded at that very moment of a certain scientific claim, namely, that as one ages, s/he tends to find more difficult the pronunciation of a foreign language, or it could be the case that I needed to sate my current craving for intellectual enrichment. It was ultimately my desire to show SPL that I was not merely an electronic freeloader, but also a traditional patron that prompted me to borrow "Teach Yourself Icelandic". I decided against any Dutch materials since I had already learnt the fundamentals and was not in the mood for memory refreshing.

As I was riding the bus on my way home, I spent time inspecting the pronunciation guide. (I had neglected to browse the library's audio-visual section for accompanying cassettes.) The descriptions did not intimidate me until I read that r's are trilled, at which point I recoiled. The main reason that I had abandoned all attempts to speak Dutch was my inability to reproduce rolled r's, a major feature of that language. I aim to avoid misunderstandings that result from mispronounced sounds, and so I resign myself to the certainty that I can speak neither standard Dutch nor standard Icelandic. By logical extension, it would be futile to improve my listening capabilities, for if I cannot speak properly, then I would be unable to answer questions in an aurally comprehensible manner.

On second thought, there is a vital incentive for correctly interpreting the spoken language: both Dutch and Icelandic in their written form are heavily influenced by pronunciation. Knowing the difference between the sound of the first "e" in "schilderen" and in "studeren", both infinitives, will immediately guide one to the correct past participles "geschilderd" and "gestudeerd", whereas those ignorant of the distinction, e.g. myself, will be forced to consult a dictionary, a search engine, or a native Hollander. I wager that a similar principle applies to Icelandic declensions and conjugations.

If there exists absolute fluency in a language, or consummate expression through writing and speaking and precise comprehension through reading and listening, then is there a relative fluency comprising one, two, or three of these components? Society is inclined to deem a person fluent in a language if s/he can merely speak it well, regarding the other factors as less essential. It is my sincere wish that this attitude be discarded in the coming times.

“In order to treat a client to the fullest, a psychologist must establish a long-standing relationship between the two of them. After this is done, the patient can eventually deduce the beings and/or principles that impacted him or her the most, though not without some persuasion and prompting.” My psychology professor said something to this effect, which I wrote in my notebook, reread for that class’s final, and thereafter forgot: at least, until this week.

Dr. R.B. Henry has served as my behavioural therapist for over two years. I have met him on a sporadic basis, which has recently been resolved to every week. I came to regard our conferences as talks instead of treatment, and would likely have maintained such an attitude until the Tuesday of this week. We began with a story of a successful conversation between myself and a student in my geography class whom I have known for little over a month, and concluded with recollections of orchestra classmates who were shown by him to be prime influences on my current persona. We discussed, I with the sincerest mood that I have ever demonstrated towards him and he with his usual insight and ribaldry. As I walked out of his office, I could actually feel a stressed sensation within my chest. A drama is rarely a match for a revelation.

So I am not immune to professional scrutiny. When I stop to analyse my situation, it dawns on me that I have just exposed my mechanisms to someone and consequently put my faith into his guidance. Whether this signifies the path to salvation, the way to hell in a handbasket, or the road to nowhere is anyone’s guess.

After perhaps a month's worth of acclimation, people begin to regard the daily routine of eating out for lunch as both a triumphant day's reward and a ruined one's saving grace. I have not yet experienced the latter this semester, though I resign myself with some reluctance to its future occurrence. That day shall witness one of the highest expenditures that I have ever made at a restaurant.

I am no proponent of homemade cuisine. This stance is the result of lifelong exposure to my family's mostly abysmal cooking, including my attempts. The overwhelming blandness of Filipino food, coupled with countless botched non-Filipino dishes, led me to avoid eating at home at all costs.

As I developed the notion of not getting too familiar with any one eatery, its proprietors, or its employees, I moulded myself into a kind of culinary nomad, visiting a different joint each day with a bias against sit-down menu places. It soon became evident that I needed some structure to my jaunts, and I thus created a schedule that would repeat itself each week. I follow it now, and shall continue to do so until I have completed my finals. The start of every following semester means a new dining plan.

If there is an underlying, long-term purpose to this wandering, it may well be preparation for my life after a BA. It would prove cheaper to make meals at my flat using grocery-bought materials, of course, yet experience has told me that I cannot please my gustatory demands in such a fashion. Therefore, I shall take some irresponsibility by eating lunch and dinner outside my dwelling, and I do not mean lunchboxes. I can accept portable breakfasts, however: morning rush hours require them.

One of the latest curveballs in the game of higher education has been pitched by UIC: the 2007 autumn semester will mark the introduction of a curriculum featuring a BA in Urban Planning and Public Affairs as its certification. The transfer guide corresponding to it, at least, was published sometime in the previous month.

I regard this announcement with a mix of eagerness and disapproval. Months of activity at such urbanist communities as SkyscraperCity and SkyscraperPage (and weeks at Cyburbia) have stimulated my wish to learn, experience, and assist the city, and this kind of ordinance could not have been timed better. On the other hand, it annoys me that the staff did not implement it sooner and thus spare transfer students (to say nothing of those currently attending UIC) the trouble of reconfiguring their schedules in line with the curriculum's requirements.

Perhaps I should retract the notion that this offer arrived at the best possible time, since I have already established a transfer plan that would lead me to the university's Art and Design College. The number of mandatory courses for Urban Planning and Public Affairs, corresponding roughly to that of the Liberal Arts curriculum, is significantly higher. To complicate matters even further, my mother adamantly and vehemently insists that I complete several of the so-called fundamentals of sociology, philosophy, marketing, journalism, chemistry, biology, accounting, and/or economics. Three credits in the micro-branch of the anomalous item are required for prospective transfers to Urban Planning and Public Affairs. I did not enjoy my study of the macro-branch counterpart, though if it is true that microeconomics are comparatively less difficult, then I might be persuaded to shift the present course of action.