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'Mortal as I am, I know that I am born for a day. But when I follow at my pleasure the serried multitude of the stars in their circular course, my feet no longer touch the earth.'
 
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Fixed Cross
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PostSubject: my language teachers   my language teachers Icon_minitimeTue Oct 13, 2015 8:52 pm

Trudie H, the woman who instructed us in Latin during the formative emotional years, was a woman as incapable of dominating as she was of losing her integrity. Her best students sat up front with her and they were formidable girls ripe for their age, even as girls, or so in my eyes, while I sat with my friend Bobo, writing back and forth in our cryptographic language and witing parodies to the dramatic emotions that mrs Hoekert and her girls were drinking from so greedily.

Jos K was my German teacher. Sauwelios got his first Zarathustra from him which he then proceeded to read in a mushroom trip. The rest is history. Beyond tyhis, Krooks accomplishments are wide and many. His "Jos-sentences" with their evil grammatical bends and their ridiculous perversities have shaped me in ways that I can not possibly begin to understand. Also, he rewarded us for memorizing poems, teaching us Heine and Goethe and Kafka, and allowed the scores of tests, which normally run up to 1 to 10, to run up to 25 or more, and no lower than 3. He was a generous man, and loved his students very much. Too much of course. Another lost wanderer from ancient Greece, as our school had so many.

Of Arnold v A I can not say much that would not seem the depiction of a madman, an indeed he too a vacation with the sheep before he retired, but everything I love about the Greeks was present in his jarred, jagged , screeching hard whites stump of chalk-and-nail on the yearning deep see green blackboard. In that hot winter morning with the sun coming just over the houses shining right into all the blind white walls, and into our eyes.

M Obdecoel, the strange fellow who managed to have to send send me, of all people, to the principle, by causing me to fall asleep. Four hand written pages of his own prose, were were asked to translate, boys and girls in their first year of Greek. There were two people who did not receive a 1. He wanted to show how tough he was, I suppose. It didn't work very well. Arnold came back and all went back to normal, raging tirades against gods I didn't understand then yet, or so, smilingly, I pretended.  

Ineke S, the firm but fine featured, large dark eyes, never waning sarcasm, heartily felt, monday morning. Rainy coats, Rebecca talks freely about her weekend, some boy who did a stupid thing. I settle in y chair, pleasantly dozing, back against the heating underneath the window, where it's still half dark. Ineke says I know myself so well, having blacked out part of the E in Eastpak for it to say Lastpak, which means nuisance, distraction. But I never seem to go too far. I don't have the need to confront the teacher, just to continue my conversation. I will use writing, or hushed talk or gesturing or throwing as needed but always civil, my laugher is never a provocation. Impossible to catch me. The greatest virtue of this school, besides offering friends, is that those who aren't friends leave me alone.

P Schrama, what to say about him. He was not very much aware of what was happening around him. Most famous he is for his phase "I am a horse!". When I promised I would drop French, he let me get away with  5,5 for memorizing a list of particles of a bicycle. Ecrou de rayon.... I put a pin on his chair once. He jumped up and said that it really hurt. I thought I suppose it would, interesting. He had made himself so utterly distant from me. But it's hard to teach French, especially to high school boys.

Roos. She taught english, and had a 'proppa ac-cent' - or she did her best. We more or less always to skipped her class. When I was attendant once, I informed the class of the point of a story we had finished, and that puzzled everyone, namely that it's painful for some people to be loved for their weaknesses. She looked at me blank eyed, some girl muttered my name in disbelief. We proceeded to skip the class and receive perfect marks on the tests which were all quite silly text interpretations. Someties you get a glimpse of how ignorantly people read.

And then the first of all the terrors was Rob de J, the man who was as violent as Arnold but not as helplessly mad. He pieced his finger at you and scream. He was beloved, but caused a girl to cry more than once, and arbitrarily dealt in reprimand and reward... you can see who he was trying to model himself after. But that shit only flies in Greek, and I had the misfortune of having him as a Latin teacher. Latin which is so solemn and nightly, the moonlit patio versus the scorching sun that melts Icarus wings.


Last edited by Fixed Cross on Tue Oct 13, 2015 10:05 pm; edited 1 time in total
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Fixed Cross
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PostSubject: Re: my language teachers   my language teachers Icon_minitimeTue Oct 13, 2015 9:50 pm

Rudi W was the only one who seemed totally enclosed in his madness. He was also the director of the school play. While I appreciate hiss passion, I could not get along with his hysterical treatment of statistical curves. He got quite angry at me more than once. We had  two sub principles and I've seen their stern faces often over disputes I had with R, who was nonetheless a sympathetic man.

The physics classes would be languid, with strange occurrences such as the teacher, W Kraakman, throwing an object at a wall to demonstrate the statistical unlikeliness of it changing its course and hitting the wall parallel to its original course. I spent any days drilling a hole in the rough and heavy fabric of the table, with the sole purpose of framing my friend next to me, who was always showing off his toolbelt, and whose father had built a clavichord from scratch. Then there was A v A, who was good at the subject, and made a game of aggressively  engaging the teacher into Socratic interrogations about the interpretations of the physical circumstances in the assignments. It was slightly strenuous, irritating not to be able to partake in this clear display of masculinity. The last time I saw him he was busy building a 2 dimensional plate with the width of 1 atom. I left him to it and went on my way, slightly put in my place. He married the girl I was a bit in love with then, one of the ones that sat in the front with the latin lessons, always asking, in a troubled voice, why does Echo not speak her heart to Narcissus?

It all made sense in there. I had to run off from another school, a place breeding lawyers and surgeons, where Latin was taught by upstanding men and english class was so unbelievably uncivilized the teacher sometimes ran out. The closets would be toppled, people screaming, running around, hitting each other. I don't know what was going on there. It was the sort of  school of fucking an cocaine in the bicyclebasement, overt colonial racism and paintball pranks.

Kit L, a friend my father used to know through a mutual friend of theirs, a man called Jurrie. A man of oriental origins, who taught chemistry with uncanny sense for creating chaos, or presiding over its eruption. Of course there would be the classic demonstrations of magnesium and all sorts of metals catching fire in various ways, but primarily it were the human stimuli that caused much excitement. My friend Bobo would eat V's textbooks an assignment papers, but it managed to blame V and send him out. This was a repeated ritual, it was only because it is such an unlikely idea that someone should eat another's papers for no reason, though to us who lived by Boboic standards more or less, it was not strange, that the strictly traditional Kit decided that the one who was making the absurd claim had to be the violator of the dignity of the class. Somehow, people with standard always get away with them.
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