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Saturday, March 30, 2013

Old Glen's Neighborhood

Welcome my friends to Old Glen's Neighborhood. That title suits me like a well worn pair of jeans. It was a nice sunny warm day in my neck of the woods. Uwe-la-la, enjoyable, yes it was! Such a nice spring day deserves a ride and a trip to my favorite steak house. This place is so popular We go there at mid-afternoon, or you can't get in on Saturdays. Reasonable prices good food, yep good ol' place fits me right nice.

Afterwards went shopping at Menards. Made my head spin after about an hour of shopping for remodeling ideas for me old house. Yep we be giving our little home a makeover. Prettying her up inside and out, um, um going to be prettier than a speckled pup, when we're done.

Had me the cutest speckled pup back in 1998. Aussie Blue was her name, I called her many things from Puppy, Punkster, Punk to Good ol' Girl. She was part Australian Cattle dog and Australian Shepherd, smart whow-wee she could read my mind! We were the best of Bud's until cancer took her about a year and a half ago. Punkster had a friend that showed up one day in the spring of 2000. From out of nowhere a 18 pound mixed breed dog showed up. Heinz 57 I reckon, possible Beagle, Smooth Terrier, possible dash of Jack Russell. Pedro was what we named him. Punkster, Pedro, and I were inseparable in ways I can't explain. Well I lost Pedro about 10 days ago.

Seems sometimes bad things happens in bunches don't It? Between illness, a work issue and losing me Pedro, well life sucks sometimes, don't it? It either destroys one, or makes one stronger. I reckon the trials and tribulations make the good times seem soo good huh?

"So savor them good times like savoring a good prime rib steak, eat slow and enjoy," (Words of wisdom from Old Glen, I knows, you knows what I'm a saying!)

While writing yesterday's post I came across a word I was going to add while looking up entitlement. My eyes lock on a German word, which I immediately liked "ersatz" I've not heard that word before.

ERSATZ, synthetic, the word usually suggests inferior quality. That word seemed to pertain to yesterday's post, since I was talking about Politicians and Leaders in general.

We seem to live in a synthetic world or maybe it's just an old man. Maybe not, I'll expound on that thought.

Today at me favorite steak house I was enjoying good conversation with my main squeeze. A young man and what I assume was his girlfriend sitting across from us. If these two were on a date they did not do much communicating, as in talking. You see they both were texting most of the time! That seems so synthetic to an old codger like me.

The young-ins they are hiring at work are so hooked on them damn cell-phones. They gave everyone a paper to sign making it perfectly clear on the rules that cell-phones are not to be used while working. DUH! Has the world gone mad that such common sense, common courtesy has to be put in writing and signed? YEP!

Ersatz, synthetic, inferior quality sure as hell rings clear, more and more. Yep we live in a most synthetic world and I'm hugely disappointed in many things I witness daily in my small tiny world, here in the Heartland.     




Entitlement And The Entity!

It's late, I'm tired but I sure do like putting a few words down before I go to sleep. It has become a habit, a fun satisfying way to slumber into dreamland. Wow, I go to bed brain dead, worry free and sleep like an old hound dog on a hot summer's day lying under his favorite shade tree. Um, um, um, baby it don't a get no better than that!

Some of ya out there may be wondering what kind a fella talks like that? Well welcome to Glen's neighborhood. Ya see I do not try to be anything other than what I am! ME! I be a common working person, that works, pays taxes, bills, and don't cause any trouble. Just like the vast majority of my friends out there and I do mean friends!

I have read off and on for years now about Social Security and the word entitlement comes out inevitably from these . . .  fine, upstanding, idiotic, elected officials . . . well now this was not my first choice of words. My first choice was this #@#$%^&*crazy*&^%$#-assholes-#$%^%$#@#$%^!!!
But I wasn't sure you would understand my writing, then I got to thinkin, yep you do, and you can fill in your own description of your fine????????? highly educated leaders.

For any of my new friends out there around the globe, one of my favoriteiest (I also make up my own words as I feel like it, so do not worry about misspelling or properness in grammar, because here old Glen does it his way ya see!) thing to do, a game to me, is playing with words, so todays word boys and girls is entitlement, let me see if I can go where no man has gone before with this here word, yee-haw!

ENTITLE, to give a title or name. To honor or dignify by a title. To give a right or legal title to; qualify (a person) to something.

ENTITLEMENT, the condition or state of being entitled. Something to which a person is entitled; specifically any of the various benefits provided to qualifying persons under certain government programs.

Look at certain key words in this definition, condition, state, specifically, various, GOVERNMENT.
Were f@#$ed ain't we, boys and girls? Big brother done went and messed it up ain't they?

I like to go one word above and below my targeted word. So below is entity. I love it already!

ENTITY, being; existence. A thing that has that has definite, individual existence outside or within the mind; anything real in itself.  

I just bet ya can pert near read my mind on this one!

Big Brother can give all our $$$'s to these poor businesses and say "their to big to fail." Butt we Entitler's that have paid in our whole lifetime, not given but paid and paid and paid. The way old Glen understands it there are I O U'S instead of money in the bank for all us one's who have paid in for our entitlements.

Entitlements, smittlements, predicaments, I say. It be my money I have worked hard for all my life and no crazy ass Entity better take my money from me! You stir up a hornet's nest and you gonna get stung. So you crazy ass Entities better not mess with our entitlements or baby there gonna be a bunch of old angry entitlementest pissed off!


Thursday, March 28, 2013

You Know What I Mean, Don't You?

Many things have been happening, haven't had the time to work on Crime And Punishment, but I'll get there. Construction going on at my house and since I work nights and sleep days, well sleep is hard to get.

I will work day shift starting April 8. I have been on nights for 10 years, my how time flys.

Looking forward to getting back on a set schedule, I have being in limbo for several months.

Nothing really to really write about, I'll just play around and see where this rambling takes me.

As I typed the month April, warm fuzzies came over me. Flowers, trees budding, warm weather, rejuvenation. Ah, I'm ready for some rejuvenation, if you know what I mean!

I've said this before, but am going to say it again. "I absolutely love when you are working and get in a zone breaking sweat and the old body feels that adrenal cave man rush." I'm not exactly sure what is happening in the body but that natural high is still fricking goood, even in my later years. After being sick for awhile and mentally down, DAMN IT FELT GOOD, I'LL REPEAT THAT,   ""DAMN IT FELT GOOD!"" You know I work for me, to please me! Yes the paycheck is the reward but, if I have to work till the day I die, I choose to do so for me. Does that make any sense? I work and always do my best, be it digging a hole to plant flowers, to washing windows, to working for the man!

We cannot be good at everything, but we can try our damn-ness.

Peace of mind in my opinion, comes from being true to one-self. It don't come easy and unfortunately sometimes becomes a battlefield of emotions.

At least the full spectrum of emotions are felt. To not feel would be like a robot, seems somewhat attractive when your really down.

There ain't nothing better than a good laugh, the first smell of spring flowers. A warm embrace, a late night summertime breeze while gazing at a full moon. The feel of your favorite chair as you come home after work and sit you tired ass where, your ass has been a thousand times, customizing your buttocks into that personalized leather Lazy-boy, to your exact specifications, ahhh!     YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN, VERN!!!     DON'T YOU????    I KNOW . . . YOU DO!   AIN'T IT GREAT?   """SOMETIMES"""

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Bamboozle and Why When You Win, You Lose?

I have been bamboozled over the last few months. What?!?!

BAMBOOZLE, to deceive or cheat by trickery; dupe, to confuse or puzzle.So few words that say so much.

   I would like to tell y'all a little story about a man named Ed. A poor old man fighting for survival in the times gone mad. Ain't that just so bad? Ed remembers a day when a man's word was as good as gold. Ed's lost in a fairy tale world, please play along with this poor, but pure soul.

   Ah Ed says "communication has been thrown away into the abyss of too much communication, like a dump full o trash, where words mean nothing."

   Damn  . . . that Ed seems to have gone off the deep edge! Ed "please explain in a mite more detail please?"

   COMMUNICATION, simply, an exchanging of information. DAMN, that be simple, right? Key words here, "exchanging and information." Stay with me now, because "I feel the power of words and my spirit about to come out, I am gonna testify to y'all, yes I am! Hallelujah!"

   EXCHANGING, to give or to receive. Amen!

   To make an exchange; barter, trade. "Uh-huh, lordy I lika this word, let's keep it going, the fire is getting hot!"
   A giving or taking of one thing for another. "Ohh my, my oh my! I feel it boys and girls!"

   The substituting of one thing for another. "Whow-wee, turn the air-conditioning down I'mma feeling hot!"

   INFORMATION, an informing or being informed; a telling or being told of something,   ("DAMN! A TALKIN MY LANGUAGE HERE!")


   INFORMATION THEORY, the study of process of communication (Most interesting word ain't it?) and the transmission of messages; specifically, the study of information content of messages and of the probabilistic   (What a word hey? Means, based on, or involving probability. "Damn my screens a smoking tonight, I'm on fire! I's hope, I don't spontaneously combust, I want to finish this post!)   measurement of signal recognition in the presence of INTERFERENCE, NOISE, DISTORTION, ETC.


   Four months ago Ed was asked to take on a job using his accumulated specialities. Wellll one thing leads to the next and old Ed is using some of his accumulated specialties but not the other ya see. well while Ed is being mighty patient, somebody snuck in the back door and stole his other specialty. Welll Ed can't take it no more, his patience was nil and void. Seems he must fight for what was already given, apparently this communication became mis-communication in the leadership arena. Well now Ed has had enough, do he fight for what was promised or keep his mouth shut? Promises were made many months before. To get what once was freely given, is it worth the fight, "It be the principle of the thing when words were given by superiors then they become, inferiors! Yep yer right! Ed communicates via the new technology of today. His spoken words were going unheard. He used them written words to see if the computer is mightier than the spoken word. He be heard loud and clear now, ya see!

   Well now after four months a meeting happens to all concerned, several against Ed. A David and Goliath thing ya see. Words were spoken Ed was heard loud and clear the job once again is his, as was once promised four months earlier.

   Does happiness prevail? To Ed the fight, one that should never had to be fought. Communication run amuck an out of control freight train making, no stops building steam with no brakes.

   Why does the win not feel like a win? Much was lost fighting for what once would of been a sweet lovely job for Ed. Ed has suffered much and at his age fights is not what he wants. Hollow victories are too fucking hollow!

   Ed is tired and wishes to ride his tired old horse into the yet far away sunset, unspooked.

  WHY IS IT THAT WE THE REAL EVERYDAY PEOPLE ARE THE MINORITIES. All minorities except we, the average of the average, the common of the commoners, the backbone of the world . . . Well I reckon we're on our way out. We're like the workhorse that continually must strive to prove themselves day in and day out, while the cute, the challenged, the princesses, princes, the cream of the minorities are given a free ride. I'd like to give you a free ride " to the moon!"

Sunday, March 24, 2013

(24) C. P. (Part 2 Chapter VII Conc.)

   After the priest was finished, with the last rites, he turned to Katerina, she asked "what am I to do with these?" she interrupted sharply and irritably, pointing to the little ones.

   "God is merciful; look to the Most High for answers," the priest began.

   "Ach! He is merciful, but not to us."

   "That's a sin madam," said the priest shaking his head.

   "And isn't that a sin?" cried Katerina, pointing to the dying man.

   "Perhaps those who involuntarily caused the accident will compensate you."

   "You don't understand!" cried Katerina angrily waving her hand. "And why should they compensate me? He was drunk and threw himself under the horses! What earnings? He brought us in nothing,  but misery. He drank everything away, the drunkard! He robbed us to get drink, he wasted their lives and mine for drink! And thank God he's dying! One less to keep!"

   "You must forgive in the hour of death, that's a sin, madam, such feelings are a great sin."

   Katerina was busy with the dying man, she turned to the priest in a frenzy.

   "Ah, father! That's words and only words! Forgive! If he'd not been run over, he'd have come home to-day drunk and his only shirt dirty and in rags and he'd have fallen asleep like a log, and I would of been up sousing and rinsing till daybreak, washing his rags and the children's and then drying them by the window and as soon as it was daylight darning them. That's how I spend my nights! . . . What's the use of talking for forgiveness! I have forgiven as it is!"

   A terrible hollow cough interrupted her words. She put her handkerchief to her lips and showed it to the priest, pressing her other hand to her aching chest. The handkerchief was covered with blood. The priest bowed his head and said nothing.

   Marmeladov did not take his eyes off Katerina's face. He kept trying to say something in his last agony. Katerina, understanding that he wanted to ask her forgiveness, called peremptorily to him:

   "Be silent! No need! I know what you want to say!" And the sick man was silent, but at the same instant his wandering eyes strayed to the doorway and he saw Sonia.

   Till then he had not noticed her: she was standing in the corner in a shadow.

   "Who's that? Who's that?" he said suddenly in a thick gasping voice, in agitation, turning his eyes in horror towards the door where his daughter was standing, trying to sit up.

   "Lie down! Lie do-own!" cried Katerina.

   With unnatural strength he succeeded in propping himself on his elbow. He looked upon his daughter for some time, as though not recognising her, having never seen her before in such attire. Suddenly he recognised her, crushed and ashamed in her humiliation and gaudy finery, meekly awaiting her turn to say good-bye to her dying father. His face showed intense suffering.
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   "Sonia! Daughter! Forgive!" he cried, and he tried to hold out his hand to her, but, losing his balance, he fell off the sofa, face downward on the floor. They rushed to pick him up, they put him on the sofa; but he was dying. Sonia with a faint cry ran up, embraced him and remained so without moving. He died in her arms.

   "He's got what he wanted," Katerina cried, seeing her husband,s dead body. "Well what's to be done now? How am I to bury him? What can I give them to-morrow to eat?"

   Raskolnikov went up to Katerina.

   "Katerina," he begun, "last week your husband told me all his life and circumstances. . . . Believe me, he spoke of you with passionate reverence. From that evening I learnt how devoted he was to you all and how he loved and respected you especially, Katerina, in spite of his unfortunate weakness that evening we become friends. . . . Allow me now . . . to do something . . . to repay my debt to my dead friend. Here are twenty roubles, I think--and if that can be of any assistance to you, then . . . I . . . in short, I will come again. I will be sure to come again . . . I shall, perhaps come again to-morrow. . . . Good-bye!"

   And he went quickly out of the room, squeezing his way through the crowd to the stairs. He suddenly jostled against Nikodim Fomitch who had heard of the accident and had come to give instructions in person. They had not met since the scene at the police station, but Nikodim Fomitch knew him instantly.

   "Ah, is that you?" he asked him.

   "He's dead," answered Raskolnikov. "The doctor and the priest have been, all as it should of been. Don't worry the poor woman too much, she is in consumption as it is. Try and cheer her up if possible . . . you are a kind-hearted man, I know . . ." he added with a smile, looking straight in his face.

   "But you are splattered with blood," observed Nikodim Fomitch, noticing in the lamplight some fresh stains on Raskolnikov's waistcoat.

   "Yes . . . I'm covered with blood," Raskolnikov said with a peculiar air; then he smiled, nodded and went downstairs.

   He walked down slowly and deliberately, feverish but not conscious of it, entirely absorbed in a new overwhelming sensation of life and strength that surged up suddenly within him. This sensation might be compared to that of a dying man condemned to death who has suddenly been pardoned. Half-way down the staircase he was overtaken by the priest on his way home; Raskolnikov let him pass exchanging a silent greeting with him. He was descending the last steps when he heard rapid footsteps behind him. Someone overtook him; it was Polenka. She was running after him, calling "wait! wait!"

   He turned round. She was at the bottom of the staircase and stopped short a step above him. Raskolnikov could distinguish the child's thin but pretty little face, looking at him with a bright childish smile in the dim light. She had run after him with a message which she was evidently glad to give.

   "Tell me, what is your name? . . . and where do you live?" she said hurriedly in a breathless voice.

   He laid both hands on her shoulders and looked at her with a sort of rapture. It was such a joy to him to look at her, he could not of said why.

   "Who sent you?"

   "Sister Sonia sent me," answered the girl, smiling still more brightly.

   "Mamma sent me too . . . when sister Sonia was sending me, mamma came up, too, and said, 'Run fast, Polenka,' "

   "Do you love sister Sonia?"

   "I love her more than anyone," Polenka answered with a peculiar earnestness, and her smile became graver.

   "And will you love me?"

   By way of answer he saw the little girl's face approaching him, her full lips naively held out to kiss him. Suddenly her arms as thin as sticks held him tightly, her head rested on his shoulders and the little girl wept softly, pressing her face against him.

   "I am sorry for father," she said a moment later, raising her tear-stained face and brushing away the tears with her hands. It's nothing but misfortune now," she added suddenly with that peculiarly sedate air that children try hard to assume when they want to speak like grown-up people.

   "Did your father love you?"

   "He loved Lida most." she went on very seriously without a smile, exactly like grown-up people, "he loved her because she is little and because she is ill, too. And he used to always bring her presents. But he taught us to read and me grammar and scripture too," she added with dignity. "And mother never used to say anything, but we knew that she liked it and father knew it, too. And mother wants to teach me French, for it's time my education began."

   "And do you know your prayers?"

   "Of course we do! We knew them long ago. I say my prayers to myself as I am a big girl now, but Kolya and Lida say them aloud with mother. First they repeat the 'Ave Maria' and then another prayer: Lord, forgive and bless sister Sonia,' and then another, 'Lord, forgive and bless our second father.' Our elder father is dead and this is another one, but we do pray for the other as well."

   "Polenka, my name is Rodion, Pray sometimes for me, too. 'And thy servant Rodion,' nothing more."

   "I'll pray for you all the rest of my life," the little girl declared passionately, and suddenly smiling again she rushed at him and hugged him warmly once more.

   Raskolnikov told her his name and address and promised to be sure to come the next day. The child went away quite enchanted with him. It was past ten when he came out onto the street. In five minutes he was standing on the bridge at the spot where the woman had jumped in.

   "Enough," he pronounced resolutely and triumphantly. "I've done with fancies, imaginary terrors and phantoms! Life is real! Haven't I lived just now? My life has not yet died with that old woman! The Kingdom of Heaven to her--and now enough madam, leave me in peace! Now for the reign of reason and light . . . and of will, and of strength . . . and now we will see! We try our strength!" he added defiantly, as though challenging some power of darkness. "And I was ready to consent to live in a square of space!"

   "I am very weak at this moment, but . . . I believe my illness is all over. I knew it would be over when I went out. I must go see Razumihin and let him win his bet! Strength, strength is what one wants, you can get nothing without it, and strength must be won by strength,"
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he added proudly and self-confidently as he walked with flagging footsteps from the bridge. Pride and self-confidence grew stronger; he was becoming a different man every moment. What was it that worked this revolution in him? He did not know himself; like a man catching at a straw, he suddenly felt that he too,' could live like there was still life for him, that he had not died with the old woman.' Perhaps he was in too great a hurry with his conclusions, but he did not think of that.

   "But I did ask her to remember 'Thy servant Rodion' in her prayer," the idea struck him. "Well, that was . . . in case of emergency," he added and laughed himself. He was in the best of spirits.

   He easily found Razumihin; the new lodger was already known, the porter showed him the way. Razumihin came out delighted. At first glance it was apparent he had a great deal to drink, he was perceptibly affected by it.

   "Listen," Raskolnikov hastened to say, "I've only come to say, you have won the bet, no one really knows what may happen to him. I can't come in; I am weak and ready to fall down. And so good evening and good-bye! Come and see me tomorrow."

   "I will see you home, I need some fresh air, you've come in the nick of time--another two minutes and I may have come to blows! Wait a minute I'll get Zossimov."

   "You must go to bed at once," he pronounced examining Raskolnikov.

   Razumihin explains to Raskolnikov as their walking home. "Zossimov whose specialty is surgery has gone mad on mental diseases after your conversation to-day with Zametov."

   "Zametov told you all about it?"

   "Yes, and he did well. Now I understand what it all means and so does Zametov. . . . Well the fact is . . . I am drunk now. . . . But that's no matter . . . the point is that this idea . . . you understand? was being hatched in their brains . . . you understand?" Since the arrest of that painter, their such fools! Ilya Petrovitch (The assistant superintendent at the police station.)

   Raskolnikov listened, Razumihin was drunk and talking freely.

   "I fainted because of the paint and it was too close," said Raskolnikov.

   "No need to explain, the fever had been coming on for a month; Zossimov testifies to that! But how crushed Zametov is now, you wouldn't believe! 'I am not worth his litle finger,' he says. Yours, Zametov means. The lesson you gave him to-day at the Palais de Cristal, that was amazing! You frightened him at first, you know, he nearly went into convulsions! Then you suddenly--stuck your tongue out at him! It was perfect! He is crushed, annihilated now! It was masterly, by Jove, it's what they deserve! Ah, that I wasn't there!"

   "Ah! . . .  but why do they put me down as mad?"

   "Oh, not mad. I must have said too much, brother. . . .  What struck him, you see, was that only that subject seemed to interest you; now it's clear why it did interest you; knowing all the circumstances . . . and how that irritated you and worked in with your illness . . . I am drunk brother, only confound him, he has some idea of his own . . . I tell you he's mad on mental diseases. But don't you mind him . . ,."

   For half a minute both were silent.

   "Listen, Razumihin," began Raskolnikov, "I want to tell you plainly: I've just been at a death-bed, a clerk who died . . . I gave them all my money . . .  and besides I've just been kissed by someone who, if I had killed anyone, would just be the same . . . in fact I saw someone else there . . . with a flame-coloured feather . . . but I am talking nonsense; I am very weak, support me . . . we shall be at the stairs directly . . ."

   'What's the matter with you?" Razumihin asked anxiously.

   "I am a little giddy, but that's not the point, I am so sad . . . like a woman. Look there's a light on in my room!"

  "Queer! Nastasya, perhaps," observed Razumihin.

   Raskolnikov opened the door to his room and stood there dumbfounded.

   His mother and sister were sitting on the sofa. Why he had never expected, never thought of them, the news they were on their way was told to him only to-day. They had spent time waiting for him asking Nastasya questions, She told them everything. Both had been weeping and in anguish after hearing that he had been delirious and at his running away.

   A cry of joy, greeted Raskolnikov's entrance. Both rushed to him. But he stood like a dead man. He did not lift his arms to embrace them, he could not. His mother and sister clasped him in their arms, kissed him laughed and cried. He took a step, tottered and fell to the ground, fainting.

   Cries of horror . . . Razumihin seized the sick man in his strong arms and placed him on the sofa.

   "It's nothing!" he cried to the mother and sister--"it's only a faint! Only just now the doctor said he's much better, that he is perfectly well! See how he is coming to himself, he is right again!?

   And seizing Dounia (Raskolnikov's sister) by the arm he made her bend down to see.that he is alll right again. The mother and sister loked at Razumihin with emotion and gratitude, as their Providence. They had already heard from Nastasya all that had been done for their Rodya by this "very competent young man," as Pulcheria Alexandrovna Raskolnikov (Raskolnikov's mother.) called him that evening in conversation with Dounia


Friday, March 22, 2013

I Think.

I have watched more T V the last few days than I have in, a very long time.

Why? Very good question, I'm glad you ask.

I needed, an outlet, to nil and void my life, for a spell.

What did I received from staring into a three inch thick screen of colors?

Did I laugh, did I cry, did I cherish, did I ENJOY?

What did I expect to accomplish?

I seem to be stumped, on that question.

I was comfortable and warm sitting on the sofa with a blanket over me and a dog on my lap.

Huum . . . that has a home-felt glow about it?

The remote was beside me, the urge to communicate in the age of communication grew, until I brought the big screen to life.

Deep, bold, colors, no voice mind ya, "I like my peace, quiet, you see."

The waves of the ocean on the white sandy beaches, wooow!

Aerial shot from high above mother earth gave me goose-bumps!

Mother elephant with new-born brought tears to my eyes!

The dazzling, muted, big screen with no hearing aids in, a dog on my lap, warm fuzzies filled me, WHY?

To think not! Living, only, for that moment is . . . unnatural to me.

"I think! Therefore I am!"

I've heard and read those words a thousand times.

I used to go WHAT?

What has changed?

Those of you that ride along with me in my questionable, quest to finish Crime And Punishment will understand.

The words jump off the pages my heart and soul, the more I read, the more I understand, the more I love.

For to rush through, to not see, to not feel.

Well how do I explain?

To watch T V, to hear and see everything that is bomb-blasted into your already overloaded mind is not living to me.

Feeling the words jump from the pages, the colors of a rainbow, even on a big screen are there. If we approach from the right cozy, comfortable, dog sitting on your lap kind a way.

I hope you see what I'm saying! I THINK . . .  I KNOW . . .  YOU DO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thursday, March 21, 2013

ants! aliens! tv!

It's high time I write somethun, so here goes. Somethun, somethun, somethun, just priming the little pump to get me motor ready to start. Please hang tough we'll get er started just like a tired old weedeater that takes a mite longer to start purring. Er, err, ererr, errerr, errrrr, damn I almost started er that time. Er, err, errr, errrr, cough, cough, cough, a puff of smoke and then rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! Rev me up, rev me up. I'll never stop! If Micko Jaggers can still strut then, I ain't dead yet! How old is he anyway?

I think I have much to say, but it's hidden behind a force field of mucus. I be blowing the snot out baby! I know a right heap o people who are full-of-shit! Why then am I so full of snot?

I know, I know, I know, you don't get these intelligent type o questions elsewhere's, so you have to see me here at? GLENVIEW.

I have been down in the dumps, and sick, and that be the good news. I know can't get much lower than that!

Well that may not be quite true, I suppose or as we say round's here, I reckon, has a nice tone to it, don't it?

I reckon . . . I could be farther down in the dump, knock, knock, knocking on the big flaming red coloured guy's door with horns, and dead! (By the way I like the two movies his son starred in you know, Hell Boy and the Little Devil's Back or somthun or the utter.

I sat in front of the television for a few hours looking deep into the eyes of T.V. Dom. It weren't pretty, kinda blew my last synapsey thing.

What be the purpose of TV anyhow? I flip channels and all I see er commercials. I did not understand, what the feck they were talkin about in Spanish. Two Spanish channels to be exact. I live smackdab in the heart of the Midwest in corn country, if-un, I didn't want to understand, I'd watch the evening news. There I could at least shake my head in total disgust!

Shopping channels, WHY???

We must be heathens here in corn country! Them preachers be preaching on several channels and they must be poor, because they want our money. I say put commercials on like the real tv, make some of that money, ain't that the American way???

I did watch fer a spell this P. B. S. channel. Does this mean Prime Beautiful Station cause they were talkin about the biggest bombs ever exploded here on Old Mother Earth. The United States and Russia exploded so many nuclear bombs above ground they decided to agree on somethun. No, no, no, not to stop blowing them bombs up! They decided to blow them up, UNDERGROUND!!! That was back in the early sixties and you can see how far we've progressed.

I reckon maybe, or not, I ferget the point of the show, but I got to thinkin. We must be civilised because we have thousands upon thousands of nuclear war-heads around the world and we just sit on them. That's civilised ain't it?

I don't know, the only thing I'm sure off anymore, is I'm unsure of everything!

I read supposedly now, there's this tiny country somewhere that is the size of New Jersey that has 500 nuclear warheads. This just don't make any sense????

My final thought, if ya can call it a thought. When societies reach their apex in being civilised, they blow themselves to kingdom come, or another way to say it is we blow are asses to smithereens!

Then, I say THEN! Brothers and sisters! Then and only then, them Aliens or Gods that are talked about, reseed and grow new genetically improved versions of the same o versions that plant us like corn crops here in the good ol' Midwest. We flourish until we become so intelligent we invent such dastardly ways to kill ourselves off. These "Big Guy's In The Sky" as I call them have created their own version of reality television. They keep replaying the same game, expecting different results.



Wednesday, March 20, 2013

(23) C. P. (Part 2 Chapter VII)

   An elegant carriage was stopped in the middle of the road, the coachman was holding the spirited horses by the bridle. Many people had gathered around, policemen held a light trying to get a look at what the horses had run over. Everyone was talking, shouting, the coachman seemed at loss and kept repeating:
   "What a misfortune! Good Lord, what a misfortune!"

   Raskolnikov pushed his way in seeing the object of the commotion. A man had been run over unconscious and covered with blood; he was very badly dressed, but not a workman. His face was mutilated and disfigured. He was badly injured.

   "Merciful heaven!" wailed the coachman, "I shouted three times and reined the horses in, a drunken man can't walk straight, we all know. . . . He fell under their feet! Either he did it on purpose or he was very drunk. . . . The horses are young, they started, he screamed . . . that made them worse. That's how it happened!"

   "That's how it was," came from several voices in the street.

   The coachman was not overly distressed. It was evident that the carriage belonged to a rich and important man who was waiting for it; the police were not going to upset this man. All they need do was take him to the hospital. No one new his name.

   Raskolnikov squeezed in closer and finally got a good look at the man.

   "I know him, he's a government clerk. retired, Marmeladov. He lives close by in Kozel's house. . . . Make haste for a doctor I will pay see?" Showing money to the policeman.

   The police were glad they had found out who the man was. Raskolnikov gave his name and address, and, as earnestly as if it had been his own father, he besought (asked eagerly) the police to carry Marmeladov to his lodging.

   "Just here three houses away," he said, "he was going home no doubt. I know him he is a drunkard. He has a family there. It will take time to take him to a hospital, there's sure to be a doctor in the house, I'll pay!At least he will be looked after at home. He'll die before you get him to the hospital." He slipped money into the policeman's hand. It was straightforward and legitimate. Help was closer this way. They raised the injured man; people volunteered to help.

   Raskolnikov walked behind, carefully holding Marmeladov's head and showing the way.

  'This way, this way! We must take him upstairs, I'll make it worth your while," he muttered.

   Katerina (Marmeladov's wife) as she always did at every free moment, walking to and fro in her little room window to stove and back again, with her arms folded across her chest, talking to herself and coughing. Of late she had begun to talk more than ever to her eldest girl Polenka, a child of ten, who, though there was much she did not understand, understood very well that her mother needed her, and so always watched her with her big clever eyes and strove her utmost to appear to understand. Polenka was undressing her little brother who had been sick all day and was going to bed. He was sitting straight and motionless on a chair, with a silent, serious face. A little girl, still younger, dressed in rags, stood waiting her turn. The door to the stairs was open giving relieve from the clouds of tobacco smoke which floated in from the other rooms and brought on long terrible fits of coughing in the poor consumptive Katerina seemed to have grown even thinner that week.

   Katerina was telling Polenka of the luxurious life she once had in her papa's house and how this drunkard will bring them all to ruin. Coughing and rambling of better times.

   "Oh, dear! What's this?" she cried, noticing a crowd in the passage and the men who were pushing into her room, carrying a burden. "What is it? What are they bringing? Mercy on us!"

   "Where are we to put him?" asked the policeman, looking round.

   "On the sofa! Raskolnikov said.

   "Run over in the road drunk!" someone shouted.

   Katerina was white gasping for breath. The children were terrified.

   After laying Marmeladov on the sofa Raskolnikov rushed to Katerina,

   "For God's sake be calm, don't be frightened!" he said, speaking quickly, "he was crossing the road and run over by a carriage, don't be frightened, he will come to, I told them to bring him here . . . I've been here, you remember? He will come to; I'll pay!"

   "He's done it this time!" Katerina cried despairingly and rushed to her husband.

   Raskolnikov noticed Katerina was not one of those women who swoon easily. She kept her head, forgetting herself, biting her trembling lips and stifling the screams which were ready to break from her as he undressed and examined him.

   "I've sent for a doctor ," he kept assuring Katerina, "don't be uneasy, I'll pay. He is injured, but not killed. We shall see what the doctor says!"

   Katerina ran to the window, there a large earthenware basin full of water in readiness for washing the children's and husbands linen at night. The family had no change of linen, Katerina could not endure uncleanliness. She would wear herself out working beyond her strength to get wet linen hung on a line and dry by morning. She took this basin full of water and almost fell with her burden. Raskolnikov had found a towel and began washing the blood off Marmeladov's face.

   Katerina was breathing painfully, pressing her hands to her chest. She was in need of attention herself. Raskolnikov realizes he may have made a mistake in bringing the injured man here. The police too stood in hesitation.

   "Polenka," cried Katerina, run to Sonia (Marmeladov's daughter by his first wife) make haste. If you don't find her at home, leave word that her father has been run over and that she is to come here at once . . . when she comes in. Run, Polenka! there put on the shawl."

   'Run your fastest!" cried the little boy on the chair suddenly, after he relapsed into the same dumb rigidity, with round eyes, his head thrust forward and his toes spread out.

   The room was full of the other lodgers, the police left driving away the crowd. Katerina flew into a fury. "You might let him die in peace, at least, is it a spectacle gape at? Get away you should respect the dead, at least!" (Coughing!)

   Voices outside the room were heard speaking of the hospital saying that they have no right making a disturbance here.

   "No business to die!" cried Katerina as she rushed to the door to vent her wrath upon them where she came face to face with Madame Lippevechsel who had just heard of the accident and ran in to restore order. She was a particularly quarrelsome and irresponsible German.

   "Ah, my God!" she cried, clasping her hands, "your husband drunken horses have trampled! To the hospital with him! I am the landlady!"

   "I beg you to recollect what you are saying," Katerina began haughtily.

   The dying man recovered consciousness and uttered a groan; she ran to him. Marmeladov opened his eyes gazed at Raskolnikov. He drew deep, slow, painful breaths; blood oozed at the corners of his mouth and drops of perspiration came out on his forehead. Not recognising Raskolnikov, he began looking round uneasily. Katerina looked at him with a sad but stern face, and tears trickled down her eyes.

   "My God! His whole chest is crushed! How he is bleeding!" she said in despair. "We must take off his clothes. Turn if you can," she cried to him.

   "Marmeladov recognised her.

   "A priest," he articulated huskily.

   Katerina walked to the window, laid her head against the window frame and exclaimed in despair:

   "Oh, cursed life!"

   "A priest," the dying man said after a moment's silence.

   "They've gone for him," Katerina shouted to him; he obeyed her shout and was silent. With sad and timid eyes he looked for her; she returned and stood by his pillow. He seemed  a little easier, but not for long.

   Soon his eyes rested on little Lida, his favorite, who was shaking in the corner, as though she were in a fit, and staring at him with her wondering childish eyes.

   "A--ah," he sighed towards her uneasily. He wanted to say something.

   "What now?" cried Katerina.

   "Barefoot, barefoot!" he muttered, indicating with frenzied eyes the child's bare feet.

   "Be silent," Katerina cried irritably, "you know why she is barefooted."

   The doctor came in, a precise little old man, a German looking about him mistrustfully; after a thorough examination he said,

   "He will die immediately,"

   "Is there no hope?" asked Raskolnikov.

   "Not the faintest! He is at his last gasp. He is bound to die within the next five or ten minutes."

   At that moment other steps were heard; the crowd in the passage parted, and the priest, a little grey old man, appeared in the doorway bearing the sacrament. A policeman had gone for him at the time of the accident. The doctor changed places with him. The confession was soon over. The dying man probably understood little; he could only utter indistinct broken sounds.

   Polenka forced her way through the crowd. She came in panting from running so fast, took off her kerchief, looked for her mother, went up to her and said, "she's coming. I met her in the street."

   Timidly and noiselessly a young girl made her way through the crowd, and strange was her appearance in that room, in the midst of want, rags, death despair. She, too, was in rags, her attire was all of the cheapest, but decked out in gutter finery of a social stamp, unmistakenly betraying its shameful purpose. Sonia stopped short in the doorway and looked about her bewildered, unconscious of everything. She forgot her fourth-hand, gaudy silk dress, so unseemly here with its ridiculous long train, and her immense crinoline that filled up the whole doorway, and her light coloured shoes, and the parasol she brought with her, though it was no use at night, and the absurd round straw hat with its flaring flame-coloured feather. Under this rakishly tilted hat was a pale. frightened, little face with lips parted and eyes staring in terror. Sonia was small thin girl of eighteen with fair hair, rather pretty, with wonderful blue eyes. She looked intently at the bed and the priest; she too was out of breath from running. At last whispers, some words in the crowd probably, reached her. She looked down and took a step forward into the room, still keeping close to the door.

   To continue.

Thursday, March 14, 2013


I have a terrible headache. Normally I would not think to type with a terrible headache, but, I'm so fricking tired of feeling tired and miserable I'm going to try.

I think I'll just throw out some thoughts.

We have a new Pope and confirmation of the God particle being confirmed. I dunno something strange there.

As tired as I am, I may go to bed and go for the gold in the Sleep Olympics.

Is it just me? I cannot stand to look at this Conan character that has a late night show?

If people do not hear what you say, they sure as hell are not going to read what you write.

I saw a sign today, it said nothing, best message I ever read!

I lived long enough and no longer in debt. Now I'm sure I'm gonna die!

I received advice today from, the worst boss I've ever known, "don't get upset."

I was asked "How do you feel about listening to music at work, yes or no?"
My answer "I wear a hearing aid to hear the machinery, I'll just take it out!" 

I went to work sick, I did nothing like every body else. You think I'm kidding don't you? I worked a job on days, I done the same job on nights, took me + two unabled bodies. You do the math.  You know those Algebra equations I never could figure out in school are starting to make sense now!     

I'm tired of common sense. I want the kind of sense that makes me a millionaire.

I'm sorry, why are leaders always old. Put some bro's smoking weed in the Houses and Senate, Executive branch and Judiciary chambers. I bet they would pass laws and joints that we all could live with. "No way we 're giving trillions of dollars to banks, lawyers and crooks will give it to our homey's."

Why do men buy these humongous trucks? Don't they have a penis?

Why do these big box stores have 60 checkout lines, but only 5 ever work? Must of been Made in America I reckon!

Once more, why do we want to know whatever it is that particle excelerator is suppose to tell us. If the excelerator stuck on your Subaru it wouldn't matter anymore what kind of matter you would make, would it?

You know, these mad scientist keep trying to make up matter, that matters not, to us not mad people. Perhaps, if we as an uncivilized bunch of mad hatters, keep fucking around, go where no man has gone before. Oh, well possibly that's the point we keep sticking our nosey, snot slinging noses, in, where they don't belong, then I say, then the anti-snot, will mix with the snot snot, and blow are asses into the next as of yet uncharted territories of fricking outer space!


(22) C. P. (Part 2 Chapter VI, Conclusion)

 (Continuation from page 142.)

   Zametov said angrily, "it's all nonsense!"

   Zametov and Raskolnikov talk about all the crimes making the paper recently.Talk soon comes back to the murder of the old pawnbroker.

   "Zametov "take for example that old woman murdered in our district. The murderer seems to have been a desperate fellow, he risked everything in open daylight, was saved by a miracle--but his hands shook too. He did not succeed in robbing the place, he couldn't stand it. That was clear from the . . ."

   Raskolnikov seemed offended.

   "Clear why don't you catch him then?" he cried maliciously gibing (mocking) at Zametov.

   "Well, they will catch him."
   "Who? You? Do you suppose you could catch him? Any child could misled you."

   "The fact is, they always do that, though," answered Zametov. "A man will commit a clever murder at the risk of his life and then at once go drinking at a tavern. They are caught spending money, they are not all as cunning as you are. You wouldn't go to a tavern of course?"

   Raskolnikov frowned and looked steadily at Zametov.

   "You seem to enjoy the subject and would like to know how I would behave in that case too?"  he asked with displeasure.

   "I should like to," Zametov answered firmly and seriously. Somewhat too much earnestness began to appear in his words and looks.

   "Very much?"

   "Very much!"

   " All right then. This is how I should behave," Raskolnikov began, again bringing his face close to Zametov's, again staring at him and speaking in a whisper, so that the Zametov shuddered.

   Raskolnikov explained in detail exactly what he did with the money and jewels, taunting Zametov.

   "You are a madman," said Zametov, and for some reason he too spoke in a whisper, and moved away from Raskolnikov, whose eyes were glittering. (EYES WERE GLITTERING. WOW!) He had turned fearfully pale and his upper lip was twitching. He bent down as close as possible to Zametov, his lips began to move without uttering a word. This went on for half a minute; he knew what he was doing, but could not restrain himself. The terrible word trembled on his lips, like the latch on that door; in another moment it will break out, in another moment he will let it go, he will speak out.

   "And what if it was I who murdered the old woman and Lizaveta?" he said suddenly and--realised what he had done.

Zametov looked at him and turned as white as the table cloth. His face wore a contorted smile.

   "But it is possible?" he brought out faintly. Raskolnikov looked wrathfully at him.

   "Own up that you believed it, yes you did?"

   "Not a bit of it, I believe it less than ever now," Zametov cried hastily.

   "I've caught my cock-sparrow! So you did believe it before, if now you believe it less than ever?"
   Not at all," cried Zametov, obviously embarrassed. "Have you been frightening me so as to lead up to this?"

   "You don't believe it then? What were you talking about behind my back when I went out of the police-office? And why did the explosive lieutenant question me after I fainted? Hey there he shouted to the waiter, getting up and taking his cap, "how much?"

   "Thirty copecks," said the waiter.

   "And here is twenty copecks for vodka. See what a lot of money!" he held out his shaking hand to Zametov with notes in it. "Red notes and blue, twenty-five roubles. Where did I get them? And where did my new clothes come from? You know I had not a copeck. You've cross-examined my landlady, I'll be bound. . . . Well, that's enough! Till we meet again!"

   He went out trembling all over from a sort of wild hysterical sensation, in which there was an element of insufferable rapture. Yet he was gloomy and terribly tired. His face was twisted as if after a fit. (Seizure) His fatigue increased rapidly. Any shock, any irritating sensation stimulated and revived his energies at once, but his strength failed as quickly when the stimulus was removed.   

   Zametov sat alone for a long time deep in thought. Raskolnikov had unwittingly made his mind up on a certain point conclusively. "Ilya Petrovitch is a block head," he decided.

   Raskolnikov had hardly opened the door of the restaurant when he stumbled against Razumihin on the steps. They did not see each other until they almost knocked against each other. For a moment they stood looking each other up and down. Razumihin was greatly astounded, then anger, real anger gleamed fiercely in his eyes.

   "So here you are!" he shouted-- "you've ran away from your bed! And here I have been looking for you under the sofa! We went up to your room. I almost Natasya on your account. And here he is after all. Rodya! (Friends and family remember call him this.) What is the meaning of it? Tell me the whole truth! Confess! Do you hear?"

   "It means I'm sick to death of you all and I want to be alone," Raskolnikov answered calmly.

   "Alone? When you are not able to walk, when your face is as white as a sheet and you are grasping for breath! Idiot! . . . What have you been doing in the Palais de Cristal? Own up at once!?

   "Let me go!? said Raskolnikov, and tried to pass him. This was too much for Razumihin; he gripped him firmly by the shoulder.

   "Let you go? You dare tell me to let you go? Do you know what I'll do with you?"  I'll tie you up in a bundle, carry you home under my arm and lock you up!"

   "Listen, Razumihin," Raskolnikov began quietly, apparently calm--"can't you see that I don't want your benevolence? A strange desire you have to shower benefits on a man who . . . who curses them, who feels them a burden in fact! Why did you seek me out at the beginning of my illness? Maybe I was very glad to die. Didn't I tell you plainly enough t0-day that you were torturing me, that I was . . . sick of you! You seem to want to torture people! I assure you that is seriously hindering my recovery, because it's continually irritating me. You saw Zossimov go away to avoid irritating me. You leave me alone too, for goodness' sake! What right have you , to keep me by force? Don't you see that I am in possession of all my faculties now? How can  I not persuade you to not persecute me with your kindness? I may be ungrateful, I may be mean, only let me be, for God's sake, let me be! Let me be, let me be!"

   Razumihin stood a moment and let his hand drop. "Well go to hell then," he said gently. "You know I'm having a house-warming this evening. I left my uncle there. If you weren't such a fool, a common fool, a perfect fool, if you were an original instead of a translation . . . you see, Rodya I recognise you're a clever fellow, but you're a fool!--and if you weren't a fool you'd come around to me this evening instead of wearing out your boots on the street! Since you have gone out, there's no help for it! I'd give you a snug easy-chair, a cup of tea, company. Zossimov will be there. Will you come?"


   "I'll bet you will, is Zametov in there, did you talk to him? Confound you, Potchinkov's house, 47, Babushkin's flat, remember!"

   Raskolnikov walked away and turned the corner. Razumihin watched him thoughtfully. Then he waved his hand and went inside but stopped on the stairs.

   "Confound it," he went on. "He talked sensibly but yet . . . I am no fool! As if madmen didn't talk sensibly! How could I let him go off? He may drown himself. . . . What a blunder! I can't." He ran to catch Raskolnikov, but there was no trace of him. He returned to talk to Zametov.

   Raskolnikov walked to the bridge, stood in the middle gazing into the distance. He longed to sit or lie down. The dark water of the canal drew his attention. Red circles flashed before his eyes, everything danced before his eyes. Suddenly a tall woman with with a long, wasted, yellow, face and red sunken eyes was looking at him but seeing nothing. She threw herself into the canal.

   "A woman drowning !' shouted dozens of voices. A policeman threw off his coat and boots grabbed her dress dragging her to the embankment. She recovered consciousness and began sneezing and coughing. She said nothing.

   "She's drunk herself out of her senses, the other day she tried to hang herself." Said a woman.

   Raskolnikov looked on with a strange sensation of indifference and apathy. He felt so disgusted. "No that's loathsome . . . water . . . it's not good enough," he muttered to himself.

   He moved from the bridge and walked in the direction of the police station. His heart felt hollow and empty. His depression had passed, there was not a trace now of the energy which he had set our "to make an end of it all." Complete apathy had succeeded to it.

   "Well it's a way out of it," he thought, walking slowly, listlessly along the canal bank. "Anyway, I'll make an end, for I want to. . . . But is it a way out? What does it matter? There'll be the square yard of space--ha!
(REMEMBER EARLIER IN THIS CHAPTER WHAT HE THOUGHT ABOUT THAT? ("Where is it that I've read that someone condemned to death says or thinks, an hour before his death, that if he had to live on some high rock, on such a narrow ledge that he'd only room to stand, and the ocean, the everlasting darkness, everlasting solitude, everlasting tempest around him, if he had to remain standing on a square yard of space all his life, a thousand years, eternity, it were better to live than to die at once.

   What idiotic ideas come into ones head."

On his way to the police station he stopped and thought for a moment, he goes out of the way possibly to delay a minute. He walked along looking at the ground, then as though someone spoke into his ear, he looked up and he was standing at the very gate of the house, where he had committed the murders. An overwhelming prompting drew him inside up to the fourth floor where workmen were hanging wall paper. How strange it seemed without furniture he sat down on the window-sill. He wandered about the apartment and the workers finally said "you shouldn't be here without the porter."

   "The floors have been washed, will they be painted?" Raskolnikov went on. "Is there no blood?"

   "What blood?"

   "Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered here."

   "Who are you?" cried the workman.

   "You want to know come to the police station, I'll tell you."

   "We must lock up," said the elder workman.

   Raskolnikov goes downstairs talking to the porters, talking about police station and blood in the apartment. The workmen verified him being in the apartment talking about the murders. One of the porters wants to take him to the police station, the other calls him a rogue and pushes him out into the street.

   "Shall I go or not?" thought Raskolnikov standing in the middle of the street. At the end of the street two hundred yards away was a crowd and he heard talk and shouts. In the middle stood a carriage. A light gleamed in the middle of the street, "What is it?" Raskolnikov walked toward the crowd, He seemed to clutch at everything and smiled coldly when he recognised it, for he had fully made up his mind to go to the police station and he knew it would be all over soon.

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Late Night Thoughts

Don't know whatever gave me this idea to do what I'm doing with Crime And Punishment. It's so much harder than sitting down and pecking out a little somethun, somethun!  Perhaps the Big Guys on the moon or even higher said, "we best give this poor man something to sink his soul into. Yep, them Big Ghost Writers in the sky are sending me help. How else would you explain it? I cannot. It befuddles my mind to think that I'm attempting such a quest. And where in the cosmos did this idea come from? I sure as hell never thought of it.

Perhaps old Mark Twain is looking down as he rides the comet around the galaxy, thinking, "damn send  that boy some help! He needs a whole lot of help!" That's funny and gives me goose bumps thinking like that. Without imagination I don't know where I'd BE! Well that's not true I'd be six feet under!

 We must have a escape place where we can lose ourselves for awhile don't we? Hallelujah to that, brothers and sisters, friends and neighbors.

I'm  chugging away just like the little train that said, "I think I can, I think I can." Whatever happened to that little train anyhow? I remember seeing that on the Captain Kangaroo show half a century ago.

"That little train grew up and rusted away in a scrap yard!" said Thomas.

Oh God that's not a pretty picture is it?"

I suppose if one don't die, keeps chugging away, maybe, just maybe, somethun good will come along.

Well maybe, just maybe, this is meant to be, meant to give me stick-to-it-ive-ness. Why question why, huh?

We must have a way to release the rigormortis of the mind that's so apparent.

Ones cannot go two hours between breaks to risk losing their jobs to peek at a small screen to see what their Bro's or girl friend have to say. Information overload of nothingness, so pathetic that in my opinion the minds have been permanently pruned.

Wow that sounds an awful lot like the spay and neuter program for animals don't it?

Yep prune them minds away so all we'll have are ???

Sunday, March 10, 2013

(21) C. P. (Part 2 chapter VI)

THOUGHTS  Damn what kind of a doctor is Zossimov? Allowing such talk and heated conversation to go on in front of poor Raskolnikov!

Razumihin and Luzhin did not seem to hit it off did they?

Raskolnikov is a momma's boy. "Nobody talks about his momma!"

Also he wants everybody to "leave him the hell alone!" (They leave him alone there's no telling what he'll be up too!)

And now another chapter in the life of Raskolnikov and mind of Dostoevsky. Page 136, it's a long chapter, I may have to make it several posts, we'll see!

   As soon as Nastaysa left he locked the door and put on the new clothes Razumihin bought him. He was perfectly calm, not a trace of delirium nor of the panic fear that had haunted him of late. His movements were precise and definite; a firm purpose was evident in them. "To-day, to-day," he muttered to himself. He understood that he was still weak, but his intense spiritual concentration gave him strength and self-confidence. He hoped however that he would not fall down in the street. After dressing he took the twenty-five roubles and the copper change left from Razumihin buying clothes. He quietly slipped downstairs. Who would of dreamed of his going out?

   The sun was setting, the heat was stifling as before, but he eagerly drunk in the stinking, dusty air. His head was dizzy; a sort of savage energy gleamed suddenly in his feverish eyes and his wasted, pale and yellow face. He did not know and did not think where he was going, he had one thought only; "that all of THIS must be ended today, once for all, immediately; that he would not return home without it, because he WOULD NOT GO ON LIVING LIKE THAT." How with what to make an end? He had not an idea about it, he did not even want to think of it. He drove away thought; thought tortured him. All he knew, all he felt was that everything must be changed "one way or another." he repeated with desperate and immovable self-confidence and determination.

   He walked from habit in the direction of the Hay Market. A young man playing a barrel organ and a young girl was singing in front of a shop. Their clothes were old and shabby. Hopefully, they would earn a copper, Raskolnikov handed the girl five copeck.

   "Do you like street music?" Raskolnikov asked a middle-aged man standing by him. The man looked at him startled and wondering.

   "I love to hear singing to a street organ," said Raskolnikov, and his manner seemed strangely out of keeping with the subject--"I like it on cold, dark, damp autumn evenings--they must be damp--when all the passers-by have pale green, sickly faces, or better still when wet snow is falling straight down, when there's no wind--you know what I mean?--and the street lamps shine through it. . . . "

   "I don't know. . . . Excuse me . . ." muttered the stranger, frightened by the question and Raskolnikov's strange manner, and he crossed over to the other side of the street.

   Raskolnikov walked to the corner of the Hay Market where the huckster (peddler) and his wife had talked with Lizaveta; (the old pawnbroker's sister, remember) He stopped and addressed a young fellow who was standing in font of a shop.

   "Isn't there a man who keeps a booth with his wife at this corner?"

   "All sorts of people keep booths here," answered the young man, glancing superciliously (full of pride) at Raskolnikov.

   "What's the name?"

   "What he was christened."

   "Aren't you a Zaraisky man, too? Which province?"

   The young man looked at Raskolnikov again.

   "It's not a province, your excellency, but a district. Graciously forgive me, your excellency!"

   Of late he was drawn to this district about the Hay Market mingling with the peasants when he felt depressed so that he might feel more so. He walked along thinking of nothing, among the eating-houses; women wandered about in their indoor clothes. They gathered in groups in front of the festive establishments,they were bare-headed and wore cotton dresses, and goatskin shoes. There were women of forty and some not more than seventeen; almost all had blackened eyes. He was strangely attracted by the singing and all the noise and uproar from the saloons. Someone could be heard dancing frantically, marking time with his heels to the sounds of the guitar and a thin falsetto voice.

   "Shall I go in?" he thought. "They are laughing. From drink. Shall I get drunk?"

   He is invited in by a woman, less thick than the others, she was young and not repulsive--the only one of the group.

   "Why she's pretty." he said, drawing himself close and looking at her.

   "She smiled much pleased at the compliment.

   "You're very nice-looking yourself," she said.

   "Isn't he thin though!" observed another woman in a deep bass voice. "Have you come out of a hospital?"

   "They're all generals' daughters, it seems, but they have all snub noses," interposed a tipsy peasant with a sly smile on his face, wearing a loose coat. "See how jolly they are."

   " Get along with you!"

   "I'll go sweetie!" said the peasant and he darted into the saloon. Raskolnikov moved on.

   "I say sir,"the girl shouted after him.

   "What is it?"

   She hesitated.

   "I'll always be pleased to spend an hour with you, kind gentleman, but now I feel shy. Give me six copecks for a drink, nice young man!"

   Raskolnikov gave her what came first---fifteen copecks.

   "Ah, what a good-natured gentleman!"

   "What's your name?" ask Raskolnikov.

   "Ask for Duclida."

   "Well that's too much," one of the women observed, shaking her head at Duclida. "I don't know how you can act like that. I would drop with shame. . . ."

   Raskolnikov looked curiously at the speaker. She was pock-marked wench of thirty, covered with bruises, with her upper lip swollen. She made her criticism quietly and earnestly. "Where is it ?" Thought Raskolnikov. "Where is it I've read that someone condemned to death says or thinks, an hour before his death, that if he had to live on some high rock, on such a narrow ledge that he'd only room to stand, and the ocean, everlasting darkness, everlasting solitude, everlasting tempest around him, if he had to remain standing on a square yard of space all his life, a thousand years, eternity, it were better to live so than to die at once! Only to live, to live and live! Life, whatever it may be! . . . How true it is! Good God, how true! Man is such a vile creature! . . . And vile is he who calls him vile for that." he added a moment later.


   He went into another street. "Bah, the Palais de Cristal! Razumihin was just talking of the Palais de Cristal. But what on earth was it I wanted. Yes, the newspapers. . . . Zossimov said he'd read it in the papers. Have you the papers?" he asked, going into a very spacious and positively clean restaurant, consisting of several rooms, which were, however, rather empty. Two or three people were drinking tea, and in a room farther away were sitting four men drinking champagne. Raskolnikov fancied that Zametov was one of them, but he could not be sure at the distance. "What if it is?" he thought.

   Raskolnikov ordered tea and asked for the last five days of newspapers. He found what he was looking for and began to read it. The lines danced before his eyes, but he read it all and began eagerly seeking later editions. His hands shook with nervous impatience as he turned the sheets. Suddenly someone sat down beside him at his table. He looked up it was the head clerk from the police station Zametov, looking just the same, with the rings on his fingers and the watch-chain, with the curly black hair, parted and perfumed, with the smart waistcoat, rather shabby coat and doubtful linen. He was in a good humour, at least he was smiling very gaily. His dark face was rather flushed from champagne.

   "What, you here?" he began in surprise, speaking as though he'd known him all his life. "Why Razumihin told me only yesterday you were unconscious. How strange! And do you know I've been to see you?"

   Raskolnikov knew he would come up to him. He laid aside the papers and turned to Zametov. There was a smile on his lips, and a new shade of irritable impatience was apparent in that smile.


   "I know you have," he answered, "I have heard it. You looked for my sock. . . .  And you know Razumihin has lost his heart to you? He says you've been with him to Luise Ivanova's, (She run's a brothel) you know, the woman you tried to befriend, for whom you winked to the Explosive Lieutenant (Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant superintendent of the police station.) and he would not understand. Do you remember? How could he fail to understand--it was quite clear, wasn't it?"

   "What a hot head he is!"

   "The explosive one?"

   "No your friend Razumihin."

   "You must have a jolly life. Mr. Zametov; entrance free to the most agreeable places. Who's been pouring champagne into you just now?"

   "We've just been . . . having a drink together. . . . You talk about pouring it into me!"

   "By way of a fee! You pocket from everything!" Raskolnikov laughed, "it's all right, my dear boy," he added, slapping Zametov on the shoulder. "I'm not speaking from temper, but in a friendly way, for sport, as that workman of yours said when he was scuffling with Dmitri, in the case of the old woman. . . . "

   "How do you know about it?"

   "Perhaps I know more about it than you do."

   "How strange you are. . . . I am sure you are still very unwell. You oughtn't to come out."

   "Oh, do I seem strange to you?"

   "Yes. What are you doing reading the newspapers?"


   "There's a lot about the fires."

   ""No, I'm not reading about the fires." Here he looked mysteriously at Zametov; his lips were twisted again in a mocking smile. "No I am not reading about the fires," he went on, winking at Zametov. 'But confess now, my dear fellow, you're awfully anxious to know what I am reading about?"

   "I am not in the least. Maybe I ask a question? Why do you keep on . . ."

   "Listen, you are a man of culture and education?"

   "I was in the sixth class at the gymnasium," said Zametov with some dignity.

   "Sixth class! Ah, my cock sparrow! (A cocky little man.) With your parting (hair part) and your rings--you are a gentleman of fortune. Foo! what a charming boy!" Here Raskolnikov broke into a nervous laugh right in Zametov's face. The latter drew back, more amazed than offended.

   'Foo! how strange you are!" Zametov repeated very seriously."I think you are still delirious."

   "I am delirious? You are fibbing, my cock-sparrow! So I am strange? You find me curious, do you?"

   "Yes curious."

   "Shall I tell you what I was reading about, what I was looking for? See what a lot of papers I've made them bring me. Suspicious, eh?"

   "Well what is it?"

   "You prick up your ears?"

   "How do you mean--'prick up my ears'?"

   "I declare to you . . . no, better, 'I confess' . . .No that's not right either; ' I make a deposition and you take it,' I depose that I was reading, that I was looking and searching. . . . " he screwed up his eyes and paused. "I came here on purpose for news of the murder of the old pawnbroker," he articulated almost at a whisper, bringing his face close to Zametov. They gaze at each other for a moment.

  "You are either mad or . . ." Zametov broke off, as though stunned by the idea that suddenly flashed in his mind.



I was in an extremely distressed mood the other night writing the post T-I-R-E-D. I suppose the tone was evident! It has been building to a crescendo for many months. I've tried to be objective. I could not the other night. I allowed somewhere from deep within to speak.  I merely turned the computer on and within a few minutes, from the depth of my soul. That's not a bad thing is it? Why do I even ask of course not!

I decided to give patience to something going on at work. "PATIENCE SUCKS!" My new found spirituality was eating me up inside! Well, while patience was being used, germs invade my body, as once more like last October. Please no awe's for me, just another day in my life.



This week a old fashion one room school house was demolished on the route I drive by every day, even though it was sound, a new metal roof was added only a few years. A magnificent structure build in 1886. Back then they were proud of their accomplishments, that was their autographed! Up high under the roof for all to see.

What will it be replaced with a modern structure of sheet metal, iron beams and glass. Oh yeah the modern way. The coveted home will be replaced with a plain white factory and asphalt parking lot.
It was pure country when I moved here, a long time ago.

Don't get me wrong here I'm all for job creation, yes sir!!! That leads me to my other point which I'll now lead into.

I made drastic changes in my life about four months ago. I was at that time perfectly content to ride into my last round-up doing what I had been doing. I was in a rut, BUT! The best rut of my entire on again, off again peaks and valleys of Glen's world! WHY? Well thanks to a miracle! Quite frankly! That's the only words that seem to fit. This hobby of mine what you're currently reading began relatively recent in my life. Never wanted to write, didn't know how to type, computer illiterate, you see! Well maybe you don't see but please try.

You find yourself at a crossroad, do you shrivel up and blow away, OR, find a new taste of existence to give pleasure in your free time. Well, somehow, some way, I found strength. THE KIND OF STRENGTH I NEVER NEW EXISTED!! Sure I've seen others find that inner strength, but never ME!

Easy? No way Jose! I remember a television movie based on a true story of a man born with cerebral palsy, yet achieved some miraculous results. His mother always told him, patience, persistence and perseverance. Mighty powerful words huh? It was about a Fuller Brush salesman. "Door to Door" the story of Bill Porter, played my a fabulous actor William Macy. You won't see old Glen giving the thumbs up for many movies! I will this one.

Patience, persistence and perseverance ain't all it's cracked up to be if you're promised a job four months ago and that bargain is not fulfilled. The only course of action is to butt heads so to speak to demand what's yours. Apparently action is required!To be penalized for being patience is not a reward is it?

Saturday, March 9, 2013


I've been too tired the several days to write. Not from the physical tiredness one would naturally assume. I tire of fighting for what's mine. Seems easier to give up, become just another, another! Be in the same stuck groove forever like an old vinyl record. Around and around, in the same tiny groove. Easier for all included right? In the scheme of life does it matter. Just another brick in the wall, until the millions of bricks are bulldozed for a new modern monstrosity made of glass. Glass is so cold! Glass allows one to see everything, yet feel nothing, carries no warmth, shows no color, nothing, blank, no substance, easy to shatter, meaningless. How many buildings being built today are see through. You see in, but nothing's worth being seen. No heart, no soul, to be razed in twenty-five years to be rebuilt with another of the same.

Why re-do . . . re-do . . . and forever to build again with the same results expecting a different outcome. I'll tell you why! There's no foundation. It takes a solid foundation, time preparing the base, with the right cement. Cement is simple in design yet forms amazing staying strength. You build the proper base, no horse shit-bindings, real sand, real pebbles to withstand the load. Add water baby the building block of life itself. Let cure, it cures forever, growing stronger.

Humm! Sand, aggregates, water, from mother earth. Ah but, sand and heat makes glass right. Presto magic, cheap, yep!

There is limestone that made many a fine marvelous buildings still around after a century. Also brick buildings still solid. How so? Substance, real substance.

The tooth pick homes mass produced today are like the people living in them. Shallow no substance, void of anything lasting.

Artificial people for the modern artificial world. Seems appropriate somehow. I'm T-I-R-E-D of fighting for what's mine. I'm too fucking old, my foundation crumbles every fricking day, from seeing the glass structures here to replace me . . . even as I'm still a standing!!!!! 

There's meaning in here somewhere, I'm too old, too tired, to figure it out, goodnight!

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

One day . . . My son . . . One day?

The man sees his son, his first born, for the first!

Such falling, of tears!

Never . . . can it get, any better!

How does one prepare for?

The coming, into, this world.

Anxiously waiting, too hold, too kiss, too love, too guide.

How does one describe?

No words, fit this . . . "miracle, beyond, miracles!

Taken for granted, just another day! "not so," the tears cannot stop!

He looks at his miracle maker, lying in bed, his heart swells ten thousand times, inside. Never . . . has she looked more . . . so golden, so angelic! A golden halo, he does see!  

A glancing of pure, total, unconditional love.

One day my son, one day, we'll share once again, together, the happiness beyond happiness, the miracle of miracles, my son!

Who says "miracles are not?" Miracles happen, most every second of every day, somewhere! Have we become so busy, so out of touch, through the lack of touch, we dare not see! ANYMORE!   Glen

Monday, March 4, 2013

Fun with Glen and Glen!

I 've been too damn serious, let's see if I can shake it up some. Nope, nothing in mind to write about, I'll just spin the big empty wheel, and go with where it lands.

Had me a right good day at work, said my piece, oh shit! I'm, already, confused! Should that be piece, as in a piece of apple pie with vanilla ice-cream on top?

You can see where a piece of my mind is! OR, should it be peace, as in being peaceful?

Let me ponder upon this mind boggling piece of information? I know, "we don't have all fricking night!"

OHH! I got it!!! I was at peace, as I said my piece. Yeah! That explain it, right nice. I have been known in the past for . . . saying my piece, a wee bit, cantankerously! Huh? Oh my! You probably do not hear a word like cantankerously, every day, do ya? I bet it's not even in the dictionary! WELL NOW . . . you know! I gonna check in out! And yes, I KNOW! I can bing it, google it, er, whatever? I still like to do it the old fashion way! "You got a problem with that?"


"CANTANKEROUSLY" Well I'll be flabbergasted! It be in there! Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh! Must of been some of my some-what proper relatives, that worked on this here dictionary. Yep, just as I thought, it's the third world, er, I mean third college edition. So it was not smart enough to be # one! Just as I thought!

Can-tan-ker-ous, damn, damn, damn, it be in there! Who would of ever . . . thunk it? How bout, I have some more fun with ya, and use it in a sentence or two, since I never know beforehand where I'mma gonna go with nuthin!

I remember watching a television show when I was a wee tadpole, called "The Real McCoys." There was this grandpa fella, played by Walter Brennan, if my old brain's correct. "Yes, I know-sa I can, bing it, google it or somethun?"

This grandpa character was a cantankerous old fella. Understand now. No! Dag-nap-it! Can't you understand my third world English? Maybe I need to give a better hint.

People say, "grandpa McCoy is a grumpy old fella."

Other people say, "grandpa McCoy, is a troublemaker."

Or, "grandpa McCoy, is a bad-tempered cuss."

Maybe, "grandpa McCoy is quarrelsome."

So what have we learned here today boys and girls?



Sunday, March 3, 2013

(20) C. P. (PART 2 CHAP V)

Silly me! Somehow chapter 20 got back to draft form. So I'm reposting it along with chapter 21. For those of you that have already read chapter 20 scroll down to stay in order. It has been a rough week for me to say the least!   GLEN

((( Interesting side note. I told my doctor I was reading Crime And Punishment, he hails from Russia as a young boy, I quote him, "that's like reading in Russian!" I believe that's because the names and so many different ones like example the main characters are extremely hard to keep separate. That was my problem on the first go round, SO, I hope you don't mind for the rest of the book, as my goal and a rather hefty one at that, is two chapters a week, Also I wish to interject my humor thoughts or whatever's in my head between this fantastic writing of Dostoevsky.)))

   Raskolnikov, who had expected something quite different, gazed blankly at Luzhin, making no reply as though he had heard the name for the first time.

   "Is it possible you have received no information about me?" Luzhin asked, somewhat disconnected. (This word disconnected fits him to a tee!)

   Raskolnikov sank languidly   (without interest, IMAGINE THAT!)   back onto the pillow, put both his hands behind his head and gazed at the ceiling. A look of dismay came into Luzhin's face. Zossimov and Razumihin stared at him inquisitively. Luzhin showed unmistakable signs of embarassment.

   "I had presumed that a letter posted ten days ago . . ."

   Razumihin invites him in and explains "Rodya   (Raskolnikov's first name to family and friends, like it's not hard enough already to keep up with names huh!)   has been ill for the last five days and delirious for three. This is his doctor and I am a comrade of Rodya's, like him a former student, and am now nursing him; please go on with your business.

   "Thank you. But I shall not disturb with my presence and conversation?" Luzhin asked of Zossimov

   "N-no," mumbled Zossimov; "you may amuse him."

   "He has been conscious a long time, since this morning," went on Razumihin, whose familiarity seemed so much like good-nature that Luzhin became more cheerful, partly, perhaps, this shabby and impudent person had introduced himself as a student.

   "Your mamma," Luzhin.

   "Hm!" Razumhin cleared his throat loudly. Luzhin looked at him inquiringly.

   "That's all right go on."

   Luzhin shrugged his shoulders. "Your mamma wrote a letter explaining. I assumed you have possession of the tidings; but now to my astonishment . . ."

   "I know, I know!" Raskolnikov cried suddenly with impatient vexation. "So you are the FIANCE? I know, and that's enough!"

   There was no doubt as to Luzhin being offended, this time he said nothing. He made a violent effort to understand what it all meant. There was a moment's silence.

   Meanwhile Raskolnikov began staring at him with marked curiosity, as though he had not had a good look at him yet, he rose from his pillow to stare at him. There was something peculiar in Luzhin's whole appearance, which seemed to justify the title of "fiance" so unceremoniously applied to him. All his clothes were fresh from the tailor's and were all right, except for being too new, and too distinctly appropriate. Even the same new round hat had the same significance. Luzhin treated it too respectfully and held it too carefully in his hands. The exquisite pair of lavender gloves, real Louvian, told the same tale, if only from the fact of him not wearing them, but carrying them in his hand for show. After scanning Mr. Luzhin unceremoniously Raskolnikov sank back on the pillow and stared at the wall as before.

   But Mr. Luzhin hardened his heart and seemed determine to take no notice of their oddities.

   "I feel the greatest regret at finding you in this situation," he begun, breaking the silence with an effort. "If I had been aware of your illness I should of come earlier. But you know what business is. I have a very important legal affair in the Senate, not to mention I am expecting your mamma and sister any minute. I have found a lodging for them on their arrival, near here, in Bakaleyev's house."

   "Razumihin said "a disgusting place--filthy, stinking and of doubtful character, there are all sorts of queer people and a scandalous business. It's cheap, though . . ."

   "I could not,  of course, find out so much about it, for I am a stranger in Petersburg myself, Luzhin replied huffily."However the two rooms are exceedingly clean, and as it is for so short a time . . . I've found a permanent residence and having it done up. I myself am cramped for room living with a friend Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov. He told me of the Bakaleyev's house."

   "Lebeziatnikov?" said Raskolnikov, as if recalling something.   (Earlier in the book he helped the drunk Marmeladov home, who lives there.)

   Luzhin "I was his guardian. I like meeting young people: one learns new things from them." He looked around at all.

   "Razumihin "how do you mean?"

   "Luzhin "in the most essential matters," delighted at the question. "You see, it's been ten years since I visited Petersburg. All the reforms, novelties have reached us in the provinces. It's my notion you learn most by watching the younger generation, I confess to being delighted . . ."

   Razumihin "At what?"

   Luzhin "Your question covers much. I fancy clearer views, more, so to say, criticism, more practicality . . ."

   "That's true," Zossimov  let drop.
   Razumihin "Nonsense! There's no practicality. Practicality is a difficult thing to find; it does not drop down from heaven. For the last two hundred years we have been divorced from all practical life. We have been fermenting, desire for good exist, though it's in a childish form, and honesty you may find, although there are crowds of brigands. (bandits) There's no practicality."

   Luzhin "I don't agree, of course people do get carried away, one must have indulgence, mistakes are merely evidence of enthusiasm for the cause. It's my personal view, that something has been accomplished already. New valuable works are circulating in the place of our old dreamy, romantic, authors. Literature is taking a maturer form. In a word we have cut ourselves off irrevocably from the past, and to my thinking, that, is a great thing . . ."

   Raskolnikov pronounced suddenly."He's learnt it by heart, to show off!"

   Luzhin not catching his words "what?"

   Zossimov hastened to interpose, "that's all true."

   Luzhin "isn't it so? You must admit that there is progress in the name of science and economic truth . . ." While glancing affably at Zossimov and addressing Razumihin.

   "A commonplace."

   "Luzhin " No, not a commonplace! Until now, if I were told, 'love thy neighbour', what came of it? I tear my coat in half and we're both half naked. Science now tells us, love yourself before all men, for everything in the world lies in self-interest. Manage your own affairs properly and your coat remains whole. Economic truth that the better private affairs are organised, the firmer are its foundation, the better common welfare is organised too. By acquiring wealth for myself I help my neighbour get more than a torn coat, not from private, personal, liberality, but as a consequence of the general advance. The idea is simple, unhappily it has been a long time reaching us, hindered by idealism and sentimentality. It takes little wit to perceive it . . ."

   Razumihin " I have very little wit myself, and so let's drop it. I began this discussion with an object, but I've grown sick during the last three years of this chattering to amuse oneself, of this incessant flow of commonplaces, always the same, that, I blush even when other people talk like that. You are in a hurry to exhibit your acquirement's; and I don't blame you, that's quite pardonable. I only wanted to find out what kind of man you are, for so many unscrupulous ones have got hold of the progressive cause of late and have distorted in their own interest, everything they touched, that the whole cause in the mire. That's enough!"
(((Wow! Sounds like Razumihin, or just, Raz, as I think to myself, has had enough of this here Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin huh?)) (Sorry I had to chime in on that! I love Raz don't you?)

   "Excuse me, sir" said Luzhin, offended, and speaking with excessive dignity. "Do you mean to suggest that I too . . ."

  "Oh my dear sir . . . how could I? . . . Come, that's enough," Razumihin concluded, and he turned abruptly to Zossimov to continue their previous conversation.

   Luzhin had the good sense to accept the disapproval of his words. Turning to Raskolnikov, "May you recover and in view of the circumstances of which you are aware, become closer. . . . Above all, I hope for your return to health . . ."

   Raskolnikov did not even turn his head as Luzhin got up.


   Zossimov "One of her customers must have killed her."

   Razumihin "Not a doubt of it, Porfiry Petrovitch (head of the Investigative Department) doesn't give his opinion, but is examining all who have pledges with her there."

   "Examining them?" Raskolnikov asked aloud.

   Zossimov "It must have been a cunning and practised ruffian! The boldness of it! The coolness!"

   Razumihin "That's just what it wasn't, that's what throws you all off the scent. I maintain it was probably his first crime! It was only a chance that saved him. He took jewels worth ten or twenty roubles and they found fifteen thousand roubles, in a box in the top drawer of the chest! I assure you it was his first crime and he got out by luck!"

   Luzhin "Are you talking of the old pawnbroker murder?" Addressing Zossimov. He was standing hat and gloves still in his hand. Before departing he was anxious to make a favourable impression, his vanity overcome his prudence."

   "Yes you've heard of it?"

   Luzhin "Yes in the neighbourhood. Circumstances of the case interest me, crime is greatly on the increase. How are we to explain this demoralisation of the civilised part of our society? Morality and principles . . ."

   Raskolnikov speaks up suddenly. "Why do you worry about it. It's in accordance with your theory!"

   Luzhin "In accordance with my theory?"

   Raskolnikov "Why, carry out logically the theory you were advocating just now, and it follows that people may be killed . . ."

   Luzhin "Upon my word!

   Zossimov "No that's not so,"

   Raskolnikov lay with a white face and twitching upper lip, breathing painfully.

   Luzhin "There's a measure in all things. Economic ideas are not an incitement to murder , and one has but to suppose . . ."

   "And is it true," Raskolnikov interposed once more suddenly, in a voice quivering with fury and delight in insulting him, "is it true you told your fiance . . . within an hour of her acceptance, that what pleased you most . . . was that she was a beggar . . . because it was better to raise a wife from poverty, so that you may have complete control over her, and reproach her with your being her benefactor?"

   "Upon my word!" Luzhin cried wrathfully and irritably, crimson with confusion, "to distort my words this way? I suspect your momma with all her excellent qualities, of a somewhat high-flown and romantic way of thinking. . . . I never thought she would misunderstand and misrepresent things so indeed . . ."

   "I tell you what." cried Raskolnikov, fixing his piercing, glittering eyes upon him, 'I tell you what,"

   "What?" Luzhin stood still, waiting with a defiant and offended face. Silence lasted for some seconds.

   Raskolnikov "Why, if you ever again . . . you dare to mention a single word . . . about my mother . . . I shall send you flying downstairs!"

   Razumihin "What's the matter with you?"

   "So that's how it is?" Luzhin turned pale and bit his lip. "Let me tell you sir," he began deliberately, doing his utmost to restrain himself, but breathing hard, "at the first moment I saw you were ill-disposed to me, but I remained here on purpose to find out more. I could forgive a great deal in a sick man and a connection, but you . . . never after this . . ."

   "I am not ill," cried Raskolnikov.

   Luzhin "so much the worse . . . "

   Raskolnikov "go to hell!" Luzhin left without finishing his speech.

   "How could you--how could you!" Razumihin said, shaking his head in perplexity.

   "Leave me alone, all of you!" Raskolnikov cried in a frenzy. "Will you ever leave off tormenting me? I want to be alone, alone, alone!"

    "Come along," said Zossimov, nodding to Razumihin.

   "But we can't leave him like this!"

   "Come along," Zossimov repeated insistently, and he went out. Razumihin thought a minute and ran out to overtake him.

   "It might be worse not to obey him," said Zossimov on the stairs. He mustn't be irritated."

   "What's the matter with him?"

   "If only he could get some favourable shock, that's what would do it! At first he was better. . . .You know he has got something on his mind! Some fixed idea weighing on him . . . .I'm very much afraid so; he must have!
   "Perhaps it's that gentleman, Luzhin. From his conversation I gather he is going to marry his sister, and that he had received a letter about it just before his illness. . . ."

   "Yes, confound the man! He may have upset the case altogether. But have you noticed, he takes no interest in anything, he does not respond to anything, except one point on which he seems excited--that's the murder?"

   "Yes, yes,"Razumihin agreed, I noticed that, too. He is interested, frightened. It gave him a shock on the day he was ill in the police office; he fainted."

   "Tell me more about that, this evening and I'll tell you something afterwards. He interest me very much! In half an hour I'll go see him again. . . . There'll be no inflammation though."

   "Thanks! I'll wait with Pashenka (the landlady) and will keep watch on him through Nastasya. . . ." (the servant)

   Raskolnikov left alone, looked with impatience and misery at Nastasya, but she still lingered.

   "Won't you have some tea now?" she asked.

   "Later! I am sleepy! Leave me ."

   He turned abruptly to the wall; Nastasya went out.