text:
How it All Began
By NIKOLAI BUKHARIN
Translated by GEORGE SHRIVER
Columbia University Press
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Kolya Petrov was born at the end of the eighties of the last century in Moscow, on Bolshaya Ordynka--that is, in the Zamoskvorechye district, in a building belonging to the Aleksandro-Mariinsky Zamoskvorechye Merchants Association. This building was designated an "Academy" according to the inscription carved in gold letters on a signboard black as soot. The Ordynka was quiet, measured, and orderly, a solid citizens' street. Here stood the houses of the Zamoskvorechye merchants, one-storied and two-storied, with cleanly washed windows, sometimes of plate glass. In the backyards were stables, with carriage horses and coachmen of enormous dimension, the darlings and favorites of the well-rested, pink-complexioned, ample merchants' wives. The bakery shops gleamed with their big gilded imitation loaves hanging high and visible from afar, respectfully inviting the public to come in and buy a kalach (a wheatmeal loaf), a cookie, or a bun sprinkled with moist grains of sugar. Throughout the area, golden-domed churches, it seemed, had planted themselves firmly in the ground for centuries to come--there was the church of the great martyr St. Catherine, of St. George Neocaesarius, of the Parasceve of the Pentecost, of the Assumption of the Mother of God, and of the Trinity in Luzhniki. The mellow chiming of their bells resounded morning and evening, and the shuddering waves of sound would roll, subsiding, all across the town.
The poor, the "shirtless ones"--factory hands, cobblers, carpenters, servants, and yardmen--huddled in cellars or lean-tos hidden out back in the far corners of the yards; they looked out at the sidewalks from below street level through the dusty, dirty eyes of cellar windows, whose grime gave off a flash of rainbow now and then. But these black pits and gloomy hollows did not distract the gaze of the higher orders, who sped along in their sleighs over the squeaking snow as the rosy-fingered dawn would gild the steeples of the churches and melt the dark-blue ice patches of the frosty early morning.
It was a quiet street. No crush of carriages or horsedrawn trams, no noisy din, no squabbling or fighting. In the winter, when the stern frost would lock down everything with its piercing icy breath, the street would be completely covered by clean, hard-packed snow; along the edges of the street, by the squat, dumpy little figures of the curbstones, the snow would form small pyramids where the yardmen wearing their brass nameplates had shoveled it into heaps. Fires crackled at the street corners, horsecab drivers strutting around them self-importantly, wearing their big, thick gloves; they warmed themselves by the fire, beating their arms across their chests and dancing to relieve their frozen, benumbed feet swaddled in footcloths. Occasionally a policeman would come up, head covered with a hood, icicles dripping from his whiskers all hoary with frost. With a whoop the merchants' trotters would sweep by, raven-black or dappled beauties puffing and snorting, and the eye barely had time to catch the fast-moving blur of legs, the carriage rug of fur, the mighty backside of the coachman, and the portly figure of the well-fed merchant. Smoke from the chimneys rose straight up, and all the houses seemed to be puffing out curly columns, which gradually faded and disappeared in the clear and frosty air.
In the summer things were livelier and more cheerful: hanging around the gates were the neighborhood kids, the yardmen, the servants, the factory hands; they chewed seeds and flashed their teeth, laughing and cursing at one another, covering the ground with the shells of sunflower seeds; in the evenings couples crushed against one another in secluded entrance-ways of buildings or on benches out of view; now and then some drunken man would come running by, all torn and disheveled, with a crowd of "enforcers of order" rushing after him, their voices carrying all up and down the street; the little boys flew kites ("dragons" and "black monks") and climbed with the agility of monkeys up on the roofs, chasing pigeons: tumbler pigeons, solid-colored, or mixed black and skewbald. Peddlers with trays on their bellies supported by thick leather straps stained with salt marks sold warm, thick kvass made of pears; they also sold pies, dumplings, ice cream, and sunflower seeds; around them swarmed a noisy crowd of boys, licking their lips and fingering their copper coins. There, too, children's games would be played--the arguments, shouts, and general uproar of the players disturbing the sleepy stillness of the merchant's quarter. Only rarely would organ grinders wander into this neighborhood, and when they did, the street would echo with the squeaking, penetrating sounds of the rickety instruments.
It was different in other neighborhoods like Serphukhovki, Kozhevniki, and Babyi Gorodok, where things were dirty, loud, drunken, and poor. In kennel-like quarters, half-naked children swarmed amid worn and dirty scraps of cloth; the dank odors of the latrine, of mold, of sour cabbage, and of hides pervaded; in the cellars and the tiny, leaning huts, where the plaster was peeling and falling off in whole chunks, and in the wooden peasant houses, all the little cagelike rooms were jammed full with people, poor working people on the verge of destitution: laborers and factory hands, who were considered the bad ones, the desperadoes; artisans and petty "master craftsmen"--shoemakers, box makers, glassworkers, carpenters; the peddlers who sold things from their trays; laundry women, women hired by the day; and professional beggars. All these filled the cellars, attics, and littlest closets to overflowing, and on holidays would flood out onto the street or go choke on the fumes of the taverns and beer halls with their red and blue signs: "Beer Garden" or, in quaintly shaped lettering, "Friends Get Together Tavern." Here waiters dashed about in dirty clothing, white only in name, and all hell broke loose as a "machine" played, glasses clinked, an accordion rent the air, and yearning, sobbing songs were heard. This motley crowd of many faces sang, brawled, drank, roared, embraced, had fist fights, kissed, and wept.
The churches were filled with people. In front of the gilded icons the hot wax candles burned brightly. There resounded the basses and the still lower basses of the archdeacons, whom the staid merchants had selected, those lovers of heavenly harmony, the big-bellied elders of the church and honored members of the congregation. The basses made the air shake with their mighty roar. In the parts of the church reserved for the choir, the choristers sang in good order--the lads had shaven heads, pale faces, firm mouths; the grown-ups looked puffy and slovenly. But the music of Bortnyansky was exultant, and the canticles were borne aloft to God the omnipotent, the omniscient, the omnipresent. The merchants' wives in their silk dresses stood in front, their jackets and skirts rustling, crossing themselves with their pink, plump little hands. Their husbands prayed devoutly and staidly. Spread out behind them were a host of hangers-on: old women dressed in black, God-fearing gossips, guardians of the family hearth and procuresses, aunts, nieces waiting for bridegrooms and growing numb from boredom and fat, mistresses, and household servants.
Here, too, stood the government officials, the chinovniks, and their wives. And in the rear in a thick crowd, standing and on their knees, were the common people, exhausted, awaiting consolation from God, the source of all good, for salvation from the Savior. But the Savior remained silent and only looked out sadly through the lamplight upon the bowed bodies, the bent backs, the heavy sighs of the hapless and deprived ...
The neighborhood boys joked with one another, not without fear. They moistened their fingers to try to put the candles out. The candles would sputter, and the girls and boys would snort, and laughter would overcome them, despite the threatening glances of the elders. Here and there lovers would exchange glances. On the church's porch sat beggars, cripples in sorry rags and scraps of clothing, with stumps instead of arms and legs, with bloodshot eyes, with cataracts, with eyelids inside out, the halt and the blind, and the holy fools, the fools for God's sake. Importunately they pressed forward with their wounds, their pus, their stumps, their humped backs for all to see, and in whining voices with self-deprecating refrains they begged for single kopecks or five-kopeck pieces, which clattered as they fell into the torn hats and caps on the plates of stone. Faith in the Heavenly King was strong, as well as in the earthly one, the tsar, our little father, who at the same time was tightening ever so tightly all the screws in the terrible system of power then still in the hands of the great landowners.
In the homes of the wealthy parishioners much still remained from the harsh strictures of the priest Sylvester's Domostroi. The power of the man of the house was pretty fierce. These men were big shots, fat cats who sometimes were rolling in millions, dealers in fabrics, fish, tea, meat, lard, lumber, tar, leather, and hides; the owners of big taverns, town houses, and market places.
Their practical business life was in the Trading Rows, the Moscow equivalent of London's "The City": they sat there in their high-vaulted "barns" and dimly lit offices, counting, weighing, and measuring, exaggerating and deceiving, drinking tea from the saucer or sending their "boys" for sour cabbage soup, the favorite drink of those times.
Meetings on business matters were held there, too, or else in select taverns, accompanied by open-topped pastries, meat, fish, and vegetable pies, roast piglet, caviar, sterlet, mushrooms, and vodkas of all kinds. And at home, under a mask of propriety, in the stuffy air of the living rooms, dining rooms, and bedrooms, behind the heavy blinds and curtains, amidst a heap of quilts, down coverlets, and featherbeds, trunks, bins, and chests, icons, lamps, and pillows, life went its own way with muffled dramas and tragedies, which occasionally surfaced in the form of a flaming scandal or sometimes--a fountain of blood. Merchants' wives whose flesh was troubled slept with coachmen; young women, out of longing, threw themselves on the necks of the better-looking salesmen or shop assistants; "himself" arranged to have on the side some "madamoiselles" from among the French; the sons, forgetting all shame, would fall into a life of debauchery--is there any shortage of secrets that could be told by the alcoves and spare rooms in those heavy merchants' houses? Still, over everything there hung the heavy hand of the master of the house, and more than one cheek felt its cruel touch!
From among the merchants, one or another individual would establish ties with elements of the illustrious landowning nobility who had fallen on hard times. In Russia, too, a process was under way such as had gone on in France and other countries. And this was looked upon as no different than the Sodomite kingdom by the zealots of traditional piety, who in Moscow had their main citadel on the Rogozhsky.
The heraldic shields of olden days needed to be gilded anew, and the power of money, that great procuress, through the church and through marriage, brought renewed luster to the heraldic emblems and titles, as merchants' blood flowed through the blue veins of the old aristocratic families. Merchants' daughters had already appeared in the halls of the Moscow Assembly of the Nobility, where they shone with their precious jewels and rosy complexions among the pale, elegant, and overly refined grandes dames of the ancient Russian nobility: the upstarts kept gaining in strength, and more than one distinguished gray head of the finest breeding was seen to fawn upon a figure wearing a caftan and boots that squeaked.
As for the bearded ones, they, too, began to change: they struggled into frock coats, hired governesses for their children, learned languages, received instruction in music and dancing, and sent their sons to the gimnaziya.
In Russia there had already begun to arise from among the kulaks (the "tight-fisted ones") and the prasoly (the "old salts") an enlightened Russian bourgeoisie, future counterparts of Maecenas, captains of a growing native-Russian industry: the Morozovs and the Mamontovs, the Shchukins and Chetverikovs. And no matter how much the prophets of the old nobility, who sang in elegant French the praises of Byzantium and the Asiatic way--no matter how much they wanted to strengthen and retain their hold on the great estates, which kept slipping away through their fingers, estates with many-columned palaces, liveried footmen, linden-tree alleys, and the peaceful life--money kept loosening the soil, like a mole, undermining the foundations of the old order, eating away like rust on the abutments.
The Ordynka Street school, where Kolya Petrov was born, consisted of two large buildings: one fronting on the street; the other, a three-storied building, set back on the grounds. The school itself was housed in the first building, and in the second lived the families of the teachers, although on the top floor there was a manual arts classroom: here the graduated adult girls were taught needlework.
The merchants who had built the school gave their due to the spirit of the age: as if to say, we're not backwoods people; we're all for book learning, too!
The school was spacious, the parquet floors gleamed, massive portraits of the tsars looked down from the walls. The children of the lower middle classes, petty officials, artisans, yardmen, all the little people of the city, filled the classrooms, made noise in the hallways, and sat at the desks with ink-stained hands. Very rarely did any of the school's benefactors visit it, and when they did everyone stiffened with fear.
For the most part the school lived its own life, distinct and apart. The teachers were usually former seminarians who had undergone the standard regimentation of the seminaries, but there were others. Among those others was Kolya's father, Ivan Antonych (Vanya) Petrov. He was a typical raznochinets. When he had been only four his father had died--after losing at cards, not long before his death (from "galloping consumption"), the few assets he still owned, leaving his wife with a slew of kids and pockets empty but for the holes.
Kolya's grandmother, with borrowed money, had opened a sewing shop and herself began to sew; nevertheless little Vanya from the age of ten had to earn the cost of his school lessons. He was a good student at the gimnaziya, his talents were not small, but his was a soft and yielding character--although at the same time he was cheerful and gregarious. Throughout his youth Vanya had worked to earn money for the family to support his mother and brothers. At the university he was friends with activists of the People's Will and might perhaps have been drawn into the revolutionary movement. But an almost anecdotal incident put a stop to that: one day as he was getting ready to go to a political meeting, his mother, an energetic woman with the face of an old dissenter, hid his shoes and trousers in a trunk, under lock and key--and that was the end of it! It was an ultimatum of action. In addition, tears started to flow, with talk about the fate of the family and all the other things that go on in such cases. The mild-mannered Ivan Antonych made his peace. And thus ended his revolutionary career. In those years he had a romantic affair as well: he fell in love with a certain young woman, a beauty and a revolutionary, and his love was reciprocated; she called him "dearest Zhano" (or "Jeannot," from Jean, the French equivalent of Ivan). But then something happened that was forever after kept secret; the only thing known was that for several weeks "Jeannot" had lain in bed with a nervous fever and had come within an inch of dying, but he had managed to pull through and recover. Later the young woman met with him several times, but soon afterward went off and got married. Nothing more was known to anyone, and no matter how one might try to pry the secret out of Ivan Antonych, he would lapse into silence and you couldn't get a peep out of him; only in his eyes little fires would blaze up, then quickly die out, and wrinkles would stand out on his brow as deep as trenches ...
He graduated as a mathematics major, but literature was his real passion: he knew an enormous number of poems by heart, loved to recite poetry and read it aloud (and he read extremely well).
He would catch someone unawares, grab them by the collar, and start in:
"See this? If you want, I'll read it to you. It's a marvelous piece, you know, absolutely charming. Just listen."
"Ivan Antonych, excuse me, another time. Really, I'm so busy right now."
"No, no, wait! It'll only take a minute--"
And he would make his victims sit down and listen no matter what. And they would listen: Ivan Antonych, to be sure, read well.
As for politics, he stopped thinking about it. Alexander the Peace Maker, that crude heavyweight of a man with his broad, thick beard, who boasted of how much he loved simple, truly Russian food--cabbage soup or kasha--and who didn't forget about Russian drinking either, kept tightening the fist of his gendarmerie, and it was not for such natures as Ivan Antonych's to dive into the deeps of the underground.
But he did read a little, and sometimes liked to blurt out radical remarks. He didn't believe in God and treated the clergy with irony, though not with malice. In general, he was not capable of malice: he would flare up, then his anger would die away; he had to be regularly "reheated" for angry feelings to stay alive. In his life he was not a systematic person, but he was kind. There was a saying about him, "Ivan Antonych goes out to buy sausage and comes home with a canary." Still, he had a sharp tongue in his head, and sometimes he liked to tease people close to him, accumulating some enemies in this way. However, these were rare exceptions, because on the whole Ivan Antonych was thought of as the life of the party. He was of average height, thin, almost frail; his eyes were large, gray, kind, and intelligent; he had an aquiline nose and looked like the Christ of the ancient Russian icon painters, except that he went bald early in life. When he was teased about this he didn't take offense but headed off his tormentor; pointing at his bald skull and speaking in the language of the Holy Scriptures he would say: "And from his loose and lascivious ways there grew a bald spot on his head." But this was nothing but bravado, for in reality dear old Ivan Antonych was celibate to a fault. He belonged to that rather rare type of man whom women chase after, although he himself was not shy, and sometimes he was rather free with them, at least in words.
He knew quite a lot about the most varied subjects and could talk endlessly about the pistils and stamens of flowers, about butterflies and beetles, birds and fish, the moon and stars, Heinrich Heine, geometry, or the roots of words. He had a cheerful, light-hearted, ironical cast of mind. He had made a first-rate study of the Bible at one time, and in conversation with the school priests and deacons he would recite to them from memory great mountains of biblical indecencies, sowing confusion and dismay among his interlocutors. Because of this kind of thing he was sometimes even dubbed "the Antichrist."
He met his future wife, Lyubov Ivanovna, at work: she was a teacher at the same school. She had been a sweet, slender blonde with a turned-up nose--a lively and intelligent person. There was something half childlike in her face. In no way could she have been called beautiful, or even pretty. But there was such an attractive air about her, her figure, her clear, intelligent (though not large) eyes, the lively play of her mouth, that Ivan Antonych fell in love with her at first sight and soon married her following all the proper procedures of marital law.
Lyubov Ivanovna came from a military background. Her father had been an officer. But her mother was from Poland, from a family with the old revolutionary tradition of the Polish gentry (the Szlachta, jealous of its rights against the monarchy). She was viewed as a renegade for marrying a Russian, and an officer at that, even if she did it for love; her action stirred up terrible indignation among her kinsfolk.
On the other hand, the Russian side of the family had no sympathy for her and saw in her only an offshoot of the rebellious Polish race. In the end it was more than this energetic and intelligent woman could stand. She began to suffer from severe depression (melancholia) and lost her sanity, passing into the care of her daughters. Lyubochka graduated from the Institute for Girls of the Nobility but from the very start had to earn her own bread by the sweat of her brow: her father had died, her mother had gone mad, and the young woman was left to her own devices, as were her sisters. Now, although she was of the social group called the raznochintsy, she was not about to get involved in revolution and was always extremely restrained in voicing opinions: over her head there always hung the madness of her mother, whose mind was haunted by arrests, house searches, executions. She resolved to keep out of politics--firmly, once and for all. Hers was a strong-willed character, and she had great tenacity, which was very hard to imagine when one looked at that naive, half-childlike little face.
Out of this marriage there came a first-born child, little Kolya. And after him, like mushrooms--one smaller than the next--came others...
At the age of four Kolya already knew how to read and to print. His parents loved him to an extraordinary degree, took pride in him, showed everyone how he was reading and writing and how well he drew horses and Christmas trees, houses and birds. In the quiet winter evenings, when the light outside the window turned dark-blue and the flocks of jackdaws with their sharp, guttural cries would settle on the school building roof, scolding each other, calling back and forth, then falling silent; when the noises of the street died down and in the sky, green stars began to burn; when the icy cold grew fiercer and traced on the window glass its quaint, fantastic patterns of unknown ferns and unfamiliar crystal flowers, in the Petrovs' small apartment the kerosene lamps with their glass hoods would be lighted, and after tea the skinny little fellow would recite from memory Lermontov's "The Merchant Kalashnikov":Above great Moscow, golden-headed,
Above the white-stoned Kremlin walls,
From distant steppes, from mountains dark,
Chasing off the dark gray clouds,
The scarlet dawn ascends the sky.
A woman shaking out her golden curls ...
The guests were amazed and shook their heads. Then his drawings and doodlings would be shown, and his reading ability demonstrated--he didn't go syllable by syllable, but in complete sentences, from one full stop to the next. But Kolya would soon tire of this business and instead would drag the guests off to see his birds. Ah, this was a whole world to itself, so interesting you could live in it for hours on end. In the child's room a net had been stretched across a window space and behind the net on an arrangement of dry branches there fluttered goldfinches, titmice, blue tits, linnets, bullfinches, and waxwings. In the evening they were already asleep, having gone off into the corners, puffing up their delicate feathers and hiding their heads under their wings. The noise of guests arriving wakened them; they looked around, surprised, with their flashing black eyes, flew up, and began to beat against the windowpanes, but Kolya, considerate keeper that he was, would quickly pull the guests away from the area and lead them out of the room: as if to say, I've shown you the birds and that's enough ...
Sometimes the guests and the Petrovs would sing together. Their songs included "Bystry, kak volny" (Quick as the waves), "Iz strany, strany dalyokoi" (From a far-off, distant land), and the traditional student song Gaudeamus igitur. But when Ivan Antonych would try, with his ungodly off-key singing, to start in on something more radical, such as "The reason we drink from the bitter cup is / That every shtof unit is sealed with a seal, / With the two-headed eagle of Russia," then Lyubov Ivanovna would give him severe, meaningful looks and Ivan Antonych would obediently be still. His wife would very tactfully lead the guests over to the little upright piano and begin to play a Schubert serenade or some romances popular at the time, such as "Gazing at purple sunset rays, / On the banks of the Neva we stood . . ." or "Don't feel sorry for Hassan / In his ancient tattered rags." Duets or trios would be formed. Ivan Antonych, with equal enthusiasm and just as brutally off key (he loved to sing but simply had no ear for music), would join in on these new melodies, forgetting completely about his shtof.
Sunday for Kolya was a real holiday. And this was not only because his mama and papa, whom he idolized, stayed home with him the whole day, unlike on weekdays when they were always away at work and he was left in the company of an old nanny. There was another reason. On Sundays in Moscow the bird market was open. It was called the "Truba," being located on Trubnaya Square, near Tsvetnoi Boulevard. No sooner had Kolya opened his eyes on Sunday than he would run barefoot to his father in the bedroom, get under the covers with him, and, snuggling up, start to beg him ingratiatingly.
"Vanya"--he called his father that, the way his mother did--"Vanya, are we going to the Truba?"
"It's freezing outside today. Where can you go in weather like this?"
"Dear Vanya, dearest, let's go. I won't freeze. I'll put on my hood--"
The pleadings were so insistent that Ivan Antonych, exchanging glances with his wife and smiling, would finally give in. They'd wrap Kolya up, and wrap him some more, then off they'd go.
What a joy it was! They would take a horse cab to the Truba. And what you couldn't find there! All kinds of birds, squirrels, fish, bear cubs, fox cubs, meal worms, water beetles, mosquito grubs, cages, nets, traps, dogs, all kinds of special feed, jars and bottles, aquariums--and all this was overlaid with the chattering of many voices, the twittering, whistling, and singing of the birds, and the hubbub of the motley crowd. There were loiterers here, too, and thieving pigeon snatchers with cages under their arms; ragged urchins, who darted in and out, using two fingers to whistle piercingly, drunks with terrible bruises, blue-gray noses, and brown, puffed-up faces, like apples that were rotting. And there were bird lovers of all classes and social estates, experts who could determine by signs invisible to the uninitiated the merits of one or another specimen. There were speculators and second-hand dealers; high school and university students; and hunters in sheepskin coats from the villages surrounding Moscow. And all of them seethed in a solid multicolored mass and stirred about like a pile of worms crowded for space, with every part of the collective body in motion. The sellers knew the Truba regulars perfectly well, and there were no tricks or cross-examinations: after all, the regulars knew their way around in these matters. Ivan Antonych also knew what was what, and young Kolya, "Little Robinson," as his family jokingly nicknamed him, had an excellent knowledge of the feathered kingdom: the bird books of Brehm and Kaigorodov were already permanent fixtures on his desk.
When they had fought their way through the thick crowd, in which Kolya felt lost among the maze of legs and couldn't see where they were going until they arrived at the booths or carts of the vendors, they bought new birds, put them in small temporary cages, and, numb from the cold, trundled home in a sleigh. Trembling with joy, Kolya would take hold of the little red handles and open the doors of the cages to let the new arrivals out. Then he would sit for hours, without stirring, and watch his feathered friends ...
But now spring was coming. The snow on the streets was melting. The sun kept shining brighter. Beside the wooden pavements muddy-brown rivulets were running, gurgling, and leaping playfully. The schoolchildren went outside the gates of the academy and quickly mastered the art of sailing paper boats. They launched them on the water in the gutters and these flotillas then sailed all the way down to the Moscow River, tipping from side to side to the eager cries of the watching children. Along the sides of the buildings the earth grew bare and dried out. They began to play Russian children's games--knucklebones, skittles, and others. The buds in the school's little garden began to swell. Unhealthy, yellow-faced old women crawled up out of the cellars, where the night watchmen, the porters, the cleaning women, and the yardmen lived, to warm themselves in the cheerful sunlight, to breathe a little fresh air, to sit on the steps.
The first lemon yellow butterfly of the season flew by. Flies appeared on the sides of the walls warmed by the sun. The buds on the lilac bushes burst, and before you knew it the birch tree was covered with a net cap of light-green, sticky baby leaves. In the garden you could smell the earth, and you could walk without galoshes. Living things came creeping out of every nook and cranny. And Kolya darted about the gardens, examined every tree and fence, dug in the ground, and gathered caterpillars and cocoons. He loved the smell of the earth, the rotting leaves, the wet twigs. And what a joy it was when a butterfly would hatch from a cocoon, crawling out all wet and helpless, with its wings folded and hanging down like little rags! And then before your eyes those wings would straighten up and grow: the butterfly would force air into the little "ribs" and the wings would stretch out like an umbrella being raised--they seemed actually to grow as you watched them.
Kolya would get so wrapped up in this that he forgot about everything else. And his first burst of rage, the first foul language to come from his lips, had to do with this passion of his.
It happened this way. One spring day he caught a ground beetle in the school garden. He fiddled around with it for a long time in spite of its foul odor, then enclosing it tightly in his hand, he began running home.
"Kolya! Where are you going?"
A young woman was calling him, the teacher of the sewing class.
"A ground beetle. See?"
"And what is that? Come on, now, show me! Show me!"
He showed it to her.
"Ugh, how disgusting! And how awful it smells!"
At one blow the young woman crushed Kolya's treasure under her heel ... He shuddered all over, his eyes filled with tears: it even seemed to him that it hadn't been just an everyday garden variety but a big, dark-blue Crimean ground beetle, vivid and mysterious, the kind he had dreamed about. His indignation knew no bounds. He stood stock still and stared the woman right in the face--she who had no idea of the worldwide significance of the crime she had just committed--in a kind of frenzy he cried out, his voice cracking:
"Bitch lady!"
He remembered this phrase, "bitch lady," the rest of his life.
But now from the village of Makarovo, where the Petrovs went in the summer to stay at a dacha, carts began to arrive. Beds, baskets, pots, pillows, featherbeds, everything was piled upon them, and the two wagons dragged themselves back at a walk over the eighty versts they had come. The Petrovs traveled by train to the town of Bogorodsk, then took a wagon for the last twenty versts to the place where they spent the summer: the teachers had summer vacation, and Kolya's father could now devote his free time to the young boy.
The village of Makarovo, where the Petrovs rented a peasant hut, a traditional Russian izba, from the local sexton, Ivan Ivanych, was typical of the Bogorodsk-Glukhovo region. Here there were large forests and marshes. At that time the forests were still wild and untrammeled, and bears still roamed in the vicinity of Makarovo, sometimes ripping into the peasants' cows. Legends abounded, about how Uncle Mitry or some other "uncle" had driven off a bear with a bast basket. There was one old peasant known by the nickname "Bear's Leftovers," whose whole face had been torn and disfigured by the tender paw of "Mikhail Ivanych Toptygin." They would show you the place in the forest where a bear had been startled by a group of girls gathering berries; in its surprise it had soiled itself and run away. Berries there were in plenty--strawberries, blueberries, huckleberries, gooseberries, whortleberries, and others. There were also plenty of mushrooms. But there was not plenty of land for the peasants, and what land they had was poor and loamy. The clumps of earth turned over by their wooden plows would turn yellow in the sun like the bones of something dead. Life in the village was pretty slim pickings.
Sorry little huts, covered with old, blackened straw, stood in two rows leading up to the country churchyard, where the parish church stood, with the village priest's house alongside it. Not far away was the sexton's hut. The peasants lived a hard life, full of sweat, toil, need, and--on holidays--vodka. Their extra earnings came both from seasonal work and from labor on weaving machines in their cottages, on material contracted out to them by intermediaries. Barefoot, dirty, ragged, half starving five- and seven-year-old girls were already being trained for work on the primitive looms, and from dawn to dusk they wove and wove without stopping in order to earn an extra kopeck. The peasant mothers were both working themselves and remorselessly keeping the pressure on their own children, amidst filth, bedbugs, roaches, and a heap of disintegrating rags. Competition from the mighty textile plants located nearby had driven the pay down to a pittance. A sword hung over the peasant's head, while the pushy, greedy contractors gathered in a rich harvest. There was no prospect of relief from poverty for the peasants, whose sighs could be heard by night: "If only the Lord would take us!"
In the middle of the village stood an iron-roofed tavern, tilted slightly to one side. Alongside it, in a heavily trampled-down area, the village assemblies were held, a handier way of keeping the people supplied with drink. Inside it, on Sundays, they drank away their last half-kopecks, and from it the tavern keeper's underlings would throw out carousers who got rowdy. This too, ordinarily, was where meetings were held by the ringleaders of the organized brawls, or rumbles, when village turned out against village, and they fought with savagery, turned into beasts, with great bloodshed, both bats and stakes being brought into play.
In the country churchyard stood the small gray house of the village priest. Around it was a small garden with big lilac and jasmine bushes. The bushes grew in such a way that the house itself was almost invisible and only its white shutters showed through the leaves and branches. The parish was wretched and impoverished, and the priest's entire family lived in poverty, afflicted moreover, as many families in the village were, by congenital syphilis: eloquently testifying to this were the nasal speech, the lumpy noses, much eaten away, the pallor of the faces, the scrofula and stuttering of the children, always covered with sores, suffering from rickets, with chronic colds and runny noses, spindly-legged and sickly ...
In the morning, after waking and rubbing his eyes, Kolya ran down to the river with his father. They walked on narrow logs laid over the swampy wetland, trying not to fall in: the swamp made smacking and sucking noises, trembled and gurgled, and bubbles came up from under the logs; even the hummocks were unsteady under foot. Finally they came out on solid ground along the shore of the river, by a small deep pool. The willows draped their silvery branches in the water. The large, old alder trees shaded the pool, where under the sunken logs crayfish nested and sleek, fat eelpout lay in hiding; over the water flitted dark-blue damselflies, their tiny wings vibrating tremulously; a dragonfly would launch itself from a dry branch and, making a headlong circle through the air, quickly return to its favorite spot.
Kolya and his father sat down on the grass. On the riverbank the grass was cold, still wet from the morning dew. The sun played through the leaves; little slivers of light scampered across the mirror of the water. Silence. Only the warbler pyenochka tyenkovka, chasing through the green foliage for midges, steadily kept up its ringing cry: tyen, tyen, tyen! It was scary to slip into the cold water. But both father and son, after sitting on the bank for a while, went in, splashing and snorting--and they didn't want to get back out. The sun climbed higher. The grass dried off. The meadow flowers gave off honeyed aromas. Sitting on a lungwort plant were golden-green sap chafer beetles, who had tapped into the plant's fragrant juices. On the bank, in the damp soil, mole crickets were astir, creeping out of their intricately chambered burrows. A yellowish fly hung motionless in midair, its tiny wings going in place so fast they couldn't be seen--and suddenly with a hum it disappeared.
But it was time to go home, have some tea. And then--into the forest. What riches! Kolya opened his eyes as wide as they would go: he had such a yearning to absorb into himself all the multiplicity of life that in endlessly varied forms unfolded there before him. Squirrels leaped through the spruce trees, sailing through the air and skillfully catching and clinging to branches garlanded with cones. The orioles sang back and forth, as though playing on flutes. The jays kept up their hoarse and furious cry, the turquoise mirrors of their wings flashing in the thickets. The magpies chattered in the shrubbery like quarrelsome vending women at a bazaar. And among the emerald pillows of moss, where here and there a brambleberry or the beads of a whortleberry showed red like drops of blood, the little brown caps of boletus mushrooms stood out. Flitting among the flowers were machaon and "king's mantle" butterflies and forester moths, while golden beetles took refuge on field asters. In the evenings hawkmoths hummed around the flowers into which they lowered their long proboscises.
Wasn't this the life! "Little Robinson" would busy himself for entire days with the luxuriant gifts of nature: from pine bark a kind of cork board could be made for preparing butterflies and beetles, according to all the proper rules, to be added to his collection; from the same bark, tapered floats for fishing could be devised; nets could be made out of wire and gauze; and excellent fishing lines could be woven out of horsehair. For the time being Ivan Antonych helped with everything; he himself collected specimens for the herbarium and was genuinely carried away with the work: for days on end he wandered about with his head uncovered, and the gleam of his bald spot was evident everywhere. He was highly knowledgeable about grasses and flowers, insects and birds; and his stories roused his son's curiosity more than ever: Oh, if only he had a death's head moth! If only he could find a harpie caterpillar, with its little flags!
When the moon rose, Kolya took his seat on the church porch with his friends among the neighborhood boys and waited: on the sand-covered village square, goatsuckers (nightjars) would fly in and land, mysterious gray nocturnal birds, with enormous black eyes and the noiseless flight of down-soft wings. Oh, if only he could catch a live goatsucker!
And so the Petrovs' summer went by. Toward autumn they traveled back to Moscow: once again the wagons were loaded with housewares and kitchenware, and the little horses with measured pace, heads hanging, made their way back from the village of Makarovo to the "first city of the throne," to the quiet of Bolshaya Ordynka Street.
(C) 1998 Columbia University Press All rights reserved. ISBN: 0-231-10730-7
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Is Pet Insurance Worth It?
Is pet insurance worth it? Do the numbers add up? What are the risks? What pet insurance discounts are there? Should I take out pet insurance for my dog?
Is pet insurance worth it? This is a question I've been mulling over ever since I added up all the vet bills during the first year of having our Sheltie puppies Howard and Piper. For instance, so far we've paid the vet: $130 on vaccinations, $180 on appointment fees, and $400 on neutering. This adds up to $710 for two Shelties to have their basic vaccinations, annual check-ups, desexing, plus a visit for Howard when he had a bacterial infection from a scratch.
With an average monthly pet insurance premium of $15 (adding up to $180 per year) it appears at face value that pet insurance is worth it. But let's dig a littler deeper...
For a start, the most expensive vet bill was neutering two dogs and that is a one-time thing. In this article I have looked realistically at the vet visits over a lifetime, what treatments are actually covered, and the fine print which stipulates important issues like payment caps and co-pay limitations.
What is Pet Insurance - Really?
Realistically, pet insurance is a form of enforced savings - that almost never covers the entire vet bill. Consumer Reports points out that you can achieve the same thing by paying the same monthly premium into your own savings account.
The upshot is that if your Sheltie never gets seriously injured or diseased, the savings will belong to you. This can range from $2,000 to $9,000 over your dog's lifetime (where monthly insurance premiums range from $11 to $50). Thankfully, the odds are stacked in your favor too. Many well-bred dogs live long, healthy lives without complications, so the biggest vet bill you will ever shell out for is desexing.
Of course, the downside is that if your Sheltie ever does need expensive medical treatment, you will need to spend those savings. So the question - is pet insurance worth it - really comes down to the chances of your dog developing serious ailments, paired with the cost of premiums and how much the insurance will cover.
Lucky The Labrador Retriever
To assess this, let's look at the example set out on the Consumer Reports website. They created Lucky, a fictional purebred Labrador Retriever, and gave him a list of common ailments over his lifetime. Then they calculated some pet insurance comparisons and the overall cost of treating Lucky with and without insurance.
Common Ailments
Lucky has 9 claims over 11 years: a broken leg, an ear infection, a cut needing stitches, an eye infection, hypothyroidism needing years of drug claims and a torn knee ligament.
Without pet insurance, this would cost $3,301. With pet insurance, it would cost from $3,798 to $6,681 depending on your insurance provider.
|Cost of Care / Premiums
|Savings / Loss with Insurance
|PetsHealth Care Basic
- $497
|Veterinary Pet Insurance Standard
- $551
|Pet Care QuickCare Gold
- $,1406
|Veterinary Pet Insurance Superior
- $1,602
|Pet Care QuickCare Gold Double Benefits
- $3,380
Whichever insurance provider they went with, Lucky's owners would have lost money even with his numerous minor ailments.
Major Problems
But what if Lucky is not so lucky after all? Imagine if he has ALL the common ailments from the list above, PLUS needs hip replacement surgery.
Without pet insurance, the total cost would be $10,414. With pet insurance, it would cost from $7,794 to $12,016 depending on your insurance provider.
|Cost of Care / Premiums
|Savings / Loss with Insurance
|Pet Care QuickCare Gold Double Benefits
+ $2,620
|Pet Care QuickCare Gold
+ $1,594
|PetsHealth Care Basic
+ $1,003
|Veterinary Pet Insurance Standard
- $551
|Veterinary Pet Insurance Superior
- $1,602
What does Lucky teach us? If your dog requires an expensive treatment, pet insurance may be worth it. The Pet Care QuickCare Gold Double Benefits policy would save you as much as $2,620.
Then again, you may still end up paying more despite taking out pet insurance because of the restrictions in the fine print. The Veterinary Pet Insurance Superior policy would actually cost you $1,602 more than if you had no insurance at all!
Bear in mind that a lot of people pay expensive pet insurance premiums for years and never need to make a large claim. This is where it's good to look at pet insurance as "enforced savings". The only difference? If your dog never gets seriously ill, your savings actually remain in your own bank account.
Read The Fine Print
If you have a dog who is prone to ailments, or you do decide to buy pet insurance in order to help protect yourself from large vet bills, make sure you read the fine print. Pay special attention to the following factors:
- Lifelong Pet Insurance - like humans, dogs face more health complications as they get older. To protect their profits, most pet insurers won't cover pets over 9 years old (and if they do, the premiums are very high). So try to lock in the cheaper 'young dog' premium - or your provider will just hike it up as your Sheltie gets older.
- Deductibles - All pet insurance plans have deductibles (also called an excess) which is a minimum amount you have to pay the vet before the insurance company will pay out anything. Choosing a sliding deductible from zero to $1,000 means you can cut the cost of vet bills right down - but this will jack your premiums up.
- Co-pay - As well as deductibles, your insurance company may insist that you pay 10-20% of the vet bill. For most, co-pay prevents pet insurance being worthwhile.
- Payment Caps - A cap is the maximum amount your pet insurance provider will pay out - per condition, per year, and per lifetime. Again, this covers their profits, so even if your Sheltie has one or more serious conditions, they will only pay so much to help. Even the most expensive insurance providers can impose payment caps.
- Claim Delay - Be aware that even if you have comprehensive pet insurance, you will still have to pay the vet yourself at the time of treatment. You then fill out an insurance claim and mail it to your provider, who calculates your entitlement and reimburses part of the bill usually within 2 to 4 weeks.
- Fine Print - Always read the fine print of a pet insurance policy. There will be a host of rules set out regarding what treatments are covered, when the policy goes into effect, whether prescriptions are covered, and whether emergency treatment is covered. To ensure you get the best pet insurance for a Sheltie, make sure you compare policies and choose wisely depending on your circumstances.
How To Photograph Your Dog
One of the reasons I made Sheltie Planet is because I have an abundance of Sheltie photos I wanted to share. I love taking pictures of Howard and Piper and being able to capture them in a way that frames that moment forever. Today I'd like to share some general pet photography tips based on what I've learnt using my digital point-and-shoot camera. I hope this helps you get the most out of your pet photography and creates some great images that you will treasure forever.
The Top 10 Most Intelligent Dog Breeds
Dogs can be smart in different ways: a breed with an acute and wellhoned ability to work will be quick to learn how to do its job. Other breeds may be so eager to please their people that they're attentive and highly trainable. But intelligence alone doesn't make a good pet. Owners need to be willing to put in the work to channel a dog's inherent intelligence - and a good owner will understand a dog's natural traits to bring out his natural smarts.
How to Care for a Shetland Sheepdog Puppy
All puppies are adorable. That's a scientific fact! But the Shetland Sheepdog puppy - with his big floppy ears, beautiful almond eyes, and silky soft fur - knows how to be deliberately cute on demand. Interestingly, sable Sheltie puppies usually have lighter fur when they're young, which deepens and intensifies as they age. In fact, it can take up to two years for the full adult double coat to grow, which is what gives this breed their distinctive look.
How to Clicker Train Your Dog
Clicker training is a gentle training method that uses only positive reinforcement to teach your dog new behaviors. All you need is a good clicker and an understanding about what makes this dog training method work so well, especially with intelligent dogs like Shelties. I'm going to help you get an overview of clicker training here, plus everything you need to get started.

subset: commoncrawl


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Posts Tagged 'friends'
National Suicide Prevention Day was one week ago today. Suicide Prevention Week was the seven days leading up to September 10. This subject has a particular place in my heart because of my loss of a great friend years ago. I remember the moment I found out I lost my friend Rich like it was happening in real-time.
The sting of the news isn't quite as sharp as it was a few years ago, but it still brings me to tears at times. There are still moments when I think about Rich or something reminds me about Rich and I'm beside myself with sadness. The loss of a truly great friend by his own hands is incomprehensible. It is an event that requires deep reflection and ultimately acceptance of what is so.
Two and a half years ago, I wrote a blog about pain. When I look back on the conclusions I came to at that time, I'm left with modifying what leads to my conclusion: The choice we make is whether we want to continue to pass along pain or not.
Pain ultimately stems from love. The love of someone/thing that has profound significance to you. Emotional and Physical pain are similar in many ways. Get hit by a bus, and you're going to feel a lot more pain than a paper cut. Lose a close friend to suicide, and you're going to feel a lot more pain getting dumped by a woman you barely knew even after one-and-a-half years of dating.
Not to diminish the pain felt in one moment over another. When you're in the thick of it, the pain is much more real than when you reflect on it years later. That mostly holds true for losing someone to suicide, but there are still moments when the pain of Rich's loss is just as real today as it was two-and-a-half years ago. I'll always miss him and wish that we could have grown to be two crazy old folks together.
People always talk about soul mates in a romantic sense, but I honestly believe that soul mates have nothing to do with romance. Rich was a soul mate. I knew it the moment I met him and picked on him for his hairdo in Junior High. I loved him like a brother. I still love him to this day. And it still stings to have lost him. Suicide is unlike anything I've experienced before. I hope that I never feel it with another person close to me.
If you know anyone who is truly depressed enough to take his/her own life, make sure they know how important they are to you. It's amazing how much it can help make a difference. Just remember that sometimes, in spite of your efforts, they may still kill themselves. It isn't a reflection upon you or your friendship. It is a personal choice that they have made, and unfortunately it is quite final.
I've been fortunate enough to date some beautiful women in my life. Typically, they capture a lot of interest when we are out. Heaven forbid I go to the bathroom because I'll have to sift through a crowd of men to get back to her. I'm a very lucky guy. However, nothing compares to my current interest… like moths to a flame!
Last night I took her to see my friend Tiff Randol perform at Room 5 in Hollywood. We both really enjoyed Tiff's performance! Afterward we met up with a friend of mine at a gay bar. Not even at a gay bar does my special lady get away from the guys hitting on her. There was one straight guy in the whole place (besides myself). Within 3 minutes he was hitting on her.
My friend took us to a couple of other gay spots and it was a different story, however. Nobody was interested in her at all. She did notice the amount of attention I was getting though. Women love men who are wanted by others. It doesn't seem to matter that it was men that were checking me out. Someone (and apparently there were many) else wanted me, but she had me and that made her feel good about what she had.
There is an important lesson here folks! Take your woman to a gay bar so she knows you are a hot piece of ass 😛
Got the following from my friend Keeeeen the other day LOL
I had a great day yesterday. I finished up my slumber party with my nephew by watching "Horton Hears a Who" in the morning. I spent a little bit of time with my roommate during the afternoon before I went to my first West Coast Swing Dance class in years with Sonny Watson. Afterwards, I went on a hike in the Santa Monica Mountains with a good friend of mine.
The hike was pretty mediocre until we reached our destination. My friend had been hinting that it was going to be awesome when we got there, but wouldn't say exactly what it was going to be like. When we arrived at the rocks, I was like a kid at a new playground. We started making our way up the rocks. Hop here. Jump there. Can we make it up this way? How about if I boost him and then he lifts me? Or vice versa?
We got to a point where we weren't sure if we were going to make it to the very top. It seemed a bit of a stretch. We paced around the rock a bit until he figured out a way up. He got half way up and then realized it was going to be a bit more difficult than expected, so he came back down.
I really wanted to get to the top. So I took the same route as him and figured out how to get to the top! It was great, but I didn't get that adrenaline rush I was expecting. It was a bit of a let down, so I decided to jump off the rock instead. It was only about 10 feet, but that gave me a nice kick 😀
At the beginning of February, one of my best friends of nearly 20 years committed suicide. This has been one of the most difficult events in my life to grow through. It hasn't always been easy, and there have been so many people who have made such an incredible difference over the last couple of months.
One of the most influential parts of my life has always been dance. In January, I started taking a hip hop class taught by Wendi Baity at Moorpark College. Hip hop is certainly NOT a style of dance I am at all familiar with, but this class became my safe ground. Wendi has been an incredible teacher! And hip hop allowed me to find an escape from the torment in my brain over losing such a great friend.
One of the assignments for the class has been to write a journal. Over a few weeks, I started writing a rhyme that just kinda flowed from me into my computer. The following is my dealing with the loss of my friend and the pain of my girlfriend of more than 5 years blaming me for his suicide and leaving me.
What the fuck is this shit
How could you pull this shit Rich?
Best friend of 20 years and you give up on this bitch
This shit makes me sick
I sit in this pit
this ditch 6 feet under
So much younger we wonder
How we'd be when we're old
so many stories to be told
Now you're just growing cold
and I'm starting to unfold
I wonder where the fuck you went to
ain't no one but you
sitting in your house
It's all emptied out
6 months you planned it
I'll never understand this
Your choice you made
you say
I thought this out
This is what I want without a doubt
Fuck it you say
I lost my dream
Now that's all that you are
It hurts my brother
our love like no other
and now I sit with your mother
Tears, they cover
her face and her makeup runs down her chin
Why didn't you just let someone in?
We talked about this shit years ago
Something you just can't let go
Your dream you were chasing
You felt it slip by
while the world was racin
And now I just cry
You're gone and that's it
There ain't no more Rich
No more smiles
or drunk dials
Just piles and piles
of shit left behind for your family and friends
Cuz you called it quits
and said it's the end
And we gather together to sit and pretend
that we didn't see our friend
wanna put a fucking gun to his head
Instead we said
I didn't see it coming
Rich was so lively
He always made me smile
But if we step back for a minute and ask you about it
You'd tell us you're drownin
But we'd all think you clowin
Cuz that's the Rich you wanted to be
It's alright to make your friends smile while you're in fucking misery
You always counted on me brother
There really was no other
Why couldn't you just lean on me one more time?
We supported our families, kept them out of crime
got our fucking mothers out of food stamp lines
and gave our brothers hope
Kept them off dope
no soap on a rope
Little shits going to college to study isotopes
We'd say "That's my boy" with a tear in our eye
now nothing but tears that we cry
when you said goodbye
And I'm still just wondering why the fuck why!
It's not time to act tough
but sometimes crying isn't enough
Not going to suck it up
and try to forget this fucked up stuff
I gotta deal with the grieving
of my best friend leaving
girlfriend deceiving
confidence receding
Into the abyss
I sift through the gift
that you are
Wondering if you are now a shooting star
Wondering if you look back on us all
suffering to know it hurt to watch you fall
And the thought of you suffering keeps me true
I live my life for you and keep you alive
in my thoughts and heart, you'll never die
Not because of burden but cuz I fucking love you
And right now, I need you bro
I got this ho
She's saying J, I don't know
I think it was your fault, so I gotta go
Forget the five years and all your support
You need me now, but I can't resort
to showin you love when you need it the most
and here's a toast
to your friend Rich who killed himself because of you
I wasn't sure what hurt more
You taking your own life
or the words from that fucking whore
But I can't dis you like that
Can't compare a best friend who helped me grow up
to a bitch who makes me wanna throw up
I know I'll forgive her
and if she gets that respect
I guess
I'll have to disect
and reflect
why I still haven't forgiven you
I love you bro
It just hurts to know
you were in so much pain and had to go
And couldn't reach out
give me a shout
and let me spout
words of wisdom to help you pull through
God damn it Rich, I'm gonna miss you
After my friend Rich killed himself in February, I started cycling through memories I had with him. To be honest, I had forgotten more memories with him than I could remember. We had done so much together when we were younger. I have so many fond memories of him. Yet, I have come to the conclusion that I would rather have no memories of him (to have never have even met him) and for him to have lived a long, happy life than for him to have killed himself.
Usually, my best thinking is done on the toilet. However, I realized something the other day while I was driving to a dance class. I've come to realize that often times (if not all the time), when I'm hurting emotionally, it is because someone else is/was hurting. Two recent poignant examples…
A good friend of almost 20 years committed suicide in early February. I've gone through a roller coaster of emotional highs and lows. I know that he was in a tremendous amount of pain. Losing someone close is one thing, but suicide is something else. The best way I can describe it for me is that is feels like I'm burning from the inside out. Rich was someone who used me as a personal reference when he joined the Air Force, applied to Cal Poly (which he graduated from), and applied for a job at Intel (which he got!). The influence we had on each other's lives was profound. We rode motorcycles together, shared stories of skydiving together (although we never jumped together), shared everything about our love lives, went to clubs, talked about deep social and personal issues, encouraged each other, and inspired each other.
Perhaps the most difficult part of Rich's suicide was knowing what a positive influence I had on his life. Had he just been a close friend who I talked to every day/week/month/whenever… But Rich was not just someone I was close with. Rich was someone I inspired, and he let me know I inspired him. He was also someone who inspired me, and I let him know. The pain of losing someone with so much mutual admiration is incredible.
A few days after Rich committed suicide something happened that I still can't believe. My closest friend, someone that I spent countless hours with every week, someone I've go through hell and back for, someone I've stood for through insurmountable crap went on a tyraid and started slinging some of the most vicious insults I have ever heard in my entire life. I am still having difficulty wrapping my head around the words because I have never been attacked like that before.
Now, getting back to my theory… In the case of Rich, I know he was hurting tremendously inside. We had spoken about the burden he felt in his life many times over the years. In fact, his letter mentioned the amount of pain he felt. In the case of my other friend, I know there was a lot of pain there as well. What was said was coming from the pain that my friend was feeling. In both cases, my friends were hurting.
Pain is almost like something we pass along because we don't know what to do with it. It's like playing hot potato. You hold onto it with your bare hands, and you are going to get burned. So, instead, we toss the hot potato from one person to the next out of natural instinct. We don't think, "Should I hold onto this potato?" No, we just toss it along. It's a natural things. Same thing with pain. We pass our pain to the next person because that's the natural instinct.
Once I realized this, my own pain began to ruminate in the back of my mind. It was almost like another section of my grey matter was activated and started diligently working on this concept.
Then something else dawned on me: I don't really know everything that is going on inside of me all of the time. We all have this, those moments when someone points out something to us about ourselves and we realize that we just weren't aware of it. If you are thinking that there is nothing about yourself that you aren't aware of then I rest my case 😉
So, if I don't even know everything that is going on with me all the time, how could I possibly know everything that is going on with someone else?
Tying it all together, my brain came to the following conclusion:
Pain is transfered from one person to the next because we don't realize that we are doing it in the moment and partly because we don't really know how to deal with our own pain. Working through that pain looks different for everyone. Some write songs. Others paint paintings. Others turn into axe murders. Some start smoking, doing drugs, or drinking. Some take up some other form of addiction: gambling, adrenaline rushes, sex, etc. Some dance. Some write blogs. Some just shut off. The list goes on and on.
In most cases, if we knew in advance that what we were going to say or do was going to hurt someone, we wouldn't do it. However, that still leaves us with the pain that we likely don't know how to deal with. Some people will never deal with it and just keep passing it along, and it will always keep coming back to them amplified. Some people will never deal with it and internalize it to the point of no return.
Dealing with pain is a matter of understanding the root cause of the pain. Think of it like treating a fracture. You may feel the pain in the tendons or muscle, but you'll never heal a fracture by giving yourself a massage. Same thing with emotional pain, but the origin is a bit tricky. The origin of the pain is not some deep seeded emotional baggage you have from childhood or some emotional scare from years gone by. The origin of the pain lies in the other person. While you may not be able to understand the other person, you can empathize with that person. After all, whatever pain you are feeling must be several times worse inside of them.
Of course, this all left me with one gigantic question: Aren't I just making excuses for other people's behavior? At first, I thought yes. Then I thought about it some more.This isn't a justification of any choice or action that someone takes. This is an acknowledgement that someone has done/said something and there are consequences. The choice we make is whether we want to continue to pass along pain or not.
In short: Life Happens, deal with it.
You don't realize it yet, but in the next 3 minutes you're going to learn why God has not been answering your prayers. Before I get to that, I'm going to share with you an experience that I've had several times in the past and, most recently, this morning. My confession is that this is something that I have done myself. What I'm about to share is something that we have all done at some point in our life and then pondered why the outcome is so different than how we thought God had intended it. So what is the secret to God answering our prayers?
A good friend of mine was sharing about her experience with failing a test necessary to received her teaching credential. She had taken the test last year and failed. She was devastated, but she picked up her chin and started studying again to take the test this year. She spent hours studying and doing what she felt was needed to ensure that she passed the test. Then she began telling me about her conversations with her higher power, God, regarding her journey.
She had made several requests to God that if he did not want her to pursue this goal of hers, he should make sure that certain milestones were not met (such as receiving scholarships, early rescheduling, etc.) Yet, everything fell into place. My friend was clear that God intended her to take *and* pass the test this second time around. She was riding high in faith that she would pass the test. I remember her talking about how positive she was trying to be about the test. She was trying not to think about the last test. She had asked God for guidance, and it was clear to her that he intended her to pass. She failed the test earlier this week.
Almost everyone has heard of this happening to someone. Or maybe you have experienced this for yourself. You called upon God to give you guidance, and he has given you a path that is as clear as the hand in front of your face. To my friend, God has shown her exactly what she was supposed to do by supporting her pursuit of her teaching credential exactly as she knew it should happen. Now, she was upset with God for having not protected her interests. After all, she had made the requests of God, and he had put everything in place for her. I'd venture to guess that you've had this experience yourself.
So, why is it that God can appear to answer our prayers one day and not answer them the next? I know that some of us have it that it is all part of God testing us. However, that God is testing our faith by baiting us with cheese of our wants being fulfilled, only to take the cheese away at the last minute is a bit obscene. Bait & switch, deceit, and lies are very human type games. What is more likely than God playing some faith testing game with us is that we have fooled ourselves into believing that our wants and pursuits are supported by God at all. We do this by making demands on God like my friend, "God, if you really don't want me to pursue this then you should not allow me to receive the scholarships I need."
Many of us have it that we are so important that God is listening and reacting to every request and demand we make of him in the exact way that we want him to. There are a lot of assumptions we are making about our conversations with God:
- He's actually listening
- He takes action in response to our requests
- He responds and alters the universe in a way that makes sense to us
Don't be offended by any of these three assumptions. I'm not suggesting that God does not listen to us. I'm also not suggesting that God doesn't take any action in response to our requests. I personally believe in a higher power that is always listening and responding to everything that everyone thinks, says, or does. So where does that leave us with the final assumption? The one that God responds and alters the universe in a way that makes sense to us.
As this blog rolls to an end, I invite you to consider that the answer
to the question at hand lies in the realm of responsibility. We project onto God that which we believe to be what he is "revealing to us". Take a moment to soak this up. Put another way, we see the actions unfolding in our life as God's response to the requests we are making of him. Like my
friend has experienced, God will not make you pass or fail in life. So, then, why do we make God responsible for the outcomes we experience in life? Stay tuned to my blog for more.
technorati tags:religion, god, prayers, listening, communication, failing, goals, philosophy, Christianity, Buddha, school, education, teaching, teaching credential, friends, conversation, thoughts, life, Christmas, family, blogging, culture, theology, church, writing
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I kid you not… This is an actual resignation letter that a friend of mine sent our boss today. I have removed the names to protect the innocent:
To further my career, I have taken a position with another company. This is a letter of resignation effective, immediately. Considering how former employees have been treated recently in regards to money owed, I feel justified with the short notice you have been given. I've simply done what I've deemed necessary to protect my own interests. That said, I am still owed one week's pay and 1 week's vacation pay. My account reps have been contacted and have been passed on to _______ for the show. I did, however, write the copy which I will email to you and ______.
Professionalism dictates a two week notice as a courtesy. However, with the disrespect with which you treat your employees, I see no need for said courtesy. You have, on regular occasions, threatened your employees with physical violence such as threatening to slap them, hurt them, kill them, tape their mouths shut and put them in cages. All of which I have documented. Who the hell do you think you are? This is America, you can't talk to people like that! Just because you pay someone a salary, doesn't give you the right to to subject them to that sort of abuse.
I came back to your company with the best of intentions. I was extremely motivated and ready to build your business but after putting up with this sort of assinine behaviour for over a year, I am no longer willing to work in this oppressive environment.
You reap what you sow……


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|02 February 2014
Krisztián Gulyás
Budapest, Hungary
Mudbox or zbrush?
I need a sculpting software, I just dont know which one to choose. I tried mudbox once (just for an hour, never really needed it) but i havent triend zbrush, only watched someone use it in a youtube video.
I would need it for sculpting characters (humans mostly).
Is there any major difference between mudbox and zbursh? Should I use zbrush just because most of the people use it (is it maybe a requirement in some studios)?
Because I like the idea of having mudbox better than having zbrush, but if zrbush is better in some way, I'll go with that.
Thank you.
|02 February 2014
Staff Member
Leigh van der Byl
A cog in the wheel
Hertfordshire, United Kingdom
Originally Posted by chris0320: Because I like the idea of having mudbox better than having zbrush, but if zrbush is better in some way, I'll go with that.
So you're planning to spend hundreds (or, in your case, thousands of forint) on some software just because some people on a forum tell you to use it?
Here's what you do: you get the demo versions of both pieces of software and give them both a thorough workout. Decide which one suits your style of working and your needs better, and choose that.
|02 February 2014
New Memberportfolio
Originally Posted by chris0320: I need a sculpting software, I just dont know which one to choose. I tried mudbox once (just for an hour, never really needed it) but i havent triend zbrush, only watched someone use it in a youtube video.
I would need it for sculpting characters (humans mostly).
Is there any major difference between mudbox and zbursh? Should I use zbrush just because most of the people use it (is it maybe a requirement in some studios)?
Because I like the idea of having mudbox better than having zbrush, but if zrbush is better in some way, I'll go with that.
Thank you.
For your needs I would choose whatever you feel most comfortable in.
Zbrush has a lot more features than Mudbox, but you may never really use them.
I can almost assure you that any mid-sized studio have both. If not, then well, your sculpting skills is still there, just different interface.
So ignore people saying x is better than y. Use whatever you are comfortable in, use whatever the job requires if not given the option to use the other.
Same goes for 3d packages in general I would like to say, however having some experience in the popular ones doesn't hurt.
Best regards
|02 February 2014
Krisztián Gulyás
Budapest, Hungary
I thought there are maybe some features in one software that lacks the other so making the first a better choice (features that i would actually need/use for body/face sculpting).
Thank you. I'll install the demos and check out both.
|02 February 2014
Herbert van der wegen
Yep, download them and try them out for yourself. And do not forget to include 3dCoat with the other two while you are testing.
|02 February 2014
Zachary Brackin
3D Artist
Precocity LLC
Dallas, USA
Mudbox is much easier to use, because it's more like other 3D programs (Maya, 3ds Max) but Zbrush has a lot more features and if you're going to be getting into sculpting a lot (like you want to be a character artist) it's best to spend the time to learn Zbrush. The one area Mudbox is actually better for is painting textures
The Z-Axis
|02 February 2014
Always Learningportfolio
Dylan Saunders
Dublin, Ireland
I got the educational version of Mudbox and found it very easy to get up and running, literally in an evening. A while later I tried ZBrush on a friends laptop and was blown away by all it can do. The interface takes more time to adapt to than the one in Mudbox, but ZBrush does so much more that it is worth spending the bit of extra time learning.
You really need to try both yourself and not go out and plonk down a large wedge of cash for either "because most of the people use it". Forum advice is just to be taken on board , but you should try before you buy if possible.
I like to learn.
|02 February 2014
Originally Posted by leigh: Here's what you do: you get the demo versions of both pieces of software and give them both a thorough workout. Decide which one suits your style of working and your needs better, and choose that.
Yeah. That's the only answer, imo, that makes sense. Everybody's needs are different. Everybody's sensibilities are different. What works for me won't work for you. The bottom line is that both apps get the job done, but in different ways. I always hear people shouting the virtues of Mudbox. For me, ZBrush works better. From concept to final, I can do more without leaving the ZBrush. That's just me though. People are different.
TBH, if we're just testing demos here, I'd expand my horizons. Test those two, but also test 3D-Coat, Silo, and even Blender. Some people don't need anything beyond mid-range detail when it comes to sculpting. Those latter two apps are cheap enough and functional enough to just fit the bill. Try them. All you can lose is a little bit of time.
Beyond that, comparing apps is worthless. It all comes down to what you can do with them as an artist. Sculpting is sculpting.
EDIT>>> Just to a give the OP something to think about, here are a few of the essential ZBrush features that I can't find elsewhere.
- Dynamesh: It's like working with real clay. VERY dynamic. You can create a hyper-detailed character from just a tiny sphere. The fact that it's adaptive is a huge selling point.
- ZSpheres: If you've ever sculpted from a wire armature, this is about as close as you'll get in ZBrush. Building figures up from a stick figure skeleton is great. Being able to pose them with that same skeleton is even better.
- ZRemesher: I'm usually not a huge fan of automated solutions, but ZRemesher is just awesome. I'm not saying that it's perfect, but it can produce some excellent topology. With enough practice, you can retopo a complex mesh in minutes compared to hours in another app.
Either way, like I said, sculpting is sculpting. If you can/can't do it on one app then you can/can't do it in another. It's all a matter of how you do it.
DISCLAIMER: The views presented herein do not necessarily represent those of my brain.
Last edited by cookepuss : 02 February 2014 at 07:29 PM.
|02 February 2014
Krisztián Gulyás
Budapest, Hungary
Thanks guys. I'll just do the same sculpting on the same model in different softwares and see which suits me better .
|02 February 2014
If you've never digitally sculpted before, at least not with any regularity, you may want to break yourself in with something easy first. Sculptris isn't a very powerful little app, but it's a great stripped down sculpting tool. It's like Mudbox or ZBrush on training wheels. All of the basics, but nothing more. Best of all, it's free. If you're looking for something for speed sculpts or to get you acclimated to 3D sculpting as a whole then Sculptris is nice to have on hand. http://pixologic.com/sculptris/
DISCLAIMER: The views presented herein do not necessarily represent those of my brain.
|02 February 2014
Krisztián Gulyás
Budapest, Hungary
Thanks, scuptris looks good. Zbrush is definetly too complex for me now and mudbox as well.
Based on your experiences, do you think one can learn HQ face sculpting in a month? (body is not that important now.) Im just curious, because it looks easy enough to learn it in a month (and i need some game-ready characters in two months).
|03 March 2014
Originally Posted by chris0320: Thanks, scuptris looks good. Zbrush is definetly too complex for me now and mudbox as well.
Yeah. Baby steps. Get to know the concepts before you commit to a bigger tool. It's tough to evaluate either ZBrush or Mudbox if you don't know what to look for. At least with some practical experience under your belt you can figure out what you like or don't like about those other apps.
Quote: Based on your experiences, do you think one can learn HQ face sculpting in a month?
I won't say "no", but I do think that it requires a big commitment on your part. Humans are among the most difficult things to model or sculpt. It's almost like saying, "I just got my learner's permit to drive. Do you think that I stand a chance at winning NASCAR?" Nothing's impossible. Just improbable. With lots of practice, you can get pretty good inside of a month. I'm sure that you can accomplish quite a bit and get some solid results, especially if you've got some raw talent too.
That said, mastery of anything takes time Some of us have been doing CG for decades and still find much room for improvement. There's an old, if somewhat overused, saying about how it takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something. I'm sure that you've heard it.. again and again AND again.
When you think about it, it's actually not THAT insane. What does 10,000 hours really mean? 10,000 hours is basically like working the same full time job for 5 years. 10,000 hours, translated into post-grad school years, might be the equivalent of getting a BA, MA, and PhD.
Yeah, but what does it REALLY mean?!? Basically, while it makes sense if you break down the numbers, the real number varies. All it means is that you don't become a master overnight. It takes time, lots of time, to get really good at any one thing. For some people, to become an expert does mean going to that PhD level of training. For others, it means busting your @$$ day and night until you no longer suck.
Don't be afraid to fail. You WILL suck. You will suck HARD. However, with each model, you'll suck a bit less. As long as you're open to honest criticism and don't take it personally, you'll get better. You just have to be patient. I've seen some artists become inconceivably incredible in the span of a year or two. I've seen some people make slower and more steady strides in that same span. I've also seen some people struggle for months and then suddenly... SNAP! It all clicks for them and they grow at an unprecedented rate. I've also seen some people, sadly, spin their wheels and not progress much.
Quote: (and i need some game-ready characters in two months).
IOW, you want to be a pro (practically) overnight. Even if you practice for 40 hours a week, you're only looking at 160 hours. That's barely 13% of a single college year. I'm sure that it's possible to get good enough to be passable in a month. Commercial level good? Probably not. That's unrealistic. Find one top row or working artist here who got that good in a single month. You won't find any. Everybody's different. Just not THAT different. You'd have to be modern day Da Vinci.
How good are you with real clay? Don't answer. Just consider that. ZBrush, Mudbox, and other sculpting programs are designed to mimic real world sculpting tools. If you struggle with real clay then that same problem is going to translate to the digital world, PLUS a learning curve for the software.
All I can tell you is that everybody's different. Just work hard, be patient, and never give up. If you've already committed yourself to a big project 2 months down the line, it might be necessary to rethink your involvement. If it's your project, maybe it's necessary to reconsider the design and go a bit more stylized while you steadily master photorealism.
These apps are good, but they're only as good as the person using them. 10% inspiration. 90% perspiration. I haven't met an app with a "Make Cool 3D" button yet. Sorry.
DISCLAIMER: The views presented herein do not necessarily represent those of my brain.
Last edited by cookepuss : 03 March 2014 at 04:22 AM.
|03 March 2014
Chris Kautz
Freelancer/Character artist.
Zbrush is really quick and even on lower end computers the sculpting process is very smooth. Pixologic have put in a lot of effort to help users develop work efficiently by providing at least 6 major methods for going from concept to finished product and then from that to other applications. I think that how fast Mudbox is will depend a lot on your setup.
The terminal velocity of individual particles is directly related to pink rabbits on a bank holiday.
Characters, Games, Toys
|03 March 2014
I know both apps, and can say it's not even a race. Zbrush is far superior and feature rich than Mudbox. When you buy Zbrush once, you get every update for free whereas you have to pay every year for Mudbox. The only thing appealing about Mudbox is that it is easy to use if you have prior experience with conventional 3d apps.
"Any intelligent fool can make things bigger, more complex & more violent..." Einstein
|03 March 2014
Krisztián Gulyás
Budapest, Hungary
Thanks for the answers and for cookepuss for taking the time to write that long answer. Yes, i heard many times the 10,000 hour "rule", and i think it's true (you need a few years to be good at something}.
I actually took clay-sculpting classes and i was pretty good by the and of the (3-month-long) course . We made some heads, skulls, hands... I'll do my best and see what can I learn/create in two months.
It would be great to have the characters in two months (to move onto animation and write the code for every animation), but its not actually a deadline, because the people who want to create the game are mostly programmers and a month ago when I asked, they told me they cant find a second modeler, so they haven't really advanced in the modeling phase i assume. So a basic character without a face would do the job, to create the movements/animation and write the code for the first objects. I can refine the characters later.
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Where to begin...
This past month was both hard and amazing for us. We had to say goodbye to our dear Piper and at the same time we grew so close as a family traveling and spending precious time together. I will never forget time memories we made in Greece and most recently this weekend on our safari/waterpark trip here in Norway. It was amazing. I have so much to share. So many emotions are streaming through me now.
My time with my family has become priority number one. It always was, but now, it has become so very important to me that all I want to do is savor every second with my girl and my dear love while I can. It is funny. While we were on vacation in Greece, there were times the world just seemed to fade away and it felt as if we were in our own little world all together. I loved it. I loved being away from it all. I think in many ways my journey of fitness and weight loss has made me a better mother and overall, it has been so good for me, but now, there is a new journey ahead of me. Perhaps one that is not online helping others lose weight, but a journey of my own. Truly of my own. No blogs, no posting, just me as a Mom, a wife and someone who is on a quest to become closer to the Lord and closer to my family. Maybe this next journey is one where God blesses us as a family in ways we could not imagine, one in which I become more, far more.....not in my fitness life but in my faith. I do not know where this next journey will take me but all I know is that I got a taste of what it was like to just together, and I fell in love with it. We all did. I think social media is great and can benefit many but I also feel that living in the now, in the moment with those closest to us is the most important thing we can do. Goals are good but sometimes life can happen all around you while you are trying plan everything out and help others reach their own goals. I only get this one chance to be with my family, and I intend on making the most of every moment before they pass me by. My new goal? To live in the NOW with those dearest to me. To become closer to the Lord, to teach my little girl as best as I can and to never regret for a moment time lost with my family.
I can say this with all my heart. I feel so at peace right now. I think it is good to let the distractions of the world fade away and to pull your focus back on where it belongs.
I hope to be blogging about our trips more this week and we will do our best to post the pics asap!! I have a few on our site but only ones from my phone. The good ones are from Micah of course :)
No comments posted.
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GUILFORD COUNTY, N.C. — Three people were hospitalized Tuesday following an accident involving a Guilford County ambulance. The accident happened on Highway 68 near West Market Street.
Police said the ambulance was heading south when it ran off the road and flipped over. "The ambulance was out of service and not responding to a call," said Billy Livingston with Guilford County EMS. "It did not have a patient on board at the time of the event and was running non-emergency traffic, or routine traffic, at the speed limit posted for regular vehicles."
Two emergency medical technicians and a trainee were in the ambulance. They were taken to Moses Cone Hospital with minor injuries.


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Click for more information about American Samoa
2007 Dec by Michael Novins
December 2007 -- I flew from Samoa to American Samoa on Polynesian Airlines (http://www.polynesianairlines.com/) and visited the island by rental car, making stops at two tuna canneries (operated by Star-Kist and Chicken of the Sea).
1992 Dec by Veikko Huhtala*
Only short visit from Western Samoa. We stayed one night in Pago Pago, and did not go anywhere else. Flight back to Apia.
1991 Feb by Jorge Sanchez
I thought that American Samoa was like Hawaii or Guam: North American citizens everywhere, English spoken, hamburgers and coca colas in the fast food restaurants, etc. But I was completely wrong. Apart from the currency, the US dollar, nothing else reminded me the USA. The men wore lava-lava, they spoke Samoan language (although everybody could understand English), and the food was typical Polynesian. I felt a palagi (foreigner), as people called me.
Pago Pago is a nice town situated in a bay with a fiord, and the main island, Tutuila, has waterfalls and some historical places, such as Tula, from where the old Polynesian embarked to discover other Pacific islands, such as the Marquesas, in French Polynesia. It is also worth a visit Aasu and its monument to La Perouse, the French explorer of the XVIII century who had a battle with the natives losing 12 men (the Samoans lose 40 men). Some time later La Perouse and his men lose their lives in the Solomon.
My last day in Pago Pago I took a boat to Apia, in Western Samoa.


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everyday wonderful IMAGINARY-MUSEUM to enhance your feeling of well-being!
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- World Gallery welcomes your Posting, Exhibit and Selling of your Paintings, Photos and Artimages -
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Correggio, Antonio
The Adoration of the Magi
oil on canvas
84 x 108 cm
Pinacoteca di Brera, Milan, Italy
Antonio Allegri da Correggio (1489-1534), usually known as Correggio, named after the small town in Emilia where he was born, was one of the greatest Italian artists of the Renaissance, who was responsible for some of the most vigorous and sensuous works of the 16th century. Relatively unknown in his lifetime, he was to have an enormous posthumous reputation. He was revered by Federico Barocci and the Carracci, and throughout the 17th and 18th centuries his reputation rivalled that of Raphael.
His career is poorly documented and his training has to be conjectured on stylistic grounds. Echoes of Mantegna's manner in many of his early paintings indicate that he may have studied that master's work in Mantua, and he was influenced in these works also by Leonardo. Later he developed a style of conscious elegance and allure with soft sfumato and gestures of captivating charm. Although he worked mainly in provincial centers, he was one of the most sophisticated artists of his time, blending disparate sources into a potent synthesis. In his use of dynamic composition, illusionistic perspective and dramatic foreshortening, he prefigured the Rococo art of the 18th century.
Posted by merryhaha at 01:24


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Special Dining Room Interior Decor Establish Remarkable Dining Room Sets Hutch Plus Tantalizing Wooden Shelves Also Harmonious Wooden Drawers Inspiring Design
A dining table is usually the center of your dining room. Rather than to only put a dining table, you can also choose a dining room sets a hutch. With this hutch in your dining room, you can display your plate collection or some other tableware. The dining room will look more unique and has stunning atmosphere.
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text:
Carole King - Tapestry [Epic EPC 32110]
Label: Epic
Catalog Number: EPC 32110
Country: Netherlands
Release Date: 1984-Jan-01
Format: Vinyl (LP)
Same as other European releases, but while the others have a whíte, or a black labelground, this one has a grey background. "Made in Holland" on label. "Printed in Holland" on sleeve.
This is one of
163 Releases of Tapestry
Click small images above to see larger versions.
- A1) I Feel The Earth Move
- A2) So Far Away
- A3) It's Too Late
- A4) Home Again
- A5) Beautiful
- A6) Way Over Yonder
- B1) You've Got A Friend
- B2) Where You Lead
- B3) Will You Love Me Tomorrow
- B4) Smackwater Jack
- B5) Tapestry
- B6) (You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman
You might like the list: Rock & Roll Hall of Fame: Definitive 200


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Considering Of Beginning Up In Enterprise?
Whereas it's extremely tough, and requires a big funding, to open up a new working enterprise, introducing purchasers to present companies is an idea that can hardly fail you, if done correctly. The concept is simple - find an present business that. Continue reading