The Marshal's Widow
A memorial service.
Then delicious food.
Nobody can resist some fine words and an even finer meal.
Perfect, except for one small detail.
The Marshal's widow is a no-go on booze.
She wants to make a statement since her hubby departed as a result of too much imbibing.
The guests do their best to oblige the lady.
But abstinence is not exactly their strong suit.
So they conspire to sneak in the liquor.
All is merry.
The Marshal's widow doesn't suspect the antics of the guests are not from deep emotions but stem from the secret of the grain.
An apt story poking fun at human foibles and idealistic notions.
The Goal: Read. Reflect. Respond. Over two hundred Chekhov stories. Constance Garnett translations.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
DRUNK
Drunk
The manufacturer is drunk with hatred.
He hates those who wait on him.
Mostly, he says, he hates his wife.
And why all this hate? He is rich and can have anything he wants.
Well, almost anything.
What he can't have is peace of mind. His problem stems from his riches. He thinks they are all after his money. The waiters, the singers and dancers, his friends, and his wife. The problem is he may be right.
What he needs to do is give his wealth away. Donate it to a worthy cause. Then he can see who stays with him. If his wife dumps him -- then he was right and she doesn't love him. Good riddance. The same goes with his friends. He will be poor in material possessions but his mind will be clear. He will have cleansed himself of the hatred. Seems like a fair trade.
Of course, that will never happen. He is a prisoner living in a gilded cage.
The pitiful rich. We tend to think they have it made but if we examine their lives closely I'm sure we will discover quite a bit of misery. And if you're super wealthy -- then you could drive yourself crazy like Frolov. It's hard to feel sorry for the one percent and that's the saddest part of it.
Misery is misery.
The only way left for Frolov to get out of his predicament is drinking and debauchery until all the merriment finally takes its toll and his health gives out.
His wife may be waiting for that day or she may not.
He'll never know.
The manufacturer is drunk with hatred.
He hates those who wait on him.
Mostly, he says, he hates his wife.
And why all this hate? He is rich and can have anything he wants.
Well, almost anything.
What he can't have is peace of mind. His problem stems from his riches. He thinks they are all after his money. The waiters, the singers and dancers, his friends, and his wife. The problem is he may be right.
What he needs to do is give his wealth away. Donate it to a worthy cause. Then he can see who stays with him. If his wife dumps him -- then he was right and she doesn't love him. Good riddance. The same goes with his friends. He will be poor in material possessions but his mind will be clear. He will have cleansed himself of the hatred. Seems like a fair trade.
Of course, that will never happen. He is a prisoner living in a gilded cage.
The pitiful rich. We tend to think they have it made but if we examine their lives closely I'm sure we will discover quite a bit of misery. And if you're super wealthy -- then you could drive yourself crazy like Frolov. It's hard to feel sorry for the one percent and that's the saddest part of it.
Misery is misery.
The only way left for Frolov to get out of his predicament is drinking and debauchery until all the merriment finally takes its toll and his health gives out.
His wife may be waiting for that day or she may not.
He'll never know.
Monday, December 26, 2011
STRONG IMPRESSIONS
Strong Impressions
I am writing this with a strong impression. A toothache.
Jurymen talk.
They share stories about past misfortunes.
None of the stories however comes close to the awaiting fate of the man in the jail cell.
One of the jurymen shares a story of having his life turned upside down by the persuasive orations of a skilled lawyer.
Sure enough the awaiting defendant in the jail cell -- his fate lies in the hand of how well his lawyer was able to convince the jury that he is not guilty.
And lawyers seem to able to convince one of anything. As one of the jurymen was convinced that his life would be better off not marrying his true love and then convinced he would be a fool not to marry her.
So is there such a thing as justice? Truth? Or can someone versed in argument convince you that white is black and black is white? Are we all brainwashed in some form or another?
Lawyers, advertising, politicians, philosophers, etc. -- all create their own mythology and we in part become beholden to the mythology. From birth we are handed pieces of the story and we try to make sense of the pieces -- however, most will rather just hear and obey what is most practical and most advantageous.
Words have power and when they are manipulated by crafty lawyers their power can determine a man's life. We are all the prisoner in the jail cell. All awaiting our verdict. All imprisoned by the words swirling around us. Words shaped and designed to make us see what they want us to see.
When it is all said and done -- this story did not make a strong enough impression on me to make me forget my toothache. Maybe a good lawyer can do that -- or better yet an able dentist.
I am writing this with a strong impression. A toothache.
Jurymen talk.
They share stories about past misfortunes.
None of the stories however comes close to the awaiting fate of the man in the jail cell.
One of the jurymen shares a story of having his life turned upside down by the persuasive orations of a skilled lawyer.
Sure enough the awaiting defendant in the jail cell -- his fate lies in the hand of how well his lawyer was able to convince the jury that he is not guilty.
And lawyers seem to able to convince one of anything. As one of the jurymen was convinced that his life would be better off not marrying his true love and then convinced he would be a fool not to marry her.
So is there such a thing as justice? Truth? Or can someone versed in argument convince you that white is black and black is white? Are we all brainwashed in some form or another?
Lawyers, advertising, politicians, philosophers, etc. -- all create their own mythology and we in part become beholden to the mythology. From birth we are handed pieces of the story and we try to make sense of the pieces -- however, most will rather just hear and obey what is most practical and most advantageous.
Words have power and when they are manipulated by crafty lawyers their power can determine a man's life. We are all the prisoner in the jail cell. All awaiting our verdict. All imprisoned by the words swirling around us. Words shaped and designed to make us see what they want us to see.
When it is all said and done -- this story did not make a strong enough impression on me to make me forget my toothache. Maybe a good lawyer can do that -- or better yet an able dentist.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
A MYSTERY
A Mystery
Fedyukov.
Thirteen years in a row.
His name keeps showing up but no one knows who he is or have ever seen him.
Is he a ghost? The devil? An angel?
Okay, you're Navagin, a high ranking official. This is obviously bothering you. You've had thirteen years to figure out this mystery and you've had no luck.
How about getting an actual list of every person who visited that day and asking them if they know who Fedyukov is?
"You came to visit me -- are you Fedyukov? Did you sign your name as Fedyukov? Do you know Fedyukov?"
Or how about one year you stay and watch as everyone signs their name?
There has to be a better way to figure out this mystery than to plunge into séances.
But alas I am being too logical. The point is we are all vulnerable to superstition -- to easy answers. Why think logically and rationally when you can have all you want by just believing in spirits? When you lock truth and science and logic and reasoning in the closet -- the whole world is yours. You can fashion it the way you want it.
Miracles? Definitely.
Navagin gets seduced by spiritualism -- and when you go down that road it's easy to get sucked in-- after all, who wouldn't want to have a little quality time with Napoleon? ("Okay, Mr. B, Russia is big and cold -- did you really think . . . and what's the deal with the hand in the pocket?")
Or to have a heart-to-heart chat with a deceased relative?
Who really wants to think the end is really the end?
An off switch and everything goes blank.
That's cruel.
Who doesn't want to encounter a situation where the mystery almost proves there is something beyond -- something offering hope and the possibility of eternal life?
Logic or eternal life? Is that much of choice?
So those who practice reason and logic and common sense and eschew superstition have a rough journey.
Somewhere in the psyche lurks a Navagin -- yearning for a sign -- for a trace of something beyond what science offers.
Frankly, Science doesn't give a damn. It won't change.
Some will be faithful to its factual charms to the bitter end -- but many will cheat.
Will they feel dirty in the morning or just happy?
Fedyukov.
Thirteen years in a row.
His name keeps showing up but no one knows who he is or have ever seen him.
Is he a ghost? The devil? An angel?
Okay, you're Navagin, a high ranking official. This is obviously bothering you. You've had thirteen years to figure out this mystery and you've had no luck.
How about getting an actual list of every person who visited that day and asking them if they know who Fedyukov is?
"You came to visit me -- are you Fedyukov? Did you sign your name as Fedyukov? Do you know Fedyukov?"
Or how about one year you stay and watch as everyone signs their name?
There has to be a better way to figure out this mystery than to plunge into séances.
But alas I am being too logical. The point is we are all vulnerable to superstition -- to easy answers. Why think logically and rationally when you can have all you want by just believing in spirits? When you lock truth and science and logic and reasoning in the closet -- the whole world is yours. You can fashion it the way you want it.
Miracles? Definitely.
Navagin gets seduced by spiritualism -- and when you go down that road it's easy to get sucked in-- after all, who wouldn't want to have a little quality time with Napoleon? ("Okay, Mr. B, Russia is big and cold -- did you really think . . . and what's the deal with the hand in the pocket?")
Or to have a heart-to-heart chat with a deceased relative?
Who really wants to think the end is really the end?
An off switch and everything goes blank.
That's cruel.
Who doesn't want to encounter a situation where the mystery almost proves there is something beyond -- something offering hope and the possibility of eternal life?
Logic or eternal life? Is that much of choice?
So those who practice reason and logic and common sense and eschew superstition have a rough journey.
Somewhere in the psyche lurks a Navagin -- yearning for a sign -- for a trace of something beyond what science offers.
Frankly, Science doesn't give a damn. It won't change.
Some will be faithful to its factual charms to the bitter end -- but many will cheat.
Will they feel dirty in the morning or just happy?
Sunday, December 11, 2011
A PLAY
Hilarious! Who hasn't fantasized in one fashion or another to terminate an annoyance with single blow? My favorite is the professor and the cell phone video.
Putting yourself out there is never easy -- Mme. Murashkin imagines her five-act play is a masterpiece. She has to. All artists thrive on self-delusion -- if you don't think your work is worthy you'd never dare to show it off -- sometimes the self-delusion is just that and you hope the artist will come to that realization by himself or herself soon enough but don't count on it (looking in the mirror is never fun) -- and other times you find an audience that either shares your delusion or maybe -- just maybe -- has some taste.
Of course, being pushy and subjecting others to your talent is a risky proposition -- any sign of rejection when you are starting out can be a deadly blow to your confidence. Many have aborted their passion based on a harsh reaction.
I almost gave up writing this blog early on after a particularly nasty comment -- but I didn't (don't get any ideas).
So tread gently when asking others for advice and make sure there are no heavy paper-weights in sight.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
IN THE DARK
In the Dark
Beware! You don't know what may be lurking in the kitchen when the lights are down. A shadow of a thief. Quick wake up the hubby.
The hubby don't care.
What do you mean? There's a burglar inside the house. He can kill us.
Relax there little lady. It's all under control.
Are you serious? You are too lazy to check if there's someone out there stealing our silver? Do you know what silver goes for nowadays?
Silver schmilver. I need some zzzz's.
This is pathetic. I knew I should've married Vlad. He's a dentist. He wouldn't be scared to check.
Look, I hate to disappoint you -- there's no burglar. The help must be entertaining a visitor.
At this time?
Well, you want her to get down and dirty in front of you?
Down and dirty? What is going on?
The birds and the bees honey. The fireman is creating some heat with our cook.
Stop! Not here.This is not a brothel. You must stop this at once. At once! I have morals.
That's good to know. But you can't eat morals.
This is your home. You want another man in your home doing what you haven't done in God knows how long? Stop it!
And if I do? We won't ever get a good meal again. We'll have to fire her. And then start interviewing cooks who don't like to make love. Is that what you want? A sour cook?
Go out there and do something.
Fine. Lalalalala. Trip. Ouch. Why did I ever get married? I could be cutting trees in Siberia. Happy. All alone. There's nothing here. I'm cold. Sleepy. Tired. The cook. Hey there, Pal, anything happening?
Happening. Why do you insult me? I'm a lousy worker and you think you can wake me up and throw accusations at me. How dare you? Capitalist! I cook your oatmeal just like you like it. And this is the thanks I get. Spit on me, why don't you? Happening? I'm sleeping. Just like you should be with your ugly ass wife. And wait till you eat your oatmeal tomorrow. You'll pay for your insolence. Now get out of my face, you dirty old man.
Sorry, my bad. Don't take it to heart. And please, I beg you, don't screw up my oatmeal. It's my only pleasure in life.
I'll think about it.
Thanks, you're swell.
Lallalala . . . I'm back.
Well, what happened?
False alarm.
What's that you're wearing?
This. This. Oh, this. Why it's something to keep me warm and . . . light your fire. Because sweetheart, you need a hell of a lot of warming up. But first I need to sleep.
Sleep?
Oatmeal . . . zzzzzzzzzzz.
Lights out.
Sorry, I couldn't help myself. This is Chekhov as sitcom writer. It's I Love Lucy meets The Honeymooners meets The Dick Van Dyke Show meets All In the Family meets Raymond.
Beware! You don't know what may be lurking in the kitchen when the lights are down. A shadow of a thief. Quick wake up the hubby.
The hubby don't care.
What do you mean? There's a burglar inside the house. He can kill us.
Relax there little lady. It's all under control.
Are you serious? You are too lazy to check if there's someone out there stealing our silver? Do you know what silver goes for nowadays?
Silver schmilver. I need some zzzz's.
This is pathetic. I knew I should've married Vlad. He's a dentist. He wouldn't be scared to check.
Look, I hate to disappoint you -- there's no burglar. The help must be entertaining a visitor.
At this time?
Well, you want her to get down and dirty in front of you?
Down and dirty? What is going on?
The birds and the bees honey. The fireman is creating some heat with our cook.
Stop! Not here.This is not a brothel. You must stop this at once. At once! I have morals.
That's good to know. But you can't eat morals.
This is your home. You want another man in your home doing what you haven't done in God knows how long? Stop it!
And if I do? We won't ever get a good meal again. We'll have to fire her. And then start interviewing cooks who don't like to make love. Is that what you want? A sour cook?
Go out there and do something.
Fine. Lalalalala. Trip. Ouch. Why did I ever get married? I could be cutting trees in Siberia. Happy. All alone. There's nothing here. I'm cold. Sleepy. Tired. The cook. Hey there, Pal, anything happening?
Happening. Why do you insult me? I'm a lousy worker and you think you can wake me up and throw accusations at me. How dare you? Capitalist! I cook your oatmeal just like you like it. And this is the thanks I get. Spit on me, why don't you? Happening? I'm sleeping. Just like you should be with your ugly ass wife. And wait till you eat your oatmeal tomorrow. You'll pay for your insolence. Now get out of my face, you dirty old man.
Sorry, my bad. Don't take it to heart. And please, I beg you, don't screw up my oatmeal. It's my only pleasure in life.
I'll think about it.
Thanks, you're swell.
Lallalala . . . I'm back.
Well, what happened?
False alarm.
What's that you're wearing?
This. This. Oh, this. Why it's something to keep me warm and . . . light your fire. Because sweetheart, you need a hell of a lot of warming up. But first I need to sleep.
Sleep?
Oatmeal . . . zzzzzzzzzzz.
Lights out.
Sorry, I couldn't help myself. This is Chekhov as sitcom writer. It's I Love Lucy meets The Honeymooners meets The Dick Van Dyke Show meets All In the Family meets Raymond.
Monday, December 5, 2011
FROM THE DIARY OF A VIOLENT-TEMPERED MAN
From the Diary of a Violent-Tempered Man
The man has a temper. You better watch out! I mean it. He can explode any second. Don't mess with him! Certainly don't play games with him. He's got no time for that. No stomach. He's into finance. Dog licenses to be exact. He doesn't know nothing about young women. Doesn't want to know nothing about love. So don't whisper sweet nothings in his ear. Don't send him letters to meet up. Don't make him kiss you. No. Just let him be. He's a volcano. You better believe he is. And don't you dare marry him. Boy, that's asking for trouble.
Honeymoon. Did you just say Honeymoon? Look out!
The man has a temper. You better watch out! I mean it. He can explode any second. Don't mess with him! Certainly don't play games with him. He's got no time for that. No stomach. He's into finance. Dog licenses to be exact. He doesn't know nothing about young women. Doesn't want to know nothing about love. So don't whisper sweet nothings in his ear. Don't send him letters to meet up. Don't make him kiss you. No. Just let him be. He's a volcano. You better believe he is. And don't you dare marry him. Boy, that's asking for trouble.
Honeymoon. Did you just say Honeymoon? Look out!
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