Thursday, May 14, 2009
5:38 PM
Miss Purana has offically joined the class blog ( you know who he is -winks- )
none other than our kXXiXXl .
so if you dunno who i am talking about please use more brain cells.
alright tata ~
bye :D
yo e5 bitches!
5:35 PM
LONG TIME NO SEE YA'LL
hahhahaha.......................................................
hhHAHHA.......................................................
hahhaaha
hahahha
jahahhaha
jahahaha'ajha
hahahha
hahah/
mis s purana here. " i miss you all especially the boys''.'i love nasri sadi''
hes hot. he can have my black meat.you knowwhatimean.
Monday, May 4, 2009
All I Remember
8:27 PM
When my father spoke to me, he always began the conversation with
"Have I told you yet today how much I adore you?" The expression of
love was reciprocated and, in his later years, as his life began to visibly
ebb, we grew even closer.... if that were possible.
At 82 he was ready to die, and I was ready to let him go so that his
suffering would end. We laughed and cried and held hands and told
each other of our love and agreed that it was time. I said, "Dad, after
you've gone I want a sign from you that you're fine." He laughed at the
absurdity of that; Dad didn't believe in reincarnation. I wasn't positive I
did either, but I had had many experiences that convinced me I could
get some signal "from the other side."
My father and I were so deeply connected I felt his heart attack in my
chest at the moment he died. Later I mourned that the hospital, in their
sterile wisdom, had not let me hold his hand as he had slipped away.
Day after day I prayed to hear from him, but nothing happened. Night
after night I asked for a dream before I fell asleep. And yet four long
months passed and I heard and felt nothing but grief at his loss. Mother
had died five years before of Alzheimer's, and, though I had grown
daughters of my own, I felt like a lost child.
One day, while I was lying on a massage table in a dark quiet room
waiting for my appointment, a wave of longing for my father swept over
me. I began to wonder if I had been too demanding in asking for a sign
from him. I noticed that my mind was in a hyper-acute state. I
experienced an unfamiliar clarity in which I could have added long
columns of figures in my head. I checked to make sure I was awake and
not dreaming, and I saw that I was as far removed from a dreamy state
as one could possibly be. Each thought I had, was like a drop of water
disturbing a still pond, and I marveled at the peacefulness of each
passing moment. Then I thought, "I've been trying to control the
messages from the other side; I will stop that now."
Suddenly my mother's face appeared—my mother, as she had been
before Alzheimer's disease had stripped her of her mind, her humanity
and 50 pounds. Her magnificent silver hair crowned her sweet face. She
was so real and so close I felt I could reach out and touch her. She
looked as she had a dozen years ago, before the wasting away had
begun. I even smelled the fragrance of Joy, her favorite perfume. She seemed to be waiting and did not speak. I wondered how it could
happen that I was thinking of my father and my mother appeared, and I
felt a little guilty that I had not asked for her as well.
I said, "Oh, Mother, I'm so sorry that you had to suffer with that horrible
disease."
She tipped her head slightly to one side, as though to acknowledge what
I had said about her suffering. Then she smiled—a beautiful smile—and
said very distinctly, "But all I remember is love." And she disappeared.
I began to shiver in a room suddenly gone cold, and I knew in my bones
that the love we give and receive is all that matters and all that is
remembered. Suffering disappears - love remains.
Her words are the most important I have ever heard, and that moment is
forever engraved on my heart.
I have not yet seen or heard from my father, but I have no doubts that
someday, when I least expect it, he will appear and say, "Have I told
you yet today that I love you?"
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Another Way
11:12 PM
The train clanked and rattled through the suburbs of Tokyo on a drowsy
spring afternoon. Our car was comparatively empty—a few housewives
with their kids in tow, some old folks going shopping. I gazed absently
at the drab houses and dusty hedgerows.
At one station the doors opened, and suddenly the afternoon quiet was
shattered by a man bellowing violent, incomprehensible curses. The
man staggered into our car. He wore laborer's clothing and was big,
drunk and dirty. Screaming, he swung at a woman holding a baby. The
blow sent her spinning into the laps of an elderly couple. It was a
miracle that the baby was unharmed.
Terrified, the couple jumped up and scrambled toward the other end of
the car. The laborer aimed a kick at the retreating back of the old
woman but missed as she scuttled to safety. This so enraged the drunk
that he grabbed the metal pole in the center of the car and tried to
wrench it out of its stanchion. I could see that one of his hands was cut
and bleeding. The train lurched ahead, the passengers frozen with fear. I
stood up.
I was young then, some 20 years ago, and in pretty good shape. I'd been
putting in a solid eight hours of Aikido training nearly every day for the
past three years. I liked to throw and grapple. I thought I was tough. The
trouble was, my martial skill was untested in actual combat. As students
of Aikido, we were not allowed to fight.
"Aikido," my teacher had said again and again, "is the art of
reconciliation. Whoever has the mind to fight has broken his connection
with the universe. If you try to dominate people, you're already
defeated. We study how to resolve conflict, not how to start it."
I listened to his words. I tried hard. I even went so far as to cross the
street to avoid the "chimpira," the pinball punks who lounged around
the train stations. My forbearance exalted me. I felt both tough and holy.
In my heart, however, I wanted an absolutely legitimate opportunity
whereby I might save the innocent by destroying the guilty.
"This is it!" I said to myself as I got to my feet. "People are in danger. If
I don't do something fast, somebody will probably get hurt."
Seeing me stand up, the drunk recognized a chance to focus his rage.
"Aha!" he roared. "A foreigner! You need a lesson in Japanese
manners!" I held on lightly to the commuter strap overhead and gave him a slow
look of disgust and dismissal. I planned to take this turkey apart, but he
had to make the first move. I wanted him mad, so I pursed my lips and
blew him an insolent kiss.
"All right!" he hollered. "You're gonna get a lesson!" He gathered
himself for a rush at me.
A fraction of a second before he could move, someone shouted "Hey!"
It was earsplitting. I remember the strangely joyous, lilting quality of
it—as though you and a friend had been searching diligently for
something, and he had suddenly stumbled upon it. "Hey!"
I wheeled to my left; the drunk spun to his right. We
both stared down at a little old Japanese man. He must have been well
into his seventies, this tiny gentleman, sitting there immaculate in his
kimono. He took no notice of me, but beamed delightedly at the laborer,
as though he had a most important, most welcome secret to share.
"C'mere," the old man said in an easy vernacular, beckoning to the
drunk. "C'mere and talk with me." He waved his hands lightly.
The big man followed, as if on a string. He planted his feet belligerently
in front of the old gentleman and roared above the clacking wheels,
"Why the hell should I talk to you?" The drunk now had his back to me.
If his elbow moved so much as a millimeter, I'd drop him in his socks.
The old man continued to beam at the laborer. "What'cha been
drinkin'?" he asked, his eyes sparkling with interest. "I been drinkin'
sake," the laborer bellowed back, "and it's none of your business!"
Flecks of spittle spattered the old man.
"Oh, that's wonderful," the old man said, "absolutely wonderful! You
see, I love sake, too. Every night, me and my wife (she's 76, you know),
we warm up a little bottle of sake and take it out into the garden, and we
sit on an old wooden bench. We watch the sun go down, and we look to
see how our persimmon tree is doing. My greatgrandfather planted that
tree, and we worry about whether it will recover from those ice storms
we had last winter. Our tree has done better than I expected, though,
especially when you consider the poor quality of the soil. It is gratifying
to watch when we take our sake and go out to enjoy the evening—even
when it rains!" He looked up at the laborer, eyes twinkling.
As he struggled to follow the old man, his face began to soften. His fists
slowly unclenched. "Yeah," he said. "I love persimmons, too...." His
voice trailed off. "Yes," said the old man, smiling, "and I'm sure you have a wonderful
wife."
"No," replied the laborer. "My wife died." Very gently, swaying with
the motion of the train, the big man began to sob. "I don't got no wife, I
don't got no home, I don't got no job. I'm so ashamed of myself." Tears
rolled down his cheeks, a spasm of despair rippled through his body.
As I stood there in my well-scrubbed youthful innocence, my make-
this-world-safe-for-democracy righteousness, I felt dirtier than he was.
Then the train arrived at my stop. As the doors opened, I heard the old
man cluck sympathetically. "My, my," he said, "that is a difficult
predicament indeed. Sit down here and tell me about it."
I turned my head for one last look. The laborer was sprawled on the seat
with his head in the old man's lap. The old man was softly stroking the
filthy, matted hair.
As the train pulled away, I sat down on a bench in the station. What I
had wanted to do with muscle had been accomplished with kind words.
I had just seen Aikido in action, and the essence of it was love. I would
have to practice the art with an entirely different spirit. It would be a
long time before I could speak about the resolution of conflict.
and i'm only bullshitting about the changing passwords part :)
