Me & Rumi - The Autobiography of Shams-i Tabrizi - Ebook download as PDF File .pdf) or view presentation slides online. Autobiography of Shams - i- Tabrizi. Get this from a library! Me & Rumi: the autobiography of Shams-i Tabrizi. [Shams -i Tabrīzī; William C Chittick] -- Rumi has become one of the best-selling poets. Me and Rumi book. Read 18 reviews from the world's largest community for readers. The astounding autobiography of the man who transformed Rumi from a .
|Language:||English, Spanish, Hindi|
|ePub File Size:||23.89 MB|
|PDF File Size:||15.88 MB|
|Distribution:||Free* [*Regsitration Required]|
Me And Rumi: The Autobiography Of Shams i Tabriziby Shams Tabreztrans: W. Chittick. PDF WITH TEXT download · download 1 file. Book Details Author: Shams-i Tabrizi Pages: Publisher: Fons Vitae Brand: English ISBN: Publication Date: Release Date: Description The astounding autobiography of the man who transformed Rumi from a learned religious teacher into the world's greatest poet of. Download Best Book Me and Rumi: The Autobiography of Shams-I Tabrizi, PDF FILE Download Me and Rumi: The Autobiography of Shams-I Tabrizi Free.
All of this might put the companion of Rumi in unpredictable danger. He is good with words, but not so with metaphors, for he is no poet. But then one day, after I had received a silk scarf as a gift, the answer came to me and the riddle was solved. She felt sorry for herself. Once again we sat in a wide circle around the master and listened to him talk about this prominent scholar of Islam who knew everything, except the pits of love.
Nevertheless, he did not want to go back to his old prayers. Neither did he abide by the formal prayers that Moses had taught him.
He had now found a new way of communicating with God. God does not take us at our word. He looks deep into our hearts. It is not the ceremonies or rituals that make a difference, but whether our hearts are sufficiently pure or not.
I could see beneath his mask of absolute confidence and composure that he was clearly annoyed. Yet at the same time, being the astute man that he was, he had detected a tricky situation.
It was therefore better for him to pretend there was nothing to be upset about and leave it there. Outside, the sun was setting, painting the sky a dozen shades of crimson, punctuated now and again by dark gray clouds. In a little while, the judge rose to his feet, saying he had some important business to attend to. After giving me a slight nod and Shams of Tabriz a cold stare, he strode off.
His men followed wordlessly. Shams of Tabriz brushed his hair from his face, smiling.
I am used to people not liking me much. I had been the master of this lodge long enough to know that it was not often such a visitor came. Her head resting on the manuscript, she watched as rough-looking warriors dined at a roadside inn, their plates piled high with delicious pies and desserts. Then she saw herself. She was searching for someone in a bustling bazaar in a citadel in a foreign country.
The man looked at her blankly and hobbled away. She tried to talk to several vendors and then shoppers, but no one responded to her. Then she put her hand to her mouth and realized with horror that her tongue had been cut off. With increasing panic she looked around for a mirror to see her reflection and figure out if she was still the same person, but there was none in the bazaar. She started to cry and woke up to a disturbing sound, not knowing whether she still had a tongue. When Ella opened her eyes, she found Spirit frantically scratching at the back door.
An animal had probably gotten onto the porch, driving the dog crazy.
Skunks made him particularly nervous. The memory of his inopportune encounter with one last winter was still fresh. Ella glanced at the clock on the wall. It was a quarter to three in the morning. David was still not back, and perhaps he never would be.
Jeannette had not returned her call, and in her pessimistic state Ella doubted she ever would. Seized by the terror of being abandoned by her husband and daughter, she opened the fridge and looked through it for a few minutes. The desire to scoop out some cherry vanilla ice cream warred with the fear of gaining weight.
With no small effort, she took a step away from the fridge and slammed the door, a bit more harshly than necessary. Then Ella opened a bottle of red wine and poured herself a glass.
It was good wine, light and lively, with an underlying hint of bittersweetness that she liked. Not knowing what to make of that, she frowned at the bottle. She was too tired and too sleepy to read anymore. So she decided to check her e-mail. There, among half a dozen junk e-mails and a message from Michelle inquiring about how the manuscript was going, she found an e-mail from Aziz Z.
Right across from my hostel, there is a wish tree bedecked with hundreds of pieces of fabric of every color and pattern you can imagine.
They call it The Tree of the Brokenhearted. Those with broken hearts write down their names on pieces of paper and tie these to the branches, praying for their hearts to be healed.
Even a speck of love should not go unappreciated, because, as Rumi said, love is the water of life. Instead of intrusion or passivity, may I suggest submission? According to the Mayan calendar, today is an auspicious day. A major astrological shift is on its way, ushering in a new human consciousness.
I need to hurry to send you this e-mail before the sun sets and the day is over. May love find you when you least expect, where you least expect. Yours sincerely, Aziz Ella shut off the laptop, moved to learn that a complete stranger in a remote corner of the world had prayed for her well-being. She closed her eyes and imagined her name written on a piece of paper tied to a wish tree, dangling like a kite in the air, free and happy.
A few minutes later, she opened the kitchen door and stepped out into the backyard, enjoying the unsettling coolness of the breeze. Spirit stood beside her, uneasy and growling, constantly sniffing the air.
Ella and her dog stood side by side under the late-spring moon, staring into the thick, vast darkness, similarly frightened of the things moving in the dark, frightened of the unknown. I was surprised to find Baba Zaman and the wandering dervish in the same position as when I left them, neither one saying a word. Out of the corner of my eye, I checked them, wondering if it could be possible to carry on a conversation without talking. I lingered there as long as I could, arranging the cushions, tidying up the room, picking up the crumbs on the carpet, but after a while I ran out of reasons to stay.
Halfheartedly, I dragged my feet back to the kitchen. As soon as he saw me, the cook started to rain orders. Wash the dishes! Scrub the stove and the walls around the grill! Every day he made me work like a dog and called this torture part of my spiritual training, as if washing greasy dishes could be spiritual in any way. A man of few words, the cook had one favorite mantra: If you want to become a dervish, be as mute as that wooden spoon. Rebelliousness is not a good quality in a novice.
Speak less, mature quicker! I had never disobeyed his orders. That is, until this evening. As soon as the cook turned his back, I sneaked out of the kitchen and tiptoed to the main room again, dying to learn more about the wandering dervish. What was he doing here? His eyes looked fierce and unruly, even when he bowed his head in modesty. There was something so unusual and unpredictable about him that it was almost frightening. I peeped through a crack in the door.
But soon my eyes adjusted to the semidarkness inside the room and I could make out their faces. Have you seen this place in a dream? It was a vision. I never have dreams. You see, when I was a boy, I saw angels and watched the mysteries of the universe unfold before my eyes.
When I confided in my friends, they, too, said I was a hopeless dreamer. I tried talking to my teachers, but their response was no different. Finally I understood that whenever people heard something unusual, they called it a dream. I began to dislike the word and all that it represented. Then the strangest thing happened. He stood up, straightened his spine, and slowly, deliberately began to walk toward the door, all the while looking in my direction. It was as if he somehow knew I was spying on them.
It was as if he could see through the wooden door. My heart pounded like mad. My arms, my legs, my whole body froze. Through and beyond the door, the dark eyes of Shams of Tabriz were fixed upon me. As terrified as I was, I also felt a tremendous amount of energy rushing through my body.
He approached, put his hand on the door handle, but just when I thought he was about to open the door and catch me, he stopped. We waited like that for an unbearably long minute. Then he turned his back, and as he paced away from the door, he continued with his story. He agreed. He took them all away. But to compensate for that loss, He allowed me to interpret the dreams of others. I am a dream interpreter.
Tell me, what can I do for you? Actually, I was hoping you could tell me that. I am skilled in the ways of nature, although the ways of society are still alien to me.
If necessary, I can fight like a wild animal, but I myself cannot hurt anyone. I can name the constellations in the sky, identify the trees in the forests, and read like an open book the types of people the Almighty has created in His image.
Then he continued. But if you are still in need of knowing where exactly His abode is, there is only one place to look for Him: There is no one who has lived after seeing Him, just like there is no one who has died after seeing Him.
Whoever finds Him will remain with Him forever. For years I prayed to God for a companion to share the knowledge accumulated inside me. I understand that you know the name of my companion and his whereabouts and will tell me, if not now, then later. I realized how late it was. The cook must have been looking for me. For once it felt good to break the rules.
Until then you can stay here with us. Be our guest. That is when the master asked that bizarre question: You want to hold the Truth in your palm as if it were a precious pearl and offer it to someone special.
What are you willing to pay in return? When I put my eye to the crack again, I noticed that the master looked shaken by the answer as well. Let me call the young novice. He will show you to your bed and provide clean sheets and a glass of milk. More than that. It was as if he were looking through and into me, studying the pits and peaks of my soul, inspecting secrets that were hidden even from me.
Or else he possessed supernatural talents that helped him to see through doors and walls. Either way he scared me.
In utter panic I jumped to my feet and scurried into the garden, seeking refuge in the dark. But an unpleasant surprise was awaiting me there. Instead I dashed out of the garden as fast as an arrow. My heart pounding, my throat dried up, I ran until my knees gave out and I could run no more.
He took a step toward her to pull her blanket up a little and make sure she was snugly covered, but then he changed his mind. Ten minutes later, Ella woke up. Her husband could flirt with other women, and apparently even spend the night with them, but he would rather not take his morning shower anywhere other than his own bathroom.
When David finished and walked back through the room, Ella pretended to be asleep, thus saving him from having to explain his absence. Less than an hour later, both her husband and the kids had left, and Ella was in the kitchen alone. Life seemed to have resumed its regular course.
She opened her favorite cookbook, Culinary Artistry Made Plain and Easy, and after considering several options chose a fairly demanding menu that would keep her busy all afternoon: There were many reasons that Ella liked cooking. Creating a delicious meal out of ordinary ingredients was not only gratifying and fulfilling but also strangely sensual. But more than that, she enjoyed cooking because it was something she was really good at. Besides, it quieted her mind. The kitchen was the one place in her life where she could avoid the outside world altogether and stop the flow of time within herself.
For some people sex might have the same effect, she imagined, but that always required two, whereas to cook all one needed was time, care, and a bag of groceries. People who cooked on TV programs made it sound as if cooking was about inspiration, originality, and creativity.
Why not leave experimenting to scientists and quirkiness to artists! Cooking was about learning the basics, following the instructions, and being respectful of the wisdom of ages. All you had to do was use time-honored traditions, not experiment with them. Cooking skills came from customs and conventions, and although it was clear that the modern age belittled such things, there was nothing wrong with being traditional in the kitchen. Ella also cherished her daily routines.
Every morning, at roughly the same time, the family had breakfast; every weekend they went to the same mall; and on the first Sunday of every month they had a dinner party with their neighbors. Because David was a workaholic with little time on his hands, Ella was in charge of everything at home: On Thursdays she went to the Fusion Cooking Club, where the members merged the cuisines of different countries and freshened up age-old recipes with new spices and ingredients.
Brief kisses and tender moves that exuded less passion than compassion. Once their most reliable connection, sex had lost its allure quite a while ago. Sometimes they went for weeks without making love. Ella found it odd that sex had once been so important in her life, and now when it was gone, she felt relieved, almost liberated. By and large she was fine with the idea of a long-married couple gradually abandoning the plane of physical attraction for a more reliable and stable way of relating.
She had never confronted him openly about his affairs, not even hinting of her suspicions. The fact that none of their close friends knew anything made it easier for her to feign ignorance. There were no scandals, no embarrassing coincidences, nothing to set tongues wagging. However, infidelity had a smell. That much Ella knew. Or was it the other way round? Either way the outcome remained the same: The glow between them, the light that had helped them to navigate the uncharted waters of marriage, keeping their desire afloat, even after three kids and twenty years, was simply not there anymore.
For the next three hours, her mind was filled with thoughts while her hands were restless. Bake it yourself, honey. It will work wonders. For the final touch, she added sparkly napkin rings. When she was done, the dining table resembled those found in stylish home magazines. Tired but satisfied, she turned on the kitchen TV to the local news. A young therapist had been stabbed in her apartment, an electrical short had caused a fire in a hospital, and four high-school students had been arrested for vandalism.
She watched the news, shaking her head at the endless dangers looming in the world. How could people like Aziz Z. Ella found it puzzling that an unpredictable and impenetrable world could drive people like her back into their houses but had almost the opposite effect on someone like Aziz, inspiring him to embark on adventures far off the beaten track.
The Rubinsteins sat at a picture-perfect table at 7: An outsider watching them might assume they were a perfect family, as graceful as the wisps of smoke slowly dissolving in the air. For once Ella felt grateful to them for being so chatty and noisy and covering up the silence that would otherwise have rested heavily between her and her husband. Out of the corner of her eye, Ella watched David jab his fork into a cauliflower and chew slowly. Her gaze dropped to his thin, pale lips and pearl-white teeth—the mouth she knew so well and had kissed so many times.
She visualized him kissing another woman. Athletic and confident, she showed off her breasts in a tight dress and wore high-heeled, knee-high red leather boots, her face shiny, almost iridescent with too much makeup. Ella imagined David kissing this woman with haste and hunger, not at all the way he chewed his cauliflower at the family table. It was then and there, while having her Culinary Artistry Made Plain and Easy dinner and imagining the woman her husband was having an affair with, that something inside Ella snapped.
She understood with chilling clarity and calm that despite her inexperience and timidity, one day she would abandon it all: Yet nine months have passed, and he is still with us. In the beginning I expected him to pack up and leave at any moment, so visible was his aversion to a strictly ordered life. I could see that it bored him stiff to have to sleep and wake up at the same hours, eat regular meals, and conform to the same routine as everyone else.
He was used to flying as a lonely bird, wild and free. I suspect several times he came close to running away. Nevertheless, great as his need for solitude, even greater was his commitment to finding his companion. Shams firmly believed that one of these days I would come up with the information he needed and tell him where to go, whom to find. With this faith he stayed. During these nine months, I watched him closely, wondering if time flowed differently for him, more rapidly and intensely.
What took other dervishes months, sometimes years, to learn took him only weeks, if not days. He had a remarkable curiosity about everything new and unusual and was a great observer of nature. So many days I found him in the garden admiring the symmetry of a spiderweb or the dewdrops glistening on a night-blooming flower. Insects, plants, and animals seemed more interesting and inspiring to him than books and manuscripts.
But just when I would start thinking he had no interest in reading, I would find him immersed in an age-old book. Then, once again, he could go for weeks on end without reading and studying anything. When I asked him about this, he said one should keep the intellect satisfied and yet be careful not to spoil it. It was one of his rules. Take the plunge! But treasures are hidden among ruins. A broken heart hides treasures.
For one thing, he was straightforward to the point of brusqueness. I taught my dervishes never to see the faults of other people and, if they did, to be forgiving and quiet. Shams, however, let no mistake go unnoticed. Whenever he saw anything wrong, he spoke out about it right away, never beating around the bush. His honesty offended others, but he liked to provoke people to see what came out of them in moments of anger.
Forcing him to do ordinary tasks was difficult. He had little patience for such jobs and lost interest in something as soon as he got the hang of it. When it came to a routine, he got desperate, like a tiger trapped in a cage. If a conversation bored him or somebody made a foolish remark, he got up and left, never losing time with pleasantries.
Values cherished by most human beings, such as security, comfort, and happiness, had hardly any meaning in his eyes. And his distrust of words was so intense that often he went without speaking for days. That, too, was one of his rules: Most of the problems of the world stem from linguistic mistakes and simple misunderstandings. When you step into the zone of love, language as we know it becomes obsolete.
That which cannot be put into words can only be grasped through silence. In time I became concerned about his well-being. For deep inside I sensed that one who could burn so fervently might have a tendency to put himself into dangerous situations.
At the end of the day, our fates are in the hands of God, and only He can tell when or how we each will depart the world.
For my part I decided to do my best to slow Shams down and accustom him, as much as I could, to a more tranquil way of life. And for a while I thought I might succeed. But then came winter, and with the winter came the messenger carrying a letter from afar. That letter changed everything. It has been a long time since we have last seen one another, and I hope my letter finds you in good spirits.
I have heard so many wonderful things about the lodge you built on the outskirts of Baghdad, teaching dervishes the wisdom and love of God. I am writing this letter in confidentiality to share with you something that has been preoccupying my mind. Allow me to start from the beginning. As you know, the late Sultan Aladdin Keykubad was a remarkable man who excelled in leadership in difficult times. It had been his dream to build a city where poets, artisans, and philosophers could live and work in peace.
A dream many called impossible given the chaos and hostility in the world, especially with the Crusaders and Mongols attacking from both sides.
We have seen it all. Warring religions, sects, tribes, even brothers. But Keykubad was a determined leader. He chose the city of Konya—the first place to emerge after the great flood—to realize his big dream. Now, in Konya there lives a scholar you may or may not have heard of. His name is Mawlana Jalal ad-Din but he often goes by the name Rumi. Yes, my friend, I became a student of my student. So talented and judicious was he, after a point I had nothing else to teach him and started to learn from him instead.
His father was a brilliant scholar, too. But Rumi has a quality that very few scholars ever have: I want you to know that these are not solely my personal thoughts. Today, thirteen years later, the residents of Konya look up to him as a role model, and every Friday people from all over the region flock to the city to listen to his sermons.
He has excelled at law, philosophy, theology, astronomy, history, chemistry, and algebra. Already he is said to have ten thousand disciples. His followers hang upon his every word and see him as a great enlightener who will generate a significant positive change in the history of Islam, if not in the history of the world.
But to me Rumi has always been like a son. I promised his late father that I would always keep an eye on him. And now that I am an old man who is nearing his final days, I want to make sure he is in the right company.
You see, as remarkable and successful as he no doubt is, Rumi himself has several times confided in me that he feels inwardly dissatisfied. There is something missing in his life—an emptiness that neither his family nor his disciples can fill. His cup was full to the brim, and yet he needed to have the door to his soul opened so that the waters of love could flow in and out.
He told me that in his dream he was searching for someone in a big, bustling city in a land far away. Words in Arabic. Delightful sunsets. Mulberry trees and silkworms waiting patiently in secretive cocoons for their moment to arrive. Then he saw himself in the courtyard of his house, sitting by the well with a lantern in his hand, weeping.
At the outset I had no idea what the fragments in his dreams indicated. Nothing seemed familiar. But then one day, after I had received a silk scarf as a gift, the answer came to me and the riddle was solved.
I remembered how you were fond of silk and silkworms. I recalled the wonderful things I had heard about your tariqa. And it dawned upon me that the place Rumi saw in his dreams was none other than your dervish lodge. Hence the reason I write this letter. But if there is, I leave it in your hands to inform him about the destiny that awaits him. If you and I can play even a minute role in helping two rivers meet and flow into the ocean of Divine Love as one single watercourse, if we can help two good friends of God to meet, I will count myself blessed.
There is, however, one thing you need to take into consideration. He does. Furthermore, such a flowing-together might generate discontent and opposition and cause rivalries beyond our comprehension. His fondness of his companion might also cause problems in his family and inner circle.
The person who is openly loved by someone who is admired by so many people is bound to draw the envy, if not the hatred, of others.
All of this might put the companion of Rumi in unpredictable danger. In other words, my brother, the person you send to Konya might never make it back. I am sorry to put you in a difficult position, but as we both know, God never burdens us with more than we can bear. I look forward to your answer and trust that whatever the outcome, you will take the right steps in the right direction.
He said he came from Kayseri, and caused a stir among the dervishes, who knew visitors to be scarcer than sweet summer grapes at this time of the year. A messenger with a message urgent enough to be carried through snowstorms could only mean one of two things: Either something terrible had happened or something important was about to happen.
The arrival of the messenger set tongues wagging in the dervish lodge, as everyone was curious about the content of the letter handed to the master. But, shrouded in a cloak of mystery, he gave no hints whatsoever.
Stolid and ruminant, and zealously guarded, for days he bore the expression of a man struggling with his conscience, finding it hard to reach the right decision. Deep inside, I sensed that the letter concerned me personally, although in what way I could not tell.
I spent many evenings in the praying room reciting the ninety-nine names of God for guidance. Each time one name stood out: In the following days, while everyone in the lodge was making wild speculations, I spent my time alone in the garden, observing Mother Nature now cuddled under a heavy blanket of snow. Finally one day we heard the copper bell in the kitchen ring repeatedly, calling us all for an urgent meeting.
Upon entering the main room in the khaneqah, I found everyone present there, novices and senior dervishes alike, sitting in a wide circle. And in the middle of the circle was the master, his lips neatly pursed, his eyes hazy. It is about this letter I received. Suffice it to say that it drew my attention to a subject of great consequence. He looked fatigued, thin, and pale, as if he had aged considerably during these past days.
But when he continued to speak, an unexpected determination filled his voice. He is good with words, but not so with metaphors, for he is no poet. He is loved, respected, and admired by thousands, but he himself is not a lover. Because of reasons far beyond me and you, someone from our lodge might have to go to meet him and be his comrade.
I exhaled slowly, very slowly. Loneliness and solitude are two different things. When you are lonely, it is easy to delude yourself into believing that you are on the right path.
Solitude is better for us, as it means being alone without feeling lonely. But eventually it is best to find a person, the person who will be your mirror.
The master continued. I could just as well have appointed someone, but this is not a task that could be performed out of duty. For it can be done only out of love and in the name of love. I joined them, becoming the tenth. Baba Zaman waved his hand, gesturing at us to wait for him to finish. Instantly all the hands went down. Except mine. Baba Zaman looked me straight in the eye for the first time in a long while, and as soon as his gaze met mine, I understood he knew right from the start that I would be the only one to volunteer.
You are our guest. The master was silent for a long, reflective moment. When spring comes, we will talk again. Though he knew that this mission was the sole reason I had come to Baghdad in the first place, Baba Zaman was robbing me of the chance to fulfill my destiny. Why wait when I am ready to go this very moment? Just tell me the name of the city and the scholar and I will be on my way! The meeting is over. The garden was frozen stiff, and so were my lips. Every day I took long walks in the countryside, hoping to see a tree in blossom.
But after snow came more snow. Still, as low-spirited as I was outside, I remained grateful and hopeful inside, keeping in mind yet another rule. There was a rule that suited my mood: Whatever happens in your life, no matter how troubling things might seem, do not enter the neighborhood of despair. Even when all doors remain closed, God will open up a new path only for you. Be thankful! It is easy to be thankful when all is well.
A Sufi is thankful not only for what he has been given but also for all that he has been denied. Then finally one morning, I caught sight of a dazzling color, as delightful as a sweet song, sticking out from under the piles of snow.
It was a bush clover covered with tiny lavender flowers. My heart filled with joy. As I walked back to the lodge, I ran into the ginger-haired novice and saluted him merrily. He was so used to seeing me fixed in a grumpy silence that his jaw dropped.
The last snow melted, the trees budded, sparrows and wrens returned, and before long a faint spicy smell filled the air. One morning we heard the copper bell ring again. Goodreads helps you keep track of books you want to read. Want to Read saving…. Want to Read Currently Reading Read. Other editions. Enlarge cover.
Error rating book. Refresh and try again. Open Preview See a Problem? Details if other: Thanks for telling us about the problem. Return to Book Page. Preview — Me and Rumi by Shams-i Tabrizi. Me and Rumi: William C.
Annemarie Schimmel Foreword. The astounding autobiography of the man who transformed Rumi from a learned religious teacher into the world's greatest poet of mystical love.
Get A Copy. Paperback , pages. Published September 1st by Fons Vitae first published More Details Original Title. Rumi , Shams-i Tabrizi.
Other Editions 1. Friend Reviews. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. To ask other readers questions about Me and Rumi , please sign up. See 1 question about Me and Rumi…. Lists with This Book. Community Reviews. Showing Rating details. Sort order. Feb 07, Wit UnWit rated it really liked it. I don't know how people read books this one is to be savored to be tasted little by little lest you burn your self this one sinks in or is to sunk in swim, and wade through the endless channels of life and its many manifestations regurgitations.
View 2 comments. Nov 07, Ruhat alp rated it it was amazing. This book makes available for the first time in any European language first-hand accounts of Shams that have never been studied by Western scholars. When Rumi and Shams talked, members of the circle took notes, which were preserved and sometimes copied by later generations, ending up in various libraries scattered around Turkey; this book arranges them in a manner that clarifies their meaning and context, with notes and a glossary.
Read more Find a copy online Links to this item Google. Allow this favorite library to be seen by others Keep this favorite library private. Find a copy in the library Finding libraries that hold this item Biography Additional Physical Format: Print version: Biography, Document, Internet resource Document Type: Reviews User-contributed reviews Add a review and share your thoughts with other readers.
Be the first. Add a review and share your thoughts with other readers. Similar Items Related Subjects: Sufis -- Biography. Linked Data More info about Linked Data. Primary Entity http: CreativeWork , schema: Book , schema: Intangible ;.
Chittick " ;. InformationResource , genont: Home About Help Search. All rights reserved.