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X-WR-CALDESC:Events for The Open Road:  a learning community
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DTSTART:20210314T100000
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210201
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210301
DTSTAMP:20260502T060829
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SUMMARY:Metropolitan Opera: Nightly Met Opera Streams
DESCRIPTION:A new opera is shown every day\, starting at 4:30 pm (PST). Each opera Met streams for 20 hours.\nHere’s the link to the Metropolitan Opera.
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/https-www-metopera-org-about-press-releases-met-to-launch-nightly-met-opera-streams-a-free-series-of-encore-live-in-hd-presentations-streamed-on-the-company-website-during-the-coronavirus-closure/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210215
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210315
DTSTAMP:20260502T060829
CREATED:20210217T032953Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20211130T014826Z
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SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  2/15/21
DESCRIPTION:photo by Kim Stafford \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nI find it interesting how my mind works. \n—Michel Deforge \n  \nFebruary 15\, 2020 \n  \nWelcome to our sixth meditation and mindfulness dialogue! The numbers below refer to passages from the book Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh. The tag on my Yogi Tea bag says: “Compassion will make you beautiful.” (JS) \n* \n  \nHey guys\, I hope you enjoy this M & M submission. \nYou are all great & I hope you’re well. \nI’m looking forward to reading your submissions. \n  \n#95  What Is Your True Face? \n  \nAn answer from the face of ages. \n  \nWhat was my face you’ve queried\, and although I know what it is\, I can’t say it ever was. \nChange…  As far as I can tell my face has never changed. \nOnly the great multitude of masks I don in a moment’s notice can be defined as change\, and only then in a second’s split. \nUnderneath my face remains the same\, frozen\, pursed in the seeker’s scowl as it journeys through the ages. \nWhat was my face? \nMy face always is\, and in always being never was\, for the pulse of life is too strong to resist\, & the change of masks a familiar constant. \nRemember\, how could I forget? \nI still remember them all\, whether gilded\, plain\, or in between\, I still remember. \nMaybe it’s time for a change… \n  \n—Joshua Tyler Barnes \n* \n  \nI’m 25 wisdoms into Your True Home\, and so far what has occupied my thinking most is the apparent (to my novice understanding) conflict for an artist (specifically writers) trying to practice mindfulness and meditation. My struggle with meditation is that I start to have good ideas! Then\, I don’t want to forget them\, so I either A) begin ruining the meditation by trying not to forget the good idea\, or B) stop meditating so I can write down the good idea before I forget it. Also\, as a writer\, I am always applying words & labels & categories to everything I see\, thereby denying the essential emptiness of everything\, which my heart & mind both know to be true. But there is an everpresent pull\, a wish\, to exist without the endless desire to write about\, catalog\, chronicle the act of existence. This isn’t a unique torment. It’s actually something a lot of writers write about\, especially poets: “I throw my quill into the sea\, and burn my parchments\,” etc. There’s an excellent little monograph by Ben Lerner called “The Hatred of Poetry” that I recommend you read. In it\, he talks about this strange inclination\, as evidenced in the renunciations of writing by legends such as Rimbaud & Oppen. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nNot Thinking While Writing \n  \nBefore I write in the early morning\, I sit in the dark for a time\, breathing\, resisting thought but welcoming wondering\, sensation\, and the simple ache of being that is more primordial than regret or fear\, the pleasure of some hunger\, some cold. I’m in the shed\, after all\, in my chair with the strips of rug on the runners because it once lived in the fire station\, where the card players did not want to disturb the sleepers. \n  \nWhen I write\, do I want to disturb the sleepers? No\, I want to sidle into their dreams and tell them how beautiful they are\, give them wishes\, provide them with stories of simple triumph that hurts no one\, so when they wake\, life will be a little easier. So we all may be more curious than afraid. \n  \nIn 1913\, the Russian futurist poet Aleksei Kruchenykh created the word zaum\, which means ‘beyond or behind the mind.’ He sought an experimental poetic language characterized by indeterminacy: ‘beyonsense.’ \n  \nThe geese are shouting as they fly north \nso they will not be encumbered by all those \nextra syllables\, can concentrate on the magnetic \ntug toward the far beyond. \n  \nThe river leaves its shouting in the mountains  \nso in the valley it can depend on wink and whisper  \nto convey its learning\, its salmon home scent \nfor anyone alert enough to notice. \n  \nShall I throw my pen into the sea? Shall I take  \na vow of silence in order to be worthy of this  \nexistence? How many trees did my poems have to  \nkill\, anyway\, to gather these pages? Just enough. \n  \nI plant seeds of silence\, syllable by syllable. \nMy greatest gift for you is the space between words \nwhere my code tells the secrets of our oldest kinship\, \nand all my love in the silence after the last breath. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nKim also sent this poem by Chuang Tzu\, along with a writing prompt: \n  \nThe Woodcarver \n  \nKhing\, the master carver\, made a bell stand \nOf precious wood. When it was finished\, \nAll who saw it were astounded. They said it must be \nThe work of spirits. \nThe Prince of Lu said to the master carver: \nWhat is your secret? \n  \nKhing replied: I am only a workman: \nI have no secret. There is only this: \nWhen I began to think about  \nthe work you commanded \nI guarded my spirit\, did not expend it \nOn trifles\, that were not to the point. \nI fasted in order to set \nMy heart at rest. \nAfter three days fasting\, \nI had forgotten gain and success. \nAfter five days \nI had forgotten praise or criticism. \nAfter seven days I had forgotten my body \nWith all its limbs. \n  \nBy this time all thought of your Highness \nAnd of the court had faded away. \nAll that might distract me from the work \nHad vanished. \nI was collected in the single thought \nOf the bell stand. \n  \nThen I went to the forest \nTo see the trees in their own natural state. \nWhen the right tree appeared before my eyes\, \nThe bell stand also appeared in it\, clearly\,  \nbeyond doubt. \nAll I had to do was to put forth my hand \nand begin. \n  \nIf I had not met this particular tree \nThere would have been  \nNo bell stand at all. \n  \nWhat happened? \nMy own collected thought \nEncountered the hidden potential in the wood; \nFrom this live encounter came the work \nWhich you ascribe to the spirits. \n  \n—Chuang Tzu (translated by Thomas Merton) \n  \nChuang Tzu\, or Zhuang Zhou\, or Zhaungzi…was an influential Chinese philosopher who lived around the 4th century B.C.\, during the Warring States period\, a time corresponding to the summit of Chinese philosophy\, the Hundred Schools of Thought. He is credited with writing…one of the foundational texts of Taoism… He is described as a minor official from the town of Meng\, in the state of Song. (Wikipedia) \n  \nWriting prompt: Tell the story  of something you did purely for beauty\, for essence\, in response to a call that reached your heart… \n* \n  \n(Some excerpts from Michel’s meditation journal:) \n  \nJanuary 24\, 2021 \n  \n#69 Suddenly You Are Free \n  \nIt may happen like that—suddenly. Two days ago\, I was uprooted and moved from my place of comfort and peace (complacency?)\, to a new unit. I tested positive for COVID-19 on 1/14. The DOC response was to take all positives and cohort us in one unit. There was little communication and much chaos and anxiety for all affected staff. Many of my fellow prisoners are also stressed out beyond their limits\, or at the very fringe of their coping. I too was initially anxious. Because I was the only one leaving my unit and I didn’t know where I was moving or why. As soon as I learned it was not a move to the DSU/“Med” iso wing and that the goal was a conversion of a regular incentive unit into a COVID isloation/quarantine unit\, I was able to release my tensions. I hate moving!…. \n  \nYet\, somehow\, amidst all the chaos\, my stress settled quickly and I stumbled across peace\, acceptance and understanding—suddenly. I’m no great success with mindfulness and meditation. But\, sometimes it works! \n  \nIn some ways\, I see the truth of Thây’s thought in the experience\, and in some ways I wonder if he is speaking of a more deliberate and permanent result of all the work—suddenly finding freedom after looking for so many years. I do think that for something appearing suddenly\, it can also disappear just as suddenly. If I relax into the appearance and don’t grasp it tightly\, then\, maybe\, I won’t get hurt so much when it goes away just as suddenly. \n  \nJanuary 25\, 2021 \n  \n#70   Miraculous Smile \n  \nWriting here\, I am also looking at my first lines from January 1. So much has happened since then. Yet\, it is still true. Life is really “perfect” just the way it happens—whether I “like” it or not is irrelevant. Today’s writing reminds me of how easy it can be to feel better. As Thây puts it\, knowing (how) to breathe\, we can find our peace and our smile. (I wonder if I really know how to breathe.) I have had times when finding my smile has helped someone else relax a little. I have read before that faking a genuine smile will cause a shift of hormones and thoughts\, leading to having a genuine smile—I think it works. Whatever the case\, I can stop…breathe…smile at myself (or what/whom ever)…and carry on with my day. It may or may not be a grand “miracle.” It will be a smile and a moment of breathing mindfully. It will be a break\, no matter how brief\, from whatever else is competing for my life’s energy. And\, it is a moment I can control in a world of chaos. \n  \n9:00 pm Update: \n  \nHaving been awoken for mail delivery…(normally\, this would be grounds for great upset by any prisoner)\, I came to realize this poor fella (PM-swing CO) running this unit is having to keep up with a “COVID-POSITIVE” unit—with showers\, phone calls\, access to ice and water and whatever other services he must provide—like mail\, meals\, call-outs—alone… It is hard to not have compassion for anyone subjected to such work-conditions\, (or\, it’s relatively “easy\,” especially since he has been positive and generally conciliatory in the performance of his duties). I find it interesting how my mind works. A staff person whom I don’t know\, and with whom I haven’t had much contact\, comes in\, working alone\, with a positive attitude\, doing all he (or she) can to keep abreast of the daily duties\, and is doing so in a manner which does not put any of that burden upon us prisoners—is one to applaud. It is easy to feel compassion\, almost automatically\, for this person. Random thoughts at 10 pm. \n  \nJanuary 27\, 2021 \n  \n#71  Habit Energy \n  \n….I see this same pattern in my life—OLD HABIT energy holding me back or weighing me down. When I can\, I let it go. Sometimes I need to go through a challenging learning process to do this. In the end I grow. Thây doesn’t teach a technique for letting go\, but a gentle awakening to an awareness of exploration into the habit energy I do have—be it of my own creation\, or inherited. Having come to an awareness\, I then have a choice about what I do with that energy—keep\, change\, or Let Go. I have power. \n  \nJanuary 28\, 2021 \n  \n#72  You Are Safe Now \n  \nThis is not a phrase I hear here in prison often. Yet\, it’s timely. I just had a cellie on a previous unit—(they’re bouncing the COVID POSITIVES – PRE/POST CLEARANCE all over)—who was told he was to move to an unknown cell with high probability of mortal danger. Through timely machinations by kind staff he was allowed to stay put—he’s safe. That same night I got word of my immanent reassignment. I am back “home” on Unit 13. I too am safe now. I wonder how often we fail to recognize this truth in our day-to-day ordinary lives. If I never hear this\, or tell myself this\, will I be able to recognize when a crisis is over and I am again safe? My guess is: no. I wonder how many of life’s challenges became traumas simply because I didn’t know I was now “safe.” And\, maybe I never knew “safe” as part of my reality growing up\, but\, I can learn that now and maybe even offer this bit of help to another in saying\, “You’re safe now.” (Mantra exercise\, with breath.) \n  \nJanuary 29\, 2021 \n  \n#73  The Anchor \n  \nOnce again I am brought back and reminded that my breath is my connection to life. “Well\, sure\, silly! Of course it is. Everyone has to breathe to stay alive.” It is true. To live is to breathe. If I stop breathing\, I stop living. It’s an unavoidable technicality. I am\, however\, looking through Thây’s lens. When I am disconnected from my breath and breathing\, life just sort of happens without my conscious involvement—which is most often the case for me. I can’t say that anything mystical or magical happens if and when I’m alert to my breathing—connected. But\, when stressed\, if I focus on my breath and pray\, (contemplate the Infinite\, if you will)\, then I am calmed\, eventually\, and able to be more present and rational\, or in control of much of my actions and words. \n  \nMy breath becomes my “still point” (anchor)\, from which I can move out into the world around me\, regardless of events (or chaos) within it. \n  \nJanuary 30\, 2021 \n  \n#74  Caught in the Idea of a Self \n  \nThis idea of no-self (integrating self and non-self) has been a focus of mine\, off and on. I don’t know where it will lead me\, or how far I am along a path to understanding or embracing such an idea. So far\, I have learned (?) that we are all inter-related and not separate from any thing or anyone—even if our experience and sense of self-identity suggest otherwise…. \n  \nWhat I do know matters is learning to connect fully to this “life.” I can only do this through breath\, and intent. We’ve been calling this “mindfulness.” I think (it’s my guess\, mind you) that the Buddha (and all his progeny)\, Jesus and others\, are fundamentally striving to explain this very simple idea—living a complete\, whole life\, connected to reality as it is\, not as ego manufactures it to be through stories to convince the self of it being a hero of its story. I’m probably off base on this… But\, I’ll keep breathing to find out. \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n  \n#46  Deep Listening and Loving Speech \n  \nDeep listening and loving speech are wonderful instruments to help us arrive at the kind of understanding we all need as a basis for appropriate action. You listen deeply for only one purpose—to allow the other person to empty his or her heart. This is already an act of relieving suffering. To stop any suffering\, no matter how small\, is a great action of peace. The path to end suffering depends on your understanding and your capacity to act without causing harm or further suffering. This is acting with compassion\, your best protection. \n  \nI wanted to write out TNH’s piece on this\, because my thoughts follow his thought\, but his are integral to mine. I keep trying to articulate what I mean when I say that relationships/understanding/connection are what give life meaning to me. But without going deeper\, those words don’t mean much. Or else they mean too much! \n  \nThich Nhat Hanh opens it up for me\, with Deep Listening and Loving Speech. Before relationship\, understanding and connection can happen\, I must listen deeply\, intently\, slowly\, and respond by speaking with love. My life is at its fullest\, its richest\, when I am listening so deeply to someone that they feel loved enough to open their heart. Listening to someone who is normally unheard\, derided\, discounted\, debased—a prison inmate; an unwed\, pregnant mom; a vet with PTSD; an angry teenager; a woman living on the edge in Meridian\, Mississippi; an Hispanic worker trying to learn English…all those who are suffering in whichever myriad ways one suffers. \n  \nA corollary to deep listening and loving speech is—time. Deep listening and deep response that lead to understanding\, relationship and connection requires years to achieve. I have always said I give everything ten years—ten years for my stepchildren to love me\, my wisteria to bloom\, my body to shed 5 pounds. I am patient. After ten years\, I re-evaluate and might give it (whatever “it” is) another ten years. In relationships time is important. Trust doesn’t happen immediately. One who is suffering has built up sturdy walls of protection\, and only time\, deep listening and loving speech can build trust and break down walls. And when those walls come down\, oh man! the richness that pours forth is a gift—the gift of life\, and relief from suffering\, the gift of peace and joy. All those things for both the person suffering and for me. \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nI once lived in a small cabin and wrote small poems. Here are some of them: \n  \na bowl of oatmeal \nand a cup of coffee \ndid you think heaven was up in the sky somewhere? \n  \nlet go of thought \nand see what happens \n  \nall these people walking around  \nimagining that the ideas in their heads \nmake them different from each other \n  \nsitting here \nwith a cup of green tea \nI forget what it was \nthat I was so worried about \n  \ndo you imagine \nthere is some other day? \n  \nthe things we think we know \nare the stones of the prison \nin which we live \n  \nsay “I am” \nand leave it at that \n  \nwhen you see how simple it is to be happy \nyou’ll kick yourself \nfor spending so much time being miserable \n  \nwhat Reason has rent asunder \nthe Heart will make whole \n  \neverything I touch \ntouches me \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nMeditation\, it seems to me\, is like detox for the mind.  Similar to the way our bodies need detoxing when we’ve indulged in too much for too long\, our minds can become saturated with noise to the point where an intervention is required.  The remedy is the same for both the body and the mind: let go of the indulgence.  Quit drinking.  Quit thinking.  Keep still.   \n  \nThe uncluttered awareness of the meditative mind reconnects us with the elemental beauty of life.  Clarity returns.  The painful sense of isolation diminishes.   How can we not feel gratitude for such an exquisite and accessible way to restore ourselves? \n  \n—Bill Faricy \n* \n  \n#45  The Bridge \n  \nBreath is the bridge to life; in sleep or awake\, we cross the bridge always. We also share and build bridges with others by breathing in their love\, dreams\, needs and respect. Breaths & Bridges are more than air. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-2-15-21/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210218
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210304
DTSTAMP:20260502T060829
CREATED:20210218T180103Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T123033Z
UID:1794-1613606400-1614815999@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  2/18/21
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nFebruary 18\, 2021 \n  \nFebruary 14th was Valentine’s Day. Our Bibliophiles Unanimous Zoom gathering celebrated by reading love poems. Here are some of the poems we shared and some we didn’t. But first\, some wisdom from the tag on my Yogi Tea bag\, and then a story of young love: \n  \nYou don’t need love\, you are love. \n  \n—anonymous sage employed by the Yogi Tea Company \n* \n  \nIn fifth grade I developed this major crush on a sixth-grader named Wendy. She always had the prettiest face and the nicest smile; everybody thought so. So I started kissing rocks and throwing them at her. \n  \n—John\, Connecticut\, b. 1959\, from Up To No Good: the rascally things boys do\, edited by Kitty Harmon \n* \n  \nLove to faults is always blind\, \nAlways is to joy inclin’d\, \nLawless\, wing’d & unconfin’d\, \nAnd breaks all chains from every mind. \n  \n  \n—William Blake  (1757-1827) \n* \n  \nTHESEUS \n  \nLovers and madmen have such seething brains\, \nSuch shaping fantasies\, that apprehend \nMore than cool reason ever comprehends. \nThe lunatic\, the lover\, and the poet \nAre of imagination all compact. \nOne sees more devils than vast hell can hold: \nThat is the madman. The lover\, all as frantic\, \nSees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt. \nThe poet’s eye\, in a fine frenzy rolling\, \nDoth glance from heaven to earth\, from earth to heaven. \nAnd as imagination bodies forth \nThe forms of things unknown\, the poet’s pen \nTurns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing \nA local habitation and a name. \nSuch tricks hath strong imagination\, \nThat if it would but apprehend some joy\, \nIt comprehends some bringer of that joy. \nOr in the night\, imagining some fear\, \nHow easy is a bush supposed a bear? \n  \n—William Shakespeare (1564-1616)\, from A Midsummer Night’s Dream\, Act V\, scene i. \n* \n  \ni carry your heart with me(i carry it in \nmy heart)i am never without it(anywhere \ni go you go\,my dear;and whatever is done \nby only me is your doing\,my darling) \n                                                      i fear \nno fate(for you are my fate\,my sweet)i want \nno world(for beautiful you are my world\,my true) \nand it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant \nand whatever a sun will always sing is you \n  \nhere is the deepest secret nobody knows \n(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud \nand the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows \nhigher than soul can hope or mind can hide) \nand this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart \n  \ni carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) \n  \n—e. e. cummings (1894-1962) \n* \n  \nI Loved You Before I Was Born \n  \nI loved you before I was born. \nIt doesn’t make sense\, I know. I saw your eyes before I had eyes to see. \nAnd I’ve lived longing  \nfor your ever look ever since. \nThat longing entered time as this body. And the longing grew as this body waxed. \nAnd the longing grows as the body wanes. \nThe longing will outlive this body. I loved you before I was born. \nIt doesn’t make sense\, I know. Long before eternity\, I caught a glimpse \nof your neck and shoulders\, your ankles and toes. \nAnd I’ve been lonely for you from that instant. \nThat loneliness appeared on earth as this body.  \nAnd my share of time has been nothing  \nbut your name outrunning my ever saying it clearly.  \nYour face fleeing my ever \nkissing it firmly once on the mouth. In longing\, I am most myself\, rapt\, \nmy lamp mortal\, my light  \nhidden and singing.  I give you my blank heart. \nPlease write on it \nwhat you wish.   \n  \n—Li-Young Lee – 1957-  \n* \n  \nThe Song of Wandering Aengus \n  \nI went out to the hazel wood\, \nBecause a fire was in my head\, \nAnd cut and peeled a hazel wand\, \nAnd hooked a berry to a thread; \nAnd when white moths were on the wing\, \nAnd moth-like stars were flickering out\, \nI dropped the berry in a stream \nAnd caught a little silver trout. \n  \nWhen I had laid it on the floor \nI went to blow the fire a-flame\, \nBut something rustled on the floor\, \nAnd someone called me by my name: \nIt had become a glimmering girl \nWith apple blossom in her hair \nWho called me by my name and ran \nAnd faded through the brightening air. \n  \nThough I am old with wandering \nThrough hollow lands and hilly lands\, \nI will find out where she has gone\, \nAnd kiss her lips and take her hands; \nAnd walk among long dappled grass\, \nAnd pluck till time and times are done\, \nThe silver apples of the moon\, \nThe golden apples of the sun. \n  \n—William Butler Yeats  (1865-1939) \n* \n  \nThis Is Just To Say \n  \nI have eaten \nthe plums \nthat were in \nthe ice box \n  \nand which \nyou were probably \nsaving \nfor breakfast \n  \nForgive me \nthey were delicious \nso sweet \nand so cold \n  \n–William Carlos Williams  (1883-1963) \n* \n  \nWhat We’re Doing Here  \n  \nThis is why we are here— \nnot merely to survive \nbut to fall in love \nwith the white-breasted hawk \nand the rainbow fish\, \nwith the lonely sidewalk \nand the shadows of ourselves\, \nfall in love with the hands \nof the woman wearing yellow \nand the girl who loves chocolate \nand the boy who loves cars \nand the man who makes us want to be \na better version of ourself. \n  \nWe are here to fall into unmanageable love— \nto love beyond reason\, beyond \nfact\, beyond certainty. We are here \nto lose all our ideas about love \nand know it as the next choice \nwe make\, the next word \nwe say\, the next invitation \nwe offer ourselves. \n  \nWe are here to love \nthe world and each other \nthe way whales love water\, \nthe way blue loves a peacock\, \nthe way night blooming jasmine \nloves night. \n  \n–Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer \n* \n  \nI Knew a Woman \n  \nI knew a woman\, lovely in her bones\, \nWhen small birds sighed\, she would sigh back at them;    \nAh\, when she moved\, she moved more ways than one:    \nThe shapes a bright container can contain! \nOf her choice virtues only gods should speak\, \nOr English poets who grew up on Greek \n(I’d have them sing in chorus\, cheek to cheek). \n  \nHow well her wishes went! She stroked my chin\,    \nShe taught me Turn\, and Counter-turn\, and Stand;    \nShe taught me Touch\, that undulant white skin;    \nI nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;    \nShe was the sickle; I\, poor I\, the rake\, \nComing behind her for her pretty sake \n(But what prodigious mowing we did make). \n  \nLove likes a gander\, and adores a goose: \nHer full lips pursed\, the errant note to seize; \nShe played it quick\, she played it light and loose;    \nMy eyes\, they dazzled at her flowing knees;    \nHer several parts could keep a pure repose\,    \nOr one hip quiver with a mobile nose \n(She moved in circles\, and those circles moved). \n  \nLet seed be grass\, and grass turn into hay:    \nI’m martyr to a motion not my own; \nWhat’s freedom for? To know eternity. \nI swear she cast a shadow white as stone.    \nBut who would count eternity in days? \nThese old bones live to learn her wanton ways:    \n(I measure time by how a body sways). \n  \n–Theodore Roethke  (1908-1963) \n * \nOn Valentine’s Day\, Jude Russell played Offenbach’s Barcarolle for us\, sung by Anna Netrebko & Elīna Garanča\, from Tales of Hoffmann. Here’s a link: \n  \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0u0M4CMq7uI \n* \n  \nVII \n  \nI don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt\, topaz\, \nor an arrow of carnations that propagates fire: \nI love you as certain dark things are loved\, \nsecretly\, between the shadow and the soul. \n  \nI love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom\, \nbut carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; \nthanks to your love\, a certain dense fragrance\, \nrisen from the earth\, lives darkly in my body. \n  \nI love you without knowing how\, or when\, or from where; \nI love you simply\, without problems or pride: \nI love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving \n  \nbut this\, where there is no I or you— \nso close that your hand on my chest is my hand\, \nso close that when I fall asleep\, it is your eyes that close. \n  \n—Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)\, from One Hundred Love Sonnets \n* \n  \nRe-Statement of Romance \n  \nThe night knows nothing of the chants of night. \nIt is what it is as I am what I am: \nAnd in perceiving this I best perceive myself \n  \nAnd you. Only we two may interchange \nEach in the other what each has to give. \nOnly we two are one\, not you and night\, \n  \nNor night and I\, but you and I\, alone\, \nSo much alone\, so deeply by ourselves\, \nSo far beyond the casual solitudes\, \n  \nThat night is only the background of our selves\, \nSupremely true each to its separate self\, \nIn the pale light that each upon the other \nthrows. \n  \n–Wallace Stevens  (1879-1955) \n* \n  \nWe Two\, How Long We Were Fool’d \n  \nWe two\, how long we were fool’d\, \nNow transmuted\, we swiftly escape as Nature escapes\, \nWe are Nature\, long have we been absent\, but now we return\, \nWe become plants\, trunks\, foliage\, roots\, bark\, \nWe are bedded in the ground\, we are rocks\, \nWe are oaks\, we grow in the openings side by side\, \nWe browse\, we are two among the wild herds spontaneous as any\, \nWe are two fishes swimming in the sea together\, \nWe are what locust blossoms are\, we drop scent around lanes mornings and evenings\, \nWe are also the coarse smut of beasts\, vegetables\, minerals\, \nWe are two predatory hawks\, we soar above and look down\, \nWe are two resplendent suns\, we it is who balance ourselves orbic and stellar\, we are as two comets\, \nWe prowl fang’d and four-footed in the woods\, we spring on prey\, \nWe are two clouds forenoons and afternoons driving overhead\, \nWe are seas mingling\, we are two of those cheerful waves rolling over each other and interwetting each other\, \nWe are what the atmosphere is\, transparent\, receptive\, pervious\, impervious\, \nWe are snow\, rain\, cold\, darkness\, we are each product and influence of the globe\, \nWe have circled and circled till we have arrived home again\, we two\, \nWe have voided all but freedom and all but our own joy. \n  \n—Walt Whitman  (1819-1892) \n* \n  \nWhen they first meet\, these two amazing young lovers spontaneously compose a sonnet–a sure sign that they are well-matched: \n  \nROMEO \nIf I profane with my unworthiest hand \nThis holy shrine\, the gentle sin is this: \nMy lips\, two blushing pilgrims\, ready stand \nTo smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. \nJULIET \nGood pilgrim\, you do wrong your hand too much\, \nWhich mannerly devotion shows in this; \nFor saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch\, \nAnd palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss. \nROMEO \nHave not saints lips\, and holy palmers too? \nJULIET \nAy\, pilgrim\, lips that they must use in prayer. \nROMEO \nO then\, dear saint\, let lips do what hands do– \nThey pray; grant thou\, lest faith turn to despair. \nJULIET \nSaints do not move\, though grant for prayers’ sake. \nROMEO \nThen move not while my prayer’s effect I take. \n[He kisses her.] \nThus from my lips\, by thine\, my sin is purged. \nJULIET \nThen have my lips the sin that they have took. \nROMEO \nSin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged! \nGive me my sin again. \n[She kisses him.] \nJULIET \n                                            You kiss by th’ book. \n  \nAnd…Juliet’s love is absolute: \n  \nJULIET \nMy bounty is as boundless as the sea\, \nMy love as deep. The more I give to thee\, \nThe more I have for both are infinite. \n  \n–William Shakespeare (1564-1616)\, from Romeo and Juliet \n  \nWell\, that’s it for now. \n  \nMay we live in love. \nJohnny \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20210228T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20210228T180000
DTSTAMP:20260502T060829
CREATED:20210221T183547Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210221T223635Z
UID:1800-1614524400-1614535200@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: A Group Reading of the poem "FACTORY" by Antler  2/28/21
DESCRIPTION:  \nDear Bibliophiles!  \n  \nWe’re going to have a Group Reading of the poem “FACTORY” by Antler\, on Sunday\, February 28th at 3 pm. Here’s the link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/81054571039 \n  \nThis is an amazing poem! It can change the way you see and feel and understand our world. I first read an abridged version in the Winter 1979/80 Issue (No. 24) of the CoEvolution Quarterly. I got a copy of the complete poem from City Lights Books\, which published it as a separate volume.\n \nIt’s a long poem. It’s progenitors include Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself\,” the Chicago poems of Carl Sandburg\, and Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl.”  I have abridged it for this event.\n\n\nHere’s something brief about the poet from Wikipedia:\n\n\n\n  \nAntler (born Brad Burdick); 1946 in Wauwatosa\, Wisconsin\, is an American poet who lives in Wisconsin. \nAmong other honors\, Antler received the Whitman Prize from the Walt Whitman Association\, given to the poet “whose contribution best reveals the continuing presence of Walt Whitman in American poetry\,” in 1985. Antler also was awarded the Witter Bynner prize in 1987. Antler was the poet laureate of the city of Milwaukee\, Wisconsin\, for 2002 and 2003. He is also an advocate for wilderness protection. \n\n  \nHere are just a few passages from the poem to entice you to join us on the 28th: \n  \nThe machines waited for me. \nWaited for me to be born and grow young\, \nFor the totempoles of my personality to be carved…. \n  \nThis is the hall big as a football field…. \nMachines large as locomotives\, \n        louder than loudest rockgroup explosions… \n  \nFrom my work alone 280\,000 lids each day…. \n14 million cans each day \n        from a single factory!…. \n  \nHow can I apologize to primeval shorelines cluttered with beercans? \nShould I say I needed the money? \n….Should I say I’m a spy behind enemy lines….? \nShould I say here’s a free pass \n        to the antique beercan collector’s convention?…. \n  \nI should be paid for wondering if I’m only a defect \n        in the mass-production of zombies!…. \nHow much do I get for watching the sunrise? \nHow much do I get for sleeping under the stars? \n  \nBefore I said—“I will never cringe under the crack \n        of the slavedriver’s whip!” \nNow my job is to murder the oceans! \nNow my job is to poison the air! \nNow my job is to chop down every tree!…. \n  \n….I should be paid to say everyone’s job is enlightenment! \nI should be paid to run naked through the sprinkler \n        the hottest day of summer! \nI should be paid to lie in a canoe \n        and drift over the lake all day!…. \n  \nAll I have to do is stand here \n        and package factories as they come from the press— \nFactories that make cans. \nFactories that make the machines that make cans. \nFactories that make the machines that make the machines \n        that make cans. \nFactories that make factories…. \n  \nFactories that make cuckoo-clock canaries. \nIndustries of canned laughter\, canned applause\, \n        canned music. \nTelephone factories\, television factories\, \n        radio\, stereo\, tape recorder factories\, \n        refrigerator\, stove and toilet factories. \nTelescope factories\, microscope factories\, \n        film\, camera\, movie screen factories\, \n        jukebox\, roulette wheel and slot machine factories. \nIndustries of nuts! Industries of bolts! \nIndustries of bulldozers\, roadgraders\, steamshovels\, \n        cement mixers\, steamrollers\, jackhammers\, \n        pile drivers and wrecking cranes!…. \n  \nWorking your way up to foreman in the insecticide factory! \nWorking your way up to employment manager in the squirtgun factory! \nWorking your way up to the top in the pay toilet factory! \n  \n  \nWell\, that should give you a feeling for the poem. There’s much much more!  \n  \nDON’T MISS THIS!!!   \n  \npeace & love   \nJohnny \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-2-28-21/
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