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SUMMARY:J and the Metaphors: Open Road Benefit Concert
DESCRIPTION:
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/j-and-the-metaphors-open-road-benefit-concert/
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SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  8/6/26
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nAugust 6\, 2026 \n  \nPlumbing Project \n  \nPart One \nWhen the plumber said \n“Probably five to ten grand \nTo reroute the pipe and bypass \nThat leak in your concrete slab” \nThese dangerous \n Oft-spoken  words \nFormed beneath my breath: \n“I could probably do that myself.” \n“That” being moving the water heater\, cutting though three walls\, three cast iron pipes \nRunning fifty feet of new plastic drain line \nDropping at a quarter inch per foot \nInto a main four-inch plumbing stack \nAfter moving the washer and dryer\, office furniture\, bookcases and desks. \n  \nPart Two \nPerhaps it was \n Ralph Waldo Emerson’s \nEssay on Self Reliance \nOr John Dewey’s further championing \nThe theme of “omni-competence” \nThat doomed countless men like myself \nTo years of wandering lumber yards \nAisles of hardware stores \nWearing bruised knuckles and  \nBad backs as badges of honor \nConfident that building\, wiring\, plumbing a house \nFlushing a radiator\, repairing a dishwasher \nOr cooking meat on a grill \nWould assure us a seat \nAt the table of manhood. \nAnd although I am proud \nTo harbor informed opinions on \nCarbide blades\, framing lumber and \nExposed aggregate concrete \nI also wonder how many languages \nI might have learned \nWhat musical instrument I could have mastered \n Had my brain not become  \nA big box store of readily available facts \nOn positive drainage\, adequate clearance and proper ventilation \nAnd to what heights I might have ascended \nHad I not so readily descended \nInto beckoning crawl spaces and drainage ditches. \n  \nPart Three \nWell\, the plumbing is done now \nWater flowing where  \nAnd as it should \nPlus a new laundry sink\, fresh paint  \nOn basement ceiling and floor  \nMany hours remain  \nTo mend the wounds in walls and return \n      Everything to its proper place. \nBut I’m ready now to  \nLearn a new language  \n Pick up a musical instrument \nHowl at the full moon \n(Rising tonight!) \nAnd see if I can’t \nPlumb a few words from  \nA few days of common labor. \n  \nWill Hornyak  \nJuly 2026 \n* \n  \nDazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill me\, \nIf I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me. \n  \n—Walt Whitman\, from “Song of Myself” \n  \nWhat a piece of work is a man!—how noble in reason\, how infinite in faculties\, in form and moving how express and admirable; in action how like an angel\, in apprehension how like a god: the beauty of the world\, the paragon of animals…” \n  \n—Hamlet speaking\, in William Shakespeare’s The Tragedy of Hamlet\, Prince of Denmark \n  \nIf the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is\, infinite. \nFor man has closed himself up\, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern. \n  \n—William Blake\, from “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell” \n  \n(Speaking of caverns\, you might want to re-visit Plato’s Allegory of the Cave in the January\, 2021 issue of peace\, love\, happiness & understanding: https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-1-7-21/.) \n  \nFor the past couple years\, I’ve been doing an “entertainment” of some kind more or less every month at Taborspace in Portland\, or online. As a concession to my aging brain\, I’ve been reading things\, rather than trying to memorize them. My entertainments have featured Shakespeare\, Dostoevsky\, Whitman\, Black Elk\, Traherne\, Cabeza de Vaca\, Kalidasa & Stallings; I’ve explored topics like Eutopia\, Zen\, the English Romantic Poets\, Humanism & Paradise Now! This month\, on August 8th\, I’m taking a look at Beauty. \n  \nEssays by Kathleen Raine\, including “The Use of the Beautiful” (1966)\, inspired me to delve into the English Romantic poets\, and now into Beauty. She says that beauty and the arts have been traditionally associated with each other\, but with the advent of modernism—she’s talking mostly about poetry—beauty was no longer fashionable. She asks: “Have we found something better?” In her essay “A Defense of Shelley’s Poetry\,” she makes this bold statement: “It might be said that the arts exist\, finally\, for no other end than the holding before us of images of Paradise.” \n  \nIf you want to inquire into a topic like beauty\, or love\, or happiness\, the first thing you discover is that it is endless. There are all kinds of beauty. The natural world is full of beauty. Human beings make beautiful music\, paintings\, sculptures\, poems. We have beautiful ideas and imaginings. And there is something mysterious\, which we call “inner beauty.” For my event on Saturday\, I don’t want to talk about theories of beauty. Mostly\, I want to give examples of things that I find beautiful—including music\, works of art\, poetry\, pictures of happy children and hummingbirds\, et cetera. Here are three of my favorite poems about beauty that are themselves beautiful: \n  \nPied Beauty \n  \nGlory be to God for dappled things – \n   For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; \n      For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; \nFresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings; \n   Landscape plotted and pieced – fold\, fallow\, and plough; \n      And áll trádes\, their gear and tackle and trim. \n  \nAll things counter\, original\, spare\, strange; \n   Whatever is fickle\, freckled (who knows how?) \n      With swift\, slow; sweet\, sour; adazzle\, dim; \nHe fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: \n                                Praise him. \n  \n—Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889) \n* \n  \nOde on a Grecian Urn \n  \nThou still unravish’d bride of quietness\, \n       Thou foster-child of silence and slow time\, \nSylvan historian\, who canst thus express \n       A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: \nWhat leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape \n       Of deities or mortals\, or of both\, \n               In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? \n       What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? \nWhat mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? \n               What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? \n  \nHeard melodies are sweet\, but those unheard \n       Are sweeter; therefore\, ye soft pipes\, play on; \nNot to the sensual ear\, but\, more endear’d\, \n       Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: \nFair youth\, beneath the trees\, thou canst not leave \n       Thy song\, nor ever can those trees be bare; \n               Bold Lover\, never\, never canst thou kiss\, \nThough winning near the goal yet\, do not grieve; \n       She cannot fade\, though thou hast not thy bliss\, \n               For ever wilt thou love\, and she be fair! \n  \nAh\, happy\, happy boughs! that cannot shed \n         Your leaves\, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; \nAnd\, happy melodist\, unwearied\, \n         For ever piping songs for ever new; \nMore happy love! more happy\, happy love! \n         For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d\, \n                For ever panting\, and for ever young; \nAll breathing human passion far above\, \n         That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d\, \n                A burning forehead\, and a parching tongue. \n  \nWho are these coming to the sacrifice? \n         To what green altar\, O mysterious priest\, \nLead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies\, \n         And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? \nWhat little town by river or sea shore\, \n         Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel\, \n                Is emptied of this folk\, this pious morn? \nAnd\, little town\, thy streets for evermore \n         Will silent be; and not a soul to tell \n                Why thou art desolate\, can e’er return. \n  \nO Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede \n         Of marble men and maidens overwrought\, \nWith forest branches and the trodden weed; \n         Thou\, silent form\, dost tease us out of thought \nAs doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! \n         When old age shall this generation waste\, \n                Thou shalt remain\, in midst of other woe \nThan ours\, a friend to man\, to whom thou say’st\, \n         “Beauty is truth\, truth beauty\,—that is all \n                Ye know on earth\, and all ye need to know.” \n  \n—John Keats (1795-1821) \n* \n  \nLapis Lazuli \n  \nI have heard that hysterical women say \nThey are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow\, \nOf poets that are always gay\, \nFor everybody knows or else should know \nThat if nothing drastic is done \nAeroplane and Zeppelin will come out\, \nPitch like King Billy bomb-balls in \nUntil the town lie beaten flat. \n  \nAll perform their tragic play\, \nThere struts Hamlet\, there is Lear\, \nThat’s Ophelia\, that Cordelia; \nYet they\, should the last scene be there\, \nThe great stage curtain about to drop\, \nIf worthy their prominent part in the play\, \nDo not break up their lines to weep. \nThey know that Hamlet and Lear are gay; \nGaiety transfiguring all that dread. \nAll men have aimed at\, found and lost; \nBlack out; Heaven blazing into the head: \nTragedy wrought to its uttermost. \nThough Hamlet rambles and Lear rages\, \nAnd all the drop scenes drop at once \nUpon a hundred thousand stages\, \nIt cannot grow by an inch or an ounce. \n  \nOn their own feet they came\, or on shipboard\, \nCamel-back\, horse-back\, ass-back\, mule-back\, \nOld civilisations put to the sword. \nThen they and their wisdom went to rack: \nNo handiwork of Callimachus \nWho handled marble as if it were bronze\, \nMade draperies that seemed to rise \nWhen sea-wind swept the corner\, stands; \nHis long lamp chimney shaped like the stem \nOf a slender palm\, stood but a day; \nAll things fall and are built again \nAnd those that build them again are gay. \n  \nTwo Chinamen\, behind them a third\, \nAre carved in Lapis Lazuli\, \nOver them flies a long-legged bird \nA symbol of longevity; \nThe third\, doubtless a serving-man\, \nCarries a musical instrument. \n  \nEvery discolouration of the stone\, \nEvery accidental crack or dent \nSeems a water-course or an avalanche\, \nOr lofty slope where it still snows \nThough doubtless plum or cherry-branch \nSweetens the little half-way house \nThose Chinamen climb towards\, and I \nDelight to imagine them seated there; \nThere\, on the mountain and the sky\, \nOn all the tragic scene they stare. \nOne asks for mournful melodies; \nAccomplished fingers begin to play. \nTheir eyes mid many wrinkles\, their eyes\, \nTheir ancient\, glittering eyes\, are gay. \n  \n—William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-8-6-26/
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CREATED:20260624T182831Z
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SUMMARY:BEAUTY: A Vision  8/8/26
DESCRIPTION:  \nBEAUTY: A Vision  \n  \nJohnny Stallings looks at Beauty \n  \nSaturday\, August 8\, at 3 p.m. \nArtspace Room at Taborspace\, 5441 SE Belmont  \n  \nthis Open Road event is free
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/beauty-a-vision-7-18-26/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20260901
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20261201
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UID:6091-1788220800-1796083199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Will Hornyak upcoming performances
DESCRIPTION:The Open Road Recommends: \n  \nWill Hornyak is a Featured Storyteller at this year’s National Storytelling Festival! \nFriday\, Saturday\, Sunday: October 2\, 3 & 4 \nJonesborough\, Tennessee \n  \nFiddlin’ & Folktales: A magical evening of music and storytelling with Will Hornyak and Seth Moran. \nFriday\, October 9\, 7 pm \nHistoric Covington House in Vancouver\, Washington   \nfor tickets: https://www.zeffy.com/en-US/ticketing/fiddlin-and-folktales \n  \nMonsters\, Ghosts and Tricksters with Will Hornyak with Susan Strauss. \nSaturday\, October 10\, 6 pm \nBend Waldorf School\, 2150 NE Studio Road #2\, Bend\, OR  97701  \nTickets: $15 (soup & bread included)  \nSpecial Puppet Show at 5 pm! \n\n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/will-hornyak-upcoming-performances/
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SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  9/3/26
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nSeptember 3\, 2026 \n  \nHi Johnny- \n  \nSince you and I are both cloud lovers I thought I’d send you this little idea that occurred to me. I hope you get a kick out of it. \n  \nLove & peace\, of course\,            \n– Bill \n  \nYou know the way some surfers get towed by a jet ski out to the biggest waves?  Well\, some day when those huge\, white cumulus clouds are at their height\, when they’re even more spectacular than usual\, maybe we could hire a helicopter to take us up a few thousand feet.  Then we could just step out onto one of the larger clouds and spend the afternoon playing in the sky…. \nWe can roll around on the tops of the clouds like a big feather bed.   \nRide them like horses.   \nWe could jump from one cloud to another\, like being at a trampoline park.   \nWe can play tag\, or dive inside the clouds playing hide & go seek.   \nWe could strap a cloud on each foot and run around\, pretending we’re giants. \nIf more friends come with us we can each take a cloud and hold races.  Or we could line up and make a parade!  Or we can all hold hands from our individual clouds and make a big train— “The Cumulus Express”! \nOr if we’re feeling really adventurous we could go a little higher up and have a friendly snowball fight. \nWe might get a look at the daytime moon\, or get to see an eagle at work. \nMaybe we’d snuggle down into one of the warmer clouds and take a little nap. \nWhen we get thirsty we can drink the dew; when we’re hungry we can snack on the cloud fluff (better than cotton candy—sugar free).  \nWhen we’re played out and the Sun starts going down it would be time to hitch a ride on one of the heavier\, darker clouds as it’s slowly sinking down to earth.  We’d gently step off as the fog settles near our homes\, just in time for supper.   \nAnd then we get to sleep in our own beds\, putting our heads on our pillows\, fluffy and white like the clouds\, and float away into our next dreams…. \n  \n—Bill Faricy \n* \n  \nFan of Fall \n  \nSeptember. Finally! Finally I can write about Fall and why I love it so much. You might say\, Oh\, but you must learn to love where and when you are in the moment\, in the present. Sorry\, not sorry. August is my least favorite month. The only plus it has going for it is that it is a harbinger of Fall—of beautiful September\, October\, and November. They are the three most luxurious\, stimulating\, and captivating months of the year. We are out of the stultifying heat of summer and into the fresh\, sharp\, clear air of the fall months. All of my senses are fresher. More observant. More in the present: the vine maples turning scarlet. The daylight hours constricting. The moon and stars sharpening against the darkness. And the air! Cool mornings\, fresh afternoons chilly evenings. My pumpkins swelling to the size of beach balls. Tomatoes\, green beans\, chrysanthemums\, asters\, all welcoming the fall sunshine. \n  \nAnd right now I’m off to can pears in the slanting sunlight. Happy in September! \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nCarl Alsup read me a poem by Dustin Smith. A short time later\, Dustin mailed it to me. Here it is: \n  \nThe Treasure of the Sierra Padre \n  \nMemories of my father run quietly \nIn the background of my mind \nLike old black and white movies. \n  \nThe silently shifting scenes hurt \nLike celluloid cigarette burns \nThrough clenched teeth. \n  \nI feel the rattling reels vibrating \nThrough me; thrumming a dull\, deep ache \nIn the darkened hush of recollection. \n  \nMy father was reserved; stoic. \nA Humphrey Bogart type. Solemn\, \nSolitary\, with a certain quiet desperation. \n  \nHe was a mountain of a man\,  \nLooming large in the horizon behind me. \nSeemingly inevitable; eternal. \n  \nHis hands keep leaping out at me \nIn vivid 3-D reveries\, \nWrapped around tall bourbons\, \n  \nNeat\, like bottomless still-glass pools \nAmongst old stones\, reflecting the \nAmber fires of setting suns. \n  \nHis rings stand out most of all; \nClinking against cut-crystal highballs. \nBrilliant flashes of color \n  \nAmidst the deepening gloom \nOf time and space. \nRough\, calloused hands; gnarled and twisted \n  \nFrom weathering storms. \nI see the broken\, craggy cliffs \nOf knuckles towering over me\, \n  \nRiddled with rich veins of gold \nAnd gemstones; the luster of the ore \nSoftening the hardened earth. \n  \nDangerous. Breath-taking. \nThose cliffs had broken men \nUpon their slopes. \n  \nBut they were tender too. \nI still feel their presence \nResting heavy on my shoulders \n  \nWith the comforting heft of \nThe permanence of love; \nA granitic weight \n  \nSheltering me from the world \nLike a valley nestled within the arms \nOf a natural colossus. \n  \nMy father was a mountain of a man; \nShaped by the molten heat \nAnd violence of the world; \n  \nSoftened in perspective and \nCaptured forever in memory. \nA timeless classic that perseveres. \n  \n—Dustin Smith \n7/29/26 \n* \n  \nI asked Kim to send a poem about his dad. He generously obliged. \n  \nBack Then\, His Words  \nWere Not Enough… \nNow They Are Precious \n  \nWe stopped on a road in Montana \nthe last summer of my father’s life\, \nbut we didn’t know. I turned off the car  \nand poured out my sorrows\, my life  \nfalling apart\, my marriage over\, my brother  \ndead\, my old landmarks gone. \n  \nHe was silent\, my father\, silent. We listened  \nto the river. Two crows flew over\, shouting.  \nThey could go anywhere. In hard light\,  \nthe river flowed silver at the long bend\,  \nwillows bowing green. My father  \nput his hand on my sleeve: \n“Be of good heart\, my friend.” \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \nPrayer for My Father \n  \nIn memory of my father William J. Hornyak M.D. (1909-1981) \nwho died when I was 28 but left an indelible impression on my life. \nI miss him every day. \n  \nMy father \nWho art in heaven \nHallowed by thy name. \nYou gave to me daily \nThe bread of yourself \nForgave me my ingratitude \nAnd led me not \nInto your expectations \nOf my future \nBut towards a vision \nOf my own. \n  \nYour labors and love \nSeeded tenderness and discipline \nCourage and compassion \nUpon my soul. \nYour surgeon’s hands healed many \nBut your medicine was humor \nLaughter and music. \nYou left so soon \nBut remind me still \nTo be of good cheer \nAnd of service \nTo make things \nWith wood and words \nTo love and respect \nMy sisters \nTo give freely \nThe bread of myself to others \nAnd deliver people upon occasion \nFrom melancholy and boredom \nWith a joke or story. \nFor mine is a kingdom \nMade from the soil \nOf your sacrifice and love. \nAll glory and honor to you my father \nWho art in heaven \nNow and forever \nAmen. \n  \n—Will Hornyak\, from This Altar of Earth and Sky \n* \n  \nThese two poems by William Stafford seem to me to complement each other in some mysterious way. \n  \nAn Archival Print \n  \nGod snaps your picture—don’t look away— \nthis room right now\, your face tilted \nexactly as it is before you can think \nor control it. Go ahead\, let it betray \nall the secret emergencies and still hold \nthat partial disguise you call your character. \n  \nEven your lip\, they say\, the way it curves \nor doesn’t\, or can’t decide\, will deliver \nbales of evidence. The camera\, wide open\, \nstands ready; the exposure is thirty-five years \nor so—after that you have become \nwhatever the veneer is\, all the way through. \n  \nNow you want to explain. Your mother \nwas a certain—how to express it?—influence. \nYes. And your father\, whatever he was\, \nyou couldn’t change that. No. And your town \nof course had its limits. Go on\, keep talking— \nHold it. Don’t move. That’s you forever. \n  \n  \nA Story That Could Be True \n  \nIf you were exchanged in the cradle and \nyour real mother died \nwithout ever telling the story \nthen no one knows your name\, \nand somewhere in the world \nyour father is lost and needs you \nbut you are far away. \n  \nHe can never find \nhow true you are\, how ready. \nWhen the great wind comes \nand the robberies of the rain \nyou stand on the corner shivering. \nThe people who go by— \nyou wonder at their calm. \n  \nThey miss the whisper that runs \nany day in your mind\, \n“Who are you really\, wanderer?”— \nand the answer you have to give \nno matter how dark and cold \nthe world around you is: \n“Maybe I’m a king.” \n  \n—William Stafford \nReprinted with permission of The Estate of William Stafford. \n* \n  \nI wrote this the day my dad died. \n  \nHere are some of my thoughts about my father: \n  \nMary and I thanked Dad for all he had given us over the years\, especially for that most precious of all gifts—the gift of life. As I have gotten older I have gained a deeper appreciation for what a good father he was to me. Over the years he has given me lots of support and encouragement in all kinds of undertakings. He was a generous man. From early childhood on\, he respected me as a person\, and gave me a sense that I could accomplish anything I gave my best effort to. As a father\, his natural impulses went against the kind of shaming and blaming that paralyzes a person and makes them feel worthless and guilty. He always encouraged in me the qualities of happiness\, exuberance and generosity that come naturally to children. A great deal of the abundant happiness that has been my lot in life is due to the positive reinforcement and praise I received as a small boy from both my parents and from my older sister. Looking back\, I’m impressed at how much time Dad had to teach me how to pass and catch a football\, to field and hit a baseball\, to make a lay-in with my left hand\, to stand on my head and on my hands\, to do front and back somersaults\, to dive off a diving board. I have vivid memories of assuming the starting position for wrestling with Dad again and again on the living room floor. He was more eager to teach me arithmetic\, geometry and algebra than I was to learn them. He patiently taught me how to use a hammer\, a saw and an axe. He taught me how to build a house and how to paint one\, how to mow the lawn\, how to ride a bike and a unicycle\, how to garden. He took me to baseball games\, basketball games\, football games\, track meets\, wrestling meets\, gymnastic meets and hockey matches. He taught me a lot about the life of the body and of the mind. He recited poetry to us. Both our parents took us to plays\, movies\, concerts\, museums\, and cultural events of all kinds. I got to see Angus Bowmer play Shylock and Sir Toby Belch. We went to hear Louis Armstrong (twice)\, Harry Belafonte\, The Dave Brubeck Quartet\, The Oscar Peterson Trio\, Al Hirt and Peter\, Paul and Mary. By the time I was five I had been in a high school play\, thanks I’m sure to Dad. Around our house the love of books\, of reading\, of ideas was contagious. We went camping and travelled around the country. We lived in Montana and Oregon and Hawaii. We had a cabin on Flathead Lake\, on the Sandy River\, and on the Oregon Coast. Our parents promised to pay for our college educations. As I look at the long list of things my mom and dad did for us kids it sounds like a life of wealth and privilege\, but our parents made this happen as hard-working\, frugal\, middle-class people. As a schoolteacher\, Dad got off work before Mom\, so he usually did the grocery shopping and made dinner. \n  \nI ran into conflict with my dad in adolescence. Readers of Freud won’t be too surprised by this. I guess it’s more accurate to say that my lifelong conflicts with my father reached their peak intensity at that time. This conflict came to a head with my decision to not just be a “conscientious objector” (legal)\, but to be a “draft resister” (illegal) against the war in Vietnam. By that time all our family agreed that the war was wrong\, but my liberal parents\, who had both graduated from Law School\, could not agree with my rejection of Capitalism\, Industrialism and the Nation State as innately destructive. Our disagreements reached the exploding point\, but out of the catharsis came a new understanding and respect for each others’ views\, for each others’ basic humanity\, and for each others’ efforts to make sense of our lives—to accept and love each other as fellow-suffering mortals. Since that time\, despite disagreements\, my father and I have known each other and loved each other man to man. \n  \nI said “good-bye” to Dad this morning. I’m sad. I miss him. My father’s love for my mother and her love for him were an inspiration to all who knew them. They loved us kids. It is a great blessing to grow up in a loving home. This morning\, as Dad and I looked deep into each others’ eyes for the last time\, I felt that saying “I love you” somehow implied that we were separate. So I said to him: “This is Love. This is who you are. This is who we are. Nothing will ever happen to this. This was not born and cannot die. Love. Yes. Love. Yes. Love. Yes. Love. Love. Love.” \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n11/27/96 \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-9-3-26/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20260912T120000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20260912T140000
DTSTAMP:20261003T115001
CREATED:20260823T215430Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260823T215430Z
UID:6419-1789214400-1789221600@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Amos Kilbright: his adscititious experiences  9/12/26
DESCRIPTION:  \nAmos Kilbright: his adscititious experiences \n  \nFrank Stockton’s astonishing tale \nread by Johnny Stallings \n  \nSaturday\, September 12th\, at noon \nin the Artspace Room at Taborspace \n5441 SE Belmont Street\, in Portland \n  \nthis Open Road event is free \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/amos-kilbright-his-adscititious-experiences-9-12-26/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20260922
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20261014
DTSTAMP:20261003T115001
CREATED:20260921T220145Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260922T191525Z
UID:6444-1790035200-1791935999@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:STORYTIME! 9/22/26-10/13/26
DESCRIPTION:STORYTIME!\n \n \nArt Degraded\, Imagination Denied\, War Governed the Nations.\n \n–William Blake\n\n\n\n \n\n\n \n¡Amigos!\n\n\n\n \n\n\nWhile I’m in Mexico…\n \n…starting tomorrow night (9/22/26) and going through October 13th\, I’m going to be reading a story every evening on Zoom\, starting at 8 pm\, Pacific Daylight Time. I’ll read for a half hour\, and then people who want to can have a chat together. I WILL BE WEARING MY DINOSAUR PAJAMAS! You are invited to wear your pajamas–to maximize a feeling of coziness.\n \nThe first story will be one of Nancy and my favorites. It is a hilarious (and ultimately profound) tale for children of all ages. The ideal way to enjoy it is to come for the first exciting episode\, and not miss any. If you can’t do that\, drop in whenever. Each reading will begin with a very brief synopsis of “our story so far…” so that no matter when or how often you come–you will always have fun!\n \nGUARANTEED TO BE A LOVE-IN OR YOUR MONEY BACK\n \nI hope to see y’all for STORYTIME! Here’s the Zoom link:\n \n\n \n\nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/89534225375 \n  \nI don’t know what the next story will be\, but there are millions to choose from\, so that shouldn’t be a problem. \nCurrent plan is: after I get back to Portland\, do it in an ongoing way on Friday evenings\, with lots of guest readers taking turns sharing their favorite stories. \n  \npaz\, amor y felicidad \nJuanito \n\n \n\nOde to My Pajamas \n  \nNancy\, \nwho loves me\, \ngot me a pair \nof turquoise pajamas \nwith dinosaurs \nand volcanoes. \n  \nAt night \nwhen I put them on \nI’m magically transformed \ninto the happy little boy  \nI once was. \n  \nIn the morning\, \nI sit around for hours \nreluctant to change \nout of my dinosaur pajamas \nand into \nthe kind of clothes \nwe are required to wear \nwhen we go out \ninto the so-called \n“real world.” \n  \n—Guanajuato\, 2/4/26
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/storytime-9-22-26-10-13-26/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20261001
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20261105
DTSTAMP:20261003T115001
CREATED:20261001T160753Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20261001T161553Z
UID:6492-1790812800-1793836799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  10/1/26
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nOctober 1\, 2026 \n  \nDeep Dialogue \n  \nDeep dialogue has enriched my life immensely. I suspect that a person could graduate from college\, even get a PhD\, without the subject of deep dialogue ever coming up. Although\, hopefully\, this imaginary college student must have had a lot of deep dialogues along the way. \n  \nOne of my favorite tropes is: “The arts of peace\, love and happiness are not taught in school.” Where do we learn about them? One place is through deep dialogue with ourselves and with others.  \n  \nDialogue with ourselves? Yes\, emphatically! \n  \nWe spend a lot of our waking hours talking to ourselves—usually not out loud. We ask ourselves questions about who we are and what we are doing. Is this the right choice? Where am I going? What does it mean? Our inner monologue—or dialogue with ourself—doesn’t always qualify as “deep.” A lot of the time we are thinking about basic things—money\, food\, what to watch on TV. We worry. We play “the same tapes” over and over. We spend a lot of our time daydreaming. \n  \nOne way to deepen the dialogue with ourselves is to keep a journal. There we can ponder more carefully and with more focus. We can\, in the process of writing and reading what we have written\, observe our thoughts—our life. \n  \nIn my life I’ve had a LOT of one-on-one (deep) conversations in coffee shops and tea shops. I may be the world record holder in this category. Most people outgrow this after their early twenties. Getting a job\, getting married\, having kids—these things can really cut into your leisure time. \n  \nFor many years I had fifteen or twenty people over to my apartment every Sunday for waffles. (I learned that waffles were a bigger draw than pancakes.) \n  \nA turning point for me—when I took it to the next level—was when\, in July of 2006\, I began doing weekly deep dialogues at Two Rivers prison in Umatilla\, Oregon. The title of the program was “The Stories We Tell Ourselves—How Our Thinking Shapes Our Lives.” For the first two years\, I did two dialogues every Wednesday—one from 1 to 4\, and another from 6 to 9. After the first two years\, I just did the evening one. \n  \nWe might take topics like “Love\,” or “Freedom\,” or “Happiness”—or no topic at all. From the beginning\, it was amazing! Somehow\, people trusted each other and talked honestly about what was most important to them. I quickly gave up on the idea that I was there to teach something\, or to help people “improve” in some way. There was no agenda\, other than to get together and spend time talking and listening to each other. It seems like the simplest thing in the world\, but when was the last time you\, dear reader\, sat in a circle with twelve or sixteen people for three hours and listened intently while one person at a time shared their thoughts and feelings? \n  \nAs facilitator\, I didn’t want to drive six hours and 360 miles to talk about who won the football game. The men understood that. There were no arguments. It was understood that we all had different views and different beliefs. That was just accepted. We listened to each other.  \n  \nWhen someone came to the group for the first time\, I would usually put them on the spot by asking a question like: “Where are you on your life journey?” Usually there was a pause\, while everyone in the circle waited expectantly and respectfully. The new person was probably thinking something like: “What have I gotten myself into?” But everyone in the circle was curious to know something about them. And maybe many people have been waiting their whole life for other people to take an interest in who they are. Maybe a question like that was never asked at home or in school. After hesitating\, the new person might begin: “I was adopted. I don’t know who my real parents are…” And another deep dialogue had begun. \n  \nThe men who came regularly every week—sometimes for years—wanted more than superficial conversation. They didn’t want to waste the opportunity to get to know themselves and each other better\, and to make new friends. Friendships naturally formed. There was  a lot of love in the room. \n  \nEvery night\, when I left the prison\, I had a feeling of great elation! Something beautiful and extraordinary had happened. Always. Without fail. Later\, when I went only once a month\, other people volunteered to make sure the dialogues continued to happen every week. For them\, too—Nancy Scharbach\, Jude Russell\, Bill Faricy\, Dick Willis\, Kristen Sagan\, Deborah Buchanan\, Bushra Azzouz\, Katie Radditz—the prison dialogues were a life-changing experience. Many of the men who were in the dialogue group have told me how important it was to them. In some cases\, it opened up whole new vistas and possibilities. \n  \nOne of the weird things I remember about that time is that all week long I would be looking forward to the next Wednesday—when I could get to go to prison! It was usually the high point of my week. And I thought about how odd it was that people “on the outside” didn’t get together regularly to have that kind of experience. \n  \nI’m no longer a volunteer with the Oregon Department of Corrections. I stay in touch with many of the friends I made in prison. Some are still inside. Many have gotten out! Hallelujah! \n  \nIt took me a while\, but eventually I was able to get a weekly deep dialogue group going “on the outside.” It’s a different demographic—mostly old people (like me). Young people are too busy doing other things—especially\, since we meet on a weekday morning—doing things like working and earning money. It makes sense. Food and shelter are high priorities for humans. And… \n  \nIn addition to “making a living”—(strange phrase)—we need love\, friendship\, community. We need each other! Deep dialogue is a way to make deep friendships and to build community. Highly recommended! \n  \nLately\, when I’m in Guanajuato\, Mexico\, as I am right now\, I find myself writing odes.  \n  \nIt’s Pablo Neruda’s fault.  \n  \nHere are some from last year: \n  \nOde to Ode-Makers \n  \nInspired by you\, \ndear Pablo\, \nmaker of more odes \nthan anyone \nwho walked this green Earth\, \nI dare to write poems \nwith short lines\, \nshort\, \nlike my attention span. \nPablo\, \nI love \nyour Ode to Things \nand your Ode to Socks \nand your odes \nto so many humble items \nwhich you have made \nimmortal. \nI also love  \nolder odes \nand ode-makers\, \nlike John Keats. \nI love his glorious \nOde on a Grecian Urn\, \nand the sublime letter \nhe wrote in 1819 \nto his brother George \nand George’s wife Georgiana\, \nwho had moved \nto Louisville\, Kentucky\, \nthe previous year. \nJohn left \nthis vale of Soul-making \nthe following year\, \nin 1820\, \nat the age \nof 25. \n* \n  \nOde to the Avacado \n  \nAvacado! \nYou are not like \nall those other fruits. \nWhen ripe\, \nyou are green. \nYou are not  \njuicy. \nYou are \nsomething else\, \nwhich can’t be described\, \nand yet\, \nthat’s all that people \nwho write poems \never do— \ntalk about things \nthat can’t be \nput into words. \nPutting things into words— \nwhat a hare-brained idea! \nAnd yet\, \nirresistible. \nEverything\, \nwithout exception\, \nis beyond our ken. \nThe world is too big! \nAnd everything \nis always changing. \nWe don’t know \nanything. \nWe don’t know \nwho we are \nor \nwhat’s going on here. \nStill\, \nwe talk and talk \nfor the sheer pleasure \nof talking. \nThis poem \ndoesn’t have much to say \nabout the avacado \nor about anything\,  \nreally. \nAnd now\, \nhaving accomplished nothing\, \nthis poem must\, \nlike every other poem\, \ncome to an end. \n* \n  \nOde to Books \n  \nMy affliction\, \nmy addiction\, \nmy delight\, \nmy obsession\, \nmy possessions\, \nmy companions\, \neverywhere I go \nI bring you with me\, \nmy house  \nis filled with books \non shelves\, \non the floor\, \nbeside the bed\, \nI can’t live \nwithout you. \nThe world \nis big \nand in the world \nare libraries \nand in the libraries \nare countless worlds. \nI want to read \nall the books\, \nI want to visit \nall the worlds \nbefore I die\, \nbut I’m old \nand there are \ntoo many books \nand I read \nslowly \nin order to \nsavor the pleasure \nof holding you. \nAnd so\, \nwhen I turn my last page \nand go to sleep \nmaybe \nI will dream \nof going \nto Heaven \nwhich is  \nof course \na Library. \n* \n  \nOde to Guanajuato \n  \nDreamscape \nof colors\, \nclouds\, \ncoffee\, \nchocolate\, \ncomida\, \nsunshine\, \nsingers\,  \nstudents\, \npoets\, \npainters\, \nprintmakers\, \nlaborers\, \nactors\, \ndancers\, \nclowns. \nCity of music\, \nof stones. \nA bowl in the mountains\, \nsitting above \na labyrinth \nof tunnels. \n  \nFamilies \nwalking up and down \nsteep hills \nin the morning \nand at night— \nbabies being carried\, \nlittle children\, \nbig children\, \ncouples\, \nold people\, \nvery old people. \nNo one \nis in a hurry. \n  \nCity of barking dogs \nand of roosters \nwho don’t know \nwhat time it is. \nGiant ancient churches\, \nfountains\, \ntortilla machines\, \nprocessions\, \nparades\, \nfiestas\, \nfireworks\, \nexplosions. \n  \nCity  \nthat \nmy darling \nNancy  \nand I \nreturn to \nagain and again \nin order  \nto nourish \nour souls. \n  \npaz\, amor y felicidad \nJuanito \n* \n  \nIn spite of our son nearly dying in an automobile accident\, in spite of my mother announcing\, at age 85\, that she’d had five lovers during 60+ years of marriage to my dad\, in spite of my dear brother-in-law committing suicide. In spite of John F. Kennedy being assassinated\, in spite of 911… \n  \nIn spite of every earth-shaking\, earthquaking event\, when I felt the world was going to stop spinning\, and the earth was going to drop out from beneath my feet—-life went on\, bless its heart: the leaves turned scarlet\, the moon and stars kept shining at night\, the rains continued to fall\, the soft\, wintery snow whispered\, and the leaf buds and daffodils pushed forth. The part of me that was breaking somehow mended\,  knowing that life…just… goes on.  \n  \nLife goes on\, in all its beauty and in all its quiet persistence. Just look around; it’s inescapable. \n  \npeace\, love\, happiness\, and understanding. And beauty. \n—Jude Russell \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-10-1-26/
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