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True North

4/29/2016

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Last night I went to my friend John Nyman's launch for his book, Players, (along with launches by two other authors, one from Toronto, Mark Sampson, and Dorothy Mahoney from Windsor). 

The venue was a magically spacious old loft, the large room above Brown and Dickson Antiquarian Booksellers (which used to be Novacks travel gear) on King St. downtown. My friends and I were dreaming about living in that space -- so much room, such a high ceiling, the old brick walls, those tall windows. I worked out where the kitchen area would be, the bathroom, the big sofas, my writing desk. And before the poetry began we were checking out what had already been installed, for instance a WW2 submarine's periscope. It pokes up through the roof. With our eyes to the lens, we could turn it around and see down Clarence Street.

The readings were wonderful. I could fully relax and listen because for once I wasn't organizing anything there. And afterwards some of us headed for a nearby cafe. Kevin Heslop was in one of his big-question moods, which is not rare when he's out with others, but now the Trump march was in the political air, and the Sanders wind down. Political anxiety led to social questions, then philosophical, scientific and so on.

At the night's next cafe, one of Kevin's questions was, "What is the true north of morality?" For some reason we didn't get around to tackling it. (There are so many ways of being distracted in a busy bar with interesting friends and beers on the table.) But as I wandered off on my hour-long walk home, my mind found its way back to that question via other things I had heard from the mouths of the youths I was following around, things about amazing people, about the astonishing things they've done. 

At my age, 66 now, one of the most interesting discoveries I've made lately is that many of the seemingly ordinary things I did long ago are, to many people here and now, quite amazing. I can tell an ordinary little story from those days and people are astonished by it. So, as I flowed along over the side-walks in the cool night air, I thought that every one of us is living a unique life, an astonishing one to others, if not now then later. Or it would or could be astonishing if people could really see it for what it is. Which implies that everyone is equally unique. 

And which answered, for me, the question of what true north is in terms of morality. It's equality. It's the acknowledgement that no one can be a superior person to any other. Or an inferior person. And that any other view is akin to a religious belief. Things can certainly be done better by one person than by others, but that doesn't affect the person's absolute equality with them. Even if one person is not better at anything than are other people, that person is still equal. Our political system delivers this lesson by giving everyone one vote. Science arrives at the same conclusion by understanding that each living thing, not just each person, is a separate object in the universe. It's only in the subjective world of our individual minds, housed separately inside our skulls, that we manage to see a superiority or inferiority of individuals. 

And the stages of life we pass through, from babyhood to childhood to youth to adulthood, which each carry from the previous stage these false ideas, make it very difficult for us to see beyond them. And then when we do eventually dig ourselves out, we still have to deal with our bad mental habits, the unconscious world that hates change.

Equality is the true north. 

Actually, I take it one step further. The truest north to me doesn't even allow for equality. Everyone, and every thing, just is. We use the term equality as a reaction against those other purely subjective terms. It wouldn't exist if they didn't.
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Imagine yourself there...

4/27/2016

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Here's an incredible landscape to walk across, and a wonderful photo of it. (First you must scroll down on the linked page and click on the lower image, called Figure 1. Then click again on the image that comes up, to enlarge it.) 
​
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The memories, situations that led to London's upcoming indigenous poetry event

4/27/2016

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 I recall the evolution of London's upcoming indigenous poetry and history event. Stan discusses how it came about and why, and reads his poem Moccasin Bells, which contains the memory which started the whole thing. The London Open Mic Poetry event is on May 4th, 2016, at Mykonos Restaurant, London, ON. at 7:00 pm. It will feature Charmaine E. Elijah, historian David D. Plain, poet Gloria Alvernaz Mulcahy and other indigenous poets, readers and musicians.
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Sauntering

4/23/2016

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As I walked home from our first Guerrilla Poetry happening at the central library, stopping at City Lights to purchase a book of old essays, I settled into a comfortable pace of three miles an hour, looking down at the opened book in my hand then up then down then around then down, stopping half way at Wartley Village for an Earl Grey tea and then on, reading H. D. Thoreau's 1862 essay, "Walking", and this passage:

"English literature, from the days of the minstrel
s to the Lake Poets,--Chauser and Spenser and Milton, and even Shakespeare, included--breathes no quite fresh and, in this sense, wild strain. It is an essentially tame and civilized literature, reflecting Greece and Rome. Her wilderness is a green wood, her wild man, a Robin Hood. There is plenty of genial love of Nature, but not so much of Nature herself. Her chronicles inform us when her wild animals, but not when the wild man in her, became extinct."
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Back to work on poetry, finally!!

4/22/2016

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I work-shopped a poem at the Poetry London workshop on Wednesday, and consequently read it on the main stage prior to their distinguished poets coming on. Well, afterwards Shelly Harder, one of the volunteers who works with me in London Open Mic Poetry, said she really liked it and asked me for a copy, which I duly forwarded. Next day she shocked me by saying it's one of the best poems she's ever read! I'm not sure how seriously to take that, but certainly to some degree. Shelly has an honours degree in English, I believe, far beyond my paltry level of education, and is definitely one of the local band of creative young geniuses. As well, I've never known her to exaggerate things on a personal level. So now I'm thinking I should dig out and start working on all the poems I've work-shopped over these four intense years of social organizing, organizing which has been since day one pressing down on my creativity with its ponderous thumb.

And it's good timing because just in the last few days I've finally figured out how to get out from under the constant anxiety that makes it very difficult for me to do anything, either creative or work-related.

First, I began to think that if I was to ever do any writing again, or even reading for that matter, I would have to do it first thing in the morning before the day's quota of anxiety builds up. So no matter how many pressing things I had to get done for the open mic in a given day, I instead first began to do some serious reading to wake my brain up and then some actual writing. Well this lasted for a couple days, because I was using up so much of the day reading and writing that I got further and further behind on my work. By the third day, I was panicking.

So then it occurred to me that I should try doing my organizing work first thing in the day instead of my fun stuff, before the anxiety sets in. And I was shocked at the results. During the first day I tried it l accomplished about fifteen things that I was very behind on in a matter of only a few hours. With hardly any anxiety. (This versus the near-revulsion to even looking at the computer that I had developed and had been having to try to overcome each day.) So I've been doing it this way for a few days now, but not getting any reading or writing done! Although I could have. It's just been so thrilling to not be burdened by anxiety all afternoon that I've not wanted to do anything but enjoy the feeling.

Now, as a result of the inspiration Shelly has given me, I have another big kafuffle to unravel. I have to decide how seriously to take my poetry, and what to do with it. If some of it (one poem, to be exact) is as good as Shelly says it is, then I guess I should try to get it published. Which is the opposite direction to the one I've been heading in lately. Somewhere along the way I decided to just start posting all my poems, including my good ones, on the internet, and so forgo ever having them published in a journal. (They won't take them if they've been on the internet.) Then at least a few friends could read them. To this point, I've not been able to see any good reason for journal publication, especially at my age. I don't have thirty or fourty years left to first get a PhD, then wait a decade or more to get published in respected journals just so a respected publisher would be willing to put out a book of my poems, followed by other books, none of which would be read anyway, although just having them to my credit still might earn me "respect". I don't know. But if I do have one valuable little nugget, which might be appreciated by those who appreciate, should I then try to turn this whole train around, huffing and puffing at it with my 66-year-old carcass. Sure. I guess so. These last few years of socializing seem to have changed me from a pessimist into an optimist. If that's possible. So, I'm going to start reworking old poems and writing new ones. Why not?
​
And tomorrow, at the world's first Guerilla Poetry reading that's not out on a street but inside a library, with the library's permission, no - with the library's whole-hearted backing, I'm going to read my poem. That's a start.
​
London Central Library, 2 pm.
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My world of coincidences

4/20/2016

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These things happen to me far too often for intellectual comfort. For instance, today. Three hours ago I posted, here, just below this posting, a humourous blurb about my continual problem with ADHD. My poor wife, Linda, has to put up with my endless mental outbursts. I do try to stifle myself but with limited success.

So what's the big coincidence? Just now, only a couple hours later, I got a call from my doctor saying that after what must be about a year she finally has a response from the ADHD specialist asking me to request from them an "intake package" to fill out.

"Oh! Finally! So when will they take me in for diagnosis?"

"Well," she said, "It's usually about 16 weeks after they receive the intake package."

"!"

I'm actually happy with a friend's original diagnosis of me. I had mentioned to her my lifelong difficulty concentrating on virtually anything: text books, any other books, lectures, conversations, and now the open mic poetry readings. She was able to diagnose me (hesitantly) right away because she has children with the same problems.

But what are the chances against hearing from my doctor about this within minutes after I wrote about it, which was at some random point in the middle of this year and a half of waiting? Pretty steep, but this kind of thing seems to happen to me a lot more often than it should.

So, okay then. If my existence is so tuned into the universe, maybe I can actually "force" coincidences to happen! Why not? It's no more unlikely than the other. So for instance, maybe, just from me writing this second blurb the doctor will have to get back to me before this day is out. No choice.

I'm waiting.



Comments

Donald Brackett Synchronicity rules.
Like · Reply · 9 mins

Stan Burfield Weirdness all of it.
Like · Reply · 9 mins

Donald Brackett Indeed. gets weirder every day.
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Stan Burfield Well, my weirdness just stays pretty much at the same level.
Like · Reply · 8 mins

Donald Brackett Mine too. But the world is catching up.
Like · Reply · 7 mins

Stan Burfield yeah, yes. The population increases, and so do the possible connections and coincidences.
Like · Reply · 6 mins

Donald Brackett Especially with social media and Trump, our civilization itself now has ADHD, just like us, but on a mass scale.
Like · Reply · 3 mins

Stan Burfield Oh dear. And I've been counting on the world to calm down my jitters. Great. Well, at least I know now that the world isn't responsible for them.
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Is that rumble a distant train or the city?

4/20/2016

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It was midnight and Linda went out on the balcony to sit and absorb the cool night and the quiet. I left her in peace as long as I could but finally gave up and came out and sat in the other chair. There were very few cars on the roads down below. The only sound was the continual hiss of my tinnitus. And when I managed to delete it, the remaining silence was so unusual and obvious it seemed nearly audible.

I wondered why. What am I not hearing? Ah! The crickets haven't begun their season yet. No birds are singing either. Too late at night for them.

"Do you think in summer the crickets start in when the birds stop?" Linda thought about it. "Because just from memory it seems like you either hear the one or the other."

She smiled. "I don't know." She put her head back again.

I listened.

"Is that the train in the distance?"

"I don't know. It sounds like it but it's going on too long isn't it?"

"Well, it's probably a really long train."

I was thinking. "And from here it's like we're over there watching the train go by but at two intersections, not just one."

"What?"

"Well, say we were sitting in a car at one intersection and the train just started going by." I drew it on the table with my finger. "And we waited till say a hundred cars went by and just before it finished we backed up and drove to an intersection a long ways ahead where the train was just getting to and we sat there and watched it go by again." Linda was staring at me. "Well, that would be the same as us sitting here and listening to it in the distance going past those two intersections."
​

"Stan-ley!! Can't you just shut that brain down for ten seconds and relax and listen to the silence?!?!"

5 likes: Kathryn Alexander, Silvia Palacios and 3 others
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Cambridge Keenan lol
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Kathryn Alexander shhhhhhhhhhhh! listen to the silence
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5 mins
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Revelations are everywhere.

4/7/2016

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I was looking through the books in Value Village and read this in the opening of Isabel Allende's novel, Daughter of Fortune: "The things we forget may as well never have happened." I thought that the opposite is somehow more true. The things we forget compose most, and finally all, of our lives, so their importance is everything.

Like...11Koral Scott, Robert Gregory Seaton and 9 others
Comments

Linda Eva Williams Yes, and the things I've "forgotten", are mostly repressed (death of brother, no support systems...). We block to save ourselves from pain.
Like · Reply · 1 · 7 April at 23:14

Patricia Black Agree.
Like · Reply · 7 April at 23:52

Lynn Tait Ha and from confronting reality - oh for the love of denial. Forgetting teaches and shows me nothing.
Like · Reply · Yesterday at 00:20 · Edited

Linda Eva Williams You talk about "forgetting/denial" as a choice. Very puritanical, don't ya think: to say that something our unconscious or subconscious mind rejects is not a useful survival mechanism? We must learn something, or it is useless? Forgive me if I misint...See more
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Stan Burfield I think reality is built out of forgettable things, the minor things. But even more, most of reality has never been seen by human eyes, say nothing about remembered. And all of them happened, and acted on each other and formed the universe and bound it together. If we and our memories had never existed, reality would be little different than it is now.
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Magnus Grendel Samson Coleman AMEN, AMEN, AMEN...
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Brandi Michielsen Have yet to find a delete button on memories. Selective at times, not appreciative if someone else drudges past up, that is best forgotten. Spending time in the subconscious, when events of the day trigger a foggy / clear memory and not being sure if was something experienced, told or viewed, can be a good thing, as it brings knowledge / healing / freedom from mind clutter.
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Lake of Fear

4/5/2016

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Dreams that represent major life changes, and one in particular about stepping away from the exaggeration of fear.
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Knowing you

4/4/2016

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Though I think I do, I can't possibly know you or anyone but me, and I can't seem to find or meet or see or know me.
​

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4Atalla Kifarkis, Jaime R Brenes Reyes and 2 others
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Martin Hayter Sounds like good ol' alienation and existential crisis to me.
Like · Reply · 2 April at 15:27

Stan Burfield yeah. ongoing........
Like · Reply · 2 April at 15:27

Stan Burfield The continuous realization of how little I can know. About even myself.
Like · Reply · 2 April at 15:28

Stan Burfield The longer the realization continues, the longer is the list of all the things I know I don't know.
Like · Reply · 2 April at 15:29

Stan Burfield So eventually what I do know is the shape left in space by the things I don't know. And the longer I stare at it, the sharper become its boundaries until it is an actual thing I do know, and then the things I don't know disappear in its light.
Like · Reply · 1 · 2 April at 17:15 · Edited

Barbara Green Stan Burfield Ooh. I like that.
Unlike · Reply · 1 · 2 April at 18:42

Martin Hayter Stan Burfield I think it becomes a better poem if you add the wonderful realisation of "So eventually what I do know..." to the first line, which is bleak and nihilistic on its own.
Like · Reply · 19 hrs · Edited

Stan Burfield Thanks, Martin.
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Martin Hayter You bet!
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Stan Burfield Though I think I do, I can't possibly know you or anyone but me, and can't seem to find or meet or see or know me.So eventually what I do know is the shape left in space by the things I don't know. And the longer I stare at it, the sharper become its boundaries until it is an actual thing I do know, and then the things I don't know disappear in its light.
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Martin Hayter Yeah, baby!
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17 hrs
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    Stan Burfield's Blog

    Organizer of London Open Mic Poetry. former support worker for people with autism and developmental disabilities.  former farm boy, former adventurer, former florist.
    The 2014 Ted Plantos Memorial Award

    Interview in Your Old South Magazine
    Interview: The "My Writing Process" Blog Tour

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    Videos
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    *Our apartment
    *The  indigenous poetry event
    *Lake of Fear
    *The art of the slow talk
    *Our new Guerrilla Poetry series at the library
    *Stan discovers some treasure.

    Photo Albums
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    *How'd she get in there? 
    *Before the leaves
    *Pensive in winter mist.
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    *Linda's Christmas decorations 
    *Linda and her Christmas display
    *Linda made whole wheat scones.
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    ​
    *Linda in first day of snow. ​
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    *We'll see...
    ​*Linda and I in the Rose Garden. 
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    Short Blurbs
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    *Little mistakes....
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    *​Dream of a typed poem
    *Here's what I want:
    *I like her quirks.
    *A little success
    *The course of history...
    *From "The Cat's Table" by Ondaatje
    *Happy to be a citizen again
    *I THINK IT’S LIKE THIS.
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    *After rollercoastering, I'm excited!!!
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    *I'm now a published poet! Finally.
    *Well, the MRI is done. 
    *Yeah!!! I'm finally a published poet!
    *Medical Update, for those interested
    *Yesterday I had a mini-stroke.
    *We being ourselves.
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    *To put London Open Mic behind me
    ​
    *She sings!
    *Worried
    *While walking home from the store with cherries...
    *Science
    *Standing Still
    *Hey, get a job!
    ​
    *Linda and I are learning to trust.
    *Linda is away visiting relatives. 
    *"We halted and so knew that the quiet night was full of sounds..."
    ​
    *"We halted and so knew that the quiet night was full of sounds..."
    ​
    *Diet and health/longevity
    *Edward Hopper: Woman in Train Compartment
    *A pea and a bean in a pod
    ​*Colt!
    ​*Don't get it off your chest.
    ​*In a world that is neither Heaven nor Hell, hope drives everything.
    *Roy is 80
    *What is going on with these incredible coincidences I keep having?
    *My world of coincidences
    *Is that rumble a distant train or the city?
    *Revelations are everywhere.
    *Knowing you
    *Despite...
    ​
    *The sound of love
    ​
    *Our smile for the day
    *Hurricanes Carla and Esther
    ​*Time Warp!

    *The Pow Wow
    *The Polar Sea
    *Other people
    *Moccasin Bells
    * Stories from my life
    *Je  suis Charlie Hebdo, mais....
    *Life at a fire lookout tower
    *Dominoes
    *Grinch
    *This was my dad in 1965
    *Blue

    Personal Essays
    *Here’s my inch, for what it’s worth
    *Freedom to talk
    *I wonder
    ​*Will I and the Open Mic both survive?
    *Medical Update, for those interested
    *Fred, my father
    *THIS  IS  GETTING  TOO  WEIRD:  the nearly-impossible coincidences are rolling in en masse now.
    *After four seasons, I'm flying!
    ​
    *True North
    ​
    *Back to work on poetry, finally!!
    ​
    *Maybe it's time to see a psychiatrist.
    *66: My best birthday ever.
    *Out of darkness..
    *Hacker attack. Oh man...
    *Jean Vanier, what is this thing he's discovered?
    *Jean Vanier and L'Arche
    *But then again...
    *A Most Useful Invention
    *Building my next beater.
    *My dreams are full of people now.
    *Dear Diary: Relax. Take your boots off. 
    *Those big pictures
    *An UnSilent Night
    *Urban Legends
    *Familiar
    *I  had a glass of Landon Cabernet last night
    *The Less-educated Imagination
    *Listen, I'll tell you something that's really got me worried
    *Can't get enough


    Poems
    *The universe as a poem
    *If you don't know
    *A meander through Euston Park 
    *The Picard Card
    *To Open the Morning
    * We'll see...
    *1st published poem: On a Crate 
    *We decide
    *Standing Still
    *DRINK
    *Oblivious
    *Some Other Place
    *Tinnitus
    *It seems you just have to be still
    *In the Night
    *When I was young
    *Not for inspiration
    *Oh
    *Concerning our Glorious Future: (2nd prize winner at 2014 Poetry London Contest)
    *Yes I heard Ginsberg read once he said prepare for death
    *Amazement
    *Getting used to it
    *And now the news
    *Heart Shaped


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