 are highly divergent in different editions. The same sutta appears at SN 22:82/ iii.104, and the reading there (paṭpucchā vinı̄tā) seems preferable to the reading here (in PTS, paṭicca vinı̄tā; in BBS, paṭvinı̄tā). The translation here follows the Sȧyutta text. Ñm’s translation, based on the PTS Majjhima text, reads: “Now, bhikkhus, you have been trained by me in dependent [conditionality] in various instances.” Neither version is idiomatic Pali, and the commentaries to both Nikāyas are silent.
That is what the Blessed One said. The bhikkhus were satisfied and delighted in the Blessed One’s words. Now while this discourse was being spoken, through not clinging the minds of sixty bhikkhus were liberated from the taints.1044 MA: The sixty bhikkhus discarded their original meditation subjects and investigated a new subject (based on the Buddha’s discourse, MṬ). Without breaking their posture, right in their seats they attained arahantship.Sat
Apr
21
Hayley Orrantia ('Erica Goldberg' on the ABC Comedy Series The Goldbergs) **All Ages Matinee**
Brennley Brown
Rams Head On Stage
33 West St.
Annapolis, MD, 21401
Doors 12:00 PM / Show 1:00 PM
This event is all ages
Watch & Listen.
In the Spring of 2016, Hayley starred in the film, “God’s Not Dead 2.” Hayley starred as Brooke (opposite Melissa Joan Hart and Jesse Metcalfe), a high-school student who stirs up controversy by sparking a conversation about Jesus in class. Hayley can also be heard on the film’s soundtrack singing her original track “Silence You.” newest single, “Give Me Back Sunday” premiered on Radio Disney and is available on iTunes, Spotify, Amazon, Google Play, and all other download/streaming services.
Hayley’s other songs, (“Love Sick,” “Until Then,” “Hasta Verte,” and “Strong, Sweet, & Southern) can also be heard now on Spotify and iTunes with a full EP expected later this year.
Orrantia was born and raised in Texas. She currently resides in Los Angeles.
Brennley Brown is a 15 year old, country singer-songwriter and semi-finalist on Season 12 of The Voice as well as an accomplished actress. She was raised on classic country music from the likes of Willie Nelson and Dolly Parton and it shows in her emotional vocal performances. With the guidance of coach Gwen Stefani, Brown made show history with several of her chart topping renditions of covers such as “Up To The Mountain”. Brown holds an Ovation Award, voices characters for Nickelodeon, Disney and DreamWorks and played her first CMA Fest in June 2017. She is currently preparing to release original music and is performing across the US. She has opened for Dwight Yoakum and Keith And)Rae Gouirand’s first collection of poetry, Open Winter, was selected by Elaine Equi for the 2011 Bellday Prize, won a 2012 Independent Publisher Book Award for Poetry and the 2012 Eric Hoffer Book Award for Poetry, and was a finalist for the Montaigne Medal, the Audre Lorde Award for Poetry, and the California Book Award for Poetry.
Laura Davis: Describe the process of making a recent poem or story. Lightning? Slow-dripping faucet? How long did you work at it?
These pieces sprung from frustration, as much does: I found that I had a number of story moments that I wanted to make visible within the manuscript without turning them into subjects. That’s difficult to do in a poem. Poetic forms and the orders of language itself pressurize content. The problem seemed inseparable to me from a basic problem of life: the pressure to account for experience or perspective in ways that relate directly to one’s story and its level of ‘coherence.’ What is coherence, and what do I really believe about it? What can I see in my creative process that I would count as coherence that might, at a reader’s first encounter, seem anything but? I came to these questions (regarding these poems) through working—not before or after—while on a residency on the Big Island of Hawaii last summer. It was a really odd window for my work—I was the only working artist in a resort community of volunteers and guests, and I was in the middle of really intense correspondences with three really important people in my life, and my laptop kept getting rained on and my days were punctuated by big social meals in a way that was challenging for my concentration—overall I was thinking a lot about discontinuities, and eventually realized I was feeling (in the work) what I was thinking. At the start of that residency I had this string of days that didn’t feel like work days until I realized I’d been shaking out this new way to see the work. Once I saw the alignment, it was mine to lean into, and I could come to full speed mentally. I appreciate those moments—they’re why I feel comfortable saying that I do think writing can be taught, at least inasmuch as we can formalize the work of expanding our imaginations for 1) what words can do 2) what forms we might claim and 3) what decisionmaking we might give up as artists in the name of letting the work teach us what it wants to. It always wants something from us.
LD: How long have you been writing? What’s the first thing you remember feeling good about having written?
RG: I have a folder of stories I composed in second grade while trying to master cursive, and I can remember writing poems and plays in middle school—I was enormously lucky to have a public education (in Pittsburgh) that involved tons of arts programming both in and out of school. Growing up I was very seriously pitched toward the arts—theater and visual art and instrumental music, especially—and thank heavens for how great my local resources were for studying music because that was really my life and my primary language until I was about 20. I was writing steadily, and feeling ambitious about particular pieces I wanted to write, by high school. The summer before my senior year of high school I attended a governor’s school for the arts, which provided me with six weeks of intensive college-level workshops and sent me home hungry to keep writing alongside adults who would take my interest seriously. Thanks to scholarships I received from my local arts center, I spent my senior year of high school studying with local poets and playwrights. So I was in it pretty early.
I don’t remember ever not feeling good about having written—writing, like any of the other essential ways I live, has always felt right when I’ve shown up and dropped in. I do remember the first time I wrote a poem that felt like it had sprung from some part of me that had access to a kind of superior intelligence that wasn’t necessarily synonymous with ‘me,’ and that was about three weeks into my time in the MFA program at the University of Michigan. I’d been thinking for a couple weeks about another process, actually—the process by which sand becomes pearl, and how I related to the idea of nacre—and after one false start, one Sunday afternoon I sat down and wrote a ton of lines that very quickly rearranged themselves into a poem that knew exactly how it wanted to take shape. That poem is called “You Form;” it was first published in Seneca Review years later, and then my first book in 2011, and will be reprinted next year in an anthology of poetry for teens that is coming out titled Please Excuse This Poem: 100 New Poets for the Next Generation (which I’m especially excited about because it’s sort of about the relationship between storytelling and sexuality and I’m so glad there are going to be hot poems in that book). The experience of writing that poem, of riding that wave of instinct, knocked down every internal wall I had left around my writing. I wrote my guts out for the rest of my time in the program.
LD: Let’s talk about your writing soundscape. Do you listen to music? Café rumblings? White noise? Utter silence?
RG: Not silence. At least not usually. I enjoy patterned sound, which I think comes from my early focus on an instrument—my first experience of flow as a young person came from running scales and arpeggios and etudes for hours and hours and I think geometries like that are about the most holy things on this planet. So, no surprise that the fact of that is palpable in a lot of my work: I write toward feel. I have been listening to the scores for Philip Glass’ three operas lots this year—I find his slow progressions incredibly good to write to—but I also do a lot of listening to songs on loop. I can listen to a single song for two or three hours and appreciate it the whole way to the end when I’m working. I can’t concentrate if I can make out anyone’s conversation so I am often spotted with headphones when I’m working out the world. I’m that girl people have to shout at when I’m concentrating. It’s always been an incredible thrill for me—that feeling of internal speed that I can find when I’m off on my own planet. I sort of imagine it’s like what