Summary by Ping Chu, July 2012

“Through quiet hearts and deep listening, in a room filled with immense positive and creative energy, we discover our similarity. The biases and misunderstanding come from ignorance and fear.
Red Room is a movement, reminding us that the deepest primordial human need is to feel connected and that in our infinite ignorance we are all equal.
Since 2009, Red Room has become an important part of our lives and I hope more people will discover Red Room. Leave the virtual world, turn off the phone, listen deeply, appreciate and support each other, and we find ourselves a member of this positive and creative ecosystem, where happiness can be easily attained.”
Ping Chu, Co-founder, Red Room

只有透過寧靜的心、深度的聆聽,並在巨大無所不在的正向創意能量中,我們一起發現我們原來是如此的相似,所有的偏見與誤解其實是來自我們的無知與恐懼。對我個人來講,『紅房』是一個社會運動,它提醒我們:「在我們最原始的內心需求中,我們是如此的互相連結、互相 依賴。畢竟在浩瀚的未知中,我們都是如此的平等。」

This magical event is created by whoever participates, with a new vibe each time. The energy is incredibly positive and supportive and even with a high percentage of newcomers each month, the intimacy and the magic never fades.


Photo by Red Roomers

So what is Red Room all about? 嗯? Red Room 是什麼?

Celebrate the spoken word with us as we read our own passages or those that we yearn to share. Speak. Listen. Hear. Feel. Come and share a unique experience with new and old friends. Live music and warm company. All languages desired!


Aveda’s Learning Kitchen, above the Aveda Salon:
Red Room 位於 Aveda 的教學廚房,在 Aveda Salon 的樓上:
2F #117 Sec. 1 Da-an Rd   台北市大安路一段117號2F

? Red Room 是什麼?

團體所舉辦的藝文聚會。在每次 的聚會裡,任何參與者都歡迎到台上分享5分鐘的好東西,可以是一首詩、一首歌、一段無厘頭嘶吼大叫、一個神聖寧靜的片刻、一 段舞蹈、部落格上的消息、書上的節錄、自 言自語的呢喃等,任何你可以想到且值得分享的生活藝文經驗。透過這些經驗分享的過程,我們希望發展出一個能夠「深度傾聽」的文化…

「深度傾聽」???這又是甚麼玩意兒? 聽起來似乎頗深奧!

「深 度傾聽」的意涵,其實就是藉由傾聽他人分享的過程來學習聆聽的藝術。這指的是當他人在分享的時候,在場聽眾不會分心於其他談話、手機的使用或是隨意來回走 動.所有來自你頭腦與心智的注意力都給予正在分享經驗的人。而Red Room提供的便是一個能自由分享同時培養心性的創意空間°


我 們有足夠的休息時間讓大家相處聊天、喝一杯紅酒、來一口現煮的印度奶茶、吃一個超酷餐廳NonZero 所作的美味餅乾(吃三個也可以)、嚐一些西班牙調酒sangria或是西班牙涼菜湯gazpacho.最重要的是, 好菜好酒之餘,我們也保證你會遇到超級有趣的人,同時愛 上傾聽的藝術。


Stage Time & Wine 固定在每個月的第三個周六舉行,時間是18:30~22:30。入場費用新台幣$200,現場收費。


您若想帶上一瓶紅酒或是一些新鮮食材讓駐店共有的蔬菜湯更豐富, 甚至你想要分享你的創意料理, Red Room都張開雙手歡迎!


So what is Red Room all about?

Stage Time & Wine is a monthly event hosted by the Red Room. Everyone is welcome to take the stage for 5 minutes and share anything – a poem, a song, a scream, silence, a dance, a blog entry, an excerpt from a book, a monologue or anything else you can think of. Everything is welcome to this culture of listening…

Culture of Listening? What does that even mean?

Red Room is a space to inspire others and be inspired through mindful listening: the practice of narrowing attention on the person sharing and truly engaging in the art of listening.  Red Room embraces the freedom of creative expression by any method or form of artistic communication, in a nurturing and non-judgmental environment.

The Red Room is a place for the mind and body to imbibe unique flavors. Take part in our community at our open wine bar, created by those who attend. Sip a cup of our communal ‘stone soup’. We begin with boiling water, and each person contributes a unique flavour: spice, herb or vegetable.  Sip some freshly-brewed chai. Nibble a gourmet cookie (or 3) from the uber-cool restaurant, NonZero, and meet someone new.

If this sounds good to you, meet us at the Red Room, on the 3RD SATURDAY OF EVERY MONTH from 18:30 – 22:30. Entry is NT$200 at the door.

If you want, bring a bottle of wine, a flavor to contribute to our communal pot of vegetable soup, or bring your own creative dish to share.

For more information, contact us by email: <>, or on Facebook

Remember the Night, Peter Giordano, January 2012

Remember the Night
A Christmas Cento

December 25,  2011
For Ruth

Glorious, madam, isn’t it?
Open and shut.
Well, that’s good, that’s good.
Holy mackerel, that’s a sweet one!
Well, merry Christmas.
That’s right.
Is it right?
I’m afraid it is.
You know, one of these these days, one of you boys is going to start one of these scenes differently — and one of us girls is going to drop dead from surprise.
It’s been nice up to now.
Well, I’ll be darned. And we have to come here and meet like this.
Yeah, it’s funny, isn’t it?
This is it, huh?
Hey, don’t be so nervous.

Oh, I just can’t believe you’re here at last.
How about a kiss, huh?
Why, bless you, child. It’s a joy to have ya here.
“The End of a Perfect Day.”
I think I remember it.
Oh, boy! Give us a downbeat please…
When you come to the end of a perfect day,
And you sit alone with your thought …
While the chimes ring out with a carol gay,
For the joy that the day has brought…

Merry Christmas, dear.
I guess you can always trust Santa Claus.
And Ecstasy, too!
Aw, ain’t it the truth? Ain’t it the truth?
I love you.
I love you.
I – I’m trying to think, I – I –
If you don’t treat a woman with kid gloves, every man wants to punch you in the nose.
There wasn’t anything else to do. You’re so strong, and you argue so well, and I – I love you so much.
Yeah, you certainly proved that.
I love you so. I love you so.


(c) Copyright 2012 Red Room.  Material on this site is the property of contributing members of the Red Room Community. Please do not copy any part of  this publication. Thank you.

Mark Caltonhill, January 2012

Time is not on our side,
our subconsciouses know this
so they try to hammer love
out of like
or lust
and sometimes even hate,
striking metal against metal late into the night,
we no longer see what we are doing

the blind leading the blind,
like infants discovering themselves in playschool
wanting to share our uncovery with the world,
we are in LOVE,
cynics sneer:
yes, love, that one-letter word,
frown down on us,

but we don’t care,
won’t heed these inner voices,
look at US,
we are in LOVE,
repeated and repeating,
hammering hammered late into the night,
like a distant clanging bell,
love … love … love … love … love … love …


(c) Copyright 2012 Red Room.  Material on this site is the property of contributing members of the Red Room Community. Please do not copy any part of  this publication. Thank you.

Read by Lauren Mark, December 17, 2011

Gate C 22 by Ellen Bass

At gate C 22 in the Portland airport
a man in a broad-band leather hat kissed
a woman arriving from Orange County.
They kissed and kissed and kissed. Long after

the other passengers clicked the handles of their carry-ons
and wheeled briskly toward short-term parking,
the couple stood there, arms wrapped around each other
like satin ribbons tying up a gift. And kissing.

Like she’d just staggered off the boat at Ellis Island,
like she’d been released from ICU, snapped
out of a coma, survived bone cancer, made it down
from Annapurna in only the clothes she was wearing.

Neither of them was young. His beard was gray.
She carried a few extra pounds you could imagine
she kept saying she had to lose. But they kissed lavish
kisses like the ocean in the early morning

of a calm day at Big Sur, the way it gathers
and swells, taking each rock slowly
in its mouth, sucking it under, swallowing it
again and again. We were all watching—

the passengers waiting for the delayed flight to San José,
the stewardesses, the pilots, the aproned woman icing
Cinnabons, the guy selling sunglasses. We couldn’t
look away. We could taste the kisses, crushed

in our mouths like the liquid centers of chocolate cordials.
But the best part was his face. When he drew back
and looked at her, his smile soft with wonder, almost
as though he were a mother still

opened from giving birth, like your mother
must have looked at you,
no matter what happened after—
if she beat you, or left you, or you’re lonely now—

you once lay there, the vernix
not yet wiped off and someone gazing at you
like you were the first sunrise seen from the earth.
The whole wing of the airport hushed,

each of us trying to slip into that woman’s middle-aged body,
her plaid bermuda shorts, sleeveless blouse,
little gold hoop earrings, glasses,
all of us, tilting our heads up.

Montreal. by Catherine Bovis, December 17, 2011


It was raining that morning when she got up in the dim morning hours, completely alone in the spacious apartment with wooden floors, an apartment that would hug a person in their 20s perfectly; simple fire place, a stove for morning coffee, and creaking windows to light up the dusty corners. Bare foot and oversized t-shirt, she walks across the floors to the open kitchen while the sun is slowly awakening through the raining sky.

Long, curly chocolate hair, she was free in her solitude, free in this space so silent amidst the bustling energy of Montreal city’s slowly fading summer. Her feet were feeling the cold for the first time, not really observing the change in seasons but being a part of it instead, part of the expected change.

The morning is early but she has work to do, so she fills up the kettle and puts it on the stove, ready to brew morning coffee, an aroma that never fails to bring the warmth of past memories into sensation, silent mornings just like this one, alone or not, where the scent of coffee mixes perfectly with the morning silence.

The quietness could be frightening, for there’s not another soul to be heard in these early hours, just her, hugging her bare legs while sitting at the small wooden dining table, big enough for two. She waits while the water boils, and stares out towards the trees that are slowly losing their leaves, the rain falling so effortlessly.

But she’s not scared by this silence, no, she watches it all with sharp eyes; the falling rain a guided mediation, a simmering mind quietly watching it all, in no rush to start the day of life’s many engagements, all so sweet if you know how to taste it, all so hilarious if you know how to laugh with it. A time for rest, practice to steer the day’s noise and rush and obligations into a path of easefulness, a constant battle that will inevitably come with engagement, but to hide from it? No. She sits there in practice, knees vulnerable but eyes both eager and calm; a watchfulness charm.

Her eye catches the ruffled white sheets in her bedroom, reminding her that just days before, her boyfriend lay fast asleep while she tip-toed around the apartment getting the coffee aroma started for the day. What a new face he was to her these past four months, stepping into a foreign city only to find a friend, someone to experience moments filled with laughter, of silliness, talks of life’s truths, truths that they first saw in each others eyes when they first started to unfold one another. Moments sitting on the floor of an Indian restaurant, hands dipped in spices, to moments making dinner together in a wooden floored apartment, allowing them to understand the way one tosses the frying pan, to talk about what groceries are needed for tonight’s dinner- perhaps some more avocado and blue cheese for the salad.

She remembers creeping back into his arms after turning on the coffee maker, melting yet again into a blissful state of sleep, legs turning under the covers further taking from each other’s warm presence. She remembers drifting off into the morning silence, the brewing smell of coffee, only to feel his hands pull her closely in. Both are still in a sleepy state in the dim light of the morning when she hears him jokingly mumble “Babyyyy, be my wife, we can do this foreverr”. She laughs at this memory, of the ridiculous fantasy of such a place in time, the thought of being in his arms, forever. The same jokes that never seems to fail to rise to the surface, to poke at her with such silly possibilities, to make their young eyes wonder.

Sitting at the table, her eyes stay with the rain and it is in this moment she feels him, feels an accumulation of all of their moments, silly fantasies and all, and finds herself being consumed in a single moment of silence, a single feeling of clarity of the union between her, and him. It was a glimpse of the truth that forever lies beneath it all but is always fleeting, showing its face from time to time just for you to understand each other’s place in a dance that we both have created. It’s a clarity that often gets muffled by sloth-like atmospheres created by a stressful week of university essays, or gets lost between the silly mumble of words that are exchanged between each other’s mouths, the zone of comfortableness that can lead to not a numbing, but rather “out-of-sight” clarity of the naked love we have for each other, bare skin glowing.

No, this wasn’t a moment of day-dreaming, where one gets lost in a place in the mind that fathoms a reality without solid basis, or wispy thoughts of a cloudy romance. It was a glimpse that only such quietness can bring, revealing herself not in context of her and this man, but her in this wooden-floored apartment, in this new city that’s slowly becoming home, her place in time as a woman in her early twenties, naive and vulnerable in an ever turning world, college years that gratefully bring coffee infused mornings and friendships filled with tears and laughter. Her and her mind both stepped back and observed, and then the thought consumed her, “A guy sure loves a girl, who walks barefoot over creaking wooden floors to brew the smell of morning coffee.”

She gets up from the dining table, the coffee is ready. She can feel the seasons change now, the crisper air and the falling of leaves; she’s aware of her place and part in the changing of seasons, it’s clear. Coffee in hand, she happens to fold her right hand over her heart, keeping this morning to safely rest within her. She knows the seasons change, and so will the silence, but she will not forget it.

A few mornings later she happens to wake up in his arms again, bodies pressed together and warm beneath the sheets. She couldn’t think of a reason why she would be anywhere else other than where she was in that moment, why she wouldn’t want to be completely vulnerable to any awaiting experience. A familiar silence could be heard brewing, and then out of nowhere, the inevitable colors of the sky began to change. Melting into such changing cycles is always the challenge, but then, just as they both looked up, the snow began to fall.

For the first time, they experienced the silence of the snow, together.

November Cento: Heard at Red Room XXIV November 19, 2011


Screams and shouts for the 24th month of Red Room!

Red Room!!

Happy Birthday: Ayesha (27), Leiven (43), Milton (99) and Red Room (2)!!

Red Room!!

You never know who you’re going to see here.
It’s a wonderful place to overcome your fear,

The bench is all yours!

Stop to listen to each other.
We need to learn how to treat each other as well as possible,
Glean the good
Choose to carry that
Without holding onto the pain.
Relinquish the power we have over each other.

Red Room!!

Let’s talk about exchanging value.
The Red Room is exchanging value – I want to talk about that.

Red Room!!

There’s something here for everyone.
Friends help friends.

by Ruth Giordano

Genevieve Murphy – Mental Metamorphosis, November 19, 2011

Mental Metamorphosis

As we sat there together, under the rainbowed sky of Rokkasho, Japan, in the ceramic studio, mixing clay together, a conversation was initiated that would alter my paradigm of life completely.  It began as a telling of tales, so to speak… of encounters, loves and circumstances of lives past.  It was the sort of conversation you could only have with someone you were connected to at the core of your being… a soul mate, so to speak.  These were topics usually left covered and buried deep within, rarely revealed to anyone, including ourselves.  First he went, sharing several stories of lost loves and the experiences connected with them.  Then, I went.  I began with a surface story, but as the conversation progressed, I began digging deeper and deeper, unveiling my stories of sadness and exposing the emotional scars that accompanied them.  None of this was easy or comfortable, but these were the types of conversations we had.

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Mark Caltonhill – Things Known, November 19, 2011

Mark Caltonhill’s recent poems are all available on his blog:
and earlier than that, are available in his first collection: “Malarkey’s Amusement Park”; NT$220 to Red Roomers)

Things Known

Before he sits to eat, Jesus knows he will be betrayed.
….Copernicus knows the earth is round,
….Darwin knows there is no God,
….Marx knows the working class must liberate itself,
and, eating their TV dinners ten thousand miles apart, Brezhnev and Nixon know the people will believe their lies.
Read more