Butch Femme Planet - Quotes, Poems, & Sayings...

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For what it's worth...

You say that you love the rain, but you open your umbrella when it rains.
You say that you love the sun, but you find a shadow spot when the sun shines.
You say that you love the wind, but you close your windows when wind blows.
This is why I am afraid; you say that you love me too.
~ Qyazzirah Syeikh Ariffin, I am Afraid

If you have never stood in the pouring rain commanding lightning, thrilled by the electric charge that makes the hairs on your arm stand up, joyously welcoming the mix of ether and ozone that shortens your breath and quickens your pulse—you cannot say you have ever loved a storm.

If you have never stood bare, arms out in grateful reception of the sun’s life-giving and life-taking energy until your skin burned and your sight dimmed and you became the raging fury and heat of a star—you cannot say you have ever loved the sun.

If you have never stood on the highest point you could find, exposed to the howling wind that threatened to carry you as it screamed its furious emotions in a voice so loud it deafens and numbs as it tears through your very soul—you cannot say you have ever loved the wind.

If you have never stood in complete and total awe and wonder of the one who receives and returns your affection and attention,
and yes,
your worship,
with heart and soul open and inviting,
ready to face the storm,
willing to burn,
able to withstand the wind
with unfettered courage and faith and joy and gratitude,
or have never
been fierce enough
to be
as gentle
as a warm rain
on a cool,
windless day,
then you cannot say you have ever truly loved at all.

I will do all of this and more.
So much more.
My love is the blazing sun,
the howling wind,
the freezing blizzard,
the devouring sands,
the falling mountains,
the raging sea,
the gentle breeze,
the cool pond,
the warm rain,
the spring day,

My love is the storm.
Do not be afraid.

- J.M. Greff

Don’t ever tell her she’s not the stuff of heroes and warriors simply because she’s a girl.
Don’t ever imply she’s weak or too delicate to overcome.
She is a resilient being of flesh and light, the epitome of beauty—made up of thoughts and intellect,
endurance and courage, her essence as unique as her dreams.
She’ll tear away thorny vines and scale walls to climb her way through adversity.
She’ll arise to challenge and will eat all the what ifs before they ever have a chance to consume her.
She will go places. And everywhere she goes, the stars will be suffused by her shine.

(~an excerpt from Susan Frybort's new book, 'Open Passages')

shadows and Light...

Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note By Amiri Baraka

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock By T. S. Eliot

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

"She never seemed shattered; to me,
she was a breathtaking mosaic of the battles she’s won."

- Matt Baker, via they-called-her-sunshine

"Our goal should be to live life in radical amazement ...
get up in the morning and look at the world in a way that takes nothing for granted.
Begin each day with a grateful Heart...

- Abraham Heschel

A Real Friend...

Trump's Obama Obsession

Trump's Obama Obsession, Charles M. Blow, New York Times

Donald Trump has a thing about Barack Obama. Trump is obsessed with Obama. Obama haunts Trump’s dreams. One of Trump’s primary motivators is the absolute erasure of Obama — were it possible — not only from the political landscape but also from the history books.

Trump is president because of Obama, or more precisely, because of his hostility to Obama. Trump came onto the political scene by attacking Obama.

Trump has questioned not only Obama’s birthplace but also his academic and literary pedigree. He was head cheerleader of the racial “birther” lie and also cast doubt on whether Obama attended the schools he attended or even whether he wrote his acclaimed books.

Trump has lied often about Obama: saying his inauguration crowd size exceeded Obama’s, saying that Obama tapped his phones and, just this week, saying that Obama colluded with the Russians.

It’s like a 71-year-old male version of Jan from what I would call the Bratty Bunch: Obama, Obama, Obama.

Trump wants to be Obama — held in high esteem. But, alas, Trump is Trump, and that is now and has always been trashy. Trump accrued financial wealth, but he never accrued cultural capital, at least not among the people from whom he most wanted it.

https://static01.nyt.com/images/2017...-master675.jpg
(President Trump heading to the White House Rose Garden on June 1, when he announced that he would pull the United States out of the Paris climate accord.)

Therefore, Trump is constantly whining about not being sufficiently applauded, commended, thanked, liked. His emotional injury is measured in his mind against Obama. How could Obama have been so celebrated while he is so reviled?

The whole world seemed to love Obama — and by extension, held America in high regard — but the world loathes Trump. A Pew Research Center report issued this week found:

“Trump and many of his key policies are broadly unpopular around the globe, and ratings for the U.S. have declined steeply in many nations. According to a new Pew Research Center survey spanning 37 nations, a median of just 22 percent has confidence in Trump to do the right thing when it comes to international affairs. This stands in contrast to the final years of Barack Obama’s presidency, when a median of 64 percent expressed confidence in Trump’s predecessor to direct America’s role in the world.”

Obama was a phenomenon. He was elegant and cerebral. He was devoid of personal scandal and drenched in personal erudition. He was a walking, talking rebuttal to white supremacy and the myths of black pathology and inferiority. He was the personification of the possible — a possible future in which legacy power and advantages are redistributed more broadly to all with the gift of talent and the discipline to excel.

It is not a stretch here to link people’s feelings about Obama to their feelings about his blackness. Trump himself has more than once linked the two.

Just two months before Trump announced his candidacy, he weighed in on the unrest in Baltimore in the wake of the police killing of Freddie Gray, tweeting:

“Our great African American President hasn’t exactly had a positive impact on the thugs who are so happily and openly destroying Baltimore!”

Months earlier, following the unrest in Ferguson, Mo., after the police killing of Michael Brown, Trump complained:

“President Obama has absolutely no control (or respect) over the African American community—they have fared so poorly under his presidency.”

Trump also tweeted:

“Sadly, because president Obama has done such a poor job as president, you won’t see another black president for generations!”

Clearly, not only was Obama’s blackness in the front of Trump’s mind, but Trump also appears to subscribe to the racist theory that success or failure of a member of a racial group redounds to all in that group. This is a burden under which most minorities in this country labor.

Trump’s racial ideas were apparently a selling point among his supporters. Recent research has dispensed with the myth of “economic anxiety” and shone a light instead on the central importance race played in Trump’s march to the White House. As the researchers Sean McElwee and Jason McDaniel reported in The Nation in March:

“In short, our analysis indicates that Donald Trump successfully leveraged existing resentment towards African Americans in combination with emerging fears of increased racial diversity in America to reshape the presidential electorate, strongly attracting nativists towards Trump and pushing some more affluent and highly educated people with more cosmopolitan views to support Hillary Clinton. Racial identity and attitudes have further displaced class as the central battleground of American politics.”

Trump was sent to Washington to strip it of all traces of Obama, to treat the Obama legacy as a historical oddity. Trump’s entire campaign was about undoing what Obama had done.

Indeed, much of what Trump has accomplished — and it hasn’t been much — has been to undo Obama’s accomplishments, like pulling out of the Trans-Pacific Partnership and the Paris climate agreement and reversing an Obama-era rule that helped prevent guns from being purchased by certain mentally ill people.

For Trump, even plans to repeal and replace the Affordable Care Act aren’t so much about creating better policy as they are about dismantling Obama’s legacy. The problem with Obamacare isn’t that it hasn’t borne fruit, but rather that it bears Obama’s name.

For Trump, the mark of being a successful president is the degree to which he can expunge Obama’s presidency.

“What we do for ourselves dies with us.
What we do for others remains and is immortal.”
-Albert Pike

The Beautiful Simple Things...

From the ground up...

"When we slow down and become more present,
our hearts open in new and magical ways,
as we begin to tune into and become more aware of the deeper mysteries,
beauties and wonders of life."

- Mary Ann Byrne

Real Intimacy...

"Real Intimacy is a meeting between two souls,
an invitation to meet each other exactly where they are,
without expectation or agenda.

It doesn’t demand gifts and benefits, sexual prowess, conditional offerings.
It merely asks you to show up as you are, fully revealed and present.
It invites you to shed your masks and disguises,
to surrender to whatever is real for you in the moment.

Real intimacy meets you right where you live,
not where you or anyone else wants you to live.
It’s the big sigh of relief that arises when you finally know
that you don’t have to put on a show to feel seen or accepted.
Here we are, just as we are."

~ Jeff Brown

"...act when the feeling of inspiration is so compelling that nothing else will do." Abraham Hicks

i enjoy this one-

“My life amounts to no more than one drop in a limitless ocean.
Yet what is any ocean, but a multitude of drops?”

- David Mitchell

Ever since I began to compose,
I have remained true to my starting principle:
not to write a page because no matter what public,
or what pretty girl wanted it to be thus or thus;
but to write solely as I myself thought best, and as it gave me pleasure.

- Felix Mendelssohn

While traveling around the world,
I've had the opportunity to work with every living beauty icon.
I've learned to appreciate idiosyncrasy.

The fact is, there is really no such thing as 'normal' - everybody's different,
and that is the essence of their beauty.

- Kevyn Aucoin

The Universe is the periodical manifestation of this unknown: Absolute Essence.

- Helena Blavatsky

Courage by Anne Sexton

It is in the small things we see it.
The child's first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien,
you drank their acid
and concealed it.

Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
comver your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.

Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off your heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.

Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in the little ways,
each spring will be a sword you'll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love,
and you'll bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you'll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.