06-22-2020, 06:40 AM | #20001 |
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“Honesty is more than not lying. It is truth telling, truth speaking, truth living, and truth loving.”
—James E. Faust |
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06-22-2020, 09:27 AM | #20002 |
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But one of the big lessons I have learned from my journey is you can't please everyone, so don't try. ... Chris Colfer |
06-22-2020, 03:09 PM | #20003 |
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Love is friendship that has caught fire. It is quiet understanding, mutual confidence, sharing and forgiving. It is loyalty through good and bad times. It settles for less than perfection and makes allowances for human weaknesses. Ann Landers |
06-23-2020, 07:22 AM | #20004 |
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Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly. Langston Hughes |
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06-23-2020, 11:14 AM | #20005 |
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There are a sort of men whose visages
Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, And do a wilful stillness entertain, With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit, As who should say 'I am Sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips let no dog bark!' O my Antonio, I do know of these That therefore only are reputed wise For saying nothing; when, I am very sure, If they should speak, would almost damn those ears, Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. William Shakespeare |
06-28-2020, 06:30 AM | #20006 |
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My Body Is a Confederate Monument
My Body Is a Confederate Monument
“If there are those who want to remember the legacy of the Confederacy, if they want monuments, well, then, my body is a monument. My skin is a monument. Dead Confederates are honored all over this country — with cartoonish private statues, solemn public monuments and even in the names of United States Army bases. It fortifies and heartens me to witness the protests against this practice and the growing clamor from serious, nonpartisan public servants to redress it. But there are still those — like President Trump and the Senate majority leader, Mitch McConnell — who cannot understand the difference between rewriting and reframing the past. I say it is not a matter of “airbrushing” history, but of adding a new perspective.... The black people I come from were owned and raped by the white people I come from. Who dares to tell me to celebrate them?” — Caroline Randall Williams Credit: P.S. Spencer Caroline Randall Williams will be doing a reading of this essay and answering questions on Instagram (@nytopinion) on Tuesday, June 30 at 7 p.m. Eastern. _____________ Source: https://www.nytimes.com/2020/06/26/o...gtype=Homepage |
07-06-2020, 07:01 AM | #20007 |
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sometimes
you have to learn how to go with the flow of life because sometimes pissing against the direction of the wind could backfire at you Daniel Saint
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kisses A kiss is a whisper in your mouth. Can I borrow a kiss? I promise to give it back. |
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07-06-2020, 07:35 AM | #20008 |
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That's quite similar to throwing up over the wrong side of a cruise ship. If you're going to throw up, try to be on the right side. No blow back.
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07-06-2020, 10:37 AM | #20009 |
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The biggest threat to our well being is the absence of moral clarity and purpose.
Rick Shuman (in Time) |
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07-06-2020, 11:07 AM | #20010 | |
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The article exerpted below deals mostly with the subject of "moral clarity" vis-a-vis journalism. "So what is moral clarity? The philosopher Susan Neiman, who wrote a book on the subject, says that it is not, in fact, a statically defined concept: it can be found only on a case-by-case basis. “Moral clarity, however, is about looking at each particular case, looking at all the facts, looking at all the context, and working out your answers,” she stated in a lecture. It should not be confused with moral simplicity: we may have clearly defined moral values, but the quest for the actual position of moral clarity is always complicated and specific to the circumstances. ..." Masha Gesson New Yorker June 24, 2020
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07-06-2020, 12:53 PM | #20011 | |
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Context is an essential component, in most all cases. Thanks C0LLETTE.
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07-06-2020, 02:47 PM | #20012 |
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Context is not always available and sometimes not needed if one is aware what they are presenting. Time to quit while I am ahead of those that know far more than I obviously do.
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07-14-2020, 06:30 AM | #20013 |
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First generation immigrants
First generation immigrants
By Ijeoma Umebinyuo Here’s to the security guards who maybe had a degree in another land. Here’s to the manicurist who had to leave her family to come here, painting the nails, scrubbing the feet of strangers. Here’s to the janitors who don’t even fucking understand English yet work hard despite it all. Here’s to the fast food workers who work hard to see their family smile. Here’s to the laundry man at the Marriott who told me with the sparkle in his eyes how he was an engineer in Peru. Here’s to the bus driver, the Turkish Sufi who almost danced when I quoted Rumi. Here’s to the harvesters who live in fear of being deported for coming here to open the road for their future generation. Here’s to the taxi drivers from Nigeria, Ghana, Egypt and India who gossip amongst themselves. Here is to them waking up at 4am, calling home to hear the voices of their loved ones. Here is to their children, to the children who despite it all become artists, writers, teachers, doctors, lawyers, activists and rebels. Here’s to Western Union and Money Gram. For never forgetting home. Here’s to their children who carry the heartbeats of their motherland and even in sleep, speak with pride about their fathers. Keep on. |
07-14-2020, 05:30 PM | #20014 |
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" If you can't lift the alcohol into your truck, you weren't meant to drink it."
Not a deep thought but might save your life one day.
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08-03-2020, 06:52 AM | #20015 |
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Kimila Rina - Delicate Fucking Flower
“but she means to have what she
has earned, sweet sighs, safe houses, hands she can trust.” — Lucille Clifton, “to my friend, Jerina” He can’t tell I grit my back teeth when he exclaims, “An allergy to coffee? I’ve never heard of that!”, and I shrug, as if this is the first time someone has expressed their incredulity so profoundly, I say, “It happens”. I’m gracious, calm, I mean if you discount the slightest shortening of my upper lip, a bit of a curl really, I wouldn’t say a sneer. I used to explain myself and my faulty body, swim full-tilt into conversational nets full of marvel and pitying curiosity. I’ve stopped. Accepted it. And maybe I sigh, but I mean to have what I reach for: clean safe air, lungs rounded with ease, the boring sort of acceptance, a normalised story about my body. I want chemical masks as quotidian accessories, like umbrellas or hats. I want the bread-like, unexceptional family violence that led to this, that sickened and curled me, so many of us, up inside, like xylem slowly dying inside a turned tree trunk, unseen but heavy with consequences, to be recognised, protested, uprooted by outrage and practical solutions, never-again changes, forever spurned. We have earned the revolution. We’ve struggled to see ourselves reflected in the dirty surface of the mainstream; to meet our bedrock yearning for safety, gentleness, absence of swinging fists or planks of wood, of flying spit, sometimes laced with acrid words; to cobble together access, sometimes cutting wood planks for a ramp, sometimes asking friends, spouses, strangers, to change their detergent, give up their favourite shampoo or deodorant. As abnormal and inconvenient as we seem, we deserve carefree carouses, sweet sighs, safe houses, same as you who can breathe the poison in, let it wash through your blood, let your liver scrape it all out like a washing machine while you talk, laugh, sleep, same as you who can walk far, carry your groceries, can function when the music is so loud it’s thick in the air, in our breastbones, our brains. But our differences are rarely invited, planned for, discussed. So I am a delicate fucking flower; you can’t drink coffee next to me, or peel an orange, smoke, sip wine, invite me to dance parties. But I will still surprise you: claim this body and safety and lust, reach for hands that I can trust. Found at The Deaf Poets Society - Issue 8 https://www.deafpoetssociety.com/kamila-rina-issue-8 |
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08-21-2020, 04:34 PM | #20016 |
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You're so hard on yourself.
Take a moment. Sit back. Marvel at your life: at the grief that softened you,Despite everything, you still grow. Be proud of this. —Anonymous |
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08-27-2020, 06:56 AM | #20017 |
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Perfect Come Back to DeAnna Lorraine
Didn’t she used to sell that WAP?
—Cardi B |
08-30-2020, 03:43 PM | #20018 |
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Books Can Be Dangerous
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09-01-2020, 08:58 PM | #20019 |
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Love Poem to a Butch Woman by Deborah A. Miranda
This is how it is with me: so strong, I want to draw the egg from your womb and nourish it in my own. I want to mother your child made only of us, of me, you: no borrowed seed from any man. I want to re-fashion the matrix of creation, make a human being from the human love that passes between our bodies. Sweetheart, this is how it is: when you emerge from the bedroom in a clean cotton shirt, sleeves pushed back over forearms, scented with cologne from an amber bottle—I want to open my heart, the brightest aching slit of my soul, receive your pearl. I watch your hands, wait for the sign that means you'll touch me, open me, fill me; wait for that moment when your desire leaps inside me. |
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09-02-2020, 05:36 PM | #20020 | |
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