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humansofnewyork:

“I want to be an artist.”

“What kind of art do you want to make?”

“I want to make different versions of myself.”

(via loveyourchaos)

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visual-poetry:

the berlin poetry festival needs your help to realize this project:
http://wemakeit.ch/projects/wozu-poesie?locale=en

“what’s the point of poetry?”

do you ask yourself the same question? for that reason, we’ve collected 47 photos with answers from poets throughout europe in order to read, see, and understand its value. we want to present them in berlin in the exhibition: “what’s the point of poetry? / a european polyphony. on display.“

and here’s what happens…

47 poets from 47 european countries share their thoughts on the question “what’s the point of poetry?” in 47 photos. they’ve created slogans that comment on the state of culture and society in their countries while also keeping poetry in focus. this june at the berlin poetry festival (poesiefestival berlin), their very diverse poetic messages and points of view will be assembled in an exhibition. the photos are demonstrations and acts of solidarity at the same time. there has never been such an exhibition before. it offers the unique opportunity of bringing the variety of european voices and moods together in one place.

[read more]

sam and obada.

they never flattered me.  always said what they thought direct honestly.

obada didnt care that most egyptians could not understand why he, pale skinned from a traditional egyptian family, would go around with a dark skinned black girl with nappy hair.  ’she’s beautiful’ obada’d shrug and turn back to talking with me.  

over the years, those two, the filmaker and the photographer, captured my image, always by surprise.  always surprising me by how beautiful i could be if i just didnt see myself through egyptian anti black eyes.  

i could be a sphinx, a dancer, a coquette.  my eyes bright or closed.  my hands flittering into empty space.  

something more than a mother.  more than a smart girl with a smart phone.  

something wholly myself.  

mornings like this i miss abd.  i want to call him and say, lets have a drink and a smoke.  

he had this slow growing smile that would be in full bloom by the time i answered the door.  

hed shuffle into the kitchen, while theresa slumbered, and make tea.  id put on lauryn hill on the laptop and pull out the last couple of beers from the fridge.  

and then wed talk poetry and film, courage and memories of home. 

he understood how i was some mornings, a mama alone with her books and her dreams.  

wed create our own world, watch the light change colors on the walls.  hed smile, like he had a secret and say, when you drink you speak in poetry.  

he knew how i loved being a mother, and how it was like i lived in a glass box, looking out into the the world, where others touched and kissed and meandered.  

he understood why i held my friends so close, because they held me like i was still needed in this life. 

how i stayed up at nights because my brain chemistry wouldnt let me sleep.  

and my insomnia and my poems were entangled like dust and blood. 

he understood in his own fucked up way, how i felt time after time, when everyone went home, with their loves and i went home with my daughter.  and he never equated the two.  and saw that i didnt either.  

i miss him in the mornings like this.  at moments, we were lovers, but what i miss most, are those mornings when he made me laugh as couples tumbled in bed sweaty hoping to be satisfied.  

id show him the parts of me lovers rarely see.  

i am the daughter of a black panther.  and that is not an easy place to stand in.  it means i grew up nursing his ptsd.  it means i saw things that most kids just dont see.  

but it also means. that when i decide to fight.  im not emulating a cartoon character.  im fighting for bread and blood and love.  

roropcoldchain:

FAH NAHNEHNAHN UH SUMN LIKE DAT

(via thisinsatiableshadow)

timseriladashmimeni:

oliveseraphim:

callingoutbigotry:

nappyminds:

poonraider:

tiffanymicah:

bl4ckhippie:

vivalavintagee:

What exactly does “normal” to dark skin mean? So dark skin isn’t normal? Dove is fucked up.

What the hell

yeah my friend showed me this and what can i do

2013, every body.

Ok. I’m convinced that bottles of DOVE LOTION and it’s distributors are racist fucks.

plus dove sells skin-lightening products in a lot of countries

Dove are also owned the same company who owns lynx
 (google ‘the lynx effect’ for your daily dose of misogyny) Dove are evil fucks

but guuuuuuuys ~*~real beauty campaign~*~!!!!!!!

(via howtobeterrell)

"Vulnerability is the only authentic state. Being vulnerable means being open, for wounding, but also for pleasure. Being open to the wounds of life means also being open to the bounty and beauty. Don’t mask or deny your vulnerability: it is your greatest asset. Be vulnerable: quake and shake in your boots with it. The new goodness that is coming to you, in the form of people, situations, and things can only come to you when you are vulnerable and open."

Stephen Russell  (via thatkindofwoman)

(Source: internal-acceptance-movement, via likestepsonthemoon)

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fuckyeahmarxismleninism:

Reunion of members of the Black Panther Party’s New York City branch, April 28, 2013.

Photo by Shaka Shakur

(via strugglingtobeheard)

fabulouslymemzb:

A Few Shots Of Kara Walker Exhibit At MoCA - Chicago

(via howtobeterrell)