#headrag

[no-goodbyes-no-regrets]

So according to the exit polls (based on people getting asked what they voted outside of polling stations) the PVV (partij voor de vrijheid/ party for freedom) WON the election.

it looks like they got THIRTY FIVE seats (out of 150), making them the largest party by far (the second largest is *thankfully* a left wing party with 26 seats) which (likely) means they'll be the party to name the new prime minister.

This is BAD.

They're not THE most right wing party, but it's close.

The leader had a crowd chant "minder, minder" (less, less) as an answer to the question "do you want more or less Moroccans in The Hague" a few years ago.

Referred to hijabs as "kopvodden" - "headrags"

Made a film on why Islam is bad

Has insulted Islam on more than one occasion

Wants to ban the Quran

Is a big supporter of the burka ban

Wants to close the borders

Wants to stop people who are granted asylum and can legally live here from bringing their family over here too

To the Americans - he was (is?) bffs with your republicans, that should tell you enough

this might be our new prime minister. I feel sick.

Now I know how all of the sane Americans felt when trump was elected!

[fallout-vault0144]

Missing Three Dog?

.

So an old friend of mine from the Captial up and disappeared without a trace. To where I wish I had a clue on. See my buddy Three Dog was this legendary radio host. Ran this little operation he called Galaxy News Radio or G.N.R. for short.

.

But for some reason he left without saying anything to anyone. I tried asking an old friend of ours in Megaton if she or anyone had seen him. But all my questions were left unanswered...

.

All they could find was his outfit, shades & headrag. Wherever he is I hope he's still alive and is still fighting the good fight.

.

I know a group of people who are taking up his old place are doing just that. But still my biggest question is where is Three Dog?

[yalinat]

Im schicken, modernen und farbenfrohen Stil von hochwertiger Qualität präsentiert Ihnen Yalinat seine handangefertigte Damenmode, Kindermode, sowie Accessoires und Schmucke. . . . Yalinat is a marketplace for handmade clothing for ladies, clothing for children, accessories for men, women and jewelry with the best quality of african fabrics/ 100% cotton wax . . . #yalinat #dashikiscarf #africanscarf #fashion #fashionaccessories #scarf #ankarastyle #headscarf #squarehead #bandana #headcloth #headrag #kerchief #blackexcellence #powerladies #headwraps #accessori #handmade #africanwax #africanqueen #wax (hier: Bad Kreuznach, Germany) https://www.instagram.com/p/BnYSoHjCRiM/?igshid=394q74m0d3vi

[dooguard]

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[neoyorzapoteca]

Galaxies Unto Themselves: Lorna Simpson’s Collages of Black Women’s Hair

By Elizabeth Alexander

“We start with the Book of Miss Brooks, and her poem, “The Anniad,” which casts the life of an “ordinary” black girl, Annie Allen, in epic scale and form:

THINK OF THAUMATURGIC LASS LOOKING IN HER LOOKING-GLASS
 AT THE UNEMBROIDERED BROWN; PRINTING BASTARD ROSES THERE; THEN EMOTIONALLY AWARE 
OF THE BLACK AND BOISTEROUS HAIR, TAMING ALL THAT ANGER DOWN.

In Lorna Simpson’s collages, “the black and boisterous” hair is the universal governing principle. Black women’s heads of hair are galaxies unto themselves, solar systems, moonscapes, volcanic interiors. The hair she paints has a mind of its own. It is sinuous and cloudy and fully alive. It is forest and ocean, its own emotional weather. Black women’s hair is epistemology, but we cannot always discern its codes.

Lorna Simpson, Earth & Sky #17, 2016.

Watercolor is the perfect medium for Simpson here because of how it holds light and appears to be translucent. But it is also a wash, a shadow cast over what we cannot know in these women. Simpson’s portraits invite us to look, by their sidelong glances or direct gazes. We are compelled, always, by the phantasmagorical hair, which both invites and obscures.

In these pictures black women’s phantasmagorical hair is like smoke, but nothing is turning to ash. It is a non-consuming smoke, the mesmerizing beauty of smoke as it curls and wafts and draws a viewer inexorably near.

Lorna Simpson, Ultra Violet 2, 2015.

If black people are “the window and the breaking of the window,” as William Pope.L asserts (we are reminded by curator Amanda Hunt), what are black women, in Simpson’s vision here?

Black women are blue and black and ocher and goldenrod and magenta. Black women are unfathomable.

Lorna Simpson, Jet Problem, 2012.

Black women are composed, necessarily immaculate. A black woman could go off at any moment.

Black women are mighty and terrifying.

Lorna Simpson, White Roses, 2011.

I do not know a black women who is at leisure. I have never known a black woman not efficient. Black women bide their time.

Black women are the shimmering surface and the power beneath.

What does it mean for a sister to sing that song?

The repetitions in these images suggest that we are thought of by some as a dime a dozen: undervalued, yes, but also, abundant. Black women are everywhere glorious and unsung.

Lorna Simpson, Jet Double Sit-In, 2012.

The black woman is elemental, of the earth, magma, and gem, “malachite and azurite.”

She is Afro-blue.

Before the serpentine coil, the gravity-defying nimbus of black hair, there is grease and there are plaits and there are headrags and there are silk sleeping scarves and satin pillowcases. Simpson doesn’t show us that. Yet we know it is there.

Lorna Simpson, Unbroken, 2017.

One soundtrack to these pictures: A woman sings Otis Redding’s “Try a Little Tenderness” to her sister, her girlfriend. Black women, we sing to each other, a black woman artist singing an epic ode to black female beauty.

Ah black. Ah boisterous. Ah black. Ah beauty.

I want to name these women old-fashioned names: Viola, Simone, Mamie, Zora, Fern, Rachel, Daphne, Maudell, Thelma, Wenonah, Alondra, Farah. Adele, Matrice. Look, I’ve named some of them for women I love, whose eternal beauty never ceases to stir me.

Lorna Simpson, Earth & Sky #03, 2016.

Black women are the beginning and the end. 
Black women are the law.
 Black women are the ground and the sky, the horizon. Black women are the lucky number seven.

Black women are all the books in the Ancient Library of Alexandria, Egypt. Black women are Hammurabi’s code and the Rosetta stone: vexation and answer, secret and revelation.

Black women are surpassingly beautiful, and that is why you cannot stop looking at Lorna Simpson’s pictures.

The word “thaumaturgic” means: performing miracles.”

(via LitHub)

[universitybookstore]

THE TALKING BACK OF MISS VALENTINE JONES

well I wanted to braid my hair bathe and bedeck my self so fine so fully aforethought for your pleasure see: I wanted to travel and read and runaround fantastic into war and peace: I wanted to surf dive fly climb conquer and be conquered THEN I wanted to pickup the phone and find you asking me if I might possibly be alone some night (so I could answer cool as the jewels I would wear on bareskin for you digmedaddy delectation:) "WHEN you comin ova?" But I had to remember to write down margarine on the list and shoepolish and a can of sliced pineapple in casea company and a quarta skim milk cause Teresa's gaining weight and don' nobody groove on that much girl and next I hadta sort for darks and lights before the laundry hit the water which I had to kinda keep an eye on be- cause if the big hose jumps the sink again that Mrs. Thompson gointa come upstairs and brain me with a mop don' smell too nice even though she hang it headfirst out the winda and I had to check on William like to burn hisself to death with fever boy so thin be callin all day "Momma! Sing to me?" "Ma! Am I gone die?" and me not wake enough to sit beside him longer than to wipeaway the sweat or change the sheets/ his shirt and feed him orange juice before I fall out of sleep and Sweet My Jesus ain but one can left and we not thru the afternoon and now you (temporarily) shownup with a thing you says' a poem and you call it "Will The Real Miss Black America Standup?" guilty po' mouth about duty beauties of my headrag boozeup doozies about never mind cause love is blind well I can't use it and the very next bodacious Blackman call me queen because my life ain shit because (in any case) he ain been here to share it with me (dish for dish and do for do and dream for dream) I'm gone scream him out my house be- cause what I wanted was to braid my hair/bathe and bedeck my self so fully be- cause what I wanted was your love not pity be- cause what I wanted was your love your love

-- June Jordan

[poem-today]

A poem by Rita Dove

Hattie McDaniel Arrives at the Coconut Grove

late, in aqua and ermine, gardenias scaling her left sleeve in a spasm of scent, her gloves white, her smile chastened, purse giddy with stars and rhinestones clipped to her brilliantined hair, on her free arm that fine Negro, Mr. Wonderful Smith.

It’s the day that isn’t, February 29th, at the end of the shortest month of the year— and the shittiest, too, everywhere except Hollywood, California, where the maid can wear mink and still be a maid, bobbing her bandaged head and cursing the white folks under her breath as she smiles and shoos their silly daughters in from the night dew … what can she be thinking of, striding into the ballroom where no black face has ever showed itself except above a serving tray?

Hi-Hat Hattie, Mama Mac, Her Haughtiness, the “little lady” from Showboat whose name Bing forgot, Beulah & Bertha & Malena & Carrie & Violet & Cynthia & Fidelia, one half of the Dark Barrymores— dear Mammy we can’t help but hug you crawl into your generous lap tease you with arch innuendo so we can feel that much more wicked and youthful and sleek but oh what

we forgot: the four husbands, the phantom pregnancy, your famous parties, your celebrated ice box cake. Your giggle above the red petticoat’s rustle, black girl and white girl walking hand in hand down the railroad tracks in Kansas City, six years old. The man who advised you, now that you were famous, to “begin eliminating” your more “common” acquaintances and your reply (catching him square in the eye): “That’s a good idea. I’ll start right now by eliminating you.”

Is she or isn’t she? Three million dishes, a truckload of aprons and headrags later, and here you are: poised, between husbands and factions, no corset wide enough to hold you in, your huge face a dark moon split by that spontaneous smile—your trademark, your curse. No matter, Hattie: It’s a long, beautiful walk into that flower-smothered standing ovation, so go on and make them wait.

Rita Dove

Listen to Rita Dove read the poem.

[theywerewomenthen]

Women 

They were women then My mama’s generation Husky of voice—stout of Step With fists as well as Hands How they battered down Doors And ironed Starched white Shirts How they led Armies Headragged generals Across mined Fields Booby-trapped Ditches To discover books Desks A place for us How they knew what we Must know Without knowing a page Of it Themselves.

- Alice Walker

[poems-at-the-start]

Robert Pinsky, “Shirt”

The back, the yoke, the yardage. Lapped seams, The nearly invisible stitches along the collar Turned in a sweatshop by Koreans or Malaysians

Gossiping over tea and noodles on their break Or talking money or politics while one fitted This armpiece with its overseam to the band

Of cuff I button at my wrist. The presser, the cutter, The wringer, the mangle. The needle, the union, The treadle, the bobbin. The code. The infamous blaze

At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven. One hundred and forty-six died in the flames On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes -- 

The witness in a building across the street Who watched how a young man helped a girl to step Up to the windowsill, then held her out

Away from the masonry wall and let her drop. And then another. As if he were helping them up To enter a streetcar, and not eternity.

A third before he dropped her put her arms Around his neck and kissed him. Then he held Her into space, and dropped her. Almost at once

He stepped to the sill himself, his jacket flared And fluttered up from his shirt as he came down, Air filling up the legs of his gray trousers -- 

Like Hart Crane’s Bedlamite, ‘shrill shirt ballooning.’ Wonderful how the pattern matches perfectly Across the placket and over the twin bar-tacked

Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme Or a major chord. Prints, plaids, checks, Houndstooth, Tattersall, Madras. The clan tartans

Invented by mill-owners inspired by the hoax of Ossian, To control their savage Scottish workers, tamed By a fabricated heraldry: MacGregor,

Bailey, MacMartin. The kilt, devised for workers To wear among the dusty clattering looms. Weavers, carders, spinners. The loader,

The docker, the navvy. The planter, the picker, the sorter Sweating at her machine in a litter of cotton As slaves in calico headrags sweated in fields:

George Herbert, your descendant is a Black Lady in South Carolina, her name is Irma And she inspected my shirt. Its color and fit

And feel and its clean smell have satisfied Both her and me. We have culled its cost and quality Down to the buttons of simulated bone,

The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters Printed in black on neckband and tail. The shape, The label, the labor, the color, the shade. The shirt.

[inhernature]

The Talking Back of Miss Valentine Jones: Poem # one

June Jordan

well I wanted to braid my hair

bathe and bedeck my self so fine so fully aforethought for your pleasure see: I wanted to travel and read and runaround fantastic into war and peace: I wanted to surf dive fly climb conquer and be conquered THEN I wanted to pickup the phone and find you asking me if I might possibly be alone some night (so I could answer cool as the jewels I would wear on bareskin for you digmedaddy delectation:) "WHEN you comin ova?" But I had to remember to write down margarine on the list and shoepolish and a can of sliced pineapple in casea company and a quarta skim milk cause Teresa's gaining weight and don' nobody groove on that much girl and next I hadta sort for darks and lights before the laundry hit the water which I had to kinda keep an eye on be- cause if the big hose jumps the sink again that Mrs. Thompson gointa come upstairs and brain me with a mop don' smell too nice even though she hang it headfirst out the winda and I had to check on William like to burn hisself to death with fever boy so thin be callin all day "Momma! Sing to me?" "Ma! Am I gone die?" and me not wake enough to sit beside him longer than to wipeaway the sweat or change the sheets/ his shirt and feed him orange juice before I fall out of sleep and Sweet My Jesus ain but one can left and we not thru the afternoon and now you (temporarily) shownup with a thing you says' a poem and you call it "Will The Real Miss Black America Standup?"

                      guilty po' mouth                       about duty beauties of my                       headrag                       boozeup doozies about                       never mind                       cause love is blind

well I can't use it

and the very next bodacious Blackman call me queen because my life ain shit because (in any case) he ain been here to share it with me (dish for dish and do for do and dream for dream) I'm gone scream him out my house be- cause what I wanted was to braid my hair/bathe and bedeck my self so fully be- cause what I wanted was your love not pity be- cause what I wanted was your love your love

[no-goodbyes-no-regrets]

*antisemitism is all of it. Not part of it. All of it.

Ok I've been holding back on here too because of this exactly. I knew I'd get Anons™ about it.

Anti semitism does absolutely play a part in this. But do you know how often shit hits the fan around football matches here? They cancelled one a while back because the police was on strike and they didn't want to risk it. These are people who will take ANY excuse to start a fight.

israeli fans ripping down palestinian flags, lighting fireworks, singing anti arab songs, and destroying a taxi? More than enough. Especially since our fascist government treats pro palestine protests/protesters as thugs looking for a fight and anything and everything israel does as fair game, and the israeli fans starting shit like innocent little schoolboys who just wanted to watch the football.

I saw an article from the jeruzalem post last night (that's still saved in my drafts because it pissed me off but I was not in the mood for *gestures* this) where they PRAISED and fucking WOOBEFIED Geert Wilders. Poor little Geert who won the election but then was BLOCKED from becoming PRIME MINISTER by the EVILS who HATE him!! SO UNFAIR!! *stomps feet and pouts*

I'm guessing you're not Dutch and have no idea who this guy is, so let me break it down.

He is a trump-fan. He posted a selfie wearing a fucking MAGA hat to celebrate trump's win. He is bffs with Viktor Orbán He admires/supports basically every right wing racist here in Europe (like Giorgia Meloni, Marine le Pen, Filip Dewinter). He has been openly racist/Islamophobic in Dutch politics for the past 20 years. He has openly and on purpose offended Muslims by posting images of the prophet Mohammed He made a film on the "dangers" of Islam - again, just to offend and attack Muslims Has referred to hijabs as "kopvodden" - headrags. His party won the local elections in The Hague in 2014 and he was there to address the crowd gathered in some cafe or something where they had waited for the results (even though he didn't even RUN in The Hague himself) and asked them if they wanted more or less Moroccans in The Hague, the crowd started chanting "minder, minder" - "less, less" and then he promised he would take care of that. He has referred to Islam as "achterlijk geloof" "retarted belief" He has been convicted for hate speech (though sadly it didn't even come with so much as a fine and he doesn't give a fuck) His party sadly did get the most seats in parliament after the election last year, but the three other parties his party has now formed a government with blocked him from becoming prime minister. WHICH SUITS HIM JUST FINE. He HANDPICKED a prime minister, who is basically his minion, but he still gets to pick fights with other parties on twitter and insult the (HANDPICKED BY HIM!!) prime minister and act like he's still in the opposition instead of the actual government. Now onto the fun part you might care about. So he supports israel yeah? Nice little photo op with him attending a shabbat in a synagogue, once again speaking out against people protesting the fact that the israeli president would attend the opening of the new Holocaust Museum in Amsterdam, all that good stuff. Geert Wilders is leader of the PVV, right? largest party in dutch parliament right now. So his party got to appoint some ministers. We've got Fleur Agema, the current minister of public health, who had/has an account on a stormfront (white power /neo nazi) message board. Marjolein Faber, current minister of immigration, big fan of the omvolkingstheorie - a theory that states all white people in the world are being replaced by non white people and that it's this big conspiracy lead by Jewish people. Reinette Klever, current minister of developmental aid, former board memeber of "Ongehoord Nederland" - a tv broadcaster for the "unheard" (aka an excuse to be racist on main) also a big fan of that theory, refused to distance herself from it when she took office, called it a factual progression of evolution. Wore a prinsenvlag pin and claimed it was to honour her ancestors who had fought the Spanish with Willem van Oranje - in 1568. Funny little detail about the prinsenvlag is that it's a the Dutch flag, but with the red band replaced by an orange one and was used by the NSB. Nationaal Socialistische Beweging. Those first two words might look familiar? It's the Dutch version of the Nazi party in WW2. And the flag is STILL used by neo nazis. Martin Bosma, current speaker of the house, also a big fan of the omvolkingstheorie, also has been seen in public wearing a prinsenvlag pin (supposedly to honour the Dutch VOC history - which was big in the slave trade... so you know, not sure if that's any better) Several other members of this party have worn this flag, it was displayed in the window of their headquarters until shit got too real and they took it down (and played the victim). None of these people have distanced themselves from all of this in ANY WAY since they took office. Geert hasn't told them to either. And they've been using the anti semitic violence in Amsterdam to push their anti- islam/anti Moroccans agenda - with success. Are these really the people you want to fight in your corner?

and also this.

Following the attack, the city announced a three-day ban on all demonstrations to maintain public order. Furthermore, the government had announced it would hold stricter border control until December 9. Hundreds of people defied the ban, which had been upheld by a local court earlier in the day.  They chanted "Free Palestine" and "Shame on you" and called for an end to the war in Gaza.

The demonstration ban the city of Amsterdam has issued has been extended to tomorrow/Thursday, people have fought it in court because the right to demonstrate is in the constitution and taking that away as a form of punishment is certainly A Choice...

And the border controls are STARTING on December 9th (and will last six months), as a way for our fascist government to "stop mass illegal immigration" (which is not a thing) and stop the "immigration crisis" (which doesn't exist) but it has NOTHING to do with the violence around the football match.

And that last line of the article? Imagine considering people calling for an end of a war a bad thing...

[ukdamo]

Shirt

Robert Pinsky

The back, the yoke, the yardage. Lapped seams, The nearly invisible stitches along the collar Turned in a sweatshop by Koreans or Malaysians

Gossiping over tea and noodles on their break Or talking money or politics while one fitted This armpiece with its overseam to the band

Of cuff I button at my wrist. The presser, the cutter, The wringer, the mangle. The needle, the union, The treadle, the bobbin. The code. The infamous blaze

At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven. One hundred and forty-six died in the flames On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes—

The witness in a building across the street Who watched how a young man helped a girl to step Up to the windowsill, then held her out

Away from the masonry wall and let her drop. And then another. As if he were helping them up To enter a streetcar, and not eternity.

A third before he dropped her put her arms   Around his neck and kissed him. Then he held Her into space, and dropped her. Almost at once

He stepped to the sill himself, his jacket flared And fluttered up from his shirt as he came down, Air filling up the legs of his gray trousers—

Like Hart Crane’s Bedlamite, “shrill shirt ballooning.” Wonderful how the pattern matches perfectly Across the placket and over the twin bar-tacked

Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme Or a major chord.   Prints, plaids, checks, Houndstooth, Tattersall, Madras. The clan tartans

Invented by mill-owners inspired by the hoax of Ossian, To control their savage Scottish workers, tamed By a fabricated heraldry: MacGregor,

Bailey, MacMartin. The kilt, devised for workers To wear among the dusty clattering looms. Weavers, carders, spinners. The loader,

The docker, the navvy. The planter, the picker, the sorter Sweating at her machine in a litter of cotton As slaves in calico headrags sweated in fields:

George Herbert, your descendant is a Black Lady in South Carolina, her name is Irma And she inspected my shirt. Its color and fit

And feel and its clean smell have satisfied Both her and me. We have culled its cost and quality Down to the buttons of simulated bone,

The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters Printed in black on neckband and tail. The shape, The label, the labor, the color, the shade. The shirt.

[yalinat]

Im schicken, modernen und farbenfrohen Stil von hochwertiger Qualität präsentiert Ihnen Yalinat seine handangefertigte Damenmode, Kindermode, sowie Accessoires und Schmucke. . . . Yalinat is a marketplace for handmade clothing for ladies, clothing for children, accessories for men, women and jewelry with the best quality of african fabrics/ 100% cotton wax . . . #yalinat #dashikiscarf #africanscarf #fashion #fashionaccessories #scarf #ankarastyle #headscarf #squarehead #bandana #headcloth #headrag #kerchief #blackexcellence #powerladies #headwraps #accessori #handmade #africanwax #africanqueen #wax (hier: Bad Kreuznach, Germany) https://www.instagram.com/p/B7biXVDoXcJ/?igshid=tvfci4lk7khp

[dooguard]

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[visionaryblogstylez]

“Power” Blog Post #362 My Outfit !

Rag : MembersOnly: Red Headrag (Unavailable)

Hair : Unorthodox Yachty Hair -- Noir NEWW

Mask : HX: Boost Facemask Fatpack 

Hoodie : -P- WYM Hoodie

Shorts : INVICTUS - Shorts Jeans  Light

Shoes : [Shoeminati] x4 R.A.W Limited NEWW

[no-goodbyes-no-regrets]

What the fuck Tumblr???? Why am I seeing ads for fascists on my dash????

This guy is so anti Muslim he made a hate film about it, one of his things at the local elections in the Hague was to rid the city of Moroccans, he wanted Muslim women to pay a "headrag tax" and just about orgasmed over the burka ban.

(to put it in perspective for you Americans, Michele Bachman invited him over to speak at some convention type thing last year I think and they LOVE each other.)

So excuse me if I don't want to know how "Geert's plan will help everyone"

And our elections arent until MARCH.