When you think of a woman, what do you think of?
Genitalia? For some reason, not at all.
Tight clothes, gloves, shades, heels, red lips, leopard print and the 1950s? Sort of. Iconic. Media.
Mother - like a warm neck and milk? Yes, an ideal... I should, but I don't.
Mull a minute.
OK I got it.
When I think of a woman, I think of Earth. A dark, arid, tectonic crust that splits through the middle and cracks under the sun, and then spins the world on her axis. I think of eternity. Of sacrifice.
I think of Earth.
The #Metoo campaign is probably one of the most significant developments in the feminist movement today, whose ripples have washed the shores of media, art, industry and the collective mind. Something feels out. The ripple that won't stop. It's wonderful.
But I didn't sign. I could have, but I didn't.
I get more from telling stories about amazing women that get up and shake. The campaign has value, but it's not what I think of when I think of a woman.
I think of the people in the background that birth the world when nobody is watching.
I think of Maya Angelou's Still I Rise:
And I think of lyrics of my own.