Archive | September, 2011

Oh No! Another Update-type Post

30 Sep

Not a favorite of many of you out there, I know, but bear with me.  The Happy Hausfrau kicked the bucket six weeks ago. They struggled to haul her into a casket and shipped her off to la-la land. In her place arrived an early-rising, coffee-swigging non-profit slave, also known as The Automaton around these parts.On her first day of paid work, she encountered an epileptic fit, dialed 911 and discovered a stash of tequila bottles in her desk drawer. Good times.

So yes, forgive me if words and saying hello to you guys are not priorities at present time. I hope we can still be friends. And Merry Christmas in advance.

In other exciting news, remember CSA Awareness Month in April? The good folks who comprised the core team will be hosting another awareness effort starting tomorrow and running through October.

We all know it exists. We’ve all shared the stories in some hushed and some outraged tones. Here’s your chance to join in as we push awareness into cloud space and encourage our friends to identify, acknowledge and resist the numerous forms violence can take.

My brand of feminism, in addition to my personal experiences, does not permit me to only call this Violence Against Women. Hence the sub-title Women Against Violence. And, I fervently hope, men and transgenders too.

Do hop over. Read. Contribute. Link up. Share. Refer the site to a friend in need.

At the very least, know this resource is out there, should anybody you know need it. Even though it is my ardent wish that you never will.

Back to Automaton mode. Over and out.

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The Girl Not From Here

7 Sep

Swanley station.

1 degree celcius, 1 a.m., and a solitary woman awaiting her cab.

Eynsford, she said, sliding in the back, grateful for the warmth and the driver’s turban.

You’re brave, he said, for a girl not from here to be out alone this late.

I’ve been alone to many places, she explained, and silently counted the destinations where she was the girl-not-from-here. Days in the city of her childhood when she was the outsider. Times in her home when she did not  belong. Months in arms she felt like a stranger. The everywhere girl, the nowhere girl. Only mirrors knew her and let her be. A rebel against conformists, non-believer to the benders, among them, but not of them.

Movement helped, she sleepily mused. If you didn’t stay long enough, they couldn’t expect you to fit in. And so the girl not from here took cabs. And trains and planes and boarding passes, stepping off belief into affirmation, through revolving doors, up metal-railinged stairs.

“Be safe,” he smiled, engine purring at her door. And a pang helped her realize that kindness from strangers is easier than the wall of contorted faces people are sometimes forced to call home.

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