Sometimes a light comes on, like a punch to the stomach. There’s nothing sunny about a solar plexus, so I really don’t know why solar.
The other day I met one of the faces of the people who since 2002 at least have been modifying my virtual and street environments both, to either drive me and my patterns of thought into their grubby pockets of privilege – or, alternatively, drive me mad.
In 2003 they managed mad. The British state and security apparatuses still believe the diagnosis.
But on Friday, this last week, in a humble, kinda noble, street cafe – never presumptuous – I had a drink with a man who sees his customers possessed of reptilian brain.
He let it be known the world would be my oyster if I just left everyone I know behind. Behind as not worthy of my presence, of my intelligence, of my potential.
What he failed to realise or appreciate at the time, maybe now he does, I don’t know, maybe not even now, is that I am above all an enabler of others: a teacher not by profession but by trade and inclination. My potential never has lain in my own brain but, instead, in the brains of my charges and of my colleagues and of my wondrous acquaintances.
Those who talk about others’ reptilian brains, seeing them as ready and open for exploitation as diamond mines in the 20th century, as virtual deposits to be raped and leached of all empowering opportunity, are the real reptiles.
And from this position, now, I shall never move.
And neither shall my company.
However hard they make it get.