Sir Ken Robinson described Gillian Lynne as someone who “needs to move to think.”
When she was a young girl, incapable of sitting still, instead of being diagnosed with ADD, since ADD hadn’t been invented as a condition…instead Gillian Lynne was diagnosed as a dancer.
An imaginative educator invited Gillian’s parents to school for a discussion about the inability of their child to perform academically. Initially, her parents thought the news was going to be catastrophic.
Turns out, the news was catastrophic, the best kind, where the Tectonic Plates of Imagination shift and a child’s potential is tapped into and given a hopeful path instead of medicated into obscurity and nudged hopelessly toward Law School.
I get this. I’ve been a writer since always.
As I look back on the different ways I’ve struggled to make rent, it was never a struggle putting time aside to sneak away, and write.
I Need To Write To Think.
Can’t tell you how often I’d find myself incapable of knowing what was going on inside myself until I found the time to sit down and bang it out. Can’t tell you how often I’d bang it out only to realize what I wrote had nothing to do with me, at all, whatsoever.
But until I sat down, until I cleared space in my head for new ideas to take shape, until I wrote, I was little more than a walking, talking-to-myself, jumble of raw emotion and befuddled grey matter.
I Need To Write To Think.
Speaking of politicians, I’ve noticed a worldwide tendency to pretend what a politician was doing before they took the oath of office doesn’t shape what they’re comfortable doing once they stick a stupid flag pin through their stupid lapel.
Vladimir Putin was KGB. Needless to say, paranoia was Vladimir’s modus operandi. Barack Obama was a community organizer. Needless to say, optimism was Barack’s modus operandi. Dwight Eisenhower was a five-star general. Needless to say, battle was Ike’s viagra.
Been reading “Eisenhower: The White House Years” by Jim Newton.
Like all historians, Jim Newton is in love with his subject, Ike. He glosses over the racism; he glosses over the temper tantrums; he glosses over the running mate, Richard Nixon.
Jim Newton wants the reader to love Ike. He triumphed in WWII. He triumphed in The Cold War. He brought the world back from the precipice of Nuclear Annihilation. His autobiography included a recipe for Beef Stew.
So what if Ike was a racist? So what if Ike sympathized with southern oppression? So what if Ike remained silent, even after the brutal murder of Emmett Till?
Ike put Earl Warren on the high court, which absolves Ike, the book’s protagonist, of apathetic indifference to needless humiliation.
The bigger insight lies beneath the words, since the words amount to little more then Eisenhower Fetishism.
Eisenhower was a bigot, more comfortable destroying Guatemala and Iran with covert lunacy instead of stepping into the moment like a kindhearted man and tackling the issue of the day in his own country, America, where Jim Crow and institutionalized segregation were holding back generations from their potential.
You can. But it’s little more than a title.