I feel the tug of wanting to know against the tantalizing beauty of not knowing.
I read Without Doubt once more: I say how I feel and you will doubt, I do for you, I love and you will doubt. Who is this 'you' I talk of? A stranger? Someone I know? Someone I love?
I write about myself, and you, the reader. You may be a stranger. You may be someone I have known. You may be someone I have loved, could love, I love. The value of not knowing keeps my hope alive.
It is not possible for me to express how I feel without your doubt. Whether a stranger, known, or loved.
It is not possible for me to do for you without your doubt. Whether a stranger, known, or loved.
It is not possible for me to love without your doubt, at least in part.
Doubt springs from the evasion of risk. From my need to protect. From my self-interest.
With art I can express, and do for you, and love without your doubt.
As a child I was given a stone polishing kit: a cylinder the size of a large food can that lays on its side as small wheels, connected by a thick rubber band to a small electric motor, turns and whirs endlessly.
Inside the can, stones tumble against one another, accidentally, in the dark grey gritty slush.
To polish music I become the cylinder, its speed, direction, and movement. To know when best to end I turn with stones of sound, grow dizzy, crushed and chipped, then try to stop before all is lost.