A Mystery
I am puzzled by the mystery of what others see and hear and why. I could stand or sit for hours looking at the Night Watch in the Rijksmuseum. It’s the same with any painting by Turner at the Tate. I love Bach’s Concerto for Two Violins in D minor. Or Billie Gibbons playing Blue Jean Blues. I love the puzzle of quantum mechanics, geology, and chaos theory. They’re all things that strike a chord within me and release whatever it is my body releases when it sees or hears something of beauty or interest.
Yet those same things I see as beautiful can go largely unnoticed or unappreciated by large groups of people. Why? How is that someone can swoon over a piece of art or music that someone sitting right beside them finds totally uninteresting? How is it that someone can live their entire life devoid of art or music? Mysteries, mysteries, mysteries. I wish I had an answer, although I don’t know what I’d do with the information if I did.
Luckily, I guess, I made my peace with this long ago. My playlist is my playlist. My books are my books. My art is my art. I listen, read, and look to bring joy to my life. I share, tentatively, but without expectation of reciprocity. I’ve come to understand that my tastes are a bit esoteric and not to everyone’s liking. I don’t know how it happened, or if it's particularly bad, perhaps I spent too much time alone as a child. But here we are. None the worse for wear apparently. I’ve managed to find love and friendship, and I assume I’ll find more as I continue living my eclectic life.