“I know,” I answered.
I feel very lucky to be working with and for John Atkinson. He has a special, quiet, and simple way of motivating, a special, quiet, and simple way of making you want to run.
And I hate running. Running, to me, has always meant trouble: I was late for school, or being chased, or running away from my father’s drunken screams and heavy hands.
“Did you ever try to run away?” she asked.
I thought of being a child, and shook my head no. I remembered what it meant to run away: a Charlie Brown character with a bag attached to a stick and slung over a shoulder, walking alongside a sad, sad dog. I had no stick, couldn’t imagine what belongings were held in that small bag, and was afraid of, and allergic to, dogs. Running away was not an option.
To tell you the absolute truth, I’m also a bit afraid of this blog. Or, I should say: I’m a bit afraid of the responsibility. Like with falling in love, I don’t want to mess this thing up, and so I’m tentative, uneasy. I don’t always say exactly what I want to say, but I’m trying.
It’s a huge honor, and I want to do a great job. For John. For everyone here—and for you—but, right now, especially for John. When John comes around with his light, sober words—asking simply: “Are we rocking?”—it’s such a great feeling to be able to answer, honestly: “Yes.”
And so, when I answered his suggestion with, “I know,” I was more than a bit surprised by my cockiness. I have to remind myself that knowing is not the goal, that, perhaps—when it comes to the most important and beautiful things—knowing, really knowing, is often not even possible. Knowing—in the usual sense—is not an option. I like to remind myself that there is so much I don’t know.
It’s true: I was exaggerating when I said, "I know nothing about high-end audio." But I was definitely onto something.