It’s a Trap
My new stereo receiver has a lot of interesting technology. Probably the most interesting is its ability to tune the sound relative to a position in the room. I set up a little microphone at head height by my chair, plug the mic into the amp, and push go. The receiver admits a series of signals at various frequencies from all the speakers and then calculates how to balance it all out just for me. It makes for a lovely listening experience.
Yesterday, however, as I settled into my chair after breakfast and turned on the tunes. I had a thought. What if, rather than building a refuge, I’d actually built a prison. What was I doing, sitting there in my chair listening to music in the morning in my pajamas, that was materially different from a junkie nodding off to heroin, a drunk sipping cheap wine beneath an overpass, a meth head sleeping off the day in his trailer? Not much. I was comfortable, the endorphins were flowing, and the world was out there. I was old and my wife was dead but the music sounded great and I didn’t have to think about it. That was a spooky thought. So, I turned off the music, got up from my chair, and went outside. I ran some errands, called my cousins, and went to visit a friend. I moved around.
This morning, I’ve got chores to do outside and mental work to do with a stack of papers beside the computer. I need some groceries, that’s easy. I’ve made plans to visit Houston for golf lessons. I’ll go take a long walk, and maybe I’ll continue working on cleaning up my wife’s closet. There are things to do, and I need to do them. So maybe, just maybe, I can take advantage of my little paradigm shift and get back to moving forward. But boy, howdy, that chair sure is comfortable, and the music sure sounds good.