As long as you’re happy.”
That’s the line long uttered by the most dreaded members of my family, and their friends, whenever they tried to pry into my personal affairs. Often the last word, “happy,” was uttered with a downward cadence and accompanied by a shrug.
Then came the kicker. “You are happy, aren’t you?” said with eyes boring into my soul. “Well, as long as you’re happy.”
Cue the telltale shrug. With disapproval voiced and points scored, it was time for the obligatory peck on the cheek, handshake, or—worse— mutual male hug disguised as burp assistance.
Thus were the seeds of doubt planted by those who used words and looks in place of cordless leashes and electroshock. Was I truly happy, or was I masking deep-rooted existential dis-ease? What does it mean to be happy? Is contentment good enough, or is it merely a convenient compromise?
Irony of ironies, here I am decades later asking myself the same question. Except, whereas before the mandate to probe my emotions was intrusive and unwelcome, now it’s something I’m paid to do as I listen to audio equipment and recordings. Just what are you really feeling while you’re listening, Serinus? You are happy, aren’t you?
Questions asked become questions owned. Karma and dharma united in a macabre dance, à la Shostakovich.
This story is from the November 2020 edition of Stereophile.
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This story is from the November 2020 edition of Stereophile.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
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