* * * * * * * * A A N N A A D D A A A A N N N A A D D A A A A N N N A A D D A A A *** A N N A *** A D D A *** A A A N N A A D D A A A ****************************** A A "On Hard Drives, Samnyasa, and the aNAda #46 A A Future of the Human Soul" A A by Puck 04/24/00 A A A ******************************************************************** I formatted my hard drive last night, and now it's got me thinking a lot about the human soul. In fact, it's got me thinking so much about the human soul, that I'm compelled to write a T-file. And I haven't been compelled to write a T-file for years. Any-hoot. When I was a freshman in college, about five or six years ago, I was enrolled in an Indian Philosophy class. It was taught by a man named Rama Rao Pappu. We called him Dr. Pappu. Thinking back on this, I'm surprised I hadn't come up with a more creative, endearing name for the guy, but I was only a freshman. I still had a degree of respect for authority. Even robed, thick accented, one-of- the-syllables-of-my-last-name-is-pronounced-POO authority. Dr. Pappu's class was a very surreal experience on many levels. The class met twice a week for two hours. The lecture hall was about ten times larger than it needed to be for such a small class, so the students were spread out. This was the first class I ever fell asleep in. Falling asleep in this class was magical. Pappu's hypnotic voice would echo lightly through the room. My eyes would slowly shut, and I would drift off into one of those half-dreams where everything, anything, and nothing makes tangible sense. I've tried for years to recapture the serenity that accompanied a nap in Indian Philosphy, but have yet to figure out the key elements to such bliss. On one of the days where I was perhaps too caffeinated for sleep, we learned about the Samnyasa - men in Indian, who, upon reaching an old age, would shed themselves of all their worldly possessions, don a robe, and wander from town to town living off of charity. The philosophy was this -- each object that a person owned carried with it a certain gravity. It would bind itself to his soul. Releasing these objects was a holistically freeing experience. The Samnyasa were no longer chained to their goods. They were free to wander, and enjoy one phatty chunk of happiness before they were ashes in a chamber pot. As a college freshman, the idea of one day becoming Samnyasa was very appealing to me. I understood what it mean to be bound by ones' possessions. As I moved into my second and third years of college, the idea only became more enticing... having moved through countless dorms and apartments, I was quick to appreciate the enormous amount of junk I had accumulated. I was looking forward to the day where I could just chuck it out the window, pick up some hospy scrubs, sandals, and trot through the suburbs as the town Samnyasan. Regrettably, the self-realization concerning my attachment to possessions that was so powerful in my youth began to fade, along with many idealisms. My fourth and fifth years at college were unwittingly spent ammassing an enormous collection of possessions. My unexpected financial success after college only fueled this behavior. I'm a techno-dependent yuppie living on Chicago's north side. And so it was that last night, while formatting my hard drive, I stumbled upon the future of the Samnyasa. The virtual Samnyasa. Formatting my hard drive was such a liberating experience, and a perfect metaphor for such an unattainable path. My machine was cleansed. My soul was cleansed. When you format your machine and reinstall an operating system, it's as if you dumped a gallon of grease into the gears. Programs launch quicker, your system runs more efficiently. Pointing and clicking becomes a very holy experience. And so the trend begins... as a person's life becomes synonymous with the contents of his hard drive, perhaps there will be therapy techniques based entirely on memory formatting. Support groups. 12 step programs. (Step 1: Admit you have a problem. Step 2: Format the FUCK out of it. And so on.) Sadly, however, formatting a hard drive is a very temporary fix. The permanence of impermanence, the sanctity of chaos and entropy -- my hard drive will inevitably become cluttered once more. I will once again move through the day sluggishly, chained to the earth by my dependence on my possessions. When the burden becomes too much, when that last blue screen breaks the camel's back, I'll format again. I'll make sacrifices. Chuck year-old programs out the window. Get rid of those jpg's of ex-girlfriends. Acknowledge that no, I'll never get around to watching that .asf file of the Dudley Do-Right movie. But my computer is going to stay right where it is. On my IKEA desk. Right next to my AIWA stereo. Holding up my Palm Pilot. Underneath my Waiting for Guffman poster. And so on. And so on. And so on. {**************************************************************************} { (c)2000 aNAda e'zine * * aNAda046 * by Puck } **************************************************************************