Atmananda often pointed out, to his inner circle of friends, that in a past life he was Sir Thomas More.
There was the problem of cinema. Guru prohibited the viewing of sexually explicit or violent movies.
Atmananda had his own view, which was to see them. As a result, I got to see such films as Rocky Horror Picture Show, Dawn of the Dead, and Apocalypse Now.
There was the problem of expression of individuality. In an attempt to merge with the Beyond, many disciples decorated their often sparse homes with Guru's paintings, posters, and photographs.
In contrast, Atmananda's plushly carpeted, colorful cottage, gave me the sense that he rearranged the space until the lines connecting the physical and non-physical dimensions meshed nicely. By the front door, two ferns thrived beside an electronic synthesizer. By a stained-glass window hung a photograph of Atmananda with a toucan on his shoulder. "The toucan died," he once told me, "but its soul is advanced and will soon take on a human incarnation." Multi-colored rug segments covered the stairs to the loft, where a larger-than-life Transcendental stared down from the slanted ceiling, directly over his bed.
And there was the problem that Stony Brook disciples learned the language of spirituality and of dreams less from Chinmoy than Atmananda.
Able to speak at length about anything and nothing, Atmananda often did. For him, reality seemed to consist of an infinite number of levels which were interconnected in obvious and in not so obvious ways.
"Words are used to describe these levels but are extremely limited," he explained. Nonetheless, I often found myself tripping on his words from the world of the bizarre to the world of the sensible, and back again. I became familiar with the diversity of his language during his lectures and, perhaps more so, during his parties.
"Auuuuummmmmmmmmmmmm," he chanted after a twenty-five minute meditation at the start of one party. He slowly bowed and touched his forehead to the floor which is where he sat, along with the rest of us. Then the Stony Brook disciples stoked the fireplace, set the tablecloth on the floor, grated cheese, and emptied bags of tortilla chips. I watched the disciples work. Only months had passed since the exploding stove episode, and yet I felt close to them. There was Atmananda. He was orchestrating the festivities. He had brought us all together. There was my brother. He looked happy. He did not seem to mind me tagging along. There was Sal. His intense nature seemed balanced by a fabulous sense of humor. There was Tom, the tall, easygoing bass guitar player. He would soon receive a degree in history from Stony Brook. He seemed to be good friends with Atmananda. And there was Paul. He and I were becoming friends.
Then there were the women. According to Guru, I was not even supposed to look them in the eye. I tried to protect them from my wayward sexual thoughts but sometimes, in my imagination, I did more than just look. Then I felt bad. I was told that they would now have to meditate extra hard to cleanse themselves of such "lower energy." I wished that we could be friends. They seemed so nice.