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