The Curse of Detachment
In his most recent column in Wired Magazine, Momus talks about the “curse of storage”, of the difficulties that accompany the accumulation of possessions. He makes his argument from a fairly oriental perspective, drawing on the philosophy of Japanese architecture and certain Zen-like practices. I particularly like his analogy between the RAM memory of a computer and the objects that make part of Japan’s everyday living space. According to him, Japanese architecture is modeled in such a way that most objects are stored in shelves (think of a computer’s Hard Drive), while the space where one dwells (think the desktop), is empty with the exception of a few essentials. In such a setting, whenever I want to read a book, I take it out of one the shelves and bring it into my dwelling space, into my range of attention (RAM).
His article inspired all sorts of reflections about technology. For example, the possibility of storing a person’s data in a virtual setting, as proposed by Google with its Gdrive project, would certainly alleviate part of that “curse”. Just think of how many of a person’s possessions can be turned into data: pictures, music, videos, and increasingly, even books. That covers most of my priced possessions.
And yet, as convincing as this entire argument may sound, I can’t seem to commit myself to it. Possessions, in one way or another, are records of one’s passage through time: they reflect tastes at certain periods of a person’s life, they record misadventures (just ask me how my classical guitar ended up with a big patch), and in some cases, they become cornerstones of our lives, forever present in our sojourns.
There are days when I wish I could reach for my books and delve into the sensual pleasures of holding them, smelling their old pages, finding my notes on the margins and the stains left by my fingers. But they have been cursed to storage, just like my CDs, my guitar and other personal objects: they lie somewhere in the dark oblivion of a distant storage room. I find myself aching for them.
This aching is probably what keeps me from acquiring new possessions. I guess it’s what people refer to as separation anxiety. More troublesome, however, is the fact that this fear has also permeated my personal relationships. It is thus that I find myself without possessions, without emotional attachments, free from worldly passions; and yet, I can’t seem to experience the peace of mind that the Buddha promised. The aching never seems to go away.
It's the curse of detachment.
His article inspired all sorts of reflections about technology. For example, the possibility of storing a person’s data in a virtual setting, as proposed by Google with its Gdrive project, would certainly alleviate part of that “curse”. Just think of how many of a person’s possessions can be turned into data: pictures, music, videos, and increasingly, even books. That covers most of my priced possessions.
And yet, as convincing as this entire argument may sound, I can’t seem to commit myself to it. Possessions, in one way or another, are records of one’s passage through time: they reflect tastes at certain periods of a person’s life, they record misadventures (just ask me how my classical guitar ended up with a big patch), and in some cases, they become cornerstones of our lives, forever present in our sojourns.
There are days when I wish I could reach for my books and delve into the sensual pleasures of holding them, smelling their old pages, finding my notes on the margins and the stains left by my fingers. But they have been cursed to storage, just like my CDs, my guitar and other personal objects: they lie somewhere in the dark oblivion of a distant storage room. I find myself aching for them.
This aching is probably what keeps me from acquiring new possessions. I guess it’s what people refer to as separation anxiety. More troublesome, however, is the fact that this fear has also permeated my personal relationships. It is thus that I find myself without possessions, without emotional attachments, free from worldly passions; and yet, I can’t seem to experience the peace of mind that the Buddha promised. The aching never seems to go away.
It's the curse of detachment.
