I was fifteen the first time I left home. “Left home,” that is, in the sense of it being the first time I left the place that had always been my home to go live somewhere else. The “somewhere else,” in this case, wasn’t far — there was maybe a thirty minute drive between the two — and I wasn’t on my own. My mother and I moved from the rural principality of Fruitland into the “bustling metropolis” of Farmington, following her divorce from my father. Both parents have expressed some level of sorrow over this occurrence in the lives of my sister and I, but I embrace the event and its effects. I would not be the same person I am today without it. This was the first thing that really prompted me to start figuring things out for myself in the world. It was the most striking catalyst of my independence, both of thought and action.
Since then, I’ve moved fifteen separate times. Lived in thirteen different places. Established residence in three cities across two states. Still plenty of travel left to do.
But I digress…
With all of that tiresome moving — the packing and unpacking, the sorting, the storage, the arranging — with all of that activity, there are bound to be items, possessions, mementos, sometimes even people that break loose from the caravan and are left somewhere behind. Most of these things are never thought of or missed again. The thought, memory, the desire for some of them may come wandering back after a time. Occasionally, though…
Something of this sort has happened to Us here, now. Once upon a time, in an era oft referred to as “The Day,” there existed a now archaic and obsolete form of information storage and transportation known as a “floppy disk.”
This “floppy disc” was the primary means of storing important digital documents during the time that I was in high school and college. Therefore, I once owned many a floppy disk packed full of various tediously assembled Word documents. Most of these are shit, and are not worth mention here.
But there were a few “special” floppies. These sacred repositories — of which there were at least two, but legend tells of more — were entrusted with the storage and protection of the earliest known writings of The Ryan. Finely honed short fiction. Laboriously extracted philosophical treatises. Fiercely ornate doggerel, dripping with pretense. Blood and tear-stained literary analyses, rescued by ego and hubris from the proverbial fires.
Hours upon hours of Our earliest Canon, a tribute to Our most malleable and formative development, bred of blood, soul, and youthful, anxious vitality. And We have discovered them all LOST.
We encourage and appeal to all prophets and acolytes of We The Ryan — please be on the look-out for these priceless tomes. Untold fortune and reward awaits the auspicious disciple who may stumble upon these precious volumes of boundless wit and fancy, and return them to Our wretched, forlorn clutch!
© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.