© Pierre Maré,
2004 - 2007
Offbeat 135
I am sitting in Damaraland as I write this. It has been renamed Kunene, at least I think that is what it is called now, renamed I suppose in some half-hearted attempt to eradicate the memories of an uglier past. Or perhaps it was just an administrative exercise, a new convenient way of tallying votes and categorising desperate needs.
Whatever its name, it is one of the few places that I love on this earth. The scenery is a jumble of red rocks. It's full of trees that look like wire coat hangers bent out of shape and painted white and green using the very limited colours of a child's crayon box, though even a child would have problems getting the trunks of the trees to make sense in that particular shade of white.
I had a lot of things I wanted to write about this week: religious intolerance, the doctor who watched me with empty eyes as I told her how I bashed my knee repeatedly, only to diagnose gout, my new-found, sporadic limp and the sadness of precious rituals that lose their personal meaning and significance through dull repetition.
None of it makes sense any more, at least at this particular moment. It's that shockingly early time of day between the night and the sunrise. The night birds have retreated to their ledges and nooks, spent by the all-night party. The birds of the day have yet to consider waking and going about their business. That's how quiet it is.
Some time ago I wrote about Neal Stephenson's book, 'Snow Crash'. Neal Stephenson, in hindsight, is not a writer of cyberpunk. He takes what is possible and strings a story around the ideas. In the blindness that happens when we cannot look ahead, we mistake that sort of writing for science fiction.
With the exception of the wet-wired guard dog and the computer virus that causes catatonia in humans, all of his predictions in ‘Snow Crash’ have come true. In that particular book, he predicted that we would be able to log on to a virtual world, that businesses and nations would operate within that virtual world, and even that the virtual world would be infected by viruses.
A virtual world was opened on the web a few years ago. It's called 'Second Life'. Christmas 2006 saw viral infestations of festive green phalluses wearing Father Christmas hats. A virtual economy has sprung up, with an exchange rate that translates into very real dollars. And in early 2007 Sweden became the first country to open an embassy in Second life. You can find it all at www.secondlife.com.
Not so long ago, a friend asked me, “Why choose a virtual existence?” I have an answer now. It happens when the sum of existence becomes too ugly or inconvenient. I have these few hours in Damaraland. At any given time tens of thousands are finding some relief in the haphazard world of Second Life.
Each of the citizens of Second Life is trying to mould a piece of virtual reality to suit himself or herself, starting with the bodies that are designed on entry into Second Life, and extending into perfect virtual homes, landscapes and businesses. And every element of the jumble is the beginning of someone's idea of a better world.
Reality is often an unhappy place. Second Life offers a chance at happiness, even if only virtual. And in defence of this sanctuary, its inhabitants staged the first cyber riot when a group of right wing freaks attempted to open offices to push their racial agenda. It's hard to swallow or tolerate that kind of bigotry or political expansionism when you are so misanthropic that all you really want is to be left alone.
As I write these last few words and lines, there are probably hundreds of Second Life users facing the need to log off and get back to the 'real world'. And I have to pack up, head off, rekindle my motivations and get back to my responsibilities, also in the real world. I doubt that all that many of us are happy with the prospect.
But like the users of Second Life, I know that at least for now, there is a place, real or virtual, where I can look forward to being a bit more human.
