Posts Tagged ‘second life’

cuchulain at the beach

Second Life, Linden Labs’ massive multiplayer online role playing game – the game that isn’t a game – has been around for a long time now. My “avatar”, Cuchulain Graves, is ten years old, which makes him positively geriatric, and, sadly, no wiser for his years. But his logins still work, his belongings and bank balance are intact. Everything is as it was since last time he briefly checked in, years ago. He’s not aged at all of course, looks about twenty five. As a timeless projection of my inner self, I’m fond of him, though it’s hard to say why.

But now I think I finally get it.

Cuchulain opened a few shops in the early days, stocked my novels, but nobody came because there’s no market for books in the virtual world. So he built a space-ship instead and blasted off into the upper layers of the multi-verse, a place free of scripts and server lag. Claim to fame? He was once interviewed for a pretentious three part blog-series on the life of an unknown scribe. The interviewer was a certain Eileanne Odisarke, a curious cross gendered alt, whose own adventures pretty much reflected Cuchulain’s.

Wandering aimlessly that early Second Life universe, they encountered many an eccentric soul: academics, psychologists, hippies, drunks and other cyber-utopians. But they’ve all gone now. The times in-world are spent alone these days, among vast shopping malls, entirely empty, or plodding roads that lead both to and from nowhere. It’s a lonely place, especially for one identifying as male – better to engross oneself in simply building stuff than to expect much by way of meaningful encounters, or perhaps Cuchulain is simply as misanthropic as his alter ego. Or is he mine? I forget.

Second life denizens take pleasure mostly in dressing up and dancing, also flirting and “cyber sex”. But it seems an isolated business. I mean, who are these people, really, sitting behind computer screens, and why aren’t they out dressing up, dancing, flirting and having sex,… for real? Why would one prefer the imagined over reality, unless any meaningful reality is denied them somehow? Or am I simply over thinking, and none of it means anything at all? That is the question!

It’s still interests me, psychologically, but no one else is seeing it in those terms any more, and I recognise my enduring fascination might well be pathological. After all, some people see fairies, but it’s better to consider first how much one has drunk before considering the fairies to be real.

That Second Life endures is perhaps the only interesting thing left to be said about it. And I suppose it will endure so long as its business model allows it to. Like anything else man-made, it’s dollars that make it happen, dollars that keep it alive. Unlike real life, where the entire universe was pre-formed without our involvement, everything we see in Second Life is the result of human thought, human imagination, and therein lies both the miracle and the weakness, the human mind being as self-destructive and defective in its thinking as it is endlessly creative.

It was touted as a place to meet others, to express oneself, but other forms of social media do it so much better now: Facebook, Instagram, Twitter – all post-date Second-Life, and are better at facilitating mass discussion around topics of real-world concern, to the extent they are now, for good or ill, shaping real-world events.

If we want to get really existential about it, some secular versions of the afterlife describe an inter-dimensional realm formed by the collective imaginations of the disembodied entities dwelling there. This sounds a bit like the virtual reality of Second Life too, except an afterlife where motivation is derived from over-inflated self image, and virtual coinage doesn’t sound like much of a reward for our primary life’s labours – unless of course our purpose is to learn to outgrow such things.

As Cuchulain, my projected self, sits upon the virtual Second Life beach to watch the virtual sunset, it’s easy to see his existence has no reality, no illumination at all, without a greater self, me, to bear him witness and grant him the sense of all that he is feeling. Much harder to grasp is the realisation of the awareness bearing witness to my own self in this life, and without whom, or which, my own reality has no illumination either.

Though it may not have been intended, bringing one closer to such an awareness is, I think, however indirectly, and long in coming, the one important lesson Second Life can teach us,… and therein, perhaps, lies its meaning.

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dreamingIn my story, the admittedly somewhat awkwardly titled Enigma that was Carla Sinclair, I tell of a man obsessed from the outset of the personal-computing revolution with creating a virtual world as home for his imaginary muse, Carla. He begins with the Sinclair computers of the late seventies, continues through the later IBM and Microsoft Pentium machines, and beyond to roughly the present day. Each advance in technology allows the construction of a bigger, more detailed and more complex virtual world, as well as a more realistic and artificially articulate manifestation of the muse Carla. His window on this world is his computer screen through which he peers voyeuristically at the autonomous antics of this virtual female companion. And through a queer mix of coding and philosophy he sees Carla grow from a crude 2D cartoon into a 3D virtual phenomenon, a phenomenon to which he devotes his entire life.

To save you the bother of reading the story, **spoiler alert** the conclusion is that the virtual nature of the world he creates, although fascinating, is ultimately unimportant, that in exploring it he is in fact exploring a part of himself, that he and Carla are different sides of the same coin, and you don’t need a computer to work that out. My own minor revelation regarding virtual worlds is that, whilst much hyped, they are of interest only at a trivial level. Contrary to their early promise they actually offer nothing of any practical, philosophical or psychological value. Worse, they can be a wasteful distraction, even harmful if we invest in them the hope of eventually gaining more from them than they are capable of delivering.

carlacoverLike our hero, I have for a long time been surfing a fascination with virtual worlds, but my attempts to create my very own Carla experiment have all failed. This is due to a combination of the limitations of even the most powerful of our machines, but mainly to my own incompetence with modern coding languages. I can use software tools to create the doll-like model on which I paint an image of the Carla’s skin. I can also generate rudimentary movement across a landscape by creating a walking animation and poking her about with the arrow keys, but to code some form of artificial and interactive “intelligence” is quite beyond my ability. And anyway, I can see it would be rather like playing oneself at chess: even were I to succeed, there could be no illusion of reality, no meaningful suspension of disbelief, since you always know for any given input what move is coming next – because you’ve programmed it.

An alternative to the pseudo-autonomous Carla is to opt for one of the ready made virtual worlds on offer, like Linden Labs’ Second Life. I have waxed lyrical about this place in the past, but nowadays find the experience of it rather dull and sterile. Here, the behaviour of our mannequins is not scripted. Instead, we push them around like dollies, as proxies of ourselves. They are not archetypes then but Avatars. For me this immediately led to some confusion in that my instinct, after the Carla experiments, was to create for myself a Carla-like avatar, in other words a female. But for in-world exploration, this means I find myself “living” as that female, and this is perplexing when it comes to my relations with others in the virtual space, since the males I meet all want to see me undressed, and the women all want to take me dancing and clothes shopping. And of course I do not want to be Carla, but recognise that in a more complex way, it is Carla who wants to be me.

So, for practical purposes Carla morphs into the safer and less confusing shape of a generic male avatar, yet one, unfortunately, through whose eyes I see the virtual world in a less than philosophical light. It looks unreal, this world, because it is unreal. The landscape is a crude illusion, at times grotesque. The crudely realised trees sway by way of algorithm, and if I want to turn the shadows on in order to enhance the illusion of reality, my computer grinds to a halt. There is also the disorienting phenomenon of familiarising oneself with a particular region of the world, only to return the next day to find it has been deleted.

snapshot_001Imaginative play is something better left to children. As children we speak through our toys, our dolls, our teddy bears. We invent scenarios for them to enact, worlds for them to inhabit. It is a developmental stage, testing, helpful in bringing into consciousness what would otherwise lie undeveloped – something about the resolution of conflict in relations, and the working towards the more tranquil human goals of a Platonic love for others, and thereby a universal harmony – something like that anyway. But as adults, impaled by now on the spike of our fully formed egos, we are all too ready to pervert our potential, our games tending more instead towards the banal acquisition of power, status, and sex.

As a last resort, I created for myself an off-line Second-Life like world where Carla could live alone. And, like with the Lake Isle of Innisfree, I built myself a cabin there, thinking to find at last the virtual peace for which I have for so long been searching. But again, it’s not very realistic, and I realise it’s also lonely knowing no one else can ever discover us – me and Carla, in our hiding place. There is a thing in humans that gauges the existence of our selves partly in relationship to others, and to deny it is in part to deny life. Indeed under these circumstances, the virtual becomes more of a prison, when what Carla wants is to escape and mingle freely in conscious reality, but without having to submit to the power, or the tyranny of others.

This, as our hero, and creator of the titular Carla Sinclair discovers, is alchemy. But the true alembic is not the man-spun glass, nor the coded virtual world, but the authentic “inner ” world of the psyche envisioned through the lens of the imagination. Only through our exploration of the infinite nuances of this authentic space do we stand a chance of making way in real life. It’s not without its dangers, but anything else leads to incarceration in an intricately coded labyrinth of our own creation, one we might spend a lifetime exploring, but in which everything we see is inevitably a shadow of what it’s actually supposed be.

At another level “real” life is like this too, but that’s another story.

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An interview with Michael Graeme. (In Second Life)
Part 3

by Eileanne Odisark

Writing, publishing, becoming an independent author

E: Okay,… getting back to your writing, what kind of stories did you start out with?

M: Oh,… no half measures – they were full length novels, romantic stuff and adventures,…

E: Can you tell me a little about them?

M:  I finished my first one “Shadow of a cloud” at the age of 22. It was a sort of spy novel, set in the cold war, full of glamorous, sexy characters, fast cars and jet aeroplanes. It was never published and spent longer doing the rounds than it took me to write on a clickety clack old typewriter. I eventually destroyed it in order to spare myself future embarassment. The next one was “Sara’s Choice” circa 1985, more of a straight romance, also unpublished and I’ll destroy that as soon as I can remember where I put it.

E: You didn’t think they were any good?

M: I did at the time, but I was a lot younger and emotionally naive, naive about the way of the world too. They were earnest and sincere, I think,  but they were also juvenile. Every writer has stories like those – at least I hope they do. Sara was an interesting character but I didn’t really have the experience of life to get to the bottom of her. I may have another crack at that one some time, if she’ll let me. I seem to remember leaving her in a bit of an awkward situation, and I’d like to rescue her if I can – she deserves a happy ending and she’s been waiting a long time for one.

E: What about “The Singing Loch” and “Langholm Avenue” ?

M: They came much later, when I was in my later twenties, middle thirties. I thought they were okay, and I still do. They did the rounds for a bit,  but then I wised up and stopped sending my manuscripts out.

E: Wised up?

M: It’s the only way to describe it – either that or it was the shattering of my naive ambitions, which doesn’t sound as up-beat, does it? But basically, it began to feel impossible, you know? You can easily spend years writing a novel, then you send it out, and it keeps coming back, only it takes ages: months and months and months. Then it comes back a little dog eared, so you freshen it up and send it out again, and before you know it so many years have passed you can’t remember what your story’s about any more. You want to move on, because you’ve got all these other ideas for other stories bubbling up inside of you, but you’ve got this story that you once loved that keeps coming back and hitting you over the head, reminding you of your own incompetence, and whispering in your ear: “Why are you doing this? You can’t write.”

E: Publishers said your stories were no good?

M: No, they didn’t say anything at all, other than they weren’t interested in publishing them. Of course it’s up to to them. Wannabe writers get angry and embittered at what they see as a publisher’s ignorance or stupidity for not recognising their genius immediately. But they forget publishers are running a business, they have to balance their worthy ambitions to disseminate quality literature with the more prosaic need to stay financially solvent. Then they get these arrogrant, self posessed strangers sending them weighty manuscripts to read – what a pain that must be – and of course they’re under no obligation to say or do anything with them at all.

E:  So, you’re saying what? It was the lack of feedback from publishers you found frustrating as much as their rejections?

M: Yes, but like I said they’re under no obligation. Still, if your work is no good it would be useful to have an impartial voice telling you so. There’s a marvellous scene in the movie “Motorcycle Diaries” where the young Che Guevara is given the manuscript of a novel to read by a doctor who’s also a wannabe novelist.  Che tells him straight, that its poor, he can’t write and the doctor should stick to what he knows. The doctor is stunned but also immensely grateful to Che for his brutal honesty.

Honesty like that hurts, naturally, but then you can either go away and improve, or give up. But the reality for wannabe story writers is different. You’re working in the dark. All the time. If you show your work to others it’s usually people you know and they don’t want to hurt your feelings, so unless there’s someone with whom you have an extraordinarily trusting rapport, then you’re on a loser.

So you send the damned thing out on the off chance a publisher has a mental aberration and elevates it above the slush pile. A writer has to be really desperate to stick with a system like that – either that or they have no choice. It’s like the lottery – you might be lucky, and let’s face it, someone always wins, but the difference is in writing it can take you years to fill out your ticket.

Writing is what I do. I can’t help it. It pours out of me, but I found the route to getting published was as arcane as an alchemical text. And I gave up on it – the publishing, not the writing – because when the internet came along, the game began to change a little, and a writer suddenly had more options. The game of conventional publishing began to look serious dull.

E: So you went online, but basically you’ve never had anything published in the printed press at all?

M: Not true. Around 1993, I did a Writing School correspondence course. It came with a cast iron guarantee: you make more than your course-fees in sales of work, or they give you your money back. So I thought – well – if that’s true then I’ve nothing to lose. I did the course and after a couple of years, they gave me my money back. But I learned a lot about plot construction and conflict and all that, and it kept me writing, but it was also while doing the course my tutor put me onto a magazine called Ireland’s Own.

E: They published you?

M: Yes. I’d changed tack by then and I was trying to hone my craft as they say by writing short stories, rather than full length novels. Ireland’s Own began accepting them – just not enough to cover the course fees while I was doing it, so the Writing School paid up. They made nothing out of me, and fair play to them for doing that.

E: So, how many stories did you publish?

M: About 20 altogether, over the space of a decade. Ireland’s Own’s the only magazine ever to have taken my work seriously, and I’m  grateful to them for telling me I could write to a publishable standard, and for giving me the confidence later on, to stick two fingers up at anyone who said I couldn’t.

E: But you’ve not published anything anywhere else?

M: No, but it wasn’t for the want of trying. Anything else I wrote, which didn’t  fit Ireland’s Own’s very traditional requirements, and to be honest that amounted to 99% of my work, was bounced back from everywhere I could think of sending it to.

E: So then you became an Indy Author?

M: I’m not even sure what that is, but it sounds cool so I’ll go with it. Yes. In 1998,  the internet came into my living room. I was intrigued by its potential as a means of self-publishing. To most people it’s a marvelous way of getting at information – a real paradigm shift that anyone born after that time just won’t appreciate now, but to me the fact that anyone in the world could also go on there and set up a permanent presence for themselves – I mean not just governments and businesses, but anyone – that was amazing to me. I had a basic site up and running straight away.

E: This was the Rivendale Review?

M: Yep. Twelve years ago now.

E: Is it well visited?

M: Hardly. It’s recently clocked up 23,000 hits, but some sites get that in a day. I get about 5hits per day.

E: It doesn’t sound like much. Is it worth the effort, keeping it up for 5 hits a day?

M: Sure it is, otherwise the pieces I put on there would just be sitting in a drawer. But it was also an experiment – I mean it was an unusual medium, this internet thing – unknown territory really, and I felt I needed to stick with it, like riding a wave, because it might lead to somewhere interesting eventually. I wasn’t expecting miracles. I was just trying to keep an eye on the longer view.

E: And this was when Michael Graeme was born? Why didn’t you stick with your real name? Build on your rep as a published author.

M: Well, it wasn’t much a rep, was it? And to me a published author’s someone with a novel on the bookshelves at Waterstones. Plus the internet was like a wide open window on the whole world and there were a lot of scare stories in the hysterical press about naive web-surfers basically inviting psychopathic stalkers to come knocking on their doors. So, in the first instance Michael Graeme provided a layer of anonymity, totally divorcing his real life persona – what I call my primary personality: family man, engineer, mower of lawns, etc – from the guy who sat down each evening to write.

And there was also the fact that a lot of what I wrote online came from the deeper layers of my psyche and I wasn’t comfortable with the people I met in my day to day, workaday life knowing those were the sorts of things I thought about. They’d just take the piss, and I would have to laugh along to be polite, and I didn’t want to do that. I mean all the I Ching stuff and my more mystical material. I was technical, you see? Rational, and strictly  non-spiritual. I didn’t want to appear suddenly unreliable, or like I’d lost my marbles or anything – even though I believed wholeheartedly in what I wrote.

You might say it amounts to lacking the courage of my convictions, but I’m fine with my convictions – I’m not trying to evangelise here – and you just have to be pragmatic. There are no answers in the things I write. I pose the muse more riddles than she solves for mw – and if that gets people thinking about things in their own way, then  great. The last thing we want is a world of zombiefied consumers who don’t think about the big issues any more.

E: The big issues?

M: Life. Meaning. What is it that makes a good human being? What is it that breaks them? What’s the right way to live? I’m only saying that we should at least think about these things, all of us, and not be lulled to sleep by  soap-operas, and adverts for consumerist crap all the time.

E: So,… you sort of split yourself in two – decided the inner stuff had nothing to do with people you met in the day to day, only those souls you encountered, or who encountered you, online?

M: Yes, that’s fair. Michael Graeme is a kind of secondary personality – same experience of life, as the primary, but he puts a different spin on it and he’s not as afraid of exploring the sometimes untidy fringes of psychical experience. I kind of went undercover, or does that sound too dramatic?

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Opinions on the eternal nature of the psyche vary, depending upon the strength of your religious leanings. You either believe in it or you do not, or if you’re like me you try to be clever about it and say the nature of the psyche probably transcends our current understanding of things, and so we try to put off any awkward explanation of what it is we actually think.

We can only say for sure that nothing on earth lasts for ever. Change happens, sometimes slow – over a generation say, or sometimes fast, like in a city  – always changing, nothing certain, nothing sure, nothing ever the same.

The metaverse is like that too.

It’s not long since I blogged about my little patch of the metaverse, namely the offices of the Rivendale Review, in the online role playing game Second Life. But I logged in today to check up on things, only to find my rental had been “locked”, that I had three days to run and no means of extending my lease. Things had changed. The landlord had vanished, some of his holdings had been taken over, others hadn’t. There was no explanation. I was simply out on my ear with nowhere to go. It must be like this in real life, in a market dominated by rentals, where no one actually owns their own property. Pray to God it’s never universally the case!

Those people who might have visited the Rivendale Review before will now return to find a lone tree and a giant beach ball in place of my offices – at least for the next few days (a little parting joke). After that it’s anyone’s guess.

It can be so interesting in here sometimes but, it has to be said, also so trivial and so impermanent as to be absolutely meaningless.

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Let’s take a tour of Linden Labs’ Massively Multiplayer Online Role Playing Game, Second Life, and ask the simple question: what is it?

I need to own up here and admit to a continuing fascination for Second Life. I’ve been messing about with it since 2007, dipping in and out and wondering what to make of it. I finally created my own little office in there about a year ago, in order to shamelessly advertise my scribblings and I’m currently getting about fifty visitors through the doors a week. All right – there are places in here that get more than that in an hour, but every potential reader counts, and it was great fun setting it up. That’s where we’ll start this little tour, at the inworld offices of the Rivendale Review. Here it is:

That’s me in the suit, though I should say I’ve never like the cut of it and the least said about these flared pants the better!

I’ve written a lot about my early engagement with this place on my website, here, and reading back over those notes I’m struck by a continuing ambivalence towards it. I am by turns seduced, repelled, puzzled, horrified, and amazed,… and I suppose that’s the reason for its fascination. Anything that makes you think, is potentially important and useful because it’s by the basic engine of thought that we learn. We also like a good enigma. It’s simply human nature. I suppose the biggest enigma of them all is life itself – real life, that is. And if that’s true, then a close second has to be, well, Second Life because the latter is very much an expression of the former.

I think a lot of people try Second Life but tire of it quickly because they can’t see the point of it. They expect it to be some sort of game where they score points and enhance their status over other players, but really there’s no more point to it than there is to real life. There are areas of the game where role-playing scenarios exist, but these are like dressing up parties played long certain rules agreed by the players themselves. These things come and go like fashions but Second Life remains nad much of what goes on here is more open ended and anarchic.

There’s a craze at the moment where others will offer you an attachment that basically renders your avatar helpless while someone else’s avatar pretends to take a bite out of your neck – a sort of vampirisation. You either refuse the attachment or if you make the mistake of accepting it, you simply throw it away. There’s also a craze for dummy avatars dressed to look like novices – in the sorts of basic clothing you’re kitted out with in the beginning. These dummies are then shown impaled on spikes or suffering all manner of painful, bloody death, as if there’s an intimidating in-world vendetta against newcomers. Whilst sinister, rest assured, your avatar – new or old – cannot be killed – and I only mention these dark fads, not to frighten off potential visitors, but to illustrate the humanness of the behaviour you will find in here, which is sometimes very silly, but as I hope to demonstrate this evening, mostly harmless and potentially liberating.

The point of real life is a metaphysical question, and one cannot ask the same question of Second Life without again wandering into metaphysical territory.  Of course, you don’t have to explore the nature of reality in here, but that there is sufficient scope and depth in Second Life to enable you to do so, is a testament to its potential as a medium of human expression. In short, Second Life is not really a game at all. If that’s what you’re expecting, then you will tire of it very quickly. It’s more than a game. It’s an experiment in collective expression – in all its forms,  a place where cutting edge information technology and collective art meet.

So, to recap, there’s this online thing, and there’s no point to it, yet as I write it’s 8:30 in the evening, (GMT)  and there are 70,000 people all over the world engaged doing whatever it is they do in this pointless place. So, what are they doing? Well, let’s start with what  I’m doing.

Here I am now:

As you can see, we’ve left the office and we’re standing in a gallery of sorts, waiting for pictures to resolve. This is known as rezzing in SL jargon. You teleport into a place (another bit of SL jargon) and then you wait for everything to rezz in. The place assembles itself one bit at a time, and then the textures come gradually into focus.

This is one of the biggest problems for users like me: Bandwidth. Second Life runs on computers sitting out in California, and my existence within their virtual world is determined by the amount of information I can squeeze down a copper wire, here in rural England, so it’s a small miracle I can get in here at all. If you’re living in a metropolis; say London, Manchester, Birmingham or whatever, you’re probably getting a decent proportion of our recently much hyped 20 megabits per second – maybe even as much as half of it – and your experience is going to be much slicker than mine. However, if you’re like me, living in the second tier of the broadband hierarchy – even though you’re paying the same as everyone else, you’re lucky if you’re getting a tenth of that 20 megabits per second, and consequently, you’re going to struggle with things like Second Life.

Okay. So, we’re in a gallery, the SL Literary to be precise. What’s this place about? Well, it’s art you see? And that’s a funny thing in itself because it’s art based upon and created entirely within this place without a point called Second Life.

The models in these pictures are Second Life characters, dressed up and posed in Second Life scenes. The pictures are then composed and captured entirely within Second Life. Like much of this place when it’s at its best, they possess a dream-like quality. I can’t say why, but I particularly like the picture on the far left, the one with the girl looking through the telescope. My thanks to Elysium Eilde the Second Life  photographer, fashion blogger and clothing designer, for giving me permission to use her images. For more of her incredibly sexy work visit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/ely_eilde

Other artwork here consists of dynamic – i.e. moving – textures, so I can’t really do them justice in a still frame, but the other interesting thing to me is that this is not a virtual recreation of a real life gallery. Its virtual nature defines its only reality.  Not long ago, the technology to achieve any of this was impossible. Now though, it’s moved rapidly beyond the possible to the point where artistic individuals have taken hold it – and they don’t care how any of it works – they just want to know what they can do with it.

If we move on a little now, go up the stairs and to the left, we come across this  poster for the SL Literary magazine. This in-world publication carries poetry and fiction inspired by Second Life, as well as testing the interesting boundary between Second Life and Real Life. The pieces are thoughtful, inspirational and psychologically probing. So far as I’m aware, computer games do not inspire poetry. Second Life apparently does.

Now – what’s this? We’ve got some posters advertising plays (in Second Life?) What’s this one? The Globe Theatre? They’re putting on some Shakespeare? Now that sounds interesting! Lets go and take a look. Where’s the landmark? Click the teleport and,… Whoosh!

So, now we’re standing outside as something that looks remarkably like the Globe Theatre assembles itself plank by plank. We’ll just give it a minute or two, then go inside. My radar tells me there’s no one else here, so I’m guessing we’ve missed the performance – which is just as well because if I get more than a dozen people in the same room it tends to crash my connection (bandwidth problem again). Okay – so, here I am sitting in  the theatre, directly above Her Majesty’s chair (yes, really!)

The view of the stage is excellent, not that it matters, because I can use my remote camera to go right down on-stage in the middle of the performance if I wanted to. The blurb tells me there can be as many as two hundred people in here when there’s a play going on. That would be very interesting to see, and photograph for you, though completely out of the question, because it might melt my telephone wire.

My point in all of this is to perhaps challenge your preconceptions, or even your misconceptions about Second Life. Even if you’ve never been in here, you’ve probably read about it in the press, and the press seems so universally negative about it, though in my opinion, without good reason. If you’re an ordinary, well balanced human being, your experience of Second Life will be similarly well balanced and you will attract like-minded Second Lifers to you. If, however, you’re an obsessive misanthrope, you’re not going to be any different in here, are you?

The newspapers tell us it’s a place peopled by sad, geeky losers: as well as pornographers, terrorists, money launderers, and all manner of bogey men out to steal our children. The truth is, they don’t know what it is any more than I do.  You might ask the question though, why am I in here, on a Saturday night, pretending I’ve really been somewhere? What’s the attraction? Well, my only excuse is that the telly’s rubbish, and Second Life is often much more interesting – also less predictable because you never know who you’re going to bump into.

And on that note, let’s zip over to another place I know and see if we can find some other Second Lifers we can actually talk to. Let’s go dancing! Yes you heard me: Dancing!


Welcome to Midsomer – Puck’s Garden to be precise. This is a favourite little place of mine. It’s a great, sprawling, beautifully landscaped domain. It’s been here a while now, and that’s a good sign because there’s often something ephermeral about Second Life – interesting little haunts coming and going so that a sense of permanence can be hard to attain. I generally drop in here to read the profiles of others, and if they sound interesting and sane, I’ll say hello. There’s also a fair chance someone else will say hello to me first.

One thing you’ll notice about Second Life very quickly is that the girls in here are all very good-looking. And before you ask me, no, I’m not on the pull. I’m married in real life, but it doesn’t stop you from chatting.

The clothes people wear are another way in which Second Life enables its members to express themselves – sometimes in ridiculous ways but also, it must be said, in ways that take the breath away. I mean, just look at this :

This elegant lady’s dress is a computer model, painstakingly hand textured, and it flows in diaphanous waves as she moves. Isn’t she gorgeous? Already I’m forgetting there’s a real life person on the other end, pulling my avatar’s strings. I have become immersed. I really am in Puck’s Garden, listening to the music and wanting to dance. I think we’ll say hello – I’m interested in finding out if she made that dress herself: Oops, too late. She’s grown bored and blinked out in a little cloud of stars. That dress really was something!

Okay. I’ve just spotted someone I know – or rather she’s spotted me, and messaged over. It’s a fellow scribbler who’s been gracious enough to say nice things about my work, following a previous introduction we had on a virtual beach, back in the days when we were both campers (another bit of jargon, but I’ll leave you to puzzle over it). I don’t think she’ll mind my saying she behaves, as mysteriously as a character from one of my most convoluted stories, but this makes her interesting to talk to. I’ve promised her a role in one of my stories, if I can find one that does her justice – but hang on – she’s already a sort of fictional character isn’t she? How does that work, then? A fictional character based upon a fictional character? It’s getting a bit late to work that one out now! She’s messaged over again and asked us for a dance, and she’s waiting so we’d better get over there. Okay, here we go.

She’s the good-looking one, by the way:

So,… dancing! How does that work?

Well, let me explain. Curiously enough there’s a popular dancing program on the telly right now. Indeed it currently fills our Saturday night schedule on the BBC. If you’ll allow me a moment’s digression, I used to be a keen ballroom dancer, so you’d think I might be interested in the dancing on the telly, since they make such a big fuss about it, but to be honest it bores the pants off me. Why? Well, apart from me seeing it as mainly yet another a vehicle for celebrity adulation, there’s really no interaction with it.  You just sit there and it comes at you, and you don’t have to do or say anything.

It’s not like that in Second Life.

So here I am dancing. By contrast with the technical perfection my real life instructor once insisted upon, the dancing I’m doing here is rubbish, because at the moment there’s only so much you can do with an avatar, and you obviously can’t feel the dance because you’re just sitting there in your armchair – but for all of that, I find it infinitely more interesting than watching it on the telly, because you never know who you’ll end up dancing with, or where your conversations are going to take you.

Now, I don’t just come here to talk to girls – there are plenty of guys who drop in as well, looking for girls, and they’re interesting to talk to as well -though us guys tend to be a bit more reserved – it’s the girls who really know how to converse. If you’ve had a trying day, and you feel your little bit of the the real world is about to tip itself over to the dark-side, I challenge you to come in here, talk to six random strangers, and not start feeling better. Some of your encounters will be no more than polite, and your conversations will be stilted, but I guarantee at some point you will “connect” with someone and your mood will be lifted.

Don’t forget, Second Life transcends national, religious and ethnic boundaries, so you might find yourself talking to anyone in the world – and you know what? It doesn’t matter where people are from, they’re all just like everyone else? Isn’t that amazing?

Now, as a married man there’s only so much one can get up to in here. A dance and a chat, and that’s old Cuchulain’s limit. Some married men have no such scruples of course – I know because I’ve talked to them. They’d think nothing of a bit of pixel dipping, (use your imagination) or even setting up virtual house with one of these pretty ladies, and they’d excuse it as “just a game”. Personally though I’d find that difficult to reconcile, psychologically, because I have not severed the link between my real self and the persona I present in here. I sit at the interface between the real and the virtual, and am careful not to slip too deeply in. Besides my wife would kill me, and I wouldn’t blame her.

Anyway, my dancing partner this evening says she’s English. She travels and writes poetry and she’ll forgive me for saying I think she knows a little more of the dark side to this place than she lets on. Her profile suggests she has “sapphic” leanings, though I don’t know if this is genuine, or if it’s to discourage what she calls “propositions from teenaged boys who want to pixel dip with her”. Nor do I know for sure of course if she is really a “she” and not some hairy arsed bloke, just as she doesn’t know if I’m really a “he”. And to be honest once you’ve been in here for a while such definitions begin to lose their meaning. You fall over the edge, so to speak, into a kind of pure soul, into dream soul, free of gender, nationality, or any of those other labels we collect. You become whomever or whatever you want to be. That’s when Second Life can become,… well,… shall we say psychologically dynamic? Damaging, or liberating, you take your choice. It depends on your politics, I suppose. Already we’re exploring boundaries here. We’re asking questions of identity and self – you simply can’t help it.

Anyway, my acquaintance is telling me of others she’s met recently who are engaging too deeply with the place, and are basically living in it. They never log out. They put their avatars into their jim-jams of a night, put them to bed, then get them up again in the morning. I find this disturbing, and I hope she’s having me on, but it’s a tale I’ve heard before, so I’m wondering if it’s true. I have, on occasion, wandered around the residential areas looking for these sleeping  avatars, but have yet to find any, so it could just be a myth.

For an adult, the role-playing aspects of Second Life are like going back to childhood and playing make-believe. Millions of real lifer’s come home from work, switch on the telly and slob out in front of two hours of soap opera every evening. They tell me it’s relaxing, and I don’t doubt that it is. But others come home and slip into Second Life. They become someone else, and trust me, make-believe is relaxing. Have you forgotten how you used to lose yourself for hours in make-believe as a child? It’s just that the make-believe here is very realistic, and on any one evening you have a potential 70,000 playmates.

Now, I can’t be as informative a guide to the darker side of Second Life because I don’t go there often enough, and if you’re interested in this aspect you’ll have to find your own way with it. The dark side raises other questions of course and we quickly realise the main difference between childhood and adult role-play is that some of the adult role play can be of a sexual nature.

So,… it’s about now you’re probably going to ask me about all that sex you’ve heard of that supposedly goes on in Second Life?

Well, yes – there really is a lot of it  – Strip Clubs, BDSM clubs, Orgies – escort girls – really! You name it. But it’s like real life: you know it goes on, but it’s up to you if you want to partake of it or not – and I won’t be including it in this little tour, because I’ve no way of knowing if you’re old enough. Perhaps understandably, this was an area of Second Life that came in for a lot of criticism in the early days because anyone could sign up and straight away be exploring the underbelly of the place in a way they perhaps would never have dared in real life. That’s okay if you’re an adult – but what about the kids who managed to bluff their way in?

It used to be easy to set up a Second Life account, lie about your age and therefore begin exploring the adult side of things, before you were old enough not to be damaged by them. Things have changed however. Nowadays, it’s still easy to set up a Second Life account, without giving away your name address and credit card details, but unless you have credit card payments recorded “in-world”, or you can otherwise verify your age, say with a driving license number and a real world address, the assumption nowadays is that you’re not an adult and the really naughty side of things is placed off limits.  I have to say it’s a major improvement, and must have taken some of the bite out of the anti-Second Life lobby’s teeth. You can still go over to that side if you want, but if it’s not your cup of tea, you’ll no longer find yourself stumbling over it on every street corner.

This also demonstrates another interesting aspect of Second Life: it’s very much a work in progress, and nobody really knows where it’s going. Linden Labs keep the computers running, and act as a sort of benign overseeing techno-deity, but the direction is very much up to those 70,000 or so people who log in every night, and play make-believe.

So, going back to our original question: what is Second Life? Is it life? Well, the best we can say is: sort of, but definitely not as we know it!

Okay, busy night, eh? Let me invite you back to my place for a cup of tea before we say goodbye, and hopefully I can entice you to download one of my free novels or short stories while you’re there?

Here we are. Have a seat. Relax. Do you take sugar? Just kidding. You’ll never find a decent cup of tea in here! Will coffee do instead?

Now, if you’ll excuse me I’d better get all of this scribbled down and uploaded to my real-world self, before I forget who he is.

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