By Remo Campopiano
(several chapters of Finding Real, rewritten and edited as a short story)
I just finished a long hard day at work. So when I logged in, all I wanted to do was check on Job, pay my prostitute and maybe, if I was really lucky, catch a few private moments with Gina.
Job, my real-world apprentice, is 18. He’s like a son to me, although these days, prodigal son is more like it. I’ve known him since he was 10 when he joined my robotics art club. I love to teach and Job—real name Alex—is a knowledge sponge. Underlying all of my teachings is one vital lesson; look at the world with unborrowed vision; in other words, do your own thinking and avoid doctrine. So nine months earlier when he announced he was a born-again Christian, my heart took a big hit. I felt betrayed. Understanding my own spirituality had always been an important part of my life and my art; and I thought I had a pretty good handle on it. But now, in my late fifties, immersed in this new world, the spirit-me was resurfacing in the form of loneliness and introspection.
Job is in ‘Dreams,’ the sandbox sim where we practice building. He seemed a little down, definitely not his enthusiastic self; so when I asked him if he had met any of the natives here in ‘Dreams,’ he said no. So to lead by example, I started talking with a belligerent little twit by the name of Tatchi, thinking she might make a good new friend for Job. After some exchanges I realized Tatchi might make an excellent apprentice for me. She certainly fits the bill; a social misfit out to recreate the world. In a half-mocking taint, she dared me to make use of her.
“Ok,” I said “I’ll take you up on that. Start by visiting my website. If the work inspires you, come back and build me a museum here in Second Life to house my artwork.”
Meanwhile, a pop-up let me know Gina was logging in, just what I wanted to see.
“I’m at Church.” she said, “You can join if you like?”
Honestly, that is all I really wanted to do. But I had things going here in Dreams. I couldn’t just abandon Job, or for that matter, my new friend Tatchi.
“I’d like nothing more, but…”
Before I could send the message, she continued with, “Unitarian Unilateralist.”
Unitarian, hmmm…if I were ever inclined to join a church this would be the one. My biggest problem with most organized religions is their doctrine of exclusivity. My god, is the true god, all others are false. Since Job fell under the spell of Christ, I have been trying to stir him away from evangelism and toward a universal spirituality. So what a perfect opportunity; I’ll go visit Gina, and if it feels ok, I’ll invite Job to join.
Arriving in UU land, I was immediately transformed from the chaotic vibes of Dreams into a soothing atmosphere of choral music and monk-like chanting. This was comforting and what I really wanted; remember, I had a long hard day and was weary.
But it was not to be. Gina was trying too hard to make me feel at home here, which was awkward but comforting; Job was asking silly questions about what this was all about, which was making me very uncomfortable; Tatchi was bombarding me with technical questions about my art; and on top of that, my prostitute chimes in wanting me to consummate out business deal.
I have to admit, writing to Madam Madeline and saying “I can’t right now, I’m in church.” was the one perfect moment of the evening. Mind you, I do not have a prostitute. I often refer to people by their profession, especially if it adds a little levity to the moment—this moment made me chuckle out loud.
Now do you see why, after about an hour of this, I said my farewells to all, went back to my home base and turned off the rest of the world? I had a tough day, but it wasn’t half as stressful as that hour in Second Life. I thought this was supposed to be fun.
The next day I spent over five hours in virtual with one person—a record for me. Five hours with Tatchi, taught me a lot about myself, Second-Life, and the person I previously described as a belligerent little twit. The five hours did not change my first impression, however; they did reveal a deeply sensitive soul, albeit, troubled and tortured.
We talked about happiness and what made her feel good about herself. We talked about her work in television and film. We talked about her brother, her mother, and her father. But when we got to her son, a sorrow came over her, followed by a cloud of shame and self-deprecation, then fear—the fear that she drives people away with her sorrow. Her defense is to escape into strangeness and surrealism.
Seven years ago she had the world at her fingertips; twenty-two years old, a beautiful model, tall with auburn hair. She trusted and loved from a secure place in her heart. But all that was taken away from her. The exact circumstances are not clear, but the broad strokes are in place. The person she gave her heart to and married, was the son of a powerful man in city government. In Brazil, I’m told, justice is dispensed to the highest bidder.
They had a child, a son. The father of her son no longer desired her affections. She turned to another man for comfort. He retaliated by stealing her son from her. At least that was the story I was told. It’s her explanation of how she became who she is now, a troubled dark soul, trusting no one and desperately seeking something to grab onto.
The next day I log in to find Tatchi setting up things on my land, our land; I asked her to. We played, read poetry and talked. Later I took her to campfire, my favorite spiritual gathering at Anam Turas. I introduced her as my adopted Second-life daughter, which did not go over well at all.
When we went back home, I was delighted to see all that she had done and how creative it all was. But she was not ready to play however. She was pissed. She would have none of this father/daughter bullshit. This really confused me. I am much older than her. But from her perspective, I guess I was forcing an artificial set of rules on her without her consent.
So we talked all around it until we agreed to drop the whole notion and let our friendship develop naturally. Part of me was delighted, but the sober side knew this was trouble. I had already developed feeling for her; and without putting them into this restricted coral of fatherly love, they were free to develop unbridled.
The hours passed in bliss and discovery; and in the wee hours of the morning we were in each other’s arms, like a magic spell, like young lovers. It just was not avoidable despite the age difference and the cultural divide. I found myself in full courtship mode as if I were in my thirties and falling in love again. All those male instincts came flooding back and I could not stop myself. We fell asleep together whispering into the ether.
Several days passed in suspended disbelief until the last day. It is hard to conceive of such a story line but these events actually happened. I’ll start with the end and the letter I wrote to my Second Life landlord:
It is hard for me to believe that you could have done such a cruel act. All you had to do is tell us we were breaking the rules and I would have corrected it.
But what you did was unforgivable and I do not want to be associated with you or Odyssey. I will make my apologies to Alan, who I’m sure will understand, because he is a true artist. I don’t think you understand what that means. Artists don’t make art; they make life, and art flows from their life.
I must thank you for one thing. Your actions, as cruel as they were, did create the most exciting night I have every experienced in Second Life, and coming in the night as a raven was brilliant.
So, please honor your promise and return the 10,000 lindens and we’ll be on our way.
The previous day started with its normal flutter of excitement. After a magic carpet ride exploring our new art colony, I took Tatchi to experience a beautiful new sim called Crucible. It is moody like a tropical rain forest and foreboding like the moors of Wuthering Heights. When we arrived we noticed we were not alone. It appeared that someone was stalking us. I asked nicely “Please allow us our privacy.” But he still appeared to be following us.
“Tatchi, maybe it’s time to get out your Uzi and blast this asshole back to the twentieth century.” I said, referencing the poem I wrote for her. She liked carrying guns in Second Life.
Guns? Me? Where did that come from? He responded by accusing US of being rude. Mind you, I am not a violent man—not at all—so where this came from, I have no idea.
I said, “You are the rude one and I strongly suggest you get the fuck out of our way or the consequences will be devastating!”
Within a few seconds, I found myself slammed down to the bottom of the swamp struggling to free myself from the mud. I had never been banned before so I had no idea what was happening. My only option was to teleport home.
I tried to explain to Tatchi what had happened, but before I could, I get a message from Cuwynne Deerhunter. He identified himself as the owner of the land and said he was just working on ‘his’ Sim and that I was the intruder.
This really troubled me. First, I hate people that cling to the delusion of righteous indignation, when in fact, they are the culpable one; and secondly, I wondered why I responded so violently. I don’t do that in real. Is it because danger is not physical in Second Life? Is this an extension of the ring-of-invisibility metaphor; that without physical reprisal, we revert back to basic animal aggression? Well all this made me feel ashamed and I felt I had to do something about it.
So I wrote him back, “I did not realize we were on your land and I apologize. We were there because it is such a beautiful sim and a very romantic place. I don’t usually act that way, but it was a special time for us and we wanted to be alone. Hope you understand.”
Deerhunter writes, “I understand that. Many people visit here, it is very flattering. If you feel that your behavior was an aberration, I am willing to accept your apology and lift your ban.”
I thanked him and immediately felt better, but I don’t think Tatchi understood why I apologized. She is much more aggressive than I am. Maybe it is her youth, or maybe it’s a Brazilian thing.
We were getting tired and we had a very special treat to share this evening. So we retired to the privacy of our home in the sky. Tatchi got her voice card working and for the first time I would hear her voice, the voice of my warrior angel. What would it be like: dark and raspy from her cigarette habit; low and sexy from her theatrical experience; loud and dominant from her aggressive nature? I had no idea and the suspense was killing me.
So there we were, in bed, in our home, in the sky, in the art colony called Odyssey. It was just a giggle but it was her voice. Next I heard “Hi” and another giggle. A smile wrapped around my face as I felt the physicality joy—it was palpable. But that was it. That is all she would give me. She was so shy about her ability to speak in English that she had exhausted her nerve. What bliss, I thought. Sometimes the pure beauty of it all propels you to places you should not go. I went to one of those places. I started talking about the possibility of meeting in Italy—yes, the real Italy.
Big mistake! The illusion shattered like little pieces of silver, as a weighty sadness came over us both. The thought of meeting in real brought into full focus the great divide in our age.
She said, sobbing, “My father is old like grandfather, and he is your age.” As I read these words I was imagining her head dropping in tears—mine certainly did. We just killed the illusion and we both felt it deeply.
“Wait! What’s that?” I said, shaking off the sadness of the moment.
“There is someone here!” she said.
Tatchi was taken by surprise, which is not like her, she is always so cool and in control. It must have been the deep sadness we were feeling and the sudden violent menace attacking our home in the sky. Without thinking, Tatchi let her in.
It was my landlord. She came in the guise of a raven—a large menacing black-as-night raven. Poe could have conjured up no better vision, no more shocking an intruder.
I tried to message the landlord. I received no response because the two women were talking. It seems that we were breaking a long list of rules and were in violation of my leasing agreement. At first the dialogue seemed conciliatory and that this could all be worked out amicably.
The raven appeared to leave and we started to breath normally again. It was no big deal; we’ll work it out in the morning. The spell of sadness was lifted and we started to laugh again.
But no, conciliation was not to be.
“What just happen?” I asked; watching the walls of our house disappeared.
Pictures were suspended in mid air. We were still lying in bed, in a tender embrace. But then the bed was gone. There we lay together suspended in midair watching everything we had built vanish piece by piece. You just can’t imagine the profound sense of lose. To us this was all real—our life together.
We said nothing, just held tight to each other. We couldn’t cry; instead we laughed a nervous laugh that morphed into sobs. It was all gone—all of it. It was impossible not to see the irony. We had just destroyed the illusion in our minds with our words.
Tatchi said succinctly, as she often does, “Words have power!”
“Did we bring this on ourselves?” I asked.
Then there was the ultimate indignity. In an instant, we were violently separated. I was alone, plummeting, falling, legs flailing out of control. It felt like the approaching land was real and that death was imminent, with no hope of surviving the impact. Halfway down, the horror of it all gave way to a sleepy peacefulness, knowing my last moments were of her voice, her real voice saying “I love you.”
