Greetings from Second Life!

By J. Tobias Beard, Brendan Fitzgerald and Erika Howsare

Brendan

Brent Tamura was born a full-grown man on January 15, 2007, tall and muscular with tan skin and a thickly knotted head of black hair. He is a Capricorn by birth, his ambition and practicality tempered by an occasional shyness.

Tamura came into the world clean, clothed and cultured: He is interested in Zen Buddhism, ballroom dancing and “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” and belongs to clubs with names like “Just Genealogy,” “Metronome Free Jazz” and “Free State Project,” an interest group born from a Libertarian hope to move 20,000 people to New Hampshire. Tamura speaks a few languages—not perfectly, but passably. He has seen the Eiffel Tower at least twice.

Real life, meet Second life: Local resident Miles Fowler (pictured above) founded the "Charlottesvillleans in SL" clubhouse, a meeting place in the vast universe of Second Life for the avatars controlled by other locals. (Fowler’s avatar, Brent Tamura, is pictured below).

In April 2007, Tamura purchased a piece of land in a neighborhood where property sells for an average price of $15,000 L (in which the “L” stands for Linden dollars, the currency unit in Second Life named for the moderators of the world). He combined it with another piece of land nearby and then slapped a ready-made home on the property, opening it to Charlottesville residents. Tamura, who doesn’t have a job, paid for the land and building materials in full.

But within the first 10 minutes of my meeting with Brent Tamura, he comes to a standstill in the home he created, his movement suspended in the main room of the “Charlottesvilleans in SL” clubhouse, facing in the direction of a tasteful replica of a painted nude and an end table near a window. Action halts, and then Tamura’s whole world vanishes to a blue screen and a series of small icons.

“Oops. We’ve got a crash.”

The hand that powers Brent Tamura moves from the mouse that controls Tamura’s movements, his impulses to buy and build, to dress and act, and forces the computer that links Tamura to his creator to restart. The hand belongs to Miles Fowler.

Erika

I’m trying to choose my Second Life name, and I barely understand what this even means.

I start with the last names, choosing from a long list: Arctor, Carpool, Farrjones, Thursday, Timeless, Troglodite. Although there are some ordinary names, like Jenkins, there’s nothing that would make a sly reference to my real last name, or my mother’s maiden name, or my husband’s last name. So I just pick Mornington. Why would it need to have any relation to my real life anyway? That’s supposed to be the point, right?  And then “Nora” pops into my head and I type that into the first name field and then I become Nora Mornington.

I have to put in my real birth date and my real e-mail address for verification. This appears immediately in my real-life inbox. Welcome to Second Life, Nora Mornington. Signed: Sincerely, Linden Lab and the Second Life team.

Next up: select an Avatar. There are six choices each for male and female. They are paired under themes, which at first are tough to identify, except for the first pair: Girl Next Door and Boy Next Door, who are white, plainly dressed, and have the proportions of supermodels.

“You’ll have plenty of opportunities to be almost anyone you want should you change your mind later,” the screen assures me. I could be Cybergoth, Nightclub, or—most strangely—“Furry,” which is some sort of rabbit-like creature with a raccoon’s tail, strappy sandals and a perky pink nose. Because I don’t really know what it is, I choose “Harajuku,” who has blue hair, a hat that makes her look like an insect and fingerless gloves.

“Are we still in the game?” David Cronenberg’s eXistenZ, a 1999 film about a videogame designer (played by Jennifer Jason Leigh, pictured with Jude Law) whose game dabbles a bit too closely with reality, was released the same year as sci-fi movie The Matrix, which covers similar philosophical ground, and the same year that Second Life was created. credit

Toby

Ted: I’m feeling a little disconnected from my real life. I’m kinda losing touch with the texture of it. You know what I mean? I actually think there is an element of psychosis involved here.—From eXistenZ

David Cronenberg’s movie eXistenZ, released in 1999, (the same year as The Matrix), is a movie about a virtual reality videogame. The film asks how, if virtual reality looks just like regular reality, can we tell the two apart? eXistenZ does not provide an answer. It does, however, have a lot in common with current virtual reality phenomenon, Second Life.

Cronenberg’s film tells the story of a cult videogame designer (Jennifer Jason Leigh as Allegra Geller) and her eagerly awaited new game, eXistenZ. In the film, people play videogames by plugging the game system into their bodies via “bio ports,” and are then fully immersed in the games, which look and feel almost exactly like real life. Weirdness ensues, with games within games, attacks by the “Realist Underground” intent on saving reality, and, inevitably, an inability to tell what is real, and what is not.

Second Life (SL) was also created in 1999 (it opened to the public in 2003) by Linden Labs, a privately held, venture capitalist-funded, San Francisco-based company currently employing close to 200 people around the world.
 
Second Life is an online virtual world. It is a digital space where users interact in real time via digital representations of themselves called avatars. Second Life, most of its users declare, is not a game (“eXistenZ is not just a game,” someone in the movie says). It has no points, they point out, and you can’t win or lose.

People get married in SL, or at least their avatars get married to other people’s avatars, even though some of them are also married in Real Life (RL), to other real people. A recent article in The Wall Street Journal highlighted just such a situation, and claimed that more and more real life marriages are being destroyed by online infidelity. The article cited data from a Stanford University study that “40 percent of men and 53 percent of women who play online games said their virtual friends were equal to or better than their real-life friends.”

Second Life is a multiple personality disorder writ large. It’s a sci-fi movie come to life. It’s a real mind fuck. Or maybe only a virtual one. I’m not sure.

A world within a world: Fowler currently accesses Second Life roughly once per week, but at one time visited daily. His avatar, Brent Tamura, has a bank account totaling thousands of Linden dollars, which Fowler has traded U.S. dollars for and which Tamura has spent on everything from clothes to the “Charlottesvilleans” clubhouse. credit

Brendan

Fowler is a big fellow, a bit under 6′ tall but compact, typically dressed in khaki pants, Oxford shirts and sweaters. His hair and beard are white, save for a patch of grey that swipes across his throat. His voice and the speed of his movement and speech suggest a man much younger than his 56 years.

Fowler works as a proofreader at the Standard & Poor’s office in Charlottesville. Originally from Massachusetts, Fowler moved to Charlottesville in 1999 with his partner, Susan Shafarzek, from Saratoga Springs, New York.

In late 2006, Shafarzek discovered Second Life and introduced Fowler to it. (“She explores the Internet a lot more than I do,” he says.) A month or two later, Fowler joined SL and created “Brent Tamura.” The frequency of Fowler’s visits to his Second Life increased during his first few months of use, peaking at a visit a day, but quickly dropped off; currently, Fowler accesses his Second Life once a week or so.

Erika

After deciding on a name and appearance, Nora Mornington (the avatar of C-VILLE reporter Erika Howsare) struggled with basic motor and social skills in her Second Life travels and an attempt to meet with Brent Tamura, Fowler’s avatar. credit

When I sign in as Nora for the first time, I get a Critical Message about The Big Six behavioral guidelines: no harassment, assault, intolerance, disclosure (spilling details about an avatar’s real-life counterpart). “Every resident has a right to live their Second Life.”

And then, there she is. Nora. She doesn’t just stand, but moves like seaweed under water. She’s standing on a tropical island with amusement-park-quality “tribal” architecture, blue skies and long views. Natural features—waterfalls, women’s hips—are exaggerated.

Another avatar, Mattman Dawg, says, “Hello World.” His words pop up in a chat window on my screen.

Nora tries walking, but it’s tough; she ends up “in” walls and other structures. Meanwhile a few other avatars try chatting with her. I feel shy about it; I’m still trying to learn to walk here. Why is this other avatar standing close and moving her hands near mine? I mean, Nora’s? I can’t see what she’s doing. Can she see what she’s doing? Is there really another person in there?

Then another message: “Malandra Okelly is offering friendship. By default you will be able to see each other’s online status.” This avatar chats Nora and asks if I’m Italian. I decline friendship—it’s a little too much like grabbing the hand of the kid right next to you on the first day of kindergarten—then immediately feel guilty.

Next to me a naked avatar is born, then becomes clothed.

Toby

By the turn of the Millennium, a technology known as Virtual Reality will be in widespread use. It will allow you to enter computer-generated artificial worlds as unlimited as the imagination itself. Its creators foresee millions of positive uses—while others fear it as a new form of mind control.—From the 1992 film, The Lawnmower Man

I first remember hearing about Virtual Reality in 1991 when I read about the VR games being played at Lollapalooza. Oh, Perry Farrell, what a hip, prescient vision of the future! Kids sat in chairs with big black boxes strapped to their faces, onlookers laughing at them as they swiveled their heads around, staring at swirling lights only they could see. The alternative sounds of Ice-T and Nine Inch Nails blared in the background.

Virtual Reality as a modern concept goes back to the ’50s, and the first VR machine was the Sensorama built in 1962 by Morton Heilig. His “Experience Theater” was like a combination Stereopticon and salon hair dryer. The machine had 3-D movies to simulate riding a motorcycle through Brooklyn. It moved along with the film, had stereo sound, and was made to be able to simulate wind and odors. Mmmmm! 1950s Brooklyn! Is that Nathan’s Hotdogs I smell?

The more contemporary “goggles and gloves” concept of VR was created by Jaron Lanier’s company VPL (Virtual Programming Languages) Research in the mid-’80s, and it was Jaron who coined the term “Virtual Reality.” The military, of course, had been using a type of virtual reality for decades in Flight Simulators of advancing complexity. Movies and videogames picked up on the idea fairly quickly as well, with computer graphics becoming more and more concerned with realistic effects. By the 1990s, Virtual Reality had become a minor staple of science fiction, and a few big budget movies had begun to throw it in to seem cutting edge.

Brendan

Fowler lives in the upper floor of an apartment building that looks like it caters to students and professionals alike. The door of his home opens into an open kitchen and living room beneath an arched ceiling.

The computer is a Hewlett-Packard and the monitor depicts Brent Tamura dancing with a woman named Margaret, the avatar created by Miles’ partner, Susan. The two avatars—from the Sanskrit word “descent,” a combination of older words meaning “away” and “to cross over”—spin together in a classical ballroom style in what looks like a pagoda.

Whenever Miles accesses Second Life, Brent begins his—er, his day?—in the “Charlottesvilleans in SL” clubhouse, and so Miles transports Brent there next. Between guiding Brent in fairly smooth steps around the house (from the living room into what Miles calls the “meditation room”), Miles moves the cursor of his mouse to menus that line the top of his computer screen and opens them to show me things like lists of Brent’s possessions (many of which Miles has paid for) and group memberships (which are typically free). Among other items including a bathing suit, sunglasses and shoes, Tamura owns a cowboy hat priced at $150L.

In the top right corner of Miles’ computer monitor is Brent’s Linden account, which reads “$8,248L.” Through the use of a Second Life ATM device that gives Brent the opportunity to invest more of Miles’ U.S. dollars in Linden dollars, Miles can check the exchange rate between his wallet and Brent’s. One thousand Linden dollars translates to $4.08 U.S., which means each Linden dollar is worth a little less than half a cent. Miles has put more than $30 U.S. in Brent’s account.

Erika

My second day on Second Life, I sign in at 8:19am; 31,407 people are online now. There are invitations to “reorganize your out-of-control inventory” or “attend a class going on now.” I’m eating cereal out of Tupperware, my hair still slightly wet. It’s a gray morning.

A window explains the four orientation tasks Nora must complete: Move, Communicate, Appearance, Search. Each is a physical area Nora must visit. I start with Communicate; I hit “chat,” then type “it’s me.” Nora leaps in the air.
Am I supposed to like Nora?

I head for Search, an arm of Orientation Island where a glass dome is flanked by conifers. A tutorial explains, “This world, like the real one, is built on Land.”

I put in a L$ amount to sort search results. “Fantasty [sic] land for sale,” “no need premium account,” “Cheap price low tier fee” are plastered over a generic tropical scene.

I am trying to leave the dome and accidentally walk off the gangway. During Nora’s fall off the edge is the first time I see her face, as though the intensity of panic, the slowed tumble like during a car wreck, is what it takes for the two of us to connect—she has her lips pursed in an unreadable expression—she’s not looking right at me. I feel reproached by her helplessness, how inept I am at keeping her safe.

The penis you’ve always wanted

Toby

Ted: We’re both stumbling around together in this unformed world, whose rules and objectives are largely unknown, seemingly indecipherable or even possibly nonexistent, always on the verge of being killed by forces that we don’t understand.

Allegra: That sounds like my game, all right.

Ted: That sounds like a game that’s not gonna be easy to market.

Allegra: But it’s a game everybody’s already playing.—From eXistenZ

One of the strange things about the Internet is how much the technology is being driven by the entertainment. Many of the elements of cyberspace come straight out of the works of people like Philip K. Dick (whose stories formed the basis for Blade Runner and Total Recall) and William Gibson, who coined the term “cyberspace,” referring to what he called the “mass consensual hallucination” of computer networks.

Second Life is based on the book Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson, published in 1992, in which the characters, represented by digital avatars, interact in a virtual world called the Metaverse, both terms that Stephenson introduced in the book, along with early versions of Google Earth and Wikipedia. The Metaverse functions in the novel as a second world layered on the real one, where people meet and do business, only with the added freedoms afforded by everything being digital. In Snow Crash, the characters have dramatic sword battles and motorcycle chases in the Metaverse, intent on saving the world.

That kind of stuff does not happen in Second Life.

Brendan

To re-create the beginner’s experience, Miles “teleports” Brent to Orientation Island. Here, many avatars have names that advertise a Second Life business that they are involved in, virtual commercials to catch the real eyes of new members. Miles clicks on an avatar named “Sadistic Blessed” and checks her interest group affiliations; she is a member of groups named “Club Twins” and “Sex 101.”

Toby

There is a lot of sex in Second Life. Off the rack avatars are genital-less, but many places exist for you to buy a penis, most notably Strokerz Toyz, an SL sex shop operated by Stroker Serpentine, a.k.a. 46-year-old Kevin Alderman. Stroker quit his Real Life contracting job to busy himself with Eros LLC, a company that sells virtual sex apparatuses in Second Life. Alderman made history as the first person to sue an avatar when he took Volkov Catteneo to court for stealing the idea for his SexGen 3000, a virtual bed that costs $45 U.S., and makes your avatar do all kinds of naughty things.

Brendan

Because Orientation Island is where new users get their bearings, it is also a natural land for experimentation, though a roving cast of avatars called “The Lindens” moderate behavior. An avatar walks by Brent in a Darth Vader costume. A tutorial on speech features a parrot that repeats your words back to you as you learn to speak, a touch I find clever. Two newly talkative avatars have a conversation that is visible to Brent and anyone in their vicinity:

Avatar A: “Are you from the USA?”

Avatar B: “I guess so.”

Erika

The Orientation Guide, a candy-colored window at upper left that’s been ordering me around since I arrived in SL, gives me permission to “detach” it from Nora, who has now teleported to another, slightly less lush, island with a similarly Disneynazi aesthetic.

Brendan

I ask Miles what he likes to do in Second Life, and he tells me that he enjoys meeting people. I catch my mistake—that I asked the question of Miles but meant to ask what Brent enjoys—and note that Miles answered on his avatar’s behalf, in first-person.

Erika

Two avatars are speaking French. They’ve been here for “une semaine” and since “aujourd’hui.” respectively. They’re confused. Angy Liotta says “je comprend rien” as Nora toddles toward the Freebie Store and Woof Eales walks off the side of a gangway.

In the store, I browse “furniture textures” and gestures (dance moves, kung fu). It’s just like real world shopping and my shyness with Marisa Felisimo, a girl-next-door avatar next to me, is like my real life self too. She’s experimenting with gestures, like an actor warming up before rehearsal.

I check out the clothes. “Sparkly dress,” “Metal dragon avatar.” “Butterfly pavilion Gift Set—includes shirt, shorts and shoes.” I take sparkly dress—actually a folder with separate files for top, bottom and shoes that have to be added to Nora’s body. It’s like a cross between playing paper dolls and using Windows95 to add and subtract clothes from her person.

I also get some hair to replace the blue mop Nora came with. A Read Me file comes with the hair, and I rethink the purchase when I read this: “If you have any problems or questions about your new hair just send me an IM and I’ll be happy to assist you. Thanks!—Chip Midnight.”

Toby

Once you’ve purchased your custom penis (The penis that you’ve always wanted!) there is so much for you to explore, including bestiality, rape and pedophilia. A reporter for the British Sky News recently uncovered an area in Second Life called Wonderland where SL residents could indulge in “age play”: adults using child avatars. The child avatars would then have sex with visiting adult avatars. The British reporter, doing his best Geraldo Rivera imitation, found children of all ages, even toddlers, offering a range of “sick and sordid sexual acts.”

Brendan

I explain to Miles that I’m interested in returning to Freebie Island to see if we can acquire some new duds or a gesture that Brent (and Miles) won’t have to pay for. Brent, dressed in a three-piece navy suit, teleports.

Freebie Island resembles a beachside boardwalk, with billboards advertising products from clothes to cars. Brent checks the price of a suit that resembles the garb worn by Keanu Reeves in The Matrix, decides that, at $0L, he can afford to dress like a cyberpunk and downloads the outfit.

Brent walks between billboards onto a beach that carries more advertisements. He approaches an icon that reads “SLR McLaren.” Miles asks me, himself, Brent: “Is that a car?”

Miles downloads the McLaren and tries to open it on the beach, but receives a notice that he doesn’t have the space to open it there.

Toby

If you get tired of pretending to be a fox or playing with the penis you just bought, you can always find a nice clubhouse where you can rape and abuse little kids. The truth is that the freedom Second Life affords has been pushed all the way, pushed out to the dark places that most of us, and most of the people involved in Second Life, do not want to be made aware of.

Brendan

Miles explains that there are places to experiment with downloads and new devices in Second Life known as “Public Sandboxes,” and teleports Brent to one so that he can test drive his new wheels. A sign at the sandbox he travels to reads: “Use of weapons in violation of your terms of service can result in abuse reports, warnings and bannings from Second Life.”

Brent puts on “Manteau Matrix” and tries to open his car again, but with no luck. Turning Brent to look at his surroundings, Miles and I spot a group of enormous swastikas being displayed by an avatar in the public sandbox. The text box that shows dialogue between avatars in Brent’s area comes alive with protest then quiets down a moment later when a Second Life moderator responds, “We got him.”

Miles explains that this is the risk with public sandboxes; Second Life users can download all sorts of quirky programs, humorous or cruel, and use them until they are prevented from doing so. A moment after he explains this, an avatar begins to make repeated remarks that are insensitive to homosexuals, but is quickly banned.

Toby

After many complaints, Linden Labs removed Wonderland, although a second Sky News investigation found several more places just like it. Second Life, it seems, is just full of weirdos and deviants; real people pretending to be computer-generated animals and having kinky sex with detachable genitals. Or, most twisted of all, somewhere, right now, a live adult human is sitting in a chair, in a house in the real world, watching a fake representation of himself sit in a fake chair, in a fake house in a fake world, watching a real movie on a fake TV screen. He may ask his wife to get him a beer, and maybe she will, but I hope she makes his fake wife get her own.

A must-have future

Brendan

Miles finally finds enough room for Brent to open his car, which materializes on the ground. Without clear instructions on how to drive it, Brent blasts forward and backwards rapidly, but with little turning capability. At one moment, the McLaren slams into an avatar, but the character shows no sign of the impact. Miles gives a quiet, “Whoops.”

Rather than struggle with steering for too long, Brent puts his car away and teleports to another historic site: the Eiffel Tower. This is not the only Eiffel Tower in Second Life, according to Fowler, who says Brent has seen others.

Brent has tried to make conversation with other avatars on Second Life, but has been largely unsuccessful from what I’ve witnessed. Miles urges Brent to talk, but he gets little response to questions like “Where are you from?” and “What do you think of SL?”

Brent steps into a bakery near the faux Eiffel Tower and tries speaking with the pink-haired girl behind the counter. Her profile reads (in French): “I will not offer friendship if I don’t know you.”

Miles says aloud, laughing, “How can you know someone if you don’t offer friendship?”
 
Erika

Needing some direction, I’ve talked to Brendan about where Miles likes to go in SL. He says Miles goes to Knightsbridge in London, and jazz and classical music clubs for dancing.

So I log back in and search for Knightsbridge, then teleport to one of the results. This automatically sends me a note card with a greeting and instructions. “Here in Knightsbridge you can rent a shop, rent a flat or townhouse and/or have your offices located here. If you have a real world business, you can also link your shop to your web site for online purchases.” It also mentions a recent feature on the BBC Money program, presumably in RL.

Nora wanders the street a bit—tall buildings, double decker buses, cars and stoplights. She finds a department store. On a sign on the outside wall: “Click here to go to our website.” Because the regular old Internet feels like a homey place when I’m in SL, I do click. Nora stands meanwhile with her hands on her hips.

The website has pictures of Big Ben and vague language about the glamour of the virtual world, exemplifying the sad hyperbole of all this SL stuff:

“People love to shop and have fun. What better than to interact with other people with similar interests?

“Here people interact anonymously with other people. They ‘try out’ lifestyles and have fun with an unimaginable range of activities and entertainments, both novel and ‘virtual’ events.

“They rent Virtual Internet Property where they live and form relationships, just like in real life.

“As a replica of a better life, where the sun always shines, living in a prestigious area and doing things you always dreamt of, this is a ‘must have’ future.”

In the real estate office, Ems Benoir starts to chat me up. I try to hit “chat” and by mistake hit “fly” instead, leaping up like a doofus. She says, “You seem busy—I will let you get on.” Ack! I quickly type, “No, no, just having some computer trouble.” Whew. She stays.

I think she’s a basic avatar, one of the presets you can choose when you sign up. We chat a little. She’s from London, and says Knightsbridge is “brilliant.” We chat with the sound of typing in my headphones. Then Second Life freezes.

This is the first time I have had anything approaching a friendly social encounter. It feels good. But I have social anxiety too—when my computer freezes, what does she see? I’m glad at least I’d warned her of my slow connection. Should I be lying about myself? Making Nora into a more distinct character? For my part, I’m looking right past her impossibly long legs, half-rendered face, imagining a real woman in the U.K. with whom I’m communicating…

SL disappears from my screen altogether.

My Internet browser crashes.

SL reappears of its own accord.

Ems is still typing, but I can’t see what.

Toby

Allegra: So how does it feel?

Ted: What?

Allegra: Your real life. The one you came back for.

Ted: It feels completely unreal.—From eXistenZ

In the Nov. 11, 2007 Los Angeles Times review of Peter Ludlow and Mark Wallace’s new book on Second Life called The Second Life Herald, the authors are quoted as saying that Second Life allows its users to create “a shared culture and narrative that gives everyone a stake in the proceedings.” Think about that statement for a moment. Isn’t that what humankind has been trying, with mixed success, to do since the dawn of time? Putting aside the question of what sort of culture exists in Second Life, and who has the access required to share it, it’s the last part that really bothers me. How much more of “a stake in the proceedings” could anyone want than what we all have right here in the sunlit, palpable, blood-filled here and now?

Goodnight, Second Life.

Toby

My problem with Second Life, and all things cyber, is not the sex, or the shopping, or the silly avatars. I’m fine with all of that. What I don’t like is the proclamation of a shiny, new frontier. We are not really doing anything new online, we’re just finding more complicated ways of doing the same old things. It isn’t the dawn of a brave, new world, because there is nothing brave about a world that is less real. The worst thing about Second Life is how dreadfully it fails at actual self-expression. The thing about fantasy is, unlike experience, you can’t turn it into growth. The only people getting actualized here are the avatars. In Second Life, nothing can kill you, so nothing can make you stronger.

Brendan

My colleague Erika is in the basement of C-VILLE, waiting (to my knowledge) for Brent Tamura to invite her avatar, Nora Mornington, to his clubhouse. Nora and Brent have not yet met. Brent is dressed in a dark brown shirt, light brown pants and his $150L cowboy hat.

Erika

I accept Brent’s friendship and his offer of membership in the Charlottesville group. Now the text box above Nora’s head says, “Member/ Nora Mornington.” There’s also a message with coordinates for the Charlottesville clubhouse, so I teleport there.

It’s a grassy area, with two black couches and a blue rug arranged on the lawn as though in a living room, and odd Disney-like structures. Fuzzy red balls (fire?) shoot up from somewhere in the middle distance every few seconds.
Nora can turn but not walk forward or back. Uh-oh.

I turn Nora to the right—that must be the clubhouse! It’s a post and beam building with wood siding and a large window.

Nora is definitely rooted to the spot. All she can do is turn.

Wonder if he’ll find her here.

Brendan

A message from Nora appears: “Not wanting this to be a tech support session for poor Nora,” Erika writes, “but she seems to be both paralyzed and mute, and possibly also deaf.” And that may be the least of her troubles; Miles shows me Nora’s profile to prove that she is listed as “offline.”

Erika

I picture Brendan and Miles getting bored at Miles’ house, so I just dump a few of my planned “interview” questions into a Gmail message and fire it off. The message is labeled “Erika Howsare to Brent”—a lopsided communication, real life to SL:

“Is Monowai an island?

Did you build that wooden building?

Do you ever fly?

What’s in your inventory?”

Brendan

Miraculously, Erika’s questions keep arriving through her e-mail account. Miles responds in short answers that I find confusing given the double lives; when Nora asks Brent about whether there is such a thing as wind in Second Life, Miles types: “Wind is not felt except in mind.” Concerned he is getting all Buddhist on me, I ask whether he means in real life or Second Life; he means Second Life.

Erika

We’re starting to get a conversation going. But Brent’s answers are so brief. And it’s just e-mail. And Nora can’t move.

It’s already 5:34; we need to move this along. I try to coax Brent to physically appear where I can see him. This is like being a shut-in. I am so done with Nora after this.

“Before we run out of time, Brent, can we try to actually see each other in SL? Given that I can’t seem to budge, that may be tricky…”

Brendan

Miles thinks that Brent can find Nora before our agreed upon interview time ends, and so we compare coordinates in Second Life and begin looking for her. Though it is 2:32pm PST in Second Life, it is getting dark fast. Miles clicks a button titled “Force sunrise.” The day instantly brightens; he has moved the sun to look for his new friend.

Toby

Chinese Waiter: Hey, tell me the truth…are we still in the game?—From eXistenZ

In the November 15, 2007 issue of Rolling Stone, different celebrities and experts are interviewed concerning The Future. William Gibson, author of the 1984 cyber-punk classic, Neuromancer (which, for the record, he wrote on a 1927-era typewriter), lists “ubiquitous computing” as one of the challenges that the future will bring.

“One of the things our grandchildren will find quaintest about us,” Gibson says, “is that we distinguish the digital from the real, the virtual from the real. In the future, that will become literally impossible. The distinction between cyberspace and that which isn’t cyberspace is going to be unimaginable.”

This is exactly what movies like The Lawnmower Man, eXistenZ, Total Recall and The Matrix are trying to warn us about. What scares us humans to our mortal core about things like robots, cloning, artificial intelligence and virtual worlds, is that they might cause us to lose track of what is really Real. When Descartes said, “I think, therefore I am,” he placed self-identity at the heart of human existence; lose the self and we cease to exist.

“Let me suggest that you take a vacation from yourself,” the man at Rekall says to Arnold Schwarzenegger in Total Recall. “If I am not me,” Schwarzenegger says later, “den who da hell am I?”

Brendan

After looking a bit longer for Nora, Brent gives up and sends her a message.

Brent: “We seem to be occupying different dimensions of the same metaverse.”

Nora: “Freaky! Sorry…please tell Brendan hello.”

Erika

Before logging out, for no good reason, I look at a drop-down menu called “World.” At the bottom of the menu: Force Sun. Options pop up from there: Sunrise/Noon/Sunset/Midnight. I hit the latter. Monowai turns dark.

Goodnight, Second Life.

Brendan

Miles turns from the computer to me and says, “Hello, hello.”