I Live In Virtual Space

Where Am I Right Now? Where are you? Are you here... with me?

visakan veerasamy

wrote about his virtual space. I wonder what mine is like…?

…I imagine myself taking a breath and stepping outside; the sun is gleaming, the birds are singing, it is hot and dry. I'm in the Arizona desert. The heat feels good. It embraces me, and I feel safe at once. Anything is possible here, and the world is fundamentally good and coherent. The desert follows natural law, things make sense, I could build anything through careful study and engineering. I have time.

But I also notice there is no mess. The world is clean and simple. I am home. Nothing here requires maintenance. There is no rent.

I am realizing this is the virtual space my parents created for me. They aren't even here, because they wanted me to be truly free. I can sense them behind me -- a few dozen yards behind me is their home. My home. They are inside, taking care of each other, perhaps thinking of me.

Am I capable of making a home as good as the one my parents made?

I feel so incapable. Wait. Why?

Because I left home. I don't live at home, anymore, I live in New York City, and I'm trying to build a new space there.

I take a deeper, more hesitant breathe, and open the door to the space I live in now.

It feels claustrophobic in here, and I'm strangely alone, considering how into community I am... why am I alone in here?

The room is small, it's modeled after my NYC apartment. My daughter's stroller takes up the entryway. I need to take out the trash. It's not overflowing, I just need to take it out. There are 4 or 5 dishes in the sink I need to do. There are 2 dirty dishes and some old snacks in my bedroom from the last time I was sick. The place is disorganized but my phone and laptop are blowing up with messages and emails, and I have no time to do the dishes right now. I'll do them later tonight.

Strewn about the countertop and kitchen table are my blueprints, plans, and personal notes in piles. The current master plan is drawn on the whiteboard in my living room, and we're making progress on it. Half the boxes are checked, and we have notes and plans pinned to the board with magnets for the rest. That makes me happy. Why am I alone right now? Why are there no windows in here? Did no one think to install a window? I guess that's my responsibility, huh...?

I see two organizing bins and a typewriter on a shelf, one bin is labelled "Important Ideas" and is filled with tape recorders and old phones and USB sticks and sticky notes and polaroid photos and notes scribbled on napkins and a few semi-organized, labelled binders and a whole laptop. The other bin is labelled "Published Important Ideas", and is basically empty. I thumb through the few stapled essays and cringe. There is so much I have not said. I consider sitting down for a minute and typing up some of these notes for publishing. I pick up one of the semi-organized binders, and thank my former self for organizing his ideas for me. Just then, the door opens, and my wife and daughter are home. I love them so much. I immediately drop my work, swoop in and pick up my daughter for a hug, and start playing dad games. I give my wife a kiss.

My wife sees my work lying on the ground and asks if I'm busy; she says she is happy to let me work.

I consider it for a moment, but my daughter is standing up and pointing at things and naming them, how could I waste a moment with her? I'll get to it later tonight.

Outside, the sun is going down. I'll have to get to my work later. Tomorrow I teach my students, and I need to prepare for that.

While playing with my daughter, my friends come over, and we get to work on the master plan. We fill another tape recorder with conversation, we write more notes on our white board. We add another note to the "Important Ideas" bin. We play with my little girl. Everyone goes to sleep.

Will any of my ideas ever be published?

I sigh, do some of the dishes, forget to take out the trash, prep for class takes longer than I expect, and I go to bed, feeling like so much in my life is still unmaintained. Plus, I pay rent for all of this.

It feels claustrophobic in here. I feel strangely alone again. I never felt alone in the desert, even though nobody was around. What's up with that?

I wonder, am I capable of making a home as good as the one my parents made for me?