The Virtual Life of Fizzy Oceans

by David A. Ross

  “What I know of today’s politics would hardly qualify me as an expert, but my cursory impression is that fast and easy money rules the game. What else is new, my friends? Yet, it seems that today’s politicians have raised greed to an art form, and they have successfully perfected every imaginable technique of extracting every last cent from the vulnerable to deposit it in the accounts of the well-to-do. Again, what else is new, my friends?

  “That said, I too was once a red hot imperialist. During the Philippine-American War, I wanted the American eagle to go screaming into the Pacific. Why not spread its wings over the Philippines, I asked myself? I said to myself: Here are a people who have suffered for three centuries. We can make them as free as ourselves, give them a government and country of their own, put a miniature of the American Constitution afloat in the Pacific, start a new republic to take its place among the free nations of the world (today that is called nation building, I’m told). It seemed to me a great task to which we had addressed ourselves. But I have thought some more since then, and I have read carefully the treaty of Paris (which ended the Spanish-American War), and I have seen that we never intended to free, but to subjugate the people of the Philippines. We went there to conquer, not to redeem. It should, it seems to me, be our pleasure and duty to make those people free, and let them deal with their own domestic questions in their own way. And so I am now an anti-imperialist. I am opposed to having the eagle put its talons on any other land!

  “To demonstrate my conviction, I was twice the vice president of the American Anti-Imperialism League.”

  “Mr. Clemens, would you call yourself a pacifist or a revolutionary?” comes an impromptu question from the audience.

  “I am said to be a revolutionist in my sympathies, by birth, by breeding and by principle. I am always on the side of the revolutionists, because there never was a revolution unless there were some oppressive and intolerable conditions against which to revolt.”

  At this point in the presentation, Crystal Marbella intervenes to say, “As we are nearly out of time, Mr. Clemens, would you please tell us, before you go, about the origin of your very famous pen name?”

  “Ah, yes… Mark Twain! How did I come to use this pseudonym as my primary literary signature? The story is a simple one: It came from my years working on Mississippi riverboats, where two fathoms, a depth indicating ‘safe water’ for the boat to float over was measured on the sounding line. A fathom is a maritime unit of depth, equivalent to two yards (approximately 1.8 meters); ‘twain’ is an archaic term for ‘two’. The river boatman’s cry was ‘mark twain’ or, more fully, ‘by the mark twain’, meaning ‘according to the mark (on the line), (the depth is) two (fathoms), that is, ‘there are twelve feet of water underneath the boat and it is safe to pass’.

  “But this most famous pen name was not entirely my invention…

  “Captain Isaiah Sellers was not of literary turn or capacity, but he used to jot down brief paragraphs of plain practical information about the river, and sign them ‘MARK TWAIN,’ and give them to the New Orleans Picayune. They related to the stage and condition of the river, and were accurate and valuable. At the time that the telegraph brought the news of his death, I was on the Pacific coast. I was a fresh new journalist, and needed a nom de guerre; so I confiscated the ancient mariner’s discarded one, and have done my very best to make it remain what it was in his hands—a sign and symbol and warrant that whatever is found in its company may be gambled on as being the petrified truth; how I have succeeded, it would not be modest in me to say.”

  And with that statement, Samuel Langhorne Clemens finishes his first public address in nearly a century and leaves the Open Books’ stage to a deafening ovation. Applauding the performance with the most vigor are the so-called writers-in-residence, from the recently deceased to the currently living. Crystal congratulates Mr. Clemens on his remarks and invites him to receive the guests in a line that is already forming near the stage. He most graciously consents, but something in his eyes tells me that he may indeed have another appointment to keep. What might it be? And where? Truly, Virtual Life has hosted this unconventional return engagement, though it is obvious to some that Mr. Clemens is not particularly comfortable here. He may well prefer a different universe, even as he indulges friends and admirers in this one. After greeting each guest personally, he withdraws to a pre-arranged sanctuary in Lit-A-Rama, where he can transfer out of Virtual Life to wherever he currently resides. We in Virtual Life wish him well on his journey through time, even as we thank him profusely for granting us one last interview before finally assuming his infinite disposition.

  CHAPTER 7

  Life's A Witch, And Then You Die!

  IT HAD TO HAPPEN; it was only natural. What I mean is the re-emergence of the feminine principle. I’m not talking specifically about Western women burning their bras or crashing through the glass ceiling, though I suppose that’s a small part of it. Nor am I talking about emasculation (sperm counts in the western world are down significantly due to the amount of estrogen in food additives). What I am talking about is the eternal relationship between nature and nurturing. It’s been going on since the beginning of time as we know it; and it has always been the regenerative energy in our world, even when driven underground, and even when other influences, those initiated and dominated by men—forces such as war and commerce (and aren’t those really one and the same?)—have ignorantly, and often quite brutally, subjugated its rightful place, and silenced or tortured or even killed its practitioners and worshippers.

  Though the Goddess goes by many different names—Dr. Adler, we remember, pointed out that the ancient Sumarians knew her as Ki, and he in turn appropriated the name for his theories about earthly interconnectivity—She serves the same function in virtually every culture. She represents the womb from which our world is continually reborn, and She is also the caregiver, the giver of sustenance, and the healer. Yes, She is all these, but She is so much more. She is the One standing behind the veil of the greatest mystery, the One offering prayers and rituals and magick to illuminate the side in each of us that is not brutishly physical, or intrusively manipulative, or literal. The One behind our dreams, her natural province is the moon; She works not in broad daylight, but within the world of shadows. Through ritual She sanctifies our earthly existence, yet when our time comes to leave this physical plane for another, She tethers us not to the flesh of corporeal existence, rather She releases us to the Eternal and bids us well on our journeys. What else is a Mother to do?

  I have never discussed religion with Crystal Marbella, nor has she discussed it with me. Not that the subject is off limits or taboo, but we each seem to prefer (by omission) to leave spiritual matters within their particular (and more personal) domain. Nevertheless, we both enjoy visiting a REP called Pagan Morning. It is a beautiful and peaceful place created by two English witches, Adrianne Hardwood and Freyja Mumford (each of them, incidentally, work as university professors in PL: Adrianne teaches Computer Applications, and Freyja teaches Physics).

  Crystal and I have been invited to attend a hand fasting ceremony that will take place at the Abbey located within the Pagan Morning REP. We both think that VL weddings are very special because they almost always occur between people (emulations) that have never met one another in Physical Life, which tends to ensure that the feelings they express to one another are based solely on intellectual and spiritual qualities rather than physical ones. Certainly, there is no guarantee that the person behind the emulation is portraying himself or herself authentically, but isn’t that the risk we take in PL too? Artifice and deception aside, anyone who knows Sly Sideways and Alegra Nevermore will attest to their obvious love, and to their commitment to one another. Seldom is one seen without the other being either present or nearby. Just as it is with couples who are in love in PL!

  Crystal and I thought that our newest VL friend, Kizmet Aurora, might also enjoy the ceremony, as well as a tour of Pagan Morning, so we invited her a
long to experience the event (and the REP) for herself. We all meet at the Open Books shop to dress and check out one another’s attire before transferring to the REP.

  “I’ve been to a number of Native American weddings,” Kiz tells Crystal and me, “but I’ve never attended an occult wedding. I’m anxious to see if Wiccan ceremonies are at all similar to those of Native American pagans.”

  “My PL religious upbringing was Catholic,” Crystal tells Kiz and me, “but in those teachings (and those rituals) I never found much relevance—at least not intellectually, and certainly not spiritually. These days, Danish life is thoroughly secular; and the few who continue to claim Christianity as their faith seldom live by its teachings. One thing that my Catholic upbringing did manage to impart to me is a rather unhealthy sense of guilt that, no matter what I learn, or what I do, I can’t seem to shake. I continually wonder whether or not I’m worthy. Ask me to what, or to whom I must show my worthiness, and I cannot give you a satisfactory answer—at least not a logical one. Therein lies my personal torment, because I’m an empirical person living in a secular world, a world where ecological catastrophes (not to mention binary simulations) are everyday events, a world where Heaven and Hell—at least the traditional Christian concepts of such places—are as outdated as the stories and symbols of a bygone millennium. Such myths were envisioned in the minds of people somewhat less sophisticated than those who populate our world(s) today. So, I guess I’d say that while I’m really not religious, I am definitely burdened by a religious tradition that I cannot ever fully discard, even though I’d probably like to. For me, Pagan Morning is something quite different than the religion I grew up with. If the priest could see me now, frolicking about with witches and wizards and Druids and the like, he’d no doubt pronounce me evil and lock me up inside the church crypt until I confessed my blasphemies and renounced Satan’s influence for all time to come. Which might not be all that much longer… Of course the pentagram inside the circle has nothing whatsoever to do with Satan. Witches might or might not acknowledge the existence of the Dark Force, but they certainly do not worship it! For me, paganism is about earthliness, and it is about femininity. It speaks to the most elemental aspects of my being. And that feels good! Not only to experience it myself, but to share the experience of my earthly self with others!”

  “Crystal, you are so good with words!” I tell her.

  Crystal’s EM bows its head. Crystal Marbella is always modest.

  “So how do I look?” Kiz asks us. “I didn’t really know what to wear to a pagan wedding, so I bought this floor-length dress with a flower print. I thought something ‘hippie’ or something ‘New Age’ might be appropriate.”

  “You look stunning, Kiz,” I tell her.

  “And look at Crystal!” exclaims Kiz.

  “Crystal always catches every eye,” I tell Kiz. “You’ll learn to forgive her.”

  “Nothing wrong with looking beautiful,” says Kiz.

  “Shall we transfer to Pagan Morning, ladies?” I ask.

  “Fizzy, do you have the gift?” Crystal asks me.

  “I almost forgot,” I tell her. “Thanks for reminding me.” From inside the shop I take a specially-wrapped package. “Now, I think we’re ready.”

  Whoosh…

  Arriving within the Pagan Morning REP, Crystal and Kiz and I find ourselves at the central temple. It is an open-air amphitheater of classic Greek design with a large pentagram inside a closed circle at its center. The insignia is surrounded by seven pools—each one signifying a deeper mystery. Around the perimeter of the amphitheater are tall columns, and resting on top of each column is a semi-spherical dish filled with oil and lit on fire for light. Here at the temple, classes in the occult arts and sciences are taught to overflow audiences, and on the occult High Holidays services are conducted to honor and commemorate the occasion.

  The entire Pagan Morning REP is laid out in concentric circles, and the path leading from one location to the next leads through a natural area that has been meticulously constructed in the style of an English wood. On our way to the hilltop abbey, we pass Pooh Bear Inn, a pub where the wedding party for Sly and Alegra will take place after the ceremony. Further along, we come to a wishing well, and Crystal and Kiz and I each make a wish for the future—not the future of Virtual Life, but the future of Physical Life, and for the future of the earth!

  At the bottom of the hill where the abbey is located, next to the stone staircase that leads up to the priory, an ancient and degraded cemetery testifies quite dramatically to man’s transience. Entering the graveyard through a creaking gate, we encounter a walking skeleton (no metaphor—the real thing!) that breathes heavily and groans and even casts a shadow as it reluctantly walks in the steps of sorrow, or regret, or unrequited love, or responsibility never borne. We visit a newly-opened grave upon which there is a wilted red rose and a teddy bear. The scene brings a lump to my throat—not for my own mortality, but for the sorrows of all who suffer a great loss. Near a large fountain at the center of the cemetery, we find the grave of the legendary occult master Aleister Crowley. Upon his headstone, a wreathe made from cut flowers, along with several candles, designates both a tribute and a remembrance.

  In a splendid grove of chestnut trees, we walk beneath the boughs and through lush grasses that cover the gently undulating ground until we find ourselves in an idyllic clearing where wind chimes ring, an open campfire burns, and a lone wagon stands as the sincere and simple residence of a pagan woman. From a nearby perch, a wise old owl calls the name of his mistress. Upon a pedestal, a large crystal ball reflects the shafts of sunlight that spike through the leaves and branches of the trees overhead. “Anybody here?” Crystal calls. But only the owl answers her inquiry.

  The tinkling chimes beckon me up the wagon’s three stair steps. Standing on the platform at the witch’s threshold, I peer inside her humble home. I see a rustic chamber furnished for economy and function. A woodstove contains the remaining embers of this morning’s fire; sun and moon curtains are parted above a single bed. On a rustic table, a spread of tarot cards awaits the reader’s keen analysis. “I hope we’re welcome,” I tell my companions. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

  “I think the resident witch must be away,” says Crystal.

  “I think this little gypsy wagon is so sweet!” says Kiz.

  “Maybe we could leave a greeting,” I propose.

  “Or a small gift,” Crystal suggests. “What do you have in your cache, Fizzy?”

  “Nothing appropriate for a witch, I think.”

  “I see what you mean,” says Crystal scratching her head.

  “What about a crystal?” Kiz asks.

  “That might be appropriate,” I agree. “Do you have one in your cache, Kiz?”

  “I sure do,” she says. Kiz lays a highly polished black stone upon the table inside the wagon.

  “Splendid gift,” I tell Kiz.

  “Yes, splendid indeed!” Crystal concurs.

  “The stone’s geological name is obsidian, but where I come from it is called Apache’s Tears,” Kiz explains. “I hope she likes it.”

  “I’m sure she will,” says Crystal.

  Just as we are preparing to leave the campsite, we see a young woman approaching, the folds of a long flower-print skirt gathered round her legs, a colorful blouse covering her breast and midriff, and a knitted shawl draped over her slender shoulders. Her long, brown, wavy hair cascades down her back, and a funny, wide-brimmed hat covers the top of her head. In one hand she carries a basketful of freshly picked raspberries, in the other she clutches a walking stick fashioned from a fallen branch.

  “We didn’t mean to intrude,” I apologize as she comes into the site.

  “No intrusion,” she says cheerfully. “I was out picking berries. Here in Virtual Life they’re abundant the year round,” she laughs.

  “We were on our way to a wedding at the abbey when we came upon your campsite,” Crystal explains.

  “It�
��s very peaceful here,” Kiz adds.

  “It’s not much, but it’s home,” says the woman. “Do you have time for a cup of tea?” she asks.

  Crystal looks at me, and I look at Kiz. The truth is that we have all the time in the world—at least all the time in Virtual Life. “We’d love a cup of tea,” says Crystal on our behalf.

  “Excellent!” says the witch. “Then I’ll just put the kettle to boil.”

  “You’re English, aren’t you?” Crystal presumes of our hostess.

  “Welsh,” she says. “My Virtual Life name is Violet Mary Firth, in honor of the late Dion Fortune. Like my namesake, I was born into Physical Life in Bryn-y-Bia in Llandudno, Wales.”

  “My VL name is Fizzy Oceans,” I offer. “My friends are called Kizmet Aurora and Crystal Marbella. Kiz and I are both Americans, though I live my Physical Life in Seattle, while Kiz lives hers in Arizona. Crystal lives her Physical Life in Copenhagen, Denmark. Crystal and I have a publishing shop in the Lit-A-Rama REP.”

  “She’s probably already read our profiles,” says Crystal.

  Violet Mary Firth neither confirms nor denies reading our VL profiles, rather she pours tea into four china cups then serves each of us as we sit on hand-hewn chairs around her eternal fire.

  “Virtual Life seems a strange place for pagans,” Kiz remarks, though she is obviously quite taken with the beauty and serenity of the environment.

  “Why would you think that?” asks Violet Mary Firth.

  “Because VL is a simulated world—it’s not natural.”

  Violet Mary Firth considers Kiz’s observation as she sips her tea. After a moment she addresses us all. “While it’s true that VL is quite removed from Natural Life, it’s also true that witches live and work within the realm of symbols, which makes VL an ideal environment to practice the Craft. Symbols are to the mind what tools are to the hand—an extended application of its powers.”