The Virtual Life of Fizzy Oceans

by David A. Ross

  On a final inspection tour of the REP, I tell Sly Sideways what an excellent job he’s done in building the virtual environment to my specifications. He’s also added a few of his own touches, such as 3D dioramas of The Red Vineyards at Arles and The Café Terrace on the Place du Forum. We’ve both done a lot of work to complete the REP, Sly building out the physical representations, and me in the ‘garden’ replicating the paintings. I gladly pay Sly the six thousand greenshoots I owe for his work, and as a further token of my appreciation I place a digital representation of Almond Branches in Bloom, San Remy in his cache. “You don’t have to do that, Fizzy,” he tells me. But it’s my pleasure to give a little tip for a job well done.

  So, now it’s time to send out invitations to all the seedlings in my database—more than ten thousand people in all. My list of contacts was compiled during the time I worked with Crystal at Open Books. It also includes all those with whom I’ve interacted as a VL greeter. Such a mailing list might seem extreme if not for mass mailing tools provided by the Farmers at Seedbed Studios.

  Meantime, I return to Open Books to see how Crystal is coming along with her latest project, The Complete and Unabridged Memoirs of Jacques Casanova. It is an auspicious volume of six books comprising two thousand, five hundred pages, give or take a few. She has been working on the publication ever since I began working on the Van Gogh REP, so we are both feeling a bit exhausted by our respective projects.

  “Sometimes I wonder why we do it,” Crystal says to me. “Why we work so hard for so little recognition.” Her fatalistic mood is a bit uncharacteristic. And probably short-lived as well, I understand.

  “We do it to be of use,” I tell her. “To make a difference.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if anybody really cares,” she opines.

  “Remember all those people who attended the Mark Twain lecture,” I remind her.

  “Little victories,” she admits.

  “Exactly!” I affirm.

  “Next I suppose you’re going to tell me that the reward is in the process, not in the result. And that there’s some implicit nobility in sacrifice and commitment.”

  “Right again,” I tell her.

  “What would I do without you, Fizzy?” she asks.

  “Most of what I know about VL, I learned from you, Crystal.”

  “I guess we’re just twin clowns in this weird and wild circus,” she says.

  “Speaking of which, I want you at my side at the opening of the Van Gogh REP,” I tell her.

  “I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” she says.

  “And I want Kizmet there, too.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be there with Hopi bells on.” Crystal smiles for the first time during our conversation.

  “Get your chin up, girl,” I tell her. “Things could be worse.”

  “How is Amy doing?” Crystal asks Fizzy Oceans. I am surprised by her inquiry, because seldom in the past have we referred to our PL personalities.

  “Tough times,” Fizzy tells her.

  “Can’t find a job?” Crystal asks.

  “Nothing steady,” Fizzy relates.

  “Tell her to keep her chin up, too,” says Crystal. “I’m sure something will turn up.”

  “Yeah, I hope so,” I tell her a little gravely.

  I can’t help thinking how ironic it is that here in VL both Crystal and I have far too much work, while over in PL poor Amy Birkenstock can’t find enough. All in all, neither gig pays a living wage.

  All this I have made without pay. Whether my REP is entertaining or not, enlightening or not, uplifting or not, worthy or not, I humbly present it to all who wish to cross its frontier and experience what it has to offer, or partake in my humble rendition of the passion and the genius and the humility and the tragedy of Vincent Van Gogh. It is my gift to posterity. One more trek through the REP and I am ready to greet my first visitors.

  In order to make a final survey of the terrain, I activate Vincent’s emulation for the first time. My creation is impeccable, I believe, but have I gathered the courage to finally walk in his shoes? My first steps in this strange body are not unlike those of any other emulation, yet I feel the artist’s peculiar presence bearing down on me. From his parents’ middle class home in Amsterdam I move to the Borinage in Belgium, then to the parsonage in Etten, England. I visit the Goupil et Cie Gallery in Paris where he worked for a short time as an art dealer with his brother Theo, then the hovel of a home he kept in the Hague with Sein the prostitute and her infant son. Finally, I move on to Arles, France, where Vincent lived for a short time with the artist Paul Gaugin, and where he cut off his ear in a castigatory rage. I also pay a visit to the asylum at St. Remy. In his room I spend a reflective moment peering out his window at the garden where he painted irises and sunflowers. Back in the village of Arles, I set out in my ragged clothes for a day of painting in the countryside, my brushes and pigments stored in a homemade satchel strapped to my back. Under my arm I carry my easel. In my free hand I carry my lunch—a crust of bread, a bottle of milk, nothing more. The children in the streets wait in hiding for me to pass so they can hurl stones at me, knocking my straw farmer’s hat off my head. In a wheat field, just beyond the city’s border, I paint furiously as a Murder of Crows circles overhead. They call out to me in a language I suddenly understand. Sheathes of wheat dance to the music of the breeze. In my waistband I carry a loaded .22 caliber pistol—a rusting relic of a firearm, really—for a purpose not yet determined.

  Once more as the emulation of Fizzy Oceans, I greet Crystal and Kizmet, my two best VL friends, as they transfer into the REP near the museum.

  “Oh, Fizzy!” Kiz exclaims. “What a world!”

  Crystal, the European, is more demure.

  “Let me show you the collection,” I offer. Walking through a corner of my virtual Amsterdam to reach the museum housing the collection of Van Gogh masterpieces, my friends are wide-eyed and full of compliments.

  Once inside, we begin to view the drawings and paintings. Silence marks our collective reverence, and I notice a tear welling in Crystal’s eye as she stands before Vincent’s portrait of Père Tanguy. I fully understand this wash of sentiment, because I have felt it many times myself. In fact, while I was creating the replicas in the ‘garden’ I often found myself crying for no apparent reason, and I now understand that such emotion is not abnormal but natural when faced with such unequivocal beauty. It’s like staring straight into the face of God. Or suddenly understanding the nature of a universe. Real beauty causes us to release all the false pride and pseudo sophistication we work so hard to maintain in our daily lives. By the time we reach the last painting in the collection, Kiz appears a bit uneasy. She turns to me and asks, “Fizzy, how many invitations did you send out?”

  “Uh…” It suddenly occurs to me that we three are alone in the REP. “More than nine thousand, I think,” I answer.

  “Nine thousand?” she says, incredulous.

  “More or less,” I confirm.

  The number obviously represents a non sequitur in her mind. “Where is everybody?” she says. Her question is not necessarily directed at me but at some nebulous entity.

  Crystal looks at me sympathetically but perceptively. Kiz, still the neophyte, is stunned, dumbfounded. I can feel her mind stretching to understand the absence of visitors. Suddenly realizing that I have been ignored, spurned, and summarily dismissed, and that all my sincere and dedicated work may just have been in vain, I am impressed—no, overcome—by a reality even greater than my personal failure, which is the death of beauty itself!

  Can such a thing possibly be true? Can a concept or emotion so innate, and so vital to our humanity, actually die? Perhaps the answer to such a question lies in the silence around us as we view these passionate paintings by a master forever in search of recognition, forever in pursuit of expression beyond everyday lexis. The language of the soul, if I am permitted such a cliché. Of course the vocabulary of silence has a meaning too, one that is enveloping a
nd undeniable. And perhaps final.

  Sitting together at The Café Terrace at the Place du Forum—Sly’s 3D re-creation of one of Vincent’s most famous paintings—three faithful friends sit together underneath the stars in Arles, France, within the unlikely environment of a masterpiece on canvas, drinking absinthe and waiting for the Renaissance. We think we may be waiting a very long time.

  3) Religion

  I keep thinking that in the annals of human history a single common thread must surely weave together the fabric of the world’s religions. How could it not be so? Yet such a thread is not easily identified—or so it would seem. To find the core of religious belief, we must first cut through the dog pile of dogma and begin by asking the fundamental questions: Who are we? What is our purpose? How long have we been here and how long will we remain? Where are we going? Why do we exist?

  Then, of course, the concepts of space and time must be addressed. In effect, we beg to know the nature of our universe, and whether it is finite or infinite? Mankind has been staring at the heavens (for lack of a better focal point, I suppose) and imploring our creator (invisible and presumed though He certainly remains) to give us a sign, or assign us a path, or set down rules, or simply to show Himself. Still, after centuries of seeking we still fumble like blind men in an unfamiliar room, even as we profess our avid beliefs to the point of violence and strong-armed coercion. If only we were committed to the question rather than to its answer, then we might hope to catch a glimpse of the final truth, if indeed such a truth even exists, which is something that I have come to doubt. I think, when all is said and done, relativity rules the day, and Secular Humanism is the one faith—if it is a faith—that actually makes sense.

  Most traditional religions take their symbols not from our natural world, but instead evoke them from supernatural deeds—either performed by mortals or by mythical beings. Such symbols serve to strengthen belief and faith, provide cohesion of community, and give comfort in times of trouble and strife. These symbols themselves often become iconic, or objects of worship, supplanting or obscuring altogether the original idea or deity. Such a corruption seems to occur naturally over time, and the original visionary or mystical aspect of the religion becomes mired in ritual. Yet, even as this occurs, a religion gains its greatest following. Apparently, people want easy answers, and they want to be told what to do—especially when it comes to their salvation. A simple set of rules to follow, please; a platitude or two to recite—nothing too complicated; a hierarchy of devotions to perform so the devotee feels a bit less alone in his own mortality. No matter what religion we choose to examine, it is more or less the same story. The faith is born through the vision of an inspired person and gains a following through the dissemination of that person’s teachings. Once it has spread sufficiently, politics often enters the mix, which usually precludes a corruption of the original idea. Ritual supplants exaltation, and that which was once profoundly spiritual then assumes an undeniably earthly character. Still, one must wonder—at least I do—whether or not there is a common thread running through all religions that continues to vibrate to the frequency of epiphany, illumination and enlightenment. I honestly want to believe such things are possible. I truly want to believe. Yet, time and again I find my more celestial aspirations grounded by a single concept—one that, to me, seems to define the very nature of our human condition—duality! Whether it is expressed as yin and yang, black and white, light and dark, on and off or good and evil, duality seems to intrude itself upon every aspect of our earthly lives and our universal reality. We cannot escape it. Or at least it would seem so…

  So, is duality, or dualism, the chain that shackles us to our earthly existence? Or is it, as Zen Masters assert, the source of an essential tension necessary for the cohesion of a greater whole? And if that’s it, then how do we move beyond the yin and the yang to perceive our world from such a causative point of view? Do we immerse ourselves in rituals? Should we attempt to master yoga? Camp out in the dessert for forty days and forty nights? Deny our body food and drink? Spin like a dervish until enlightenment pours over us like morning sunshine? I admit that all this philosophy might be a bit thick for the religious exploration I intend to make here in VL, still it seems to make sense to define the essential questions before trying to find definitive answers, n’est ce pas? What I do know for certain is that no matter what our religious persuasion, we’re all dying to find out what lies beyond this world. And that all shall make that journey, and enter that realm, alone.

  My first destination on my exploration of religion in VL is the Sabarmati Ashram where I have arranged a meeting with the emulation of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi. Known during his life in his native country of India as ‘Mahatma’ or ‘Great Soul’, Gandhi was the pioneer of satvagraha—resistance to tyranny through mass civil disobedience, a philosophy firmly founded upon ahimsa or total nonviolence—which led India to independence and inspired movements for civil rights and freedom around the world.

  Arriving at Gandhi’s private quarters, I see the ‘mahatma’ seated upon two large pillows, both resting on a bamboo mat that covers a portion of the spotlessly clean, stone floor. In front of him is a small writing table. Under a vaulted ceiling, white washed walls reflect the light from two open windows, and a small fan circulates the humid air coming in from the garden outside. The large room is devoid of furnishings except for a few scrolls offering information to those not initiated in the Hindu faith. As I approach him, he senses my presence and rises to greet me. He is a small man with large hands and feet. His skin is swarthy, his head bald, and his eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses. Gandhi, the ‘mahatma’, is dressed all in white, as is his custom. He extends his hand for me to shake, and I lower my eyes in respect and deference as I take his hand in mine.

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, sir,” I tell him.

  “It is my pleasure to be of service,” he assures me.

  “And a great service you have been to mankind.”

  “One does what one must do,” he says.

  “Or in your case, what one must not do,” I clarify. Of course I am referring to Gandhi’s adherence to the principle of non-violence, which ultimately won not only respect for him, but won freedom for an entire nation.

  “Ahimsa, which is the foundation of my philosophy, is a decree that bars the killing or injuring of all living beings. It is closely connected with the notion that all kinds of violence entail negative consequences. And I am speaking here of karma… And yet, the extent to which the principle of non-violence can and should be applied to different life forms is controversial between various authorities, or movements and currents within the three religions, Hinduism, Buddhism and Jainism, and has been a matter of debate for thousands of years. Though the origins of the concept of ahimsa are unknown, the earliest references to it are found in the texts of historic Vedic religion, dating to the eighth century BCE. Here, ahimsa initially relates to ‘non-injury’ without a moral connotation, but later to non-violence to animals and then, to all beings. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, prominent figures of Indian spirituality emphasized the importance of ahimsa. I applied ahimsa to politics, by my non-violent satyagrahas.”

  “In today’s world, religion and politics make very strange bedfellows,” I remark to Gandhi, referring to the neo-cons and born-again Christians in America that seem to want to police morality and dictate behavior, and God knows what else. “Of course the authors of the American Constitution foresaw imminent danger in the merging of church and State, and they adamantly discouraged it, even making it illegal in certain circumstances. Yet your experience, Your Excellency, seems to suggest that religion and government are actually inseparable entities in a society.”

  “Most of the laws that govern a civil society come from the tenets of religious belief. And what is religion if not a manifestation of conscience? This being so, how can religion and government remain separate of one another? If a society were to remain wholly secular, the
n it would, by definition, have only a relative moral code? We now see this manifestation in Western societies, and I must say, it looks strange indeed to my eyes. And yet… If religion presumes to offer itself as the moral standard of behavior, then it must be true religion. And, by true, I do not mean infallible. Only that it remains committed to the pursuit of truth. Not as we see religion today, all wound up with hyperbole and primed for profit. That is pseudo-religion, and it literally ensures immorality and dissatisfaction and, ultimately, civil unrest.”

  “Well, you certainly know something about that,” I observe.

  “Indeed. My life was filled with causes and conflicts. I might have preferred it to be otherwise, but one’s destiny is sometimes dictated by exterior events rather than one’s private preferences.”

  “It does seem,” I observe, “that certain times are filled with pivotal moments, and that inspirational leaders appear on the scene to direct the course of history, and society, for better or for worse.”

  “Ah, yes…” Gandhi removes his glasses and wipes the lenses clean with the sleeve of his garment. “So often,” he relates, “we become embroiled in issues or causes even before we understand their eventual impact. It simply seems the right thing to do at the moment, and we dive into deep water even before we know how to swim. If we are lucky, our buoyancy keeps us afloat as we struggle. But activism is always tenuous; circumstances can change without warning. Civil disobedience is an edgy game. Dissent is full of critical moments. What will happen, nobody knows. Yet, all the while, decency is our goal, and conscience is our guide. Events move us like pieces on a chessboard. We are destiny’s pawns. The years pass by.”