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A sense of Well being | page 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
By Jon Carroll I got online in 1987, long enough ago that I had to explain to people what e-mail was. Most of my friends thought I was involved in some sort of geeky hobby, like ham radio; a few thought I was being sucked into a New Age cult. The fact that the Well was based in Sausalito, Calif., and somehow related to "the Whole Earth guy" and "the hive mind guy" did not make it any easier. During my first year, it was hard for me to shake the sensation that the other "people" on the Well were fictional characters. I called them "my imaginary friends," and in some sense they were -- they lived in a box in my room, no one else could see them and they got me involved in elaborate games that I was unable to explain very coherently. "It's like jazz, only with words and, uh, on a computer." I remember saying that once. I remember remembering not to say it again. As with all fictional characters, I created a corporeal existence for each of my imaginary friends. Some were tall and some were short; some were beautiful and some were plain. I do this with novels all the time -- so much so that I am scarcely aware that I am doing it. It did not occur to me that the real people might look differently than my vision of them; it did not occur to me that the real people might be bothered by the personal characteristics I had assigned to them. Then came Howard Rheingold's book party. At the time of which I speak, Howard Rheingold stood astride the Well like a Colossus. He was Mr. Virtual Community. He posted in every conference. He was wise and wacky and funny. He was the most popular kid in the school. A book party for Howard was certain to be a major Well scene. The bookstore was on Haight. I walked in. I was approached by a rotund red-haired woman with a sly smile. "I'm Kathleen Creighton," she said. "No you're not," I said. The evening did not get much better. I was profoundly disoriented. It was as though everyone had had major surgery, or had switched bodies with each other in some 23rd century parlor game. The solid fellow given to declaiming turned out to be pale and thin, almost invisible. The gentle flower child wore a business suit and fuck-me shoes. The prickly young technocrat wore tie-dye and did not speak above a whisper. And so on. I fled early. I did not like the real people very much. I have real friends, which is swell; the point of the Well is that it is filled with my ... well, not "un"-real, maybe "other" friends. There's a reason why I spend time online rather than at endless parties. Social gatherings make me tired; online interactions give me energy. I'm sure this says something deeply troubling about my inner self, but it was a useful thing to learn. All these years later, I still don't go the Well parties very much. Why should I drive somewhere when I can just open my box and chat with my friends, people I have now known for longer than my first marriage. One day I shall die, and they will all disappear. About the writer Jon Carroll is a daily columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle and a monthly columnist for Business 2.0. He is the host of five conferences on the Well. - - - - - - - - - - - - Farai Chideya learns rules, jargon and how to choose her battles | ||
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