What on Earth is so Entertaining About Second Life?

I got into a discussion earlier with someone about Second Life. I mentioned the fact that I used to spend a lot of time in the virtual world and they asked the question:

"What on Earth could be so entertaining about Second Life?"

I found a video that sums it up perfectly - fun, community, creativity.

Don't Walk into the Apocalypse

Sometimes someone saves you from yourself... and a couple of years ago, someone did just that for me.

Thank you x

The clouds were twisting into a

threatening labyrinth of storms.

The world was on fire

And buildings that once housed

Love, family, prosperity, success

Were a mangled mess of rubble.

All that was beautiful was crushed.

And all that was warm was frozen

And I watched as the world

Began to end.

I sat cross legged on the hilltop,

Acidic tears carving rivers of fire

Into my cheeks

And I listened as children shrieked,

As women cried,

As men crumbled and roared fierce

Fear into the mouth of an apocalypse

That would show no mercy.

I stood and took my first steps

Down that hill.

The fire raged hotter each step.

The screams became louder,

The storm more violent

As friends turned their backs

On one another

In favour of a few more minutes to live.

“Don’t walk into the apocalypse,”

She whispered into my ear.

“Stop before you get any closer.”

But I walked and I walked

Until the flames were uncomfortably close

Until the heat forced tears from me

And until I was treading over

Those who’d perished first.

“Don’t walk into the apocalypse,”

She begged of me.

“Don’t walk into the apocalypse.”

Space

A poem from a year ago.... taken from the archives.

We lie awake at night and cry

Beneath the same star spattered sky.

I cannot see her, cannot hear her

Cannot bear to not be near her.

But space, she says, the only way

To heal a heart, send pain away.

And so I must my distance keep

And pray she sees me in her sleep.

 

A Letter to my Broken Hearted Boy

I was moving a lot of files from a laptop onto my new Macbook last night and came across a letter I wrote to my son just before Christmas 2009, very soon after the death of his Mother.

It put a lump in my throat to reread it. But I’m publishing it here because I think ultimately it has a happy ending (given how happy he is now).

How 18 months can change things, eh?

Son,

You woke in the night again last night after having bad dreams. You were terrified and shaking but couldn’t communicate what you were scared of.

I think you’re scared of her absence. I think you’re terrified of the emptiness of that hole she left in your heart. I know that because I’ve been there. I’ve felt that. And as much as it hurt, as debilitating as that was, I would do it all over again if I could take that feeling away from you, son.

You’re such a clever lad, so bright, so intelligent. But no child of your age has the emotional intelligence to process this type of trauma and I see how much it frustrates you to not be able to communicate what’s wrong.

5 years old (should that be 5 years, 11 months and 18 days?) and you’ve already experienced something that even people in adulthood are often unable to process. So I know such words as those I am about to say will seem empty when I repeat them to you… but one day they will make sense.

This is what I promise you, son. I promise you that one day this will hurt you less. I promise you that one day the nightmares will stop and you’ll find a way to smile again.

I also promise you that you will never forget her, that we will never stop thinking of her and that we will always, always cherish her memory. You will never stop missing her, son. You’ll think of her every birthday, every Christmas, every Mother’s Day and on random days too. You’ll see people in the street who remind you of her and have to stop yourself from approaching them. You’ll swear to yourself sometimes that you can hear her voice whispering into your ear. Every single time you bring a good report home from school we’ll both be thinking that we wish she were around to see it.

But I promise you that the agony you are feeling right now will not last forever, son. I promise. Your heart is broken into a thousand pieces. But let’s pick up the pieces and put them back together again. I’ll help you find the pieces and together we can start repairing the damage. It’s not a quick fix, I know. But I’ll be right with you every single step of the way, son, holding your hand. And on those days you just don’t feel as though you can take a single step, I’ll carry you.

I know I will never be her and I know I can never bring her back, but I promise you that you’ll be happy again one day. And you will never, ever, ever have to question how much you are loved or how secure you are.

I’ll keep you safe and love you with every ounce of my being. Not just for you and for me… but for her as well.

Things will get better.

I love you, son.

Happy Father's Day

I was treated to cake today, baked by a seven year old who then iced it with footballs and the word ‘Dad.’ My Father’s day card had two names on it. My son’s name and ‘Bumpette.’ That’s the interim name for our little girl until we finally decide what she will be called.

I shouldn’t forget to mention that I got a second Father’s day card from our two dogs (thank you Chloe!).

It was wonderful to enjoy a quiet day with my family… and the ‘Dad Appreciation’ was incredible too. So thank you to my beautiful family.

As they sleep now, my mind wanders to my own Father. There have been 24 Father’s Days that have passed since he passed away. However, it’s only since I became a Father myself that I have really understood what the hollow feeling on this day each year actually is.

My Mother used to tell me I was a lot like my Father in character though I was too young when we lost him to really know which elements of my character she meant.

I don’t remember much about him, to be honest. But what I do know is that he stole my Mother’s heart. I know that she never, ever, ever stopped loving him and that when she was at her sickest, what kept her smiling was a genuine belief that she would be reunited with him soon.

So I truly believe he must have been one hell of a fellow to convince her to move from her native Argentina to the cold, damp UK, to leave her family and to start all over again with him thousands of miles from everyone and everything she knew. My Mother was a tough cookie to crumble. If he were able to gain her love as he did, he must have been a phenomenal guy.

My Father died before I was old enough to have enjoyed a first football match with him (but I do remember his Manchester City shirt collection and have very vague memories of singing City songs with him as a young child). I was never able to introduce my first girlfriend to him or share exam results with him. But I was assured by my Mother that he would be proud. That’s reassuring.

So to my Father, my Mother’s soul mate, the man whose presence seemed prevalent in our household long after his physical being had left…. Happy Father’s Day.

Where Poetry Education Goes Wrong

My son loves poetry. He’s 7.

He doesn’t care much for Shakespeare, Ted Hughes or Wordsworth though.

He loves poetry as the art form he has come to know it. I love his love of words. It’s something he and I have in common. I encouraged him to start writing poems as a very, very young child. And recently at school he has started to encounter the UK education system’s idea of ‘poetry.’

This would be great…. Except for the fact that the way poetry Is taught to children in the UK is, as far as I am concerned, substandard.

“What’s a syllable again?” he asked.

I explained.

He then went on to explain that a poem he had written over a year ago (a poem, randomly about the CN tower), wasn’t ‘quite right.’

I love the poem he wrote. But suddenly he is obsessed with rhyme, rhythm and meter. His poems naturally had good meter, to be honest. Particularly for a child of his age. But as soon as the education system is involved, my son’s free expression is suppressed by the need to tap out syllables on a table and ensure they fit with rules written on a chalkboard in a classroom.

Let me clarify something. I do believe children should be educated in the classics and that they should learn certain styles of poetry. But I think the education system misses the point:-

Poetry is about expression. It’s about taking something you feel, something you see or something you imagine and about putting it into words and organising those words in a way that people want to read them.

I think that children should be encouraged to express first… many, many years before they have to start tapping out syllables on tables and looking up synonyms in dictionaries because they ‘already used that word once a few lines ago.’

I love poetry. But, much like my son, I would not call myself a fan of Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Ted Hughes or Carol Ann Duffy. The existing UK education syllabus does not throw up anything that would have inspired me as a child nor inspires me now (albeit that in my twenties I have come to like one or two Duffy pieces).

I love Neruda’s work with a passion. Not because of his rhyme, rhythm, meter or structure. But because of his ability to take a feeling and enable someone to recreate it for themselves using only letters organised into words, organised into sentences of sheer emotional brilliance.


Poetry should be about expression…. About making an emotion or an imagined image transferrable using only words.

My son will retain his passion for poetic expression, I am certain of it . Unfortunately, I just don’t feel that the education system does much to further that. I think much of his passion for words will, at least for the next few years, be born of our poetry nights at home and outside of school.

Good Morning

The sun sneaks through a crack in the curtains before 5am. I wake up, check the time and roll over sighing. Late enough that I probably won’t get back to sleep. Early enough that I will be exhausted before 6 tonight.

And then I see you… dribbling on the pillow (sorry, babe!) with the corners of your mouth slightly upturned in a sleeping smile. I brush the hair back from in front of your face so I can look at you. Peaceful. I rest my hand on your stomach to see if I can feel her kicking. Most mornings she’s still but nonetheless, I like to check.

I wake you. Unintentionally. But you’re not mad. Instead you smile I lay on my back and invite you to rest your head on my chest.

“Good morning, handsome,” you say.

“Good morning,” I respond.

We lie back and we enjoy a silent hour’s snoozing…. Because we know it won’t be long until we’re joined in bed by two crazy little dogs and a seven year old boy.

But we wouldn’t have it any other way.