Incommunication  
 
H oward Rheingold, noted virtual commentator, defines virtual communities as "social aggregations that emerge from the Net when enough people carry on those public discussions long enough, with sufficient human feeling, to form webs of personal relationships in cyberspace." My interactions with others in MOOspace have assured me that there is, indeed, a community there and that I am a part of it. It is hard not to be. Because I have helped "create" the environment, because my words have been part of our shared background, because I am part owner of this vast seemingly endless maelstrom of electronic pixels, I feel connected to it. Just as each of us who shared in this creation is equally connected.

Just as others have helped us negotiate the scattered pathways, showed us how to create new objects, how to more fully express ourselves in this new medium, so we extend ourselves to those who are just learning. We repeat the same cycles of questions and answers; we all experience that unsettling feeling of deja vu. But perhaps what is so unsettling about this feeling is how comfortable we are there. In MOOspace we are constantly surprised: by what another says, by how what we type flashes across the screen, by the constant intermingling of computer-human interface awareness. We become accustomed to this. And we get to watch those starting out experience this unsettledness. And we recognize it and we welcome it. And we show others that they too can embrace the unknown. And through this process we create our own creation mythology out of chaos. In Madwoman in the Attic, Gilbert and Gubar write about 19th century woman authors that "women themselves had the power to create themselves as characters, even perhaps the power to reach toward the woman trapped on the other side of the mirror/text and help her climb out"(16). In MOOspace, we can grab and reassert that power again. As gods, we have that right.

According to Genesis, God, out of chaos, said, "let there be light" and there was light. And then He named that light. I have seen chaos, and I typed, "@create sandyet" and there was me. And then I @described me. And now I have a name.

 
Beginnings
Self
The Word
Gender
Textual Reality
Community
Exit Tunnel
I suppose this could be considered the end; I did make this the last node of my presentation in Oregon. But what fascinates me is that the last words which end my paper, also began my life online. I am reminded of an Issac Asimov short story I read in junior high called "The Last Question." In this story, for countless generations, members of society asked one question which the computer could not answer. As humans evolved and searched the universe, the computer kept track of all the new data but could still not answer that question. Humans shed their skin and merged with the computer, adding new information as their souls soared through the universe. After eons of time, the last human died, sharing its life-force with the computer. Centuries passed. The computer contemplated that last unanswered question until it finally had the answer. It spoke, "Let there be light."

There was something very reassuring in seeing the promise of the repetition of the life cycle, just as now I find it reassuring to see newbies in my MOOspace for the first time. I hope I will continue to welcome them into my room. I will show them my loom where I weave my words. I will wield my broom as I sweep the perimeter of my Woman's Space. I hope they will see how lucky I am. And how lucky they are.

I have merged with the computer and I share my knowledge.

I wonder what my last unanswered question will be.

What our last unanswered question will be . . .