Bloomsday: Guinness Is Good For You!

“Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick rabbit giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods’ roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.”

-         James Joyce, ‘Ulysses’ (pub. 1922)

James Joyce by Djuna Barnes

Today is 16th June, Bloomsday.

Bloomsday is an annual celebration of the work of James Joyce during which the events depicted in his momentous novel Ulysses - set on 16^th June 1904 - are re-enacted throughout the day as live theatre in and round the streets of Dublin.

Ulysses chronicles an ordinary Dublin day in the life of its protagonist, Leopold Bloom. We see him eat breakfast, walk to the newsagent, defecate, drink in the pub, watch a funeral procession and various other mundane everyday occurrences.

Leopold Bloom, by James Joyce

Nothing of major significance occurs during Bloom’s day; there is no Tom Clancy-style ‘Rainbow' task forces rescuing hostages from evil terrorists at the very last moment; there are no beautiful and personably vampires with a rich emotional life and pained conscience with whom to fall in love with; neither are there trolls, hobbits, wizards and orcs.

It is a simply a record of an ordinary day in the life of an ordinary man living in an ordinary city.

During the course of the eighteen “episodes” of Ulysses, and using unusual and innovative literary devices, we gradually learn a very great deal about Leopold, his wife, his children, his sex life, his friends, lovers and enemies, his fantasies, his religious and political beliefs and all the rest.

Leopold, 38, is employed to sell advertising space for newspapers. He was raised in Dublin by his Hungarian-Jewish father and Irish-Catholic mother.

Ulysses reveals that although Leopold has a Jewish heritage he has in fact received three different Christian baptisms, one of which was to convert to Roman Catholicism so that he could marry Marion (“Molly”) Tweedy in 1888. We learn he is uncircumcised.

Molly Bloom, by Robert Berry

Leopold and Molly had their daughter Milly in 1889. She is now 15 years old and works in a photographer’s studio. A few years after Milly’s birth, they had a son Rudolph (“Rudy”). Sadly, Rudy died in infancy. His death wreaked emotional devastation on both parents. In the eleven years since Rudy’s death, Leopold and Molly have not had sex together. They continue to sleep in the same bed – but positioned such that Leopold has his feet by Molly’s head.

Whilst Leopold is having a certain flirtatious correspondence with Martha Clifford and has almost certainly visited Dublin prostitutes on occasion, Molly is having an out-and-out affair with Blazes Boylan.

Bloom is aware of Molly’s adultery to some degree or other, and in fact seems to grant silent and tacit agreement with Molly and Blazes having sex that very afternoon when Blazes visits her at their home at 4pm.

Stephen Dedalus, by Robert Berry

Some interpreters of Ulysses have said that Leopold displays cuckold tendencies. This idea is reinforced in a later episode when Leopold brings home the twenty-something, broody, sullen and drunken Stephen Dedalus (whom Joyce first introduced us to in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, pub. 1917) after the pubs close and while Molly is asleep upstairs. Stephen declines Leopold’s offer of a place to stay for the night. Both men urinate in the backyard.

The final episode of the Ulysses, and my personal favourite, is formally entitled “Penelope” but has come to be more commonly known as “Molly’s Soliloquy”.

Molly’s Soliloquy uses the literary technique called “stream-of-consciousness”. It consists of eight enormous run-on “sentences” – one alone of which comprises 4,391 words – without any punctuation. The episode starts and ends with the word “yes” which Joyce once described as “a female word that indicates acquiescence and the end of all resistance”.

While her husband is in bed beside her, the episode describes Molly’s private, internal thoughts and fantasies. She recalls her past and current admirers; she compares Blazes and Leopold; and she considers Leopold’s possible past infidelities. She (correctly) guesses that Leopold has masturbated that day.

Molly goes on to ruminate on how she wished she had more money for stylish clothes and how Leopold should get a higher paid job. She remembers how Leopold once suggested she pose naked for cash. Her thoughts turn to the sexual intercourse with Blazes earlier in the day, and the orgasm she had with him. She intuits the start of her period, confirming she has not been made pregnant by Blazes.

She gets out of bed to use the chamber pot. On her return to bed, she fantasizes about having sex with Stephen Dedalus and thinks about Leopold’s strange sexual habits.

Her thoughts, with inevitability and finality, turn to Rudy’s death - but she cannot bear to think on it and quickly switches the subject to avoid depression setting in. She wonders whether to sexually arouse Leopold when they awake in the morning, and reveal to him her affair with Blazes whilst so doing.

The book ends with Molly remembering her acceptance of Leopold’s marriage proposal. It is a wonderful piece of writing that causes me to experience body streaming and makes me want to cry…

“…and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.”

For its depiction of the ordinary day of an ordinary man in an ordinary city, Ulysses is truly remarkable.

The following embedded videos are adaptations of Molly’s Soliloquy for screen. Molly is here played by Angeline Ball who won Best Actress from the Irish Film and Television awards for this performance.

Happy Bloomsday to you all!

And as for Guinness, I really can't abide the vile stuff!

PS: To my friend Herc who is currently cruising the Greek islands while reading Homer’s Odyssey (on which Joyce’s Ulysses was modelled), hugz and kisses and see you on your return!

Lie Back and Think of England

“Follow your spirit, and upon this charge

Cry ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’”

- William Shakespeare, Henry V Act 3 Scene 1 (1599)

Saint George is the patron saint of England.

Every year on 23^rd April illegal gatherings are held in secret locations up and down England’s green and pleasant land to commemorate Saint George’s Day.

When Tony Bliar’s Socialist government finally succumbed to enact Sharia Law as the moral and ethical code for Great Britain, the final nail in the coffin was hammered into a historic festival that had previously been observed since the 7^th century.

As late as the 15^th century The Feast of St. George was considered a major festival in the calendar, easily on par with Christmas Day. In some domains St. George’s Day was known as ‘Georgemas’.

Such was this saint’s importance that in 1620, when the Pilgrim Fathers on-board the Mayflower arrived at Innsmouth Massachusetts, they flew a flag depicting The Cross of Saint George.

Although the celebration of St. George’s Day diminished somewhat from the 17^th to 18^th centuries, it regained popularity as The Empire On Which the Sun Never Sets industriously invaded, conquered and enslaved over one-fifth of the world’s population in the name of Queen Victoria. Indeed, the Royal Society of St George was originally established in 1894 to enforce respect for the English way of life and, ever since, each successive English monarch has been a patron of the society.

For the first half of the 20^th century commemorating St. George’s Day remained popular. Celebrations usually took the form of flying St. George’s flag, morris dancing, playing cricket, heckling Punch and Judy shows, drinking tea and singing William Blake’s ‘Jerusalem’ (known as ‘the unofficial hymn of England’).

It wasn’t until after the late-1950’s and mid-1960’s, when Pope Pius XII and Pope Paul VI attempted to relegate Saint George to the Church of England dustbin of history, that the English started to equate The Feast of St. George with imbibing copious quantities of alcohol. CAMRA, the Campaign for Real Ale - a loose confederation of middle-aged beer drinkers, bearded computer programmers and bespectacled Guardian readers -  was formed in 1971 as a activist protest against the Vatican’s decisions.

However, during the 1970’s and 1980’s the dark bedfellows of nationalistic politics and racism partnered to overthrow the good name of St. George and make his flag their own. The National Front Party, skinheads, football, Enoch Powell and Baron Von Black of Crossharbour were all instrumental in turning a symbol of unity and community into something of shame and embarrassment. Normal English people came to recoil from the symbolism of St. George, uncomfortable with that which it had become associated.

In 1997 Tony Bliar was crowned Prime Minister and Gordon Brown anointed Chancellor. They ushered in their disastrous immigration policies under the cover of the indigenous populaces’ discomfort and unease with discussing issues of race and migration for fear of being labelled a “racist” - which by now was an offence carrying a long prison term.

It is only some years after the reign of Bliar and Brown has ended that we slowly see a re-emerging interest in St. George’s Day and the flying of his flag without the anxiety of being attacked, or worry of being branded a racist.  Popular TV personality and unpopular part-time politician Boris Johnson is reportedly spearheading a campaign to restore Saint George to his rightful place in English culture, including the possibility of making 23^rd April a public holiday.

It is our hope that St. George’s Day can be rescued from the slow tortuous death that we have witnessed happening to another traditional English festival, ‘Guy Fawkes Night’, and which we have previously discussed here.

23 April is special to English people for a number of reasons. William Shakespeare - arguably the world’s most influential writer after the 47 scholars who composed the King James Authorised Bible in 1611 - was both born on and died on the 23 April (1564 and 1616, respectively). As such, 23 April is sometimes also referred to ‘Shakespeare Day’. Furthermore, England’s most loved Poet Laureate, William Wordsworth, died on this date in 1850.

St. George, Shakespeare and Wordsworth are good reasons for all English people to mark 23 April in their diary. I, however, have my own more personal reasons.

Both my father and my grandfather are named ‘George’. My dad was born on 22^nd April and granddad on 23^rd April. Later today we get together as a family and celebrate both birthdays. The English delicacies of Shepherd & Neame’s fine Spitfire Ale served with butter and jam scones will be very popular.

So Happy Birthday to dad and granddad. And you, dear reader, have a good St. George’s Day. If all else fails remember this paraphrase of the 1939 WWII government propaganda slogan (which was never actually issued, and only re-discovered in 2000):

“Keep Calm and Remain English”

I Fell In Love One Afternoon...

“I fell in love one afternoon
And wrote your name on a white balloon…”

The Rabbicon Story, Bryn Oh

With the help of endowments from a number of patrons including British filmmaker Peter Greenaway, and a grant from the Canadian government, Bryn Oh is in the process of re-creating all three chapters of the ‘Rabbicorn Story’ on a resurrected ‘Immersiva’ region.

‘Immersiva’ is Bryn Oh’s Second Life studio. She will be using it for the purpose of creating a movie and real life exhibit of the Rabbicorn story.

(click to enlarge images)

For those unfamiliar with the story, the three individual machinima can be found here:

·        The Daughter of Gears (Part 1)

·        The Rabbicorn Story (Part 2)

·        Standby (Part 3)

The Rabbicorn story is a narrative expressed in poetry, images, speech and text. Byrn clearly understands her story, what she wants to say (via her characters) and how she wants to say it.

For me, Bryn’s work always has a feeling of desolation and abandonment. There is darkness there, a definite but undefined sadness.

When I look at the individual sculptures I sense the pain that many of us carry inside of ourselves – an emotional pain we attempt not to impose upon others because we intuitively understand that they themselves have a similar and equivalent pain.

We can never be quite sure of the type or degree of pain that our neighbour harbours; we can be only sure that such a pain surely exists.

How many of us in our quietest, most personal and most insecure moments feel as Munch’s ‘The Scream’?

Byrn’s work, for me, often expresses the as yet incomplete process of the “mechanicalisation” of the human spirit. By that I mean that we appear as a civilisation to be increasingly implementing processes which tend to robotise thinking and feeling – and in fact, in some cases. making them entirely redundant. We seem intent on having our human interactions and friend selections overseen by a series of computer algorithms and programming sub-procedures.

The phrase “Human Resource,” for example, is now a literal truth. Surprisingly this term has not yet captured and sanitised by the guardians of political correctness because, within this ubiquitous term comprising two innocuous words, lies a deep literal truth about how the corporate world views its employees – a “resource” which just happens to also be a human being, as opposed to a desk or chair or any other item of stationary. Within the methodologies and terminologies of the corporate world, the difference between a human resource and, say, a hole punch resource is largely one of functionality and expenditure.

Ironically, the term “human resource” has grown to be one of the most dehumanising words of the Western world.

Now, in some senses the most interesting thing about the above statements is that we have no idea if Bryn knowingly endowed her installation with these qualities or not. That is, those are my ideas and reflections that arose from interacting with Bryn’s work. They may or may not have been in Bryn’s mind as she was creating. Furthermore, short of actually asking her, we have no way of knowing.

We have touched on this subject before on this blog, when we explored the Innsmouth region. We noted then that once an artist releases their work to the wider public they relinquish control over the “meaning” of the work. Although the artists’ fans, academics and art dealers will always consider the artist to hold the “definitive meaning” behind the work, the simple fact is that anyone can project whatever meaning they wish onto the work. This may be a deliberate and conscious act or entirely involuntary and unconscious but, regardless, it is now wholly outside the control of the artist.

The result of this is that the artist will likely discover interpretations of their work that they had never previously considered. Some of these interpretations the artist will find interesting and instructive – others she may well find to be bizarre and bewildering!

In my experience most artists find this process of re-interpretation of their work to be at worse mildly entertaining and, at its very best, enlightening.

We have previously attempted to examine the dynamics at play when we considered the ‘Daytime Dreams’ region. There is a “union”, we suggested, between the subject and object of consciousness – the seer with the thing seen – which sometimes results in the generation of a third element - the creation of an entirely new idea or concept; one quite independent of the original artist, albeit obviously inspired and ignited by their work.

All aesthetic considerations aside, it might be that the primary importance of artistic installations such as The Rabbicorn Story is their ability to gently prod us into thinking for ourselves, to subtly nudge us into feeling emotion.

Regular readers of this humble blog will know that I am not overly optimistic about the long-term viability of our civilisation in its current form. Many different civilisations, nations and cultures have arisen, peaked and fallen over the last 4000 years. I have seen no evidence why our civilisation should prove any different.

However, this viewpoint is not rooted in the logic of “immanentizing the eschaton”; it isn’t something I actively *wish* or pray for; it isn’t motivated by any political or religious ideology. Rather it is a belief based on the observation that those who have not learnt the lessons of history are doomed to repeat them. 

But, even with this belief, I am most certainly optimistic about the future prospects of Life itself, and of the resilience and fortitude of DNA to star-seed distant corners of the cosmos. I just happen not be too species-concentric about it.

Entwined in the weft and warp of this admittedly gloomy forecast for the short and medium term is in fact a positive, hopeful and life-affirmative message. It establishes the idea that in the long term at least, élan vital, so-called by Henri Bergson in 1907, will prevail; that the process of evolution is fundementally creative and progressive.

And, again, I believe I can detect similar sentiments in Bryn’s Rabbicorn Story. I see ingrained in the narrative, in the textures and prims the idea of the vanquishing of dark forces; of prevailing against the odds.

As we advance through each stage of the tale, we come to realise that running parallel with the emotional-mechanical-artificiality of the human condition - represented by the gears, the cogs and other motorised components - there is actually a sense of the triumph of the spirit, a reunion with natural humanity, a reclaiming of human resources for ourselves.

In summary, what finally emerges from one afternoon at Bryn Oh’s installation, is Love...

Pixie xx

Credits:
All ideas, concepts and artwork relating to the 'Rabbicorn Story' and  ‘Immersiva’  belong to Bryn Oh.
Photography in this post of Bryn Oh's original work is by Pixie Rain.
The opinions expressed in this post are Pixie Rain's alone and are not intended to represent Bryn Oh.
Bryn Oh and Pixie Rain are real avatars in a Virtual World on a lonely planet orbiting a really rather ordinary G-Type star. How cool is that!

2 Years In Second Life

Today is my 2^nd Rez Day in Second Life.

To celebrate I brought myself a *KaS* Corset System Dress, a pair of *KaS* Ballet Boots and a *Beautiful Sin* Titanium Leashed Collar set.

The corset dress I first saw on this picture on Phillip Sidek’s flickr; the leash I saw on a really sexy girl at a club. I should add that I wear the unscripted version of the leash, it is simply a cool-looking item of jewellery to me and has no other connotation. The boots I saw when I went to buy the corset dress.

I set off to take some pictures on an Italian village themed region called Sol Aria.  It was very pretty but sadly crashed after only two photographs. I waited a while for it to return but it didn’t seem to.

In these two years there have been things that I am proud of film-wise – ‘Rapture’, ‘Showdown’ and ‘Sex With Strangers’ particularly.

I am also very proud of this blog; this is my first attempt at doing anything of this sort. Although the readership is quite low, it is a quality readership and I receive very supportive and complimentary messages about it. Thank you so much for reading and being here.

There are changes coming soon too with this blog, I think. I plan to migrate from Blogger to my own domain name on Word Press to avoid Google’s increasingly invasive dips into our privacy.

There is also one thing that is constantly troubling me in Second Life at the moment which I’ll expand on in the coming weeks if I can find the right way to say it. It is one of those “nice problem to have” type of dilemmas, rather than one that is very important in the grand scheme of things. But it is nevertheless distressing me on an almost daily basis.

Nothing I have done in Second Life in the last two years am I ashamed of.

It’s been good.

Thanks.

Pixie xx.

Looking Cute with Some Thing in Innsmouth

 “We shall see that at which dogs howl in the dark, and that at which rabbits prick up their ears after midnight.”

- H.P. Lovecraft (1917)

I am not a big fan of H.P. Lovecraft’s fiction. It isn’t that I think it is particularly bad – I don’t. I just do not rate it especially highly and there are many other things I would rather be reading.

On the face of it, Lovecraft was very much a product of his time and place – 1890 Providence, Rhode Island – somewhat conservative and staid, reserved and traditional.

(Click images to enlarge)

But clearly, underneath this conventional exterior something really quite exotic must have been occurring. Seemingly, however, the only person not to recognise this fact was Lovecraft himself.

It is worth bearing in mind that Lovecraft would have been only 10 years old when Freud’s ‘The Interpretation of Dreams’ was originally published; words like ‘unconscious’, ‘psychoanalysis’ and ‘repression’, although not necessarily entirely new, were certainly not commonly used and had altogether different meanings and connotations to their present day definitions.

And likely Lovecraft would have been pretty contemptuous of the psychoanalytical definitions anyway - such was the force of his stoicism and materialism. Nevertheless, some of his fiction was based upon nightmares he experienced, albeit he didn’t attach any particular psychological meaning or significance to them.

Lovecraft would occasionally receive guarded and sincere messages warning him to stop revealing “occult secrets” in his stories. Or to “never again mention the sacred Necronomicon text”. Others would caution that his public revealing of the existence of The Great Old Ones would cause them to manifest within human spacetime.

Lovecraft found this all most perplexing because, you see, he was amazed that anyone took his work seriously at all! That they might then actually believe that the content of his stories had any substance was simply ridiculous to him.

Furthermore, that some, Kenneth Grant for example, would then go on to practically make a career out of analysing the fictional creatures and gods in Lovecraft’s stories and then claim they represent the darkest of all archetypal energies buried deep in human consciousness would have simply outraged him.

To a large degree Lovecraft brought a lot of this upon himself. His work is influenced by, amongst others, Welsh horror novelist Arthur Machen, an Initiate of a late-Victorian occult order called ‘The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn’ (GD).

The GD attracted a ragbag of wannabe magi, mystics, occultists and other similar eccentrics - perhaps most notably English hippy-satanist Aleister Crowley (who appears on this blog in various personas and disguises), Irish poet WB Yeats (who’s dreams we have also previously trod on) and the Order’s Founder, mad-as-a-hatter faux-Scotsman SL MacGregor Mathers.

So here we have this stolid 19^th Century American pulp fiction writer working while under the influence of an endorphin-rush caused by prolonged exposure to British sages, spiritualists, initiates and magicians.

No good could ever come of it.

At one time, what I found to be find most astonishing was Lovecraft’s own bewilderment when he was contacted and warned about the dangers of “releasing this material to the general public”.  He went and poked a stick down the Rabbit Hole of the Delusional - and then acts all shocked and outraged when out popped the many denizens of that domain.

But alas, he is not alone in having behaved thus.

Even with my short experience of such things I too have been approached by sincere people who have seen in my work certain meaning or significance that I had certainly not consciously put there.

Sometimes it is very flattering; other times I am simply bemused and scratch my head.

It wasn’t until after some reflection that I started to make some sense of what was occurring.

For example, one guy (who claimed to be a RL psychologist) gave me a “virtual personality analysis” based on the content of my films. It would be unfair to say that his analysis was totally wrong but it was, in my opinion, very incomplete.

“Secret Slut,” was his professional and most likely projected, self-serving diagnosis.

Very incomplete. And therefore of little practical use.

Another time, soon after the release of ‘PsychoKiller’, I received a series of anonymous emails of a rather unsavoury sexually violent nature.

The writer of these emails was utterly convinced that I would find them a turn-on. He was also very wrong.

Their main problem was they were trying to form a complete conclusion based on only partial data. Although making machinima is “labour of love” type work, it would be a gross exaggeration to go on and say “it is the mirror of my soul”.

When we create a piece of writing, or produce a film, a sketch or painting, a sculpture or whatever we are offering *part* of our psyche for examination. This is both the nature of creativity itself and then choosing to display that creative act publically.

But it must be realised that it is only *part* of the psyche is being presented in any given piece of work...or, actually, even in a whole body of work. To try and construct a complete and coherent personality formulation based upon this incomplete information can only lead to error.

And sometimes it can be baffling trying to understand how other people see what they see, believe what they believe, behave as they behave.

These were the subjects I was contemplating while standing on a stage in the Opera House on a Second Life region called Innsmouth.

Tutsy Navarathna is filming a sequence for one of his upcoming films. I am semi-naked; he is wearing his Plague Doctor outfit. The lighting is gorgeous.

I don’t know exactly what he is filming or how it will eventually get used but I have complete confidence that it will look great in his hands. I just let him get on with it while I ponder ideas for a HP Lovecraft blog-post.

“Pixie!” Tutsy had IM’d 15 minutes previously. “I have found a great sim. You must come see. I want to do a shooting with you.”

He sends me a tp. On arrival I immediately recognise it.

“Hey Tutsy! This is Innsmouth! I filmed here for ‘Too Sick to Prey’. Great sim!”

And it *is* a great region, as these pictures attempt to show (click to enlarge).

Innsmouth, Massachusetts is the fictional coastal town that Lovecraft created for a number of his stories in the 1920s and ‘30s.

Founded in 1643, Innsmouth originally gained a reputation for shipbuilding, fishing and other maritime activities. However, due to the War of 1812, that industry was largely decimated. Only the fleet owned by Captain Obed March remained.

Marsh was the head of one of the town’s leading families and in 1840 inaugurated ‘The Esoteric Order of Dagon’. This dark religious/occult fraternity took root in the town due to its promises of rewards of gold jewellery and bountiful fishing.

The initiates of the Order primarily worshipped two beings, Father Dragon and Mother Hydra. To a lesser degree they also worshipped the far better-known Cthulhu.

Human members of the Order were expected to mate with creatures known as the Deep Ones – a race of immortal frog-like, ocean-dwellers with feeding habits very reminiscent of my brother’s.

The offspring from this mating are born with human looks and features but, as they grow, slowly start taking on more and more of the characteristics of the Deep Ones – ears shrink, eyes bulge and become unblinking, the head narrows and hair falls out, scabs forms as the skin turns to scales. This became known as “The Innsmouth Look”.

As a result, neighbouring towns and villages tended to shun the inhabitants of Innsmouth.

In 1927, the Federal authorities started a town-wide investigation of Innsmouth, apparently for bootlegging. Arrests started a year later. The residents were not, however, taken to normal prisons; that much is a known fact. They simply disappeared or, it is suspected, the Government “caused” them to disappear.

And it is at this point where Lovecraft signs off and Second Life takes over.

Darmy (darmin.darkes) and BaileyMarie Princess have created a marvellous virtual 3D version of Lovecraft’s Innsmouth.

This region is perfect for filming machinima, taking shapshots and for roleplay. Tutsy and I love it and admire the depth of quality of work that has gone into it. We have both spent many hours here filming and taking photographs. The region looks good under many different Windlight settings.

Take the hotel, for example. You can *feel* the sinisterness of the place in the pit of your stomach. It is a very physical feeling.

It really is most eerie.

The clock ticks in a relentless, threatening way. But this is not the threat that “time will one day end”. No. It is far worse than that. It is the threat that time will *never* end. It is the threat of immortality; the threat that things will always be like this – that things will never improve. It is the threat of the Deep Ones.

In many locations on this region the sinister feelings of abandonment and desolation are constantly reinforced by sounds of ship mooring blowing in the wind, creaking windows and doors, a child’s manic laughter.

Certain locations are most definitely creepy. In fact – and this is somewhat embarrassing to admit  – at some points I felt a involuntary constriction of the sphincter ani internus muscle as my body involuntarily protected itself against the alarming and scary external signals it was being subject to.

The fact is Lovecraft’s work has never, ever managed to produce such an emotional and physical visceral effect in me. Second Life’s Innsmouth did – and *that* is why it is so remarkable.

I highly commend Innsmouth region to you – for exploring, filming, photography, roleplay and as a demonstration of how to use sound, textures, prims and a massive amount of talent and imagination to make a truly immersive environment.

Here is a reload of my ‘Too Sick to Pray’. I very much look forward to seeing the result of Tutsy’s filming at Innsmouth.