My name is Bonnie, and…

All right, so now I’m – very slowly – getting back into the swing. I feel more and more like sharing what’s been going on, but for the moment most of it is uninteresting, and the interesting parts are kind of bizarre. I’ll need more time, and a sense of distance from what I’ve been living lately, to be able to write about it in a way that will seem even remotely interesting to friends and family.

One thing I can share is that my name is Bonnie and that I am a FarmVille addict.

I have been playing for several months now, and I can honestly say that at times it has helped me keep my sanity. I’m working on an article about it all, because I feel there’s something fascinating about how we get swept up in these “social” games in a virtual space. But for the moment I will just share that there have been many parallels between my FarmVille existence and the “real” life I’ve been living here in Paris since September.

One of those parallels is that neither world is real, and, because that is the case, I can make what I want of both of them. I am having a good time doing that in FarmVille, planting my crops, making my farm look pretty… but am finding it very much more difficult in my aerie. I KNOW I can be whatever I want to be when I grow up, but… I’m not even sure that I WANT to grow up. Aye, there’s the rub.

For those of you who insist that Paris is indeed a real place, I respond that it is, perhaps, to you, if you’re there. If you’re not there, or are pretending IT’S not there, or perhaps have never even heard of it at all, then it’s not real… for you. And since it changes every day, what does “real” mean, anyway? How can something be real if it’s never the same from one millisecond to the next? And if Paris can be “real” in spite of its ephemeral nature, then what’s *not* real about my farm on FarmVille?

Another parallel is that, when playing FarmVille, as in “real life”, one has to learn to function within a very diverse community. Whether it’s online or in person, a relationship is a relationship. My FarmVille neighbors are constantly communicating. We get each other pissed off, we do each other favors, we laugh, we sympathize. We gift each other, we try to please (or don’t), we take stuff from each other either in good faith or with a sneaky click of the mouse. We admire each others’ mastery and creativity. We complain about stupid details and let each other know when something important is happening that we’ve missed. It’s very interesting, perhaps the more so because my own personal life is severely lacking in more immediate human negotiations at the moment.

The final parallel is that “stuff” that happens in real life happens on FarmVille. My biggest gripe on FarmVille is when people claim something you’ve posted on your Facebook wall with that previously-mentioned “sneaky click of the mouse.” Well, in my real life, there are some sneaky mouse-clickers who have been stealing my toilet paper from our communal WC and NOT replacing it.

I think the final argument is by far the strongest as far as proving that my FarmVille experiences have pertinence for my “real” Parisian existence. Would you not agree?

But in good faith I shall say that I have been making steady progress in allowing myself to recognize that I am, yes, here in Paris, in spite of my Southeast Asian dream being truncated (almost literally.) I am here, back here, once again, and day by day am learning to open my eyes to people and happenings. I’m learning to watch out for signs that my fragility might be damaging relationships, and, while I am still struggling to learn how not to let it happen, I am now at least aware of the danger.

Tonight I walked halfway home from handbells. It was late, or I would have gone the rest of the way on foot. But I had a very enjoyable “Paris by Night” photo stroll. Gallery here.

Tomorrow is another day, but not just any day, and the weekend is coming, but not just any weekend.

Lord, grant me the serenity.