I managed to get into jail free, skinned as Santa Claus.
There was a bed and a view of the trees.
It was perfect respite from trying to navigate.
I was officially declared 'rubbish' at Minecraft.
I got stuck in a very large hole that I dug for myself.
"How do you jump?"
"I only seem to able to dig."
I built a carbunkle in glass with no roof and had conversations with a couple of sheep.
They said, "Baa."
Meanwhile, as I was digging aimlessly, my son had built a parquet floored, glass-windowed, fully-furnished bungalow with brick roof and automatic doors, and a multi-level, torch-lit, super-jail with scary molten lava tunnel and skull features.
He added the lava after I was safely locked up in the cell.
He had been inspired by his friends.
He has participatory experience in this world that I don't have.
If only I could spend a few hours, days, weeks, years, developing joystick literacy.
If only I could spend a few hours, days, weeks, years, developing a new friend network.
I fear that it is too late.
Here I am, an immigrant, gazing wide-eyed at sky-scrapers and baroque cathedrals.
My son showed me the creations of others.
He knows where to look on YouTube for help in his town-planning.
It is too late.
I don't have the skill-set.
The architectural schemes in my daughter's bedroom seemed culturally more accessible:
Her world seemed more familiar to me.
It won't last.
I am slow reading (but yet to open) "Participatory Culture in a Networked Era" of Jenkins, Boyd, and Ito.
I am slow to participate in the collaborative reading proposed by my friends.
I am falling behind.
I keep getting side-tracked by the games of others...