The Man I Made

Gentleman

My  many years of virtual design work are being brought into the Real World in the form of an illustrated book -click here to read more.

On December 20th, 2011   I embarked on a virtual adventure … it is on-going.  I became the virtual man known as Daniel Wolfsong, The Mysterious Mechanic.  I’ve owned coffee shops and bars, garages, DJed, had several businesses, became a philanthropist, engineer, inventor and builder … among my hobbies are surfing, sailing, diving, skiing, bike riding, the arts and culture, exploring, photography and film making – some of which can be found here.

My avatar got an upgrade in Feb 2019 and he also got married.

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This is a poem I wrote about Daniel a few years ago-

Redwood

His mind was not like the minds of other men.

His mind was a perpetual 3 ring circus, a laser light show, a carnival, Moulin Rouge, La Cage aux Folles, a bullet train, a fireworks show, a ride into outer space, a mythological compendium of staggering proportions. His imagination never slept.

When he had ideas they always arrived fully-formed, without a detail missing and in Technicolor 3D

His heart was not like the hearts of other men.

His heart was a multi-dimensional, ever-expanding quantum field blown wide-open by nuclear scale emotional flux.

In his heart he carried both the power to heal and destroy. In his heart were sealed chambers located off dark passageways no one had ever seen, spare him.

His body was not like the bodies of other men.

He did not exist in corporeal form, but in a complex latticework of zeros and ones, fully digital, a mass of assembled pixels on a video screen. His body existed in no dimension and every dimension simultaneously – having to be processed on screen by the visual cortex of everyone he encountered in order to exist.

He could not touch but he could feel.

He could not speak but he could hear.

Still he brought idea to form.

Still he dreamed and lived in dreams.

Still he walked and ran and ate and drank and slept and loved and built and laughed and cried and fell to his knees, breathless.

His passion was not like the passions of other men.

He implanted his passion deeply into everything he touched.

In people, in projects, in dreams and aspirations, in plans, in thought and deed.

In color and line, in sound and rhythm.

His deep abiding passion was the most honest part of him because it came forth pure, deep-rooted, raw and undiluted. It poured out white hot and burned a path to its destination.

When he fell he did not fall like other men.

He fell like a giant Redwood on a warm summer night with a sky deep black and blanketed with stars. He crashed down on the cool forest floor in a thunderous tumult. And all anyone could do was watch because you cannot stop a force of nature whose time has come.

And when he was gone – he was not gone like other men.

He left in his place a vacuum – an open incision in time-space. No one could follow him. Nobody knew where he went. He was just gone.