(Inside me, it was...)

9.7.2014

GRU and the Theory of Many Worlds


It is easy for a present-day man or woman to fall for the theory of many worlds. The song of the siren is heard everywhere from Korengal Valley to Ramblas, Barcelona and in every nook and corner in between, nonstop, around the clock. The allure, the bite of the song lies in nostalgia for a time that never was. There's no time for regrets; there is, in effect, nothing to regret!

Whatever it was, it didn't happen.

The mantra of Radio Cloud 9 is transmitted through a whole industry of romantic comedies, sentimental novels, cry-in-your-beer ballads and whatnot. They are all about love affairs. And they all preach the same line about "going back" to the one true love that was lost. They play with the illusion that it's possible. Dear Reader, it is not. You can never go home again. But let's not get any deeper into that, please. I have stuff to do.

Like I did yesterday. I was going to go play soccer, when I received a note that there was stuff to pick up at the post office. Components of an e-cigarette, to be precise. I had switched back to regular smokes after all the electronic alternatives had ceased to function. Yet, I had my health and my future to think about. So off to post office I was. But I didn't feel like walking.

I had a rusty old bike my sister once gave me. I had stored it in the cellar years ago and forgotten all about it. The brakes didn't work, but you could ride the thing, to the post office, at least. I took the bike out and noticed that the tires were flat.

Sometime back the management of the flophouse where I room had sent a notice: every bike in the cellar had to have the name of the owner and his/her apartment number attached to it. All the bikes with no identification would be taken to the scrapyard and shot.

My name and number were still in place on the rear rack, inside a yellow plastic folder. And that got me thinking.

Riding my bike to the huge shopping center, where the post office had recently moved, I started contemplating two things:


(i) Russians: their cunning, thieving, lying ways;
(ii) and New York in general, Jean-Michel Basquiat in particular.




I could have been an artist. Instead of Grozny, I could have been riding my bike in New York right now, just like JMB did, before he overdosed, if I hadn't pissed away my best years with P, drinking and fighting and drinking and cursing and crying. Damn! Why did I do that?

What if I could go back, and make different choices? That'd be so cool. Or better yet, maybe there was a parallel universe, where I was in fact in New York, pedaling happily towards Washington Square or someplace?

That way I could get off the hook of my own choices. And that would be awfully kind of God or Hugh Everett or whoever was responsible, what with my tires having been slashed by the GRU and all.

Suddenly I wasn't 46 years old or something. And if I was, I hadn't wasted my life. I had achieved something. Oh yeah. I was somebody!

I'm on a road to nowhere, I sang as I rode. I'm on my way to Paradise.


Country boy, you got a lot to lose
Country boy, I wish I was in your shoes 






You'll find the previous episode here.


The story goes on here.




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