Monday, May 8, 2017

In Other Worlds

The theory is that of a multiverse -- that multiple universes exist, parallel to each other. Since space-time is most likely flat (most likely meaning, scientists don't really know its shape), it stretches out infinitely.

If space-time goes on forever, then it must, at some point, start repeating. After all, while space and time are infinite, the ways particles can be arranged in it are not. So if you look long and far enough, you are bound to find another version of you -- multiple, infinite copies of you.


I enter the portal into a noir, dark place.

                                          photo credits: steampunk opera

It plays out as a black and white universe, and the weather is rainy, gloomy and grey. I look at myself and here, in this time and place, I am not a doctor. I was decked in a Dick Tracy-like trenchcoat only, black and with a matching Fedora.

I step out onto the wet, cold street and whip out my Tommy gun and shout, "Come out Capone! You are under arrest!"

"Never!" The reply came through loud and clear through the thick Italian wooden doors. "Eat lead copper!"And gunshots filled the night air.

All the bullets missed me, just like they did in the movies. "So you wanna do this the hard way, ey? Move in boys!"

The gunshots rang through the air once more, riddling the bullets of the car I had ducked behind. I got up, fired back, and moved forward. Justice will triumph this night.

I am in a happy place. Pleasantville-like and the music plays in the background. I am now walking down the main street of downtown Dumaguete City in a three-piece suit. "It's a beautiful day!" My eyes open wide because I did not say it out loud -- I sang it out loud.

"Why am I singing?" I sang out in a solid falsetto. I couldn't help myself as I broke out into a little tap number. Fred Astaire-ing across the street, I tippytoed and swung around the lamppost.

"So this how it feels, when music fills you!"

I'm in my own musical, I thought to myself. Heck, even my thoughts are in tune.

I slap myself as I see myself driving my three-wheeled tricycle down the same street I just got off singing from.

The midday sun was scorching hot as I wiped my brow with the white towelette I brought along on my trips through the city. Boy, was it hard to earn a living these days, but still, you got to make the trips, my father always told me.

It wasn't much, but it was a living. An honest one.

There was always joy in getting people from one place to another on time and without incident. I didn't say much to them, maybe just a welcome smile as they get into my trike and a nod thank you when they hand over their fare.

It was an honest living and it had a certain freedom to it -- no on-calls, no beeping monitors, nothing but the warm tropical wind running through my hair as I weave in and out of city side roads.


I spin around losing my defender in the process. My lips curl into a little smile and launch the shot to win the game. It felt good as the ball left my hands -- the crowd went wild, my teammates whipped their heads around to follow the ball through the air


The season flashed before my very eyes, I got drafted by the Detroit Pistons in the first round at the 18th pick. It was their first international selection since the disaster that was Darko Milicic. I was this 5 foot 10 inch point guard from the Philippines, who was lucky enough to generate enough draft buzz to get selected that high. But I believed in myself, and worked my behind off.

Now my rookie year was ending. I was in the NBA Finals, Game 7 down to the wire and the ball was in my hands with the clock winding down.


I averaged 19.7 pts per game, and 8.5 assists with a player efficiency rating (PER) that was off the charts. I will be Rookie Of The Year and in the running for MVP.


The ball hit the front of the rim, and went up and down through the net. Swish. Pistons 112, Mavericks 111. Game Over. Cue Queen over the speakers.

                                          photo credits: melinda ham, opencolleges

I woke up from my short nap, hunched over on the table in front of my laptop.

We were supposed to come up with articles for the return of The Blog Rounds about alternate universes and I was way past the deadline and could not, for the life of me, come up with something.

I am a doctor, a cardiologist, and this is my reality. I looked out of my hotel room as I am here attending another conference just trying to better myself, and getting ready to sleep because I have an early flight in the morning.

Can there be alternate universes where I am not who I am now? Maybe, but I am here now. With writer's block.

So maybe the next TBR I will have something.


Ligaya said...

This doesn't look like writer's block at all!

bricalz said...

Compared to you, believe me this is writer's block. Hahaha

Remo Aguilar said...

Haha. No you can't have writer's block! You don't!
You have a dreamable piece in here...
As usual, very nice piece from you doc. :)