Where I am is who I am

“Life offers you a thousand chances... all you have to do is take one. Any arbitrary turning along the way and I would be elsewhere; I would be different. Where you are is who you are.”  Frances Mayes – ‘Under the Tuscan Sun’

 I don’t think of myself as a time-traveller. That is too clichéd. Wherever I am is who I am, and that is as changeable as the weather. There are other, alternate universes and they’re definitely not parallel. They’re jumbled, intertwined. Imagine a pot full of thin rice noodles. Each individual noodle is a linear universe, but where noodles overlap or touch each other, portals exist which provide off-ramps for arbitrary entries and exits. You may laugh, but I know this, first-hand.

 I don’t have a life in the conventional sense. A life is linear, something which I never experience. I have an existence, bouncing across multiverses and wherever I am is who I am. It wasn’t a choice to not have a linear life, it’s just who I am. A measurable life, from birth to death, with the sense of grounding afforded by a home, a family and a name, would be so much simpler, but I have no name and I never age.

 I’m unsure, but I could be in Spain. Currently sprinting frantically along a narrow, cobbled roadway, I’m in no position to ask. It’s motivated by survival. The ambient noise is chaotic… the jostling of fleeing runners, shouting onlookers and the clatter of hooves of the enraged bulls pursuing us. A few moments earlier, I’d been deposited roughly onto these hard cobblestones. I’m caked in clay, clad only in a loincloth and ancient leather sandals. The sandals are thin, not woven for speed or comfort. The mad onrush of shouting runners and snorting bulls is perhaps less than thirty metres from my crumpled semi-nakedness. With the prospect of being gored or crushed, I rise and begin fleeing in the same direction. Other runners, dressed in white and wearing red neckerchiefs, draw level with me, jostling my panicked body in their efforts to flee the enraged herd. There is a piercing scream behind me as a leading bull lowers its head and jams a fearsome horn into the buttock of a slower runner and flings him crudely across the cobbles. The wounded runner, crawling painfully from the path of stampeding hooves, seeks sanctuary in a narrow passageway.

 Onlookers roar at the spectacle. Are they voicing support for the bravado exhibited by the runners? Or their mistaken perceptions of masculinity? Or are they roaring at the sight of a bug-eyed man with a wispy beard, clad only in a loincloth, desperately trying to elbow his way to the front of other runners? My long, matted hair flaps wildly as I flee. It is a sight which will probably soon become a video clip on social media if I have bounced into the correct decade. But the tumultuous cheering, mixed with a bucketload of my own adrenalin, coaxes an extra spurt of pace and I surge to the head of the pack. If I can maintain this speed for another 200 metres, I could possibly reach the safety of a side street. Only a few moments ago, when I’d summoned my ability to bounce universes, I hadn’t foreseen this situation. I’d escaped a filthy clay pit in ancient Egypt, through a previously undetected portal.  The cruelty of slavery under the Pharoah was only one bounce, one existence, behind me. Sometimes I make conscious choices to leap, at other times it occurs randomly and without warning, but wherever I am is who I am.

 My spurt of pace is short lived and I quickly fade, sliding backwards into the peloton of runners. Sucking hard for oxygen now, the back of my neck detects the warm breath of the snorting lead bull. If I can reach that side-road I will possibly avoid being gored. Recessed into the wall of the building on the left ahead of me, I notice a non-descript, narrow alcove containing a lintelled doorway. As the bull lowers its head to shunt me, I deftly sidestep into the inadequate alcove. The bull’s size and weight cause it to skid on the shiny cobbles as it attempts to stop and engage me. Other bulls and runners ignore me and surge onwards. Apportioning blame for its plight on me, the bull turns, panting, stamping, dripping strings of drool. The stressed animal tosses its head up and down angrily; I’m trapped awkwardly between two menacingly long horns and a heavy door. Avoiding sudden movement, I cautiously reach for the iron handle and, with a gentle twist, discover it is... locked.

 Placing an open palm firmly against the wooden door, I experience that reassuring and familiar surge of warmth and energy to which I’ve become accustomed in my existence. Instantly I’m rag-dolling across a dance-floor. A band ceases playing. Foxtrotting revellers in evening finery gasp, startled at the mud-smeared, semi-naked body sprawled in the middle of the first-class lounge of their cruise ship. But embarrassed, I am not. Overwhelmed with relief, I reflect on how I was delivered from that angry bull. I’m incredibly fortunate to have bounced into the security and luxurious furnishings inside the inaugural cruise of White Star Line’s new ship, ‘Titanic’.