Let's talk about teleportation.
I don't mean scientifically. I'm not a particle physicist. I wouldn't know where to start. I read somewhere, a while ago, that if
teleportation ever became a reality you'd be essentially disintegrated at one
end and reconstructed at your destination. To me, that sounds messy. What if
you get put back together wrong, like being splinched in the Harry Potter books?
What if the signals get scrambled and you end up in the middle of the Amazon or
the Gobi desert?
That said, if Star Trek-style teleporters existed, would I
want to use one? Hell yes! I get wicked anxiety on long journeys on public
transport, and knowing that I could literally nip back home for a couple of
seconds if I forgot something important would take the worry out of just about
everything. Wrong teleporter? No problem! Wrong train? Long, expensive ride
back to where you meant to be.
Of course, I'd still rather have a portal gun, but I
digress.
The thing is, as humans, we're keenly aware at some
atavistic level that our days are numbered. With the advent of things like
ATMs, home delivery, and the Internet, I think we've forgotten how to wait for
things. Hence the teleportation fantasy.
I've been thinking about this a lot recently because I've found myself having to apply for a new job. This isn't an easy thing for anyone
to have to do at the moment and, as if that wasn't enough of a challenge in
itself, I'm also looking for a career change.
If changing career was a slow process before the recession
hit, it's moving at a glacial pace now. Everything I've done in my life that
might once have counted in my favour – the personal projects, the blogging, the
university clubs – is now not a lot of help. Believe me, I've rarely wanted a
teleporter more than I want one right now: a teleporter that would take me from
where I am to where I think I should be. I've got a long journey ahead, and I'm
scared.
But the time's not right, and the technology isn't finished,
and a teleporter would reduce me to a jumbled mess of molecules and dump me
somewhere unfamiliar. And, if it's not programmed just so, it'll leave me with
my guts on the outside in front of something with big pointy teeth whose
favourite food is liver flambéed in brandy.
So I have to take the slow train. That means internships and
working for free. It means scraping together the money for your ticket and
praying you're on the right platform when it leaves. It means remembering how
to wait.
But if I'm clever – if I work hard and put all my capital in
all the right places; if I make my reservation with plenty of time and am
polite to the people at the ticket office – I can get a window seat and make
the most of the view.
