Newsgroup: it.discussioni.folli
Titolo: IDF Memento contest.

Ok, il concorso è aperto a chiunque voglia scrivere la sua su Memento.
L'esposizione più chiara sarà premiata con un bacio sulla fronte dato da
Eliss ed un abbraccio virile dato da Howty.



Non do baci se prima non leggo la motivazione.
Sono diventata grande, sono una giurata.
--------------------------------
Inviato via 
http://usenet.libero.it

Eliss ed un abbraccio virile dato da Howty.
L'intero film è un sogno ambientato su una terra parallela.
(ma ora come faccio ad abbracciarmi da solo?)

 (ma ora come faccio ad abbracciarmi da solo?)
(non hai vinto)


(non hai vinto)
(dimostramelo)
--
HowTy
*svhezi a parte: devo ancora leggerlo, ma può darsi che in "Guaritore
Galattico" spieghi il mestiere di guaritore galattico


OK, senza rivederlo.
Lui ha questa malattia, ok?
Lui non puo' fare a meno di drilo a tutti, ok?
Chiunque si puo' approfittare di lui.
Diversi personaggi si approfittano di lui, tra cui essenzialmente quello coi
baffi che si spaccia per poliziotto e la zoccola del bar che gli sputa nella
birra.
L'uomo elegante con la jaguar è un rivale in affari di teddy il baffuto.
Teddy si approfitta di lui per fargli ammazzare questo tizio.
La buttana che è la tipa dell'ammazzato in jaguar, lo sfrutta per far
ammazzare un altro che lui non ammazza, e cerca di fargli ammazzare teddy
per aver ammazzato il jaguaromane.
Lui capisce che teddy lo sta fottendo, e allora si lascia un messaggio per
farsi credere che teddy è il bastardo che lui deve uccidere originariamente,
per liberarsi da questo giogo da un lato e per liberarsi del desiderio di
vendetta dall'altro.

 Galattico" spieghi il mestiere di guaritore galattico
Ma io non lo trovo sto libro :(


 Eliss ed un abbraccio virile dato da Howty.
lui, lei, l'altro.
con flashback scalabili all'indietro
(ho già vinto)
-- 
pl...@invento.it
(traduci il provider in inglese per scrivermi)
"era una bella mucca, certo, ma come tante mancava di un autentico
interesse drammatico"

 wrote:

Troppo superficiale e esposto con un linguaggio sciatto.
Vuoi vincere o no?
--
eliss
"Story of my life.
I always get the fuzzy end
of the lollipop."
 

(ho già vinto)
Un altro.
Tutti a proclamarvi vincitori.
Non funziona così.


 il concorso č aperto a chiunque voglia scrivere la sua su Memento
dai lumiere in poi tutto il cinema fa cacare.
http://digilander.libero.it/martvenator/
http://www14.brinkster.com/hdumpty/
http://www.indiepop.it
consider green lakes, and the idiocy of clocks...

 Sono diventata grande, sono una giurata.
Il fatto che tu fossi la giurata unica suprema era sottinteso.
Howty no, lui abbraccia e basta.

 Eliss ed un abbraccio virile dato da Howty.
Memento parla di un tizio che non si ricordava le cose. A dire il vero un
po' se le ricordava, ma appena si addormentava si dimenticava di nuovo
tutto.
Per ricordarsi le cose importanti si faceva tutti tatuaggi.
Lui aveva amici cattivi che se ne approfittavano e gli facevano credere le
cose per fargli compiere omicidi e altre cose, tipo che avevano ammazzato la
moglie e lui magari non era mai manco stato sposato.
Alla fine del film succede una cosa che non mi ricordo e tutto il pubblico
capisce che gli amici facevano le montature per fargli fare le cose, anche
convincendolo a farsi dei tatuaggi.
--
Amy

 Ma guarda guarda, abbiamo uno spiritoso!
In the gloomy half-darkness the three idiots sat babbling. Every incoherent
utterance, every random syllable, was analyzed, compared, reassembled in the
form of visual symbols, transcribed on conventional punchcards, and ejected
into various coded slots. All day long the idiots babbled, imprisoned in
their special high-backed chairs, held in one rigid position by metal bands,
and bundles of wiring, clamps. Their physical needs were taken care of
automatically. They had no spiritual needs. Vegetable-like, they muttered
and dozed and existed. Their minds were dull, confused, lost in shadows.
But not the shadows of today. The three gibbering, fumbling creatures, with
their enlarged heads and wasted bodies, were contemplating the future. The
analytical machinery was recording prophecies, and as the three precog
idiots talked, the machinery carefully listened.
Questa come va?

Ma io non lo trovo sto libro :(
Prova in biblioteca, no?

capisce che gli amici facevano le montature per fargli fare le cose, 
No aspetta, questo è La Leggenda di Al, John e Jack.


Tanto il bacio prima o poi me lo dai lo stesso

 dai lumiere in poi tutto il cinema fa cacare.
non sarai mica della corrente prelumierista?
-- 
pl...@invento.it
(traduci il provider in inglese per scrivermi)
"lacryma, la sorella di agatha"

 Non funziona così.
pensavo che vincesse chi si autoproclamava con più stile...
(comunque ricorda che ti ho in pugno;)
-- 
pl...@invento.it
(traduci il provider in inglese per scrivermi)
"l'altra mia signature è una rolls-royce"

 di Dick dove descrive il mestiere di precog o un altro strano mestiere?
ne parlavano l'altro giorno su it.arti.cinema
se cerchi con google dovresti trovarlo...
-- 
pl...@invento.it
(traduci il provider in inglese per scrivermi)
"io ho sempre torto: dimostrami che ho ragione"

 No aspetta, questo č La Leggenda di Al, John e Jack.
vabbč, quello č il remake, no?
--
Amy

 vabbè, quello è il remake, no?
solo un tragico plagio

 Tanto il bacio prima o poi me lo dai lo stesso
Ma č chiaro.


 Prova in biblioteca, no?
Venticinque a mia disposizione e niet.
E anche ibs niet.


non sarai mica della corrente prelumierista?
certa un voltaggio piů basso, una volta.


 certa un voltaggio più basso, una volta.
c'era una volt...
-- 
pl...@invento.it
(traduci il provider in inglese per scrivermi)
"tengo 'na minchia tanta" (frank zappa)

(comunque ricorda che ti ho in pugno;)
(no, senti, a parte gli scherzi, se vuoi ti racconto il dramma dei
traghetti alle sette e mezza del mattino dopo aver dormito 4 ore e con
un americano che organizza festival in cecoslovacchia logorroico e
toccaccione)


 wrote:


Non sarebbe pensabile un accordo tra me e il comasko.
Lui abbraccia chi gli dico di abbracciare.
E stop.


 E stop.
Ho qui un emendamento a firma Plach che chiede di aggiungere nel testo così
formulato la parola "virilmente".

 wrote:

E sia, "abbraccio virile" e "bacio in fronte" senza aggettivo. 


 E sia, "abbraccio virile" e "bacio in fronte" senza aggettivo.
Vedi, se governassimo l'Italia andrebbe tutto molto meglio.

 wrote:

Anche nelel foto verremmo meglio.


 toccaccione)
(perň dopo dovrai sorbirti il racconto dei traghetti delle tre di notte
senza aver ancora dormito un piffero e con un marinaio australiano di uno
yacht piů grande di casa mia - lo yacht)
-- 
pl...@invento.it
(traduci il provider in inglese per scrivermi)
-dimmi, tu che sai un po' di svedese...
-puzzo?

 formulato la parola "virilmente".
si tratta palesemente di un falso.
primo: io non firmerei mai con la maiuscola.
secondo: tutti sanno che sono pilotato dall'OPGU.
-- 
pl...@invento.it
(traduci il provider in inglese per scrivermi)
"aveva un cervello cosi' piccolo che, quando due pensieri si incontravano,
dovevano fare manovra"

 si tratta palesemente di un falso.
Ormai č approvato, non possiamo farci piů nulla.
Esca dall'aula.

 Esca dall'aula.
verme disicio?
-- 
pl...@invento.it
(traduci il provider in inglese per scrivermi)
"l'altra mia signature č una rolls-royce"

 verme disicio?
FUORI!

 Ok, il concorso è aperto a chiunque voglia scrivere la sua su Memento.
MEMENTO MORI
 
"What like a bullet can undeceive!"
--Herman Melville 
Your wife always used to say you'd be late for your own funeral.
Remember that? Her little joke because you were such a slob--always
late, always forgetting stuff, even before the incident.
Right about now you're probably wondering if you were late for hers. 
You were there, you can be sure of that. That's what the picture's
for--the one tacked to the wall by the door. It's not customary to
take pictures at a funeral, but somebody, your doctors, I guess, knew
you wouldn't remember. They had it blown up nice and big and stuck it
right there, next to the door, so you couldn't help but see it every
time you got up to find out where she was.
The guy in the picture, the one with the flowers? That's you. And what
are you doing? You're reading the headstone, trying to figure out
who's funeral you're at, same as you're reading it now, trying to
figure why someone stuck that picture next to your door. But why
bother reading something that you won't remember?
She's gone, gone for good, and you must be hurting right now, hearing
the news. Believe me, I know how you feel. You're probably a wreck.
But give it five minutes, maybe ten. Maybe you can even go a whole
half hour before you forget.
But you will forget--I guarantee it. A few more minutes and you'll be
heading for the door, looking for her all over again, breaking down
when you find the picture. How many times do you have to hear the news
before some other part of your body, other than that busted brain of
yours, starts to remember?
Never-ending grief, never-ending anger. Useless without direction.
Maybe you can't understand what's happened. Can't say I really
understand, either. Backwards amnesia. That's what the sign says. CRS
disease. Your guess is as good as mine.
Maybe you can't understand what happened to you. But you do remember
what happened to HER, don't you? The doctors don't want to talk about
it. They won't answer my questions. They don't think it's right for a
man in your condition to hear about those things. But you remember
enough, don't you? You remember his face.
This is why I'm writing to you. Futile, maybe. I don't know how many
times you'll have to read this before you listen to me. I don't even
know how long you've been locked up in this room already. Neither do
you. But your advantage in forgetting is that you'll forget to write
yourself off as a lost cause.
Sooner or later you'll want to do something about it. And when you do,
you'll just have to trust me, because I'm the only one who can help
you.
EARL OPENS ONE EYE after another to a stretch of white ceiling tiles
interrupted by a hand-printed sign taped right above his head, large
enough for him to read from the bed. An alarm clock is ringing
somewhere. He reads the sign, blinks, reads it again, then takes a
look at the room.
It's a white room, overwhelmingly white, from the walls and the
curtains to the institutional furniture and the bedspread. The alarm
clock is ringing from the white desk under the window with the white
curtains. At this point Earl probably notices that he is lying on top
of his white comforter. He is already wearing a dressing gown and
slippers.
He lies back and reads the sign taped to the ceiling again. It says,
in crude block capitals, THIS IS YOUR ROOM. THIS IS A ROOM IN A
HOSPITAL. THIS IS WHERE YOU LIVE NOW.
 
Earl rises and takes a look around. The room is large for a
hospital--empty linoleum stretches out from the bed in three
directions. Two doors and a window. The view isn't very helpful,
either--a close of trees in the center of a carefully manicured piece
of turf that terminates in a sliver of two-lane blacktop. The trees,
except for the evergreens, are bare--early spring or late fall, one or
the other.
Every inch of the desk is covered with Post-it notes, legal pads,
neatly printed lists, psychological textbooks, framed pictures. On top
of the mess is a half-completed crossword puzzle. The alarm clock is
riding a pile of folded newspapers. Earl slaps the snooze button and
takes a cigarette from the pack taped to the sleeve of his dressing
gown. He pats the empty pockets of his pajamas for a light. He rifles
the papers on the desk, looks quickly through the drawers. Eventually
he finds a box of kitchen matches taped to the wall next to the
window. Another sign is taped just above the box. It says in loud
yellow letters, CIGARETTE? CHECK FOR LIT ONES FIRST, STUPID.
Earl laughs at the sign, lights his cigarette, and takes a long draw.
Taped to the window in front of him is another piece of looseleaf
paper headed YOUR SCHEDULE.
It charts off the hours, every hour, in blocks: 10:00 p.m. to 8:00
a.m. is labeled go BACK TO SLEEP. Earl consults the alarm clock: 8:15.
Given the light outside, it must be morning. He checks his watch:
10:30. He presses the watch to his ear and listens. He gives the watch
a wind or two and sets it to match the alarm clock.
According to the schedule, the entire block from 8:00 to 8:30 has been
labeled BRUSH YOUR TEETH. Earl laughs again and walks over to the
bathroom.
The bathroom window is open. As he flaps his arms to keep warm, he
notices the ashtray on the windowsill. A cigarette is perched on the
ashtray, burning steadily through a long finger of ash. He frowns,
extinguishes the old butt, and replaces it with the new one.
The toothbrush has already been treated to a smudge of white paste.
The tap is of the push-button variety--a dose of water with each
nudge. Earl pushes the brush into his cheek and fiddles it back and
forth while he opens the medicine cabinet. The shelves are stocked
with single-serving packages of vitamins, aspirin, antidiuretics. The
mouthwash is also single-serving, about a shot-glass-worth of blue
liquid in a sealed plastic bottle. Only the toothpaste is
regular-sized. Earl spits the paste out of his mouth and replaces it
with the mouthwash. As he lays the toothbrush next to the toothpaste,
he notices a tiny wedge of paper pinched between the glass shelf and
the steel backing of the medicine cabinet. He spits the frothy blue
fluid into the sink and nudges for some more water to rinse it down.
He closes the medicine cabinet and smiles at his reflection in the
mirror.
"Who needs half an hour to brush their teeth?" 
The paper has been folded down to a minuscule size with all the
precision of a sixth-grader's love note. Earl unfolds it and smooths
it against the mirror. It reads--
IF YOU CAN STILL READ THIS, THEN YOU'RE A FUCKING COWARD. 
Earl stares blankly at the paper, then reads it again. He turns it
over. On the back it reads--
P.S.: AFTER YOU'VE READ THIS, HIDE IT AGAIN. 
Earl reads both sides again, then folds the note back down to its
original size and tucks it underneath the toothpaste.
Maybe then he notices the scar. It begins just beneath the ear, jagged
and thick, and disappears abruptly into his hairline. Earl turns his
head and stares out of the corner of his eye to follow the scar's
progress. He traces it with a fingertip, then looks back down at the
cigarette burning in the ashtray. A thought seizes him and he spins
out of the bathroom.
 
He is caught at the door to his room, one hand on the knob. Two
pictures are taped to the wall by the door. Earl's attention is caught
first by the MRI, a shiny black frame for four windows into someone's
skull. In marker, the picture is labeled YOUR BRAIN. Earl stares at
it. Concentric circles in different colors. He can make out the big
orbs of his eyes and, behind these, the twin lobes of his brain.
Smooth wrinkles, circles, semicircles. But right there in the middle
of his head, circled in marker, tunneled in from the back of his neck
like a maggot into an apricot, is something different. Deformed,
broken, but unmistakable. A dark smudge, the shape of a flower, right
there in the middle of his brain.
He bends to look at the other picture. It is a photograph of a man
holding flowers, standing over a fresh grave. The man is bent over,
reading the headstone. For a moment this looks like a hall of mirrors
or the beginnings of a sketch of infinity: the one man bent over,
looking at the smaller man, bent over, reading the headstone. Earl
looks at the picture for a long time. Maybe he begins to cry. Maybe he
just stares silently at the picture. Eventually, he makes his way back
to the bed, flops down, seals his eyes shut, tries to sleep.
The cigarette burns steadily away in the bathroom. A circuit in the
alarm clock counts down from ten, and it starts ringing again.
Earl opens one eye after another to a stretch of white ceiling tiles,
interrupted by a hand-printed sign taped right above his head, large
enough for him to read from the bed.
You can't have a normal life anymore. You must know that. How can you
have a girlfriend if you can't remember her name? Can't have kids, not
unless you want them to grow up with a dad who doesn't recognize them.
Sure as hell can't hold down a job. Not too many professions out there
that value forgetfulness. Prostitution, maybe. Politics, of course.
No. Your life is over. You're a dead man. The only thing the doctors
are hoping to do is teach you to be less of a burden to the orderlies.
And they'll probably never let you go home, wherever that would be.
So the question is not "to be or not to be," because you aren't. The
question is whether you want to do something about it. Whether revenge
matters to you.
It does to most people. For a few weeks, they plot, they scheme, they
take measures to get even. But the passage of time is all it takes to
erode that initial impulse. Time is theft, isn't that what they say?
And time eventually convinces most of us that forgiveness is a virtue.
Conveniently, cowardice and forgiveness look identical at a certain
distance. Time steals your nerve.
If time and fear aren't enough to dissuade people from their revenge,
then there's always authority, softly shaking its head and saying, We
understand, but you're the better man for letting it go. For rising
above it. For not sinking to their level. And besides, says authority,
if you try anything stupid, we'll lock you up in a little room.
But they already put you in a little room, didn't they? Only they
don't really lock it or even guard it too carefully because you're a
cripple. A corpse. A vegetable who probably wouldn't remember to eat
or take a shit if someone wasn't there to remind you.
And as for the passage of time, well, that doesn't really apply to you
anymore, does it? Just the same ten minutes, over and over again. So
how can you forgive if you can't remember to forget?
 
You probably were the type to let it go, weren't you? Before. But
you're not the man you used to be. Not even half. You're a fraction;
you're the ten-minute man.
Of course, weakness is strong. It's the primary impulse. You'd
probably prefer to sit in your little room and cry. Live in your
finite collection of memories, carefully polishing each one. Half a
life set behind glass and pinned to cardboard like a collection of
exotic insects. You'd like to live behind that glass, wouldn't you?
Preserved in aspic.
You'd like to but you can't, can you? You can't because of the last
addition to your collection. The last thing you remember. His face.
His face and your wife, looking to you for help.
And maybe this is where you can retire to when it's over. Your little
collection. They can lock you back up in another little room and you
can live the rest of your life in the past. But only if you've got a
little piece of paper in your hand that says you got him.
You know I'm right. You know there's a lot of work to do. It may seem
impossible, but I'm sure if we all do our part, we'll figure something
out. But you don't have much time. You've only got about ten minutes,
in fact. Then it starts all over again. So do something with the time
you've got.
EARL OPENS HIS EYES and blinks into the darkness. The alarm clock is
ringing. It says 3:20, and the moonlight streaming through the window
means it must be the early morning. Earl fumbles for the lamp, almost
knocking it over in the process. Incandescent light fills the room,
painting the metal furniture yellow, the walls yellow, the bedspread,
too. He lies back and looks up at the stretch of yellow ceiling tiles
above him, interrupted by a handwritten sign taped to the ceiling. He
reads the sign two, maybe three times, then blinks at the room around
him.
It is a bare room. Institutional, maybe. There is a desk over by the
window. The desk is bare except for the blaring alarm clock. Earl
probably notices, at this point, that he is fully clothed. He even has
his shoes on under the sheets. He extracts himself from the bed and
crosses to the desk. Nothing in the room would suggest that anyone
lived there, or ever had, except for the odd scrap of tape stuck here
and there to the wall. No pictures, no books, nothing. Through the
window, he can see a full moon shining on carefully manicured grass.
Earl slaps the snooze button on the alarm clock and stares a moment at
the two keys taped to the back of his hand. He picks at the tape while
he searches through the empty drawers. In the left pocket of his
jacket, he finds a roll of hundred-dollar bills and a letter sealed in
an envelope. He checks the rest of the main room and the bathroom.
Bits of tape, cigarette butts. Nothing else.
Earl absentmindedly plays with the lump of scar tissue on his neck and
moves back toward the bed. He lies back down and stares up at the
ceiling and the sign taped to it. The sign reads, GET UP, GET OUT
RIGHT NOW. THESE PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO KILL YOU.
Earl closes his eyes. 
 
They tried to teach you to make lists in grade school, remember? Back
when your day planner was the back of your hand. And if your
assignments came off in the shower, well, then they didn't get done.
No direction, they said. No discipline. So they tried to get you to
write it all down somewhere more permanent.
Of course, your grade-school teachers would be laughing their pants
wet if they could see you now. Because you've become the exact product
of their organizational lessons. Because you can't even take a piss
without consulting one of your lists.
They were right. Lists are the only way out of this mess. 
Here's the truth: People, even regular people, are never just any one
person with one set of attributes. It's not that simple. We're all at
the mercy of the limbic system, clouds of electricity drifting through
the brain. Every man is broken into twenty-four-hour fractions, and
then again within those twenty-four hours. It's a daily pantomime, one
man yielding control to the next: a backstage crowded with old hacks
clamoring for their turn in the spotlight. Every week, every day. The
angry man hands the baton over to the sulking man, and in turn to the
sex addict, the introvert, the conversationalist. Every man is a mob,
a chain gang of idiots.
This is the tragedy of life. Because for a few minutes of every day,
every man becomes a genius. Moments of clarity, insight, whatever you
want to call them. The clouds part, the planets get in a neat little
line, and everything becomes obvious. I should quit smoking, maybe, or
here's how I could make a fast million, or such and such is the key to
eternal happiness. That's the miserable truth. For a few moments, the
secrets of the universe are opened to us. Life is a cheap parlor
trick.
But then the genius, the savant, has to hand over the controls to the
next guy down the pike, most likely the guy who just wants to eat
potato chips, and insight and brilliance and salvation are all
entrusted to a moron or a hedonist or a narcoleptic.
The only way out of this mess, of course, is to take steps to ensure
that you control the idiots that you become. To take your chain gang,
hand in hand, and lead them. The best way to do this is with a list.
It's like a letter you write to yourself. A master plan, drafted by
the guy who can see the light, made with steps simple enough for the
rest of the idiots to understand. Follow steps one through one
hundred. Repeat as necessary.
Your problem is a little more acute, maybe, but fundamentally the same
thing.
It's like that computer thing, the Chinese room. You remember that?
One guy sits in a little room, laying down cards with letters written
on them in a language he doesn't understand, laying them down one
letter at a time in a sequence according to someone else's
instructions. The cards are supposed to spell out a joke in Chinese.
The guy doesn't speak Chinese, of course. He just follows his
instructions.
There are some obvious differences in your situation, of course: You
broke out of the room they had you in, so the whole enterprise has to
be portable. And the guy giving the instructions--that's you, too,
just an earlier version of you. And the joke you're telling, well,
it's got a punch line. I just don't think anyone's going to find it
very funny.
So that's the idea. All you have to do is follow your instructions.
Like climbing a ladder or descending a staircase. One step at a time.
Right down the list. Simple.
And the secret, of course, to any list is to keep it in a place where
you're bound to see it.
 
HE CAN HEAR THE BUZZING through his eyelids. Insistent. He reaches out
for the alarm clock, but he can't move his arm.
Earl opens his eyes to see a large man bent double over him. The man
looks up at him, annoyed, then resumes his work. Earl looks around
him. Too dark for a doctor's office.
Then the pain floods his brain, blocking out the other questions. He
squirms again, trying to yank his forearm away, the one that feels
like it's burning. The arm doesn't move, but the man shoots him
another scowl. Earl adjusts himself in the chair to see over the top
of the man's head.
The noise and the pain are both coming from a gun in the man's hand--a
gun with a needle where the barrel should be. The needle is digging
into the fleshy underside of Earl's forearm, leaving a trail of puffy
letters behind it.
Earl tries to rearrange himself to get a better view, to read the
letters on his arm, but he can't. He lies back and stares at the
ceiling.
Eventually the tattoo artist turns off the noise, wipes Earl's forearm
with a piece of gauze, and wanders over to the back to dig up a
pamphlet describing how to deal with a possible infection. Maybe later
he'll tell his wife about this guy and his little note. Maybe his wife
will convince him to call the police.
Earl looks down at the arm. The letters are rising up from the skin,
weeping a little. They run from just behind the strap of Earl's watch
all the way to the inside of his elbow. Earl blinks at the message and
reads it again. It says, in careful little capitals, I RAPED AND
KILLED YOUR WIFE.
It's your birthday today, so I got you a little present. I would have
just bought you a beer, but who knows where that would have ended?
So instead, I got you a bell. I think I may have had to pawn your
watch to buy it, but what the hell did you need a watch for, anyway?
You're probably asking yourself, Why a bell? In fact, I'm guessing
you're going to be asking yourself that question every time you find
it in your pocket. Too many of these letters now. Too many for you to
dig back into every time you want to know the answer to some little
question.
It's a joke, actually. A practical joke. But think of it this way: I'm
not really laughing at you so much as with you.
I'd like to think that every time you take it out of your pocket and
wonder, Why do I have this bell? a little part of you, a little piece
of your broken brain, will remember and laugh, like I'm laughing now.
Besides, you do know the answer. It was something you learned before.
So if you think about it, you'll know.
Back in the old days, people were obsessed with the fear of being
buried alive. You remember now? Medical science not being quite what
it is today, it wasn't uncommon for people to suddenly wake up in a
casket. So rich folks had their coffins outfitted with breathing
tubes. Little tubes running up to the mud above so that if someone
woke up when they weren't supposed to, they wouldn't run out of
oxygen. Now, they must have tested this out and realized that you
could shout yourself hoarse through the tube, but it was too narrow to
carry much noise. Not enough to attract attention, at least. So a
string was run up the tube to a little bell attached to the headstone.
If a dead person came back to life, all he had to do was ring his
little bell till someone came and dug him up again.
 
I'm laughing now, picturing you on a bus or maybe in a fast-food
restaurant, reaching into your pocket and finding your little bell and
wondering to yourself where it came from, why you have it. Maybe
you'll even ring it.
Happy birthday, buddy. 
I don't know who figured out the solution to our mutual problem, so I
don't know whether to congratulate you or me. A bit of a lifestyle
change, admittedly, but an elegant solution, nonetheless.
Look to yourself for the answer. 
That sounds like something out of a Hallmark card. I don't know when
you thought it up, but my hat's off to you. Not that you know what the
hell I'm talking about. But, honestly, a real brainstorm. After all,
everybody else needs mirrors to remind themselves who they are. You're
no different.
THE LITTLE MECHANICAL VOICE PAUSES, then repeats itself. It says, "The
time is 8:00 a.m. This is a courtesy call." Earl opens his eyes and
replaces the receiver. The phone is perched on a cheap veneer
headboard that stretches behind the bed, curves to meet the corner,
and ends at the minibar. The TV is still on, blobs of flesh color
nattering away at each other. Earl lies back down and is surprised to
see himself, older now, tanned, the hair pulling away from his head
like solar flares. The mirror on the ceiling is cracked, the silver
fading in creases. Earl continues to stare at himself, astonished by
what he sees. He is fully dressed, but the clothes are old, threadbare
in places.
Earl feels the familiar spot on his left wrist for his watch, but it's
gone. He looks down from the mirror to his arm. It is bare and the
skin has changed to an even tan, as if he never owned a watch in the
first place. The skin is even in color except for the solid black
arrow on the inside of Earl's wrist, pointing up his shirtsleeve. He
stares at the arrow for a moment. Perhaps he doesn't try to rub it off
anymore. He rolls up his sleeve.
The arrow points to a sentence tattooed along Earl's inner arm. Earl
reads the sentence once, maybe twice. Another arrow picks up at the
beginning of the sentence, points farther up Earl's arm, disappearing
under the rolled-up shirtsleeve. He unbuttons his shirt.
Looking down on his chest, he can make out the shapes but cannot bring
them into focus, so he looks up at the mirror above him.
The arrow leads up Earl's arm, crosses at the shoulder, and descends
onto his upper torso, terminating at a picture of a man's face that
occupies most of his chest. The face is that of a large man, balding,
with a mustache and a goatee. It is a particular face, but like a
police sketch it has a certain unreal quality.
The rest of his upper torso is covered in words, phrases, bits of
information, and instructions, all of them written backward on Earl,
forward in the mirror.
Eventually Earl sits up, buttons his shirt, and crosses to the desk.
He takes out a pen and a piece of notepaper from the desk drawer,
sits, and begins to write.
 
I don't know where you'll be when you read this. I'm not even sure if
you'll bother to read this. I guess you don't need to.
It's a shame, really, that you and I will never meet. But, like the
song says, "By the time you read this note, I'll be gone."
We're so close now. That's the way it feels. So many pieces put
together, spelled out. I guess it's just a matter of time until you
find him.
Who knows what we've done to get here? Must be a hell of a story, if
only you could remember any of it. I guess it's better that you can't.
I had a thought just now. Maybe you'll find it useful. 
Everybody is waiting for the end to come, but what if it already
passed us by? What if the final joke of Judgment Day was that it had
already come and gone and we were none the wiser? Apocalypse arrives
quietly; the chosen are herded off to heaven, and the rest of us, the
ones who failed the test, just keep on going, oblivious. Dead already,
wandering around long after the gods have stopped keeping score, still
optimistic about the future.
I guess if that's true, then it doesn't matter what you do. No
expectations. If you can't find him, then it doesn't matter, because
nothing matters. And if you do find him, then you can kill him without
worrying about the consequences. Because there are no consequences.
That's what I'm thinking about right now, in this scrappy little room.
Framed pictures of ships on the wall. I don't know, obviously, but if
I had to guess, I'd say we're somewhere up the coast. If you're
wondering why your left arm is five shades browner than your right, I
don't know what to tell you. I guess we must have been driving for a
while. And, no, I don't know what happened to your watch.
And all these keys: I have no idea. Not a one that I recognize. Car
keys and house keys and the little fiddly keys for padlocks. What have
we been up to?
I wonder if he'll feel stupid when you find him. Tracked down by the
ten-minute man. Assassinated by a vegetable.
I'll be gone in a moment. I'll put down the pen, close my eyes, and
then you can read this through if you want.
I just wanted you to know that I'm proud of you. No one who matters is
left to say it. No one left is going to want to.
EARL'S EYES ARE WIDE OPEN, staring through the window of the car.
Smiling eyes. Smiling through the window at the crowd gathering across
the street. The crowd gathering around the body in the doorway. The
body emptying slowly across the sidewalk and into the storm drain.
A stocky guy, facedown, eyes open. Balding head, goatee. In death, as
in police sketches, faces tend to look the same. This is definitely
somebody in particular. But really, it could be anybody.
Earl is still smiling at the body as the car pulls away from the curb.
The car? Who's to say? Maybe it's a police cruiser. Maybe it's just a
taxi.
As the car is swallowed into traffic, Earl's eyes continue to shine
out into the night, watching the body until it disappears into a
circle of concerned pedestrians. He chuckles to himself as the car
continues to make distance between him and the growing crowd.
 
Earl's smile fades a little. Something has occurred to him. He begins
to pat down his pockets; leisurely at first, like a man looking for
his keys, then a little more desperately. Maybe his progress is
impeded by a set of handcuffs. He begins to empty the contents of his
pockets out onto the seat next to him. Some money. A bunch of keys.
Scraps of paper.
A round metal lump rolls out of his pocket and slides across the vinyl
seat. Earl is frantic now. He hammers at the plastic divider between
him and the driver, begging the man for a pen. Perhaps the cabbie
doesn't speak much English. Perhaps the cop isn't in the habit of
talking to suspects. Either way, the divider between the man in front
and the man behind remains closed. A pen is not forthcoming.
The car hits a pothole, and Earl blinks at his reflection in the
rearview mirror. He is calm now. The driver makes another corner, and
the metal lump slides back over to rest against Earl's leg with a
little jingle. He picks it up and looks at it, curious now. It is a
little bell. A little metal bell. Inscribed on it are his name and a
set of dates. He recognizes the first one: the year in which he was
born. But the second date means nothing to him. Nothing at all.
As he turns the bell over in his hands, he notices the empty space on
his wrist where his watch used to sit. There is a little arrow there,
pointing up his arm. Earl looks at the arrow, then begins to roll up
his sleeve.
"You'd be late for your own funeral," she'd say. Remember? The more I
think about it, the more trite that seems. What kind of idiot, after
all, is in any kind of rush to get to the end of his own story?
And how would I know if I were late, anyway? I don't have a watch
anymore. I don't know what we did with it.
What the hell do you need a watch for, anyway? It was an antique.
Deadweight tugging at your wrist. Symbol of the old you. The you that
believed in time.
No. Scratch that. It's not so much that you've lost your faith in time
as that time has lost its faith in you. And who needs it, anyway? Who
wants to be one of those saps living in the safety of the future, in
the safety of the moment after the moment in which they felt something
powerful? Living in the next moment, in which they feel nothing.
Crawling down the hands of the clock, away from the people who did
unspeakable things to them. Believing the lie that time will heal all
wounds--which is just a nice way of saying that time deadens us.
But you're different. You're more perfect. Time is three things for
most people, but for you, for us, just one. A singularity. One moment.
This moment. Like you're the center of the clock, the axis on which
the hands turn. Time moves about you but never moves you. It has lost
its ability to affect you. What is it they say? That time is theft?
But not for you. Close your eyes and you can start all over again.
Conjure up that necessary emotion, fresh as roses.
Time is an absurdity. An abstraction. The only thing that matters is
this moment. This moment a million times over. You have to trust me.
If this moment is repeated enough, if you keep trying--and you have to
keep trying--eventually you will come across the next item on your
list.

 MEMENTO MORI
A volte mi sento la persona più amata dell'ng.

 FUORI!
SBAM!
-- 
pl...@invento.it
(traduci il provider in inglese per scrivermi)
"era una bella mucca, certo, ma come tante mancava di un autentico
interesse drammatico"

 SBAM!
E NON TORNARE MAI PIU'!

 A volte mi sento la persona piů amata dell'ng.
Si tratta del racconto di Jonathan Nolan che ha ispirato il film
diretto da suo fratello Christopher, e che dovrebbe fugare molti dubbi
interpretativi. Da notare il riferimento all'A.I. e il paragone con la
stanza cinese del filosofo americano John Searle ("It's like that
computer thing, the Chinese room. You remember that?") . E sebbene non
c'entrino nulla, č altresi doveroso menzionare "Il mestiere di precog
ed altri strani mestieri", P. Dick (Oscar Mondadori 1996) e il grande
Gilliam.
--
k '
www.geocities.com/rosacrux