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The Christmas activities of Richard Kelly

December 25, 2011


Check this out. Last week I’m at a party near San Sandro and that little sneak Stanley Tucci comes up to me, smiling like a chimp and…you know what he says? ‘What are you working on, Rich?’

What are you working on, Rich? What are YOU working on?

I’ve decided. This Christmas will go unnoticed. Christmas Eve will not be Christmas Eve, it won’t even be a day; it will just be a passage of time in which I do things to edit my history.

To affect my past, I must build a reality jumper.

I’m not sure how, but there are websites that deal with this kind of thing. I will go to them and read until I understand how to do it, which shouldn’t take long as I’m pretty bright. And pretty pretty too. No one picks up on that enough, but they should. Which other directors have my looks? Alexander Payne? He looks Polish. Michael Bay? Tall, sure, but stained by that body of work. Jason Reitman? Give me a fucking break.

To build the reality changer or jumper, I’m sure I’ll have to use my mind in some way. There might be a machine of some sort, but the energy will come from my mind. Look:

‘The concept of the ‘machine’ is traditionally associated with physical elements: metal, wood, circuitry. It rarely utilises the greatest component of all: mental ability.’

That was Professor Xi’an from somewhere in the middle of China. He knows what he’s talking about. Did you read his paper on genius and the five in every country theory?

‘In every country, there are exactly five people who have the potential to become either pioneers of humanity or unrelenting psychopaths.’

Are there five brighter people in the US than me right now? If there are, I haven’t met them. And, honestly, it’s people like me that can think off-planet enough to come up with the idea that machines can be powered by the mind, and the mind alone. Professor Xi’an agrees with me. Look again:

‘It is my belief, that the future of machines will be mental.’

So the actual machine will be symbolic. Or figurative. Or metaphysical. One of those. Or it might even be made of metal and electric stuff, but it won’t really play a part.

In short: When I focus my mind, I will jump realities.

It might take a while [if time passes the same way when reality jumping as it does doing everyday stuff] but quickly I will find a reality where Southland Tales was lauded, not slain. I will then take my scissors and make cuts. Not huge ones, just enough of that reality to show people that I really did know what I was doing and it wasn’t actually a difficult second movie, it was a fucking masterpiece.

Where to cut exactly? I have my suspicions. Cannes is where it went dark, so Cannes is where the cuts will be. One week total, from the first hype to the final write-up, I’ll cut it out, put it in my pocket and jump back to where we are now.

Can you go back to the original reality, if a lot of the realities have differences too slight to be recognised by casual obs.?

Sure, there’s a way. All I have to do is paint something in my apartment a different colour so when I come back I’ll know I’m home. And when I’m back, I’ll take my piece of alternate reality and do a little more surgery on the Cannes 2008 that I know, and when it’s done, I’ll be bigger than Quentin ever was.

And to think, when I told Jake about all this, he tried to tell me failure is a good thing, and maybe I shouldn’t want the perfect history. Well, ha, that’s an axiom I don’t mind shooting in the fucking head. Failure leads to more failure and pretty soon you stop getting chances. And you know who tells you how crucial failure is? It’s the one in a million fuckers who got a second chance. Not the nine hundred thousand and ninety nine other fuckers who never stopped failing.

I’m not a failure anyway. Southland Tales was a masterpiece, people just didn’t watch it right. All they need is different stimulus that has nothing to do with the movie and they’ll see things the right way again.

It’s December 28th and I’m surrounded by an army of metal. The apartment is an occupied land, its leader, [me] a defeated General.

Fuck the metaphors, I can’t do this.

I’m gonna build a spaceship instead. Build something out of all this surplus metal and then fly upwards and see Jupiter and get so close I can know for sure if it’s really gas hanging around there or some kind of illusion hiding an alien base. It’s the best thing to do really, when I think about it. No one’s gonna watch movies in twenty years anyway. Directing is a layman’s game, not special enough for a ‘one of five’. And I’m bright enough and pretty enough to know that light-speed isn’t impossible, it’s just really, really hard, and anyway, that’s not the way to travel in space, bending cosmic strings is faster, and I’m sure we’re pretty close to doing that. All we need is someone to come along and push that extra yard, add that last bit of math…

Wait, there’s a Star Trek convention in San Diego next week. Parfait! I’ll go there, ask Geordi LaForge about it all. He knows about cosmic strings and bending stuff. Maybe he can come along? I don’t think he’s busy anymore, and…man, we’ll get Worf to come too. He’s not that smart, but that doesn’t matter, he can be security. As long as he’s not fat…did he get fat?

Fuck it, a fat Worf can still throw a punch. He’s in.



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