la svolazzante etichetta da retro di bottiglia di vino rosso, sullo stile
nico di agata e la tempesta... si esalta l'aroma... si sprigiona... il retrogusto
fruttato...
oppure...
lasciare decantare dieci sere in sottofondo ad un libro consumato sul divano;
ci sta, non scappa da nessuna parte, non urta e non spinge. poi, improvvisa,
alla pagina 473, perche' solo un libro un po' impegnativo dura almeno dieci
serate, la chiave.
una chiave che non si ricorda di avere perso, e' li', tra le pagine, a mo'
di segnalibro, ed e' impensabile che ci fosse gia' da prima, sarebbe senz'altro
caduta a terra. e' apparsa, un attimo innanzi non c'era. se avete una stanza
dei ghiacci, quella chiave, lo sapete gia' perche' gia' lo sentite, la apre.
dentro, inattesa, la musica. la differenza che c'e' tra una provocazione, che
puo' permettersi di essere suono, e non musica, solo una volta perche' dopo
diventa banale imbecillita', e la gustosa digestione di una provocazione, presa,
spogliata, rivestita, con colori che avrebbero potuto essere mille altri senza
modificarne l'eleganza, ma avrebbero potuto essere centomila altri ancora,
tutti sbagliati. Non sembra, ma il gusto e' quello della musica, non del saggio.
Da ballare, questo no, non da dare in pasto al corpo, salvo che non vi immaginiate
distesi ed inermi a lasciarvi cullare da un massaggio di cui siete vittime
e non assassini. Ma neanche solo per la mente e le sue astrusita', da smontarne
e rimontarne l'incastro dei rumori come fosse un cubo di rubik. Sono emozioni
implose, qualcosa che ha a che fare con l'anima (bum) e la timidezza, con il
fascino discreto del mare guardato da lontano, che non si puo' toccare perche'
ancora non sono passate due ore dall'ultimo pasto...
Musica pudica, che ha un po' paura di esserlo, musicisti veri che si nascondono
tra gli strumenti di chi musicista non e', musica nascosta, forse l'unico modo
rimasto per resuscitare antiche emozioni, cio' che non vi aspettereste mai
da un disco del genere. Ma se possedete una stanza dei ghiacci, a pagina 473,
le ritroverete.
The fluttering label like the rear label of bottle of red wine, in the style
of Nico of Agata and the Storm ... the flavour is enhanced ... the fruity aftertaste
is released...
or...
settle ten evenings in the background of a book read on the sofa; there it is,
does not fly away, nor strikes or pushes. Then it ad libs, on page 473, because
only an exacting book can be read for at least ten evenings, the key.
A key that has been lost without remembering, it’s there between the pages
like a bookmark, unthinkable that it was already there, it would have fallen
on the ground. It has appeared, a second ago it was not there. If you have an
ice room, that key, you know because you feel it, will open it. Inside it, unexpected,
comes the music. The difference between provocation, which affords to be a sound,
and non-music, just once because then it becomes mere stupidity, and the pleasant
digestion of a provocation, taken, undressed and re-dressed with colours that
might have been thousands of different colours, without compromising elegance,
but also thousands of totally wrong ones. It doesn’t seem so, but the taste
is that of music, not of an assay.
To be danced, not in this case, to regale the body with it, unless you picture
yourself lying and helpless, rocked by a massage of which you are the victim,
not the killer. Not only for the mind and its abstruseness, where the joints
of noise can be installed and removed like Rubik’s cube. Only imploded
feelings, something to do with the soul (bum) and shyness, with the delicate
charm of the sea looked from far away, which cannot be touched because you have
just had lunch...
Demure music, slightly afraid of being so, real musicians hidden behind instruments
not belonging to musicians, hidden music, probably the only way that can revive
old emotions, what you’d never expect from a record like this. But if you
have an ice room, you’ll find them on page 473.
(En.Transl. by Chiara Visani)
Frabrizio Monti
Melodies of timbres! Which senses
so refined able to feel these differences, which spirit so evolved to find
pleasure in a matter so subtle?
And who dares to pretend here a theory!
Melodie di timbri! Quali sensi cosi' raffinati capaci di sentire queste differenze,
quale spirito cosi' evoluto da trovar piacere in una materia cosi' raffinata?
E chi osa pretendere qui una teoria!
Arnold Schonberg
The Architect - Hello, Neo.
Neo - Who are you?
The Architect - I am the Architect. I created the matrix. I've been waiting for
you. You have many questions, and although the process has altered your consciousness,
you remain irrevocably human. Ergo, some of my answers you will understand, and
some of them you will not. Concordantly, while your first question may be the
most pertinent, you may or may not realize it is also the most irrelevant.
Neo - Why am I here?
The Architect - Your life is the sum of a remainder of an unbalanced equation
inherent to the programming of the matrix. You are the eventuality of an anomaly,
which despite my sincerest efforts I have been unable to eliminate from what
is otherwise a harmony of mathematical precision. While it remains a burden assiduously
avoided, it is not unexpected, and thus not beyond a measure of control. Which
has led you, inexorably, here.
Neo - You haven't answered my question.
The Architect - Quite right. Interesting. That was quicker than the others.
*The responses of the other Ones appear on the monitors: "Others? What others?
How many? Answer me!"*
The Architect - The matrix is older than you know. I prefer counting from the
emergence of one integral anomaly to the emergence of the next, in which case
this is the sixth version.
*Again, the responses of the other Ones appear on the monitors: "Five versions?
Three? I've been lied too. This is bullshit."*
Neo : There are only two possible explanations: either no one told me, or no one
knows.
The Architect - Precisely. As you are undoubtedly gathering, the anomaly's systemic,
creating fluctuations in even the most simplistic equations.
*Once again, the responses of the other Ones appear on the monitors: "You
can't control me! F*ck you! I'm going to kill you! You can't make me do anything!*
Neo - Choice. The problem is choice.
*The scene cuts to Trinity fighting an agent, and then back to the Architect's
room*
The Architect - The first matrix I designed was quite naturally perfect, it was
a work of art, flawless, sublime. A triumph equaled only by its monumental failure.
The inevitability of its doom is as apparent to me now as a consequence of the
imperfection inherent in every human being, thus I redesigned it based on your
history to more accurately reflect the varying grotesqueries of your nature.
However, I was again frustrated by failure. I have since come to understand that
the answer eluded me because it required a lesser mind, or perhaps a mind less
bound by the parameters of perfection. Thus, the answer was stumbled upon by
another, an intuitive program, initially created to investigate certain aspects
of the human psyche. If I am the father of the matrix, she would undoubtedly
be its mother.
Neo - The Oracle.
The Architect - Please. As I was saying, she stumbled upon a solution whereby
nearly 99.9% of all test subjects accepted the program, as long as they were
given a choice, even if they were only aware of the choice at a near unconscious
level. While this answer functioned, it was obviously fundamentally flawed, thus
creating the otherwise contradictory systemic anomaly, that if left unchecked
might threaten the system itself. Ergo, those that refused the program, while
a minority, if unchecked, would constitute an escalating probability of disaster.
Neo - This is about Zion.
The Architect - You are here because Zion is about to be destroyed. Its every
living inhabitant terminated, its entire existence eradicated.
Neo - Bullshit.
*The responses of the other Ones appear on the monitors: "Bullshit!"*
The Architect - Denial is the most predictable of all human responses. But, rest
assured, this will be the sixth time we have destroyed it, and we have become
exceedingly efficient at it.
*Scene cuts to Trinity fighting an agent, and then back to the Architects room.*
The Architect - The function of the One is now to return to the source, allowing
a temporary dissemination of the code you carry, reinserting the prime program.
After which you will be required to select from the matrix 23 individuals, 16
female, 7 male, to rebuild Zion. Failure to comply with this process will result
in a cataclysmic system crash killing everyone connected to the matrix, which
coupled with the extermination of Zion will ultimately result in the extinction
of the entire human race.
Neo - You won't let it happen, you can't. You need human beings to survive.
The Architect - There are levels of survival we are prepared to accept. However,
the relevant issue is whether or not you are ready to accept the responsibility
for the death of every human being in this world.
*The Architect presses a button on a pen that he is holding, and images of people
from all over the matrix appear on the monitors*
The Architect - It is interesting reading your reactions. Your five predecessors
were by design based on a similar predication, a contingent affirmation that
was meant to create a profound attachment to the rest of your species, facilitating
the function of the one. While the others experienced this in a very general
way, your experience is far more specific. Vis-a-vis, love.
*Images of Trinity fighting the agent from Neo's dream appear on the monitors*
Neo - Trinity.
The Architect - Apropos, she entered the matrix to save your life at the cost
of her own.
Neo - No!
The Architect - Which brings us at last to the moment of truth, wherein the fundamental
flaw is ultimately expressed, and the anomaly revealed as both beginning, and
end. There are two doors. The door to your right leads to the source, and the
salvation of Zion. The door to the left leads back to the matrix, to her, and
to the end of your species. As you adequately put, the problem is choice. But
we already know what you're going to do, don't we? Already I can see the chain
reaction, the chemical precursors that signal the onset of emotion, designed
specifically to overwhelm logic, and reason. An emotion that is already blinding
you from the simple, and obvious truth: she is going to die, and there is nothing
that you can do to stop it.
*Neo walks to the door on his left*
The Architect - Humph. Hope, it is the quintessential human delusion, simultaneously
the source of your greatest strength, and your greatest weakness.
Neo - If I were you, I would hope that we don't meet again.
The Architect - We won't.
Wachowski Bros.