The Memo to Self Scenario, Part I & II:

Thought Experiment (TX) 003

As per Masks of God, Book 1, Ouranian Chronicles Series (OC) 

The setup of Masks of God is doubly unique. It begins by asserting that the work was written for one specific reader. Additionally, it claims that the events described were not only experienced by that individual, but that he dictated them to a young scribe. In other words, the book is meant to be read by the story’s protagonist. Why? For fear his next mission might cost him his memories.

The main character is tasked with carrying out a very dangerous assignment. He must travel to the “Land that hides from its people”—an elusive destination from which no one has returned. Something about that location seems to interfere with a visitor’s memories. Before long, everyone forgets where they came from, the nature of their mission, and their identity. There is no need to return, not even to send a message. Faced with an almost unsolvable dilemma, our protagonist, whose name is Kayin, devises an ingenious plan to protect himself and his mission. 

Kayin instructs his apprentice, a redhead named Aušrinė, to have his biographical account smuggled into the Hiding Land before he gets there—to remind him of his identity, his assignment, and the events that led up to it. It is how Kayin’s idea for this book is born, as an insurance against losing his very own sense of self. After all, he wants to return home, and to the people he loves.    

The golden thread in the OC is the far-reaching role memory plays in everything that defines who we are—a role largely neglected in science and philosophy. Questions of identity, self-awareness, cognition, and personhood—both synthetic and organic—are explored by means of thought experiments, including their derivatives such as conscience, free will, psyche, and soul, which are all connected to and depending upon the ability to remember. 

The OC are not an academic work, but a series of speculative novels about major philosophical themes. The aim is to inform and entertain by taking readers to destinations they haven’t seen before—places beyond memory. 

Technically, one could say the work represents a four-dimensional constellation of thought-experiments. Why constellation? Because things look different depending on one’s vantage point—not only from a spatial perspective but also a temporal one. Past, present, and future function as stand-ins for each other, not like a linear chain of events, but inside each other, akin to a Russian doll setup. 

The rules of the stand-in game also apply to the story’s protagonists, Kayin and Aušrinė. They can function as each other’s surrogates, or alternates, capable of swapping identities, assignments, and even memories. 

Part II:  Red Ferraris, Monte Carlo, and a bottle of Petrus 

To showcase the mechanics that contribute to who we think we are and how our identity is put together, let’s carry out a thought-experiment. How about a little joy ride along the French Riviera?

Let’s say the car is a shiny new Ferrari—red, to make the experience more memorable—and my destination is the Hotel du Paris in Monte Carlo. I have reservations at Alain Ducasse’s Le Louis XV, one of the best restaurants in the world. To top things off, I order a bottle of Petrus 2000 with my dinner. Ultra expensive. As I enjoy the wine, I jot down the events of the day in my diary in the most glowing terms.

A few weeks later, I take a flight to New York, and I forget my diary on the plane. A flight attendant finds it. Seeking to identify the owner, he discovers my Monte Carlo entry. My account is so appealing, it inspires the recently divorced man to replicate it. Renting another red Ferrari, the flight attendant visits the same places along the French Riviera I mention in the diary, secures the same table at Le Louis XV, and also orders a bottle of Petrus 2000. He is enthralled by the experience and boasts about it in a detailed letter to a friend, without mentioning my diary.  

The friend is a successful screenwriter. She is fleshing out a James Bond-like role for a new spy series starring Tom Cruise. She struggles to nail down the character’s nuances and quirks, when she reads the flight attendant’s letter. Retracing the steps described by her friend—the red Ferrari, Monte Carlo, and all—she succeeds in expanding the role while making it more believable. Satisfied, she takes a sip of Petrus before finishing the draft (after all, it’s part of her research, and the studio is paying for the trip). The next day she sends the script to her bosses in Hollywood.

The movie is made. It is a great success. The critics are particularly fond of the scenes involving the red Ferrari and the drive to Monte Carlo—though the bit with the Petrus is considered somewhat over the top (who can afford a $5000 bottle of wine? But then, it is Tom Cruise after all. And he is wearing a tuxedo).

Each of the participants in this little game have duplicated my experience—whether wittingly or unwittingly. One would not be wrong to say that they’ve impersonated me. Does that mean they have become me? Well, the memories of their experiences are sufficiently close to mine, so that, in manner of speaking, they are me. Only for a day perhaps but still me. Yet without knowing me. Without being aware that I even exist—except for the flight attendant. But he does not know who I am, what my name is, or what I look like. He only found my diary. And yet he became me in some ways, because of the shared experience.

That would be a plausible way of exchanging identities, indeed even some memory content, since we are dealing with my recollections and impressions of the events.

Thus far this has been a simple thought experiment about identity swapping. Let’s mix things up a little and make it more interesting. 

Let’s say I’ve never heard of the movie nor of the reviews about the plot. One day I have an accident that lands me in a coma. My condition remains unchanged for six years. One day I wake up unexpectedly, and due to my head-injuries my memories are mostly gone. I have zero recollections of Ferraris, Monte Carlo, or French wine. 

I undergo all sorts of therapies but there is no significant improvement. Eventually I get discharged and end up spending much time at home trying to put my life together. Feeling dispirited one night, I scroll through a selection of movies courtesy of my streaming service, and discover an unfamiliar Tom Cruise film. I begin watching it. When the plot advances to the French Riviera scenes and the red Ferrari, I become aware of a tingling sensation. My heart starts to race, my breathing quickens, and there is a surge of adrenaline. For the first time in a long while, I feel strangely alive. And also more like myself. Which is odd. Because I am watching Tom Cruise. And we do not look alike. 

I mention the movie to my therapist and she is astonished by the reaction it provoked, which could be a first sign of recovery. She encourages me to travel to France. Feeling a little adventurous when I get there, I rent a red Ferrari. My state of mind improves instantly. As I grip the black leather steering wheel I sense what it’s like to be Tom Cruise. Indeed, as I speed down the winding French Riviera, there is a feeling of serenity and peace. Almost as though I’ve been here before and know how the day ends. When I get to the hotel, I even put on a tux. After a wonderful meal at Le Louis XV, I start taking notes—I promised my therapist I would maintain a daily log. It will help recover my memories, she said. This is what I wrote:

“The day is absolute perfection, the route, the car, the Petrus, the restaurant—the waiters are terrific, anticipating my every wish—as if they know me, or they’d served me before. What professionalism!” 

I add how thankful I am to Tom Cruise and the movie makers for placing these thoughts, these very desires, in my head. I feel whole as if I had recovered some lost part of me. Only a terrific actor like Cruise could accomplish such a miracle, I think.

Is the above scenario still plausible? Could it not be that we are all swapping identities unwittingly, if only to feel what it’s like to be someone else? 

But what if we get used to this other persona and forget who we were originally? Is there a way back?