But there was none.
Instead of answers there was only wind blown chattering across a
barren desert of blogs, wikis, podcasts, video podcasts and scattered postings. The desert was the apotheosis of all deserts, huge, stretching across the interent for what looked like the eternity spent on technical support lines. It was white (except for some guy down in Louisiana) and blindingly obtuse, dry and without feature save for the faint, cloudy haze of imagination which stretched across a horizon filled with devil grasses which brought sweet dreams of time travel and alternate realities, nightmares of clones and string theories, and finally death...the death to the last clue to what the hell is going on, on Lost. An occasional lostpedia page pointed the way, for once the drifted track that cut its way through the thick crust of incoherent conjecture and monotonous supposition that had once been inspiration, even philosophy. Fans and podcasters had followed it. The world had moved on since then. The world had emptied of theories and ideas...I am following theories of the man in black which have fled across the desert of hiatus and this blogger follows.
This blogger has been struck by a momentary dizziness, a kind of yawing sensation that made the entire world of Lost fandom seem ephemeral, almost a thing that could be looked through (like the lingerie of the girls on beer.com). It passed, and like the internet upon whose hide I post, I moved on. I pass the podcasts stolidly, not hurrying, not loafing. A classic ipod slung around my middle, encased in blue silicone like a flattened blue sausage. It was almost full, room for just one more Transmission or Lost Edition of Behind The Cutting Edge. I had progressed through the internets over many seasons, and had reached perhaps the fifth season. Had I been a man of the Lost Community, I might have not even been thristy for inspired Lost theories, I could have watched my own shriveled creativity with clinical, detached attention, watering the crevices of my inspiration and dark inner hollows only when my logic told me it must be done or else turn to Battlestar Galactica. I was not a Man of the Lost Community though nor a follow of the Man Donald, and considered his Lost theories in no way divinely inspired. I am just an ordinary Lost fan, a pilgram for theories, clues, literary & theatrical metaphors and rumors (but no spoilers-Lost Unlocked protect me), in other words all I can say with real certainty is that I am thristy for theories. And even so, I had no particular urge to theorize. In a vague way, all this pleases me. This Lost Country is dry of answers and this is what is required, its is a thristy country and as a long time fan, have been nothing if not adaptable.
(One minute Locke is Locke, the next he's Jacob, then he's the man in black, then he's a copy, a clone, a time traveler from the past (or future), an alternative reality Locke, maybe Locke prime?!?)
Below my ipod syncing, is my keyboard and mouse, carefully shapped to my fingers; a decorative mouse pad from the Birchmere and a Chiquita banana sticker have been added since they came to me from my manufacturer, Dell.
The flat black keys of the keyboard glare in the dull florecent light, long shadows fall across them. There are fewer now, q and x are gone, sacrificed to my quest, and I miss them both.
But this is only the beginning, even though it seems as though I have been timelessly on this blog, it's only been 2 hours. Well this is my start.
Soon to follow:
Lost Gunslingers and an analysis of themes, characters and mythos from The Dark Tower of Stephen King.
take it easy it ain't all half-bad,
mr badd
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