You know what I’m deathly afraid of? Well, besides extreme heights and the world of casual dating? Writing about ABC’s Lost, a show that I’ve watched and loved faithfully since the pilot episode a long, windy, patience-testing five seasons ago. When it comes to this blogging thing, the mere thought of discussing the shows vast intricacies and poke-and-hope theories sends chills down my typing fingers, cold sweats only avoided by scribbling my views on Inglourious Basterds or some other shit.
It’s not that I don’t have anything to say about Lost; on the contrary, I could talk heads’ ears off about the J.J. Abrams/Damon Lindelof/Carlton Cuse brainchild if I so chose to, but that’s not the case in terms of the blog thing.
Why? It’s complicated, really.
I have this sharp inkling that even typing an opening paragraph for a Lost dissection piece would open the proverbial flood gates and wash in a tireless, 3,000-word rant that makes little sense and is totally esoteric. Which shouldn’t be a bad thing, honestly, since this is my damn blog and all. I’ve just long subscribed to the stance that Lost is best enjoyed by leaving the show’s vast amount of explanations up to its creators, not myself (or any other fans). Sure, I’m a huge fan of Entertainment Weekly‘s Doc Jensen and his weekly Lost episode analysis, but that’s completely his lane. He kills it, so why try to better his steez?
Here’s the thing, though—-I’d never try. Not even in the slightest, half-assed way. A massive part of my obsession with Lost is never knowing just what in the fuck is going to happen next, or if any loose end will be tied down any time soon, or if we’ll ever truly know what was up with that four-toed statue from the first season? I know, I know…..this season provided a bit more info on that statue, but not enough. All we know now is that the island most likely has a history seeped in hieroglyphics and ancient Egyptian practices, and that statue could be the base of one of those feline-like soldier things that guard the tombs of mummies. Or some shit like that. Who knows.
If I were to sit down and write out my feelings, opinions, and/or questions, the experience of watching a new episode would be forever tainted. It’d become too critical, less neutral fan. I’d be taking notes and recalling past moments while the current episode was still underway. My head could very well pull a Scanners and spray the living room’s walls with crimson coating.
Simply sitting back, feet on pillow and Twizzlers in hand, and basking in the masterful, complex storytelling at work on Lost week in and week out is more than enough. Taking the ride, placing faith in the writers and producers that they’ll fulfill every promise, close every door, not conclude in a painfully-lame coda. Chatting about the show with my mother and friends is all good, though. Because to avoid doing that would be totally moronic, even a bit psychotic. Not to mention, neurotic. There’s a difference between trading thoughts back and forth with loved ones and actually writing those thoughts down on my own. For me, writing is something special, a cherished means of fancy-tickling that I take oh-so-seriously. To bring Lost into that side of my brain would feel like a recipe for fan-crushing disaster. Similar to how I’d never want to interview Nas, or do a feature on the entire Wu-Tang Clan—–the smallest ounce of bad attitude or no-rapport friction would shatter my love for their art.
This week’s fifth season finale of Lost promises to rape my perceptions yet again, and bless the show for that. There aren’t many guarantees in life, but I switch on ABC for Lost season finales knowing that I’ll be both highly satisfied and left with all new burning inquiries. The answers I’m hoping for this year reciprocate the following:
Is Jacob a real person, or just some supernatural force? If the island blows up, are those on it really dead? Can you die on the island at all? If Jack prevents Oceanic Flight 815 from crashing in the first place, will there still be two versions of each passenger: one that lives back off the island and knows nothing of its existence and the other that’s trapped on the island forever? And can we please get a detailed, final explanation about that damn four-toed stature???
And I can’t forget this last one…..a mystery so grand that it requires it’s own mini-graph: Seriously, where the hell are Rose and Bernard? Time travel-based solution or not, those two lovebirds need to show their faces again soon, because it’s becoming a big-bit ridiculous. Haven’t seen either thespian’s face in any other movies or TV shows as of late. They’re clearly available to work. Give me a flippin’ break already and offer an endgame to their storyline.
As 11pm rolls around this Wednesday night, I’ll potentially have all of those answers, or some, or nada. The saga, nonetheless, will continue for one more season. Once next season draws to a close, though, I’ll surely wish that I had the chance to finally grow a pair of writers’ balls and write about Lost. Such a chance would mean that my Wednesday nights hadn’t lost their true hour-long purpose. Just as Sunday nights haven’t been the same since The Sopranos faded to that polarizing shade of on-screen black.
In closing…..you know what’d be absolutely stellar? If, through one of the show’s time travel ploys, the hardly-used “Naomi” became a series regular for Lost‘s final season. Not that she’s such a dynamic character or anything; I just want to stare at actress Marsha Thomason as much as possible. Sexually-active adults don’t make ’em like this very often:
That smile. Those curves. That nice English accent. She’s like a less accessible, PG-13 version of Mel B.