LOST Theories & Episode Recap.

Quick thoughts . . .

Locke/MIB/Flocke (fake Locke) is not all bad. Jacob is not all good. It’s way to predictable to have it played out like that. They are both full of light and both full of darkness. I have a hunch that we haven’t seen Jacob in all of his forms yet. Not saying Jacob has a smoke monster-esque form that he takes. But I think he may be inclined to transform into non-human form at times. I think it turns out in the end that Jacob and MIB were banished or sent to the island to protect it. And they are both more or less fighting for their way, borderline selfish brats. Jacob to protect the island. MIB to get the hell off from his banishment.

As for the kid running through the woods. I’m curious as to why Alpert couldn’t see him. But Sawyer could. Is it because Sawyer is already starting to the “dark” side. Or is it because he was/is a candidate to take over. And Richard is/was not. This is an interesting thought considering Flocke brought it up to Alpert right after he cut him down from the tree saying that the real Locke was a candidate. Then the kid shows up right after that. Richard can’t see him. Flocke can.

As for the kid . . . a young version of Jacob is to easy. And the kid says “You can’t kill him. It’s against the rules.” He’s not talking about Jacob as he speaks in present tense as opposed to past tense. So he can Flocke not kill? Sawyer? Alpert? Jack? Good questions. Perhaps the kid is Aaron. This might explain why Kate’s name is not scratched on the cave. Despite her being touched by Jacob off island as a child. And if it is Aaron, how does Aaron get back to the island. A little to complicated but as with all things LOST never doubt the insane answer.

I think Flocke was being pretty truthful about the explanation of the names on the cave. But I’m not sure that was the whole story. That won’t be the last time we see that cave. Nor the significance of the “inside joke” with white and black rocks and the scale.

But it makes sense that and supports the earlier theory with the champagne bottle metaphor. That Jacob was more or less pushing people along the way blurring the lines between choice and destiny, pre-destination and free-will. But perhaps it can be both. You have to be touched by someone but that touch is more about the ripple effect of the bubbles leaving the bottle than it is about popping the bubbles or forcing them to go where they do not want to go.

I’m still not sure what is going on with Sayid. Or Claire for that matter. I think Dogan (the temple guard / head monk) is telling the truth (now) about Sayid being taken over by darkness and the disease. But this still doesn’t make much sense about him coming back to life. It’s not as if Flocke is possessing him. And I definitely don’t think Jacob is possessing him.

MIB has definitely been the one that has taken the form of Christian Shepherd in the past.

I’m curious as to how Illana knew Jacob.

Alpert came over on the Black Rock as a prisoner I think. Maybe Illana was a prisoner as well. But it’s interesting to think about the on-island guys like Ben and Alpert didn’t know the off-island team like Illana. There is definitely more to that story. And I’m more and more curious as to why Jacob had to resort to force to get Sayid to come back to the island by having Illana arrest him and put him on the plane.

I don’t think we’ve seen the end of the numbers. I think they’ll show up in another place. A place more holy than the cave.

And the list that was in the guitar case that Jacob sent Dogan makes sense that one of the people on the list would be the protector of the island. That’s why they want to make sure Sawyer comes back to the temple. Somebody is going to have to take over Jacob’s mantle.

But perhaps that is Jacob’s plan. Instead of it being one person who protects the island. It’s a team of people.

The numbers and the people they represent.

And I have a hunch to that Widmore is on his way back to the island. He and Eloise and Desmond and the whole crew aren’t done. I’m not so sure Desmond still can’t travel through time and space.

That’s that. Random thoughts. Wish I could get paid for this.

New Orleans.

It’s the beginning of the summer and I’m standing in the lobby of a thousand-story grand hotel, where a bank of elevators a mile long and an endless red row of monkey attendants in gold braid wait to carry me up, up, up through the suites of moguls, of spies, and of starlets; to rush me straight to the zeppelin mooring at the art-deco summit where they keep the huge dirigible of August tied up and bobbing in the high winds. On the way to the shining needle at the top I will wear a lot of neckties, I will buy five or six works of genius on 45 rpm, and perhaps too many times I will find myself looking at the snapped spine of a lemon wedge at the bottom of a drink.

Picture: Mine
Words: Michael Chabon
Thought: Why the hell can’t I write that well?

Creative Non-Violence.

This is an interesting counter-act of non-violence. Using the old weapons of absurdity and play to draw attention to the fact that the emperor has no clothes. The podcast is no longer up that we did w/ one of their henchman, but it’s the only podcast I ever hung up on w/ the guest if that tells you anything about how looney bin this folks are.

The Westboro crew usually pickets all day long and causes all kinds of problem. In this case, when met with non-violent opposition, they lasted only 30 minutes before they flew back to Kansas.

Avatar Sex.

This is what happens when Anna and Marissa go see Avatar. They end up putting Marker Pen porn over the take out box and 3D glasses. For those w/out a discerning eye . . . those are Navi tales having sex w/ each other.

Dylan and I.

“The handy thing about being a father is that the historic standard is so pitifully low.” – Michael Chabon

I’m reading Michael Chabon’s reflections on Manhood, i.e. being a husband, father, and son. The first chapter sums up the mixed bag of emotions that is fatherhood. He retells a story of holding his son while in the checkout line at a grocery store. The lady behind him in line tells him what a great father he is. And he begins to think how terribly little it took to impress this lady with his great fathering skills.

Holding his child?

I feel the same. I am gone 8-10 hours a day at work. And I can come home and lay on the floor with my son for 5 minutes and I become a hero. I can carry him through a store on my shoulders and the world wants to swoon in my glory. I take him to the Aquarium or on a hike on my day off and I’m crowned some mixture of the Nobel Peace Prize and Father of the Year.

They don’t see that every day that after I crawl on the floor for 5 minutes that I’m bored and tired enough to retreat to my computer in a glaze of indifference. They don’t know that I give him a ride on my shoulders in order to avoid his stubborn fussiness from having to ride in a stroller. They don’t realize that the Aquarium and park are more for my sanity as a father than his enjoyment as a son.

Yet . . . by most standard definitions of a father, I am perceived as a good one. Minimum effort and maximum reward. This makes it all the more curious as to why most fathers suck. I give 10% effort and become a saint. If I’m giving 10%, what are the rest of these dads giving?

And yet it all pales in comparison with the real saint, the one who is closest to deity.

“I define being a good father in precisely the same terms that we ought to define being a good mother – doing my part to handle and stay on top of the endless parade of piddly shit. And like good mothers all around the world, I fail every day in my ambition to do the work, to make it count, to think ahead and hang in there through the tedium and really see, really feel, all the pitfalls that threaten my child, rattlesnakes included. How could I not fail when I can check out any time I want to and know that my wife will still be there making those dentists’s appointments and ensuring that the there’s a wrapped, age-appropriate birthday present for next Saturday’s pool party? All I need to do is hold my kid in the checkout line – all I need to do is stick around – and the world will crown me and favor me with smiles.

The daily work you put into rearing your children is a kind of intimacy, tedious and invisible as mothering itself. There is another kind of intimacy in the conversations you may have with your children as they grow older, in which you confess to failings, reveal anxieties, share your bouts of creative struggle, regret, frustration. There is intimacy in your quarrels, your negotiations and running jokes. But above all, there is intimacy in your contact with their bodies, with their shit and piss, sweat and vomit, with their stubbled kneecaps and dimpled knuckles, with the rips in their underpants as you fold them, with their hair against your lips as you kiss the tops of their heads, with the bones of their shoulders and with the horror of their breath in the morning as they pursue the ancient art of forgetting to brush. Lucky me that I should be permitted the luxury of choosing to find the intimacy inherent in this work that is thrust upon so many mothers. Lucky me.”