In a previous post, I outlined my idea that X-time, as some people are calling it, is actually the new history and everyone who needs to will end up being back on the Island, culminating in a set of events that are, for the most part, what we’re familiar with.  A few small changes will result in a different, and more favorable, outcome.  I like the idea of this as a story, and if it’s true, then I’m pretty sure I know now how things will change.

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In “Flashes Before Your Eyes,” Eloise Hawking explained to Desmond (and by proxy, us) that the universe “has a way of course correcting.”  Much later, her son, Daniel Faraday, informed us that “whatever happened, happened.”  Later, he recanted, but what does that mean?  Even the producers seem to have changed their minds, but can we believe anything that Darlton tells us?  Didn’t they once say that there would be no time travel on Lost?  Haven’t they provided enough misdirection over the course of the series for us to realize they can’t really be trusted?  And what does this mean for the rest of us, who are still gathering around our television sets every week, trying to figure it all out?

I believe that I know the answers to these questions.

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Two years ago, I met my wife on eHarmony.  Rachel was still living in Ohio while I was here in South Carolina.  For a while after we first talked, she and I posed every question that we could think of, yearning to know each other better.  When she asked what kinds of things I enjoyed, I told her that I was a big fan of Lost.  ”What’s that?” she asked.

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In all my years, I have never conducted a more unusual interview.  Once, I had to spend a week pretending that I was an Oompa Loompa just to convince Johnny Depp to open to me, but that was another day at the office compared to what I had to do for this.

To begin with, I had to agree to being drugged, transported to an undisclosed location, and give up all contact with my friends and family for three weeks.  Then, they trotted me around the Island, eventually bringing me to a quaint little ranch-style house nestled between groves of banyan trees.  Once inside, they led me down to the basement, where I was splattered with something that might have been chicken blood but smelled more like the strawberry syrup I mix with my milk.  After a few incantations, one of the walls slid away to reveal a torchlit chamber.  Miles and miles later (and probably deeper into the earth, too), we finally made it into what they call the monster’s den, a square room that seemed too big to be real.  The walls were adorned with artwork from time periods ranging from early cave drawings right up to Andy Warhol prints.  Here, I was given unprecedented access to one of television’s most enigmatic creatures, LOST’s “smoke monster.”

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Ever since I started watching Lost shortly before the second season began, I’ve had a tradition of going back and watching the entire series from the beginning in preparation for each new premiere.  That wasn’t the only time of the year I’d do that — usually, I’d view it two or three times during the hiatus — but this year, I haven’t had that opportunity.  Instead, I’ve had different priorities, but that doesn’t make me any less of a fan.
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