World: Culture: Friday the 13th

2012 will be the end of the world, you know.

As we’re all aware by now, informed by friends, family, scientists shamans and even the raving lunatic perched on the milk crate downtown, the real end of the world is to come on December 21st (although, to the best of my knowledge, wasn’t that supposed to end on October 21st of last year? what ever happened to that guy?).

With the number of natural and economic disasters plaguing the world over the past year, few would argue that we’ve been rather unlucky as of late.

It would follow that early into 2012 that, excited at the very thought of all of the new prospects and adventures that 2012 totes along in its calendarial bag of goodies, we make it to the second Friday of the year and — BAM — the infamous Friday the 13th is staring right at us.

Not having anything better to do with my time and mind, the barrage of virtual mentionings got me curious as to why the number 13 is considered so unlucky. And what was more, why Friday? Friday is a great day. Everyone loves Friday. It’s the gateway to the weekend, synonymous with relaxation, casual dress codes and the predecessor to two solid mornings of sleeping in. We even thank the Big Guy (or Gal. or goodness. whatever.) for Friday, going so far as to sing about it. That’s right, Katy Perry. TGIF, indeed.

So where did this superstition originate from?

Judas: the Loki of The Last Supper

The root of all evil? Historically speaking, many agree that the idea appears to stem from a Norse myth about 12 gods partaking in a dinner party. In the midst of their godly enjoyment, in walks guest number 13, Loki, who, up to his usual mischief, arranges to have one of the gods (the god of joy, no less) in attendance killed with an arrow tipped off with mistletoe.

A literal killjoy, if you will.

(If this setting sounds faintly familiar, you’re not mistaken. The Last Supper, anyone? Judas, being the infamous 13th guest to arrive, is ultimately responsible for betrayal and untimely death of Jesus.)

Since myth and religion have that interesting tendency to control all other aspects of life, the sentiment appeared to snowball: the number 13 took on its own life, spreading its numerical woes far and wide.

Here are some examples of where 13 has staked its claim:

If you see this, you're probably already in Hell. (photo by T Wheatley)

Missing in Action. As you’ve likely noticed, most buildings and hotels rarely have a floor or room 13 (which I’ve always found quite amusing – 14th is clearly the 13th in disguise. You’re not fooling anyone, 14.).

 

A true hangman's noose consists of 13 coils. (photo by vambo25)

Death by 13. Back when hangings were en vogue, 13 coils was the norm (traditionally speaking, a lesser or greater number of coils fall short of a true “hangman’s” noose/knot). And, while on the topic of primitive methods of legal manslaughter, often constructed to be a height of 14 feet, the standard 14 foot guillotine featured a blade drop of 13 feet.

 

As history would have it, 12 is the new 13. (photo by Benny Feng)

Replaced by 12. In the world of numerology, 12 is considered complete, whereas 13 is seen as just a bit too much, thus disturbing that balance (although, going way back, 13 once represented femininity (number of lunar [menstrual] cycles in a year [13 x 28 = 364 days]. then along came a male-dominated society, equipped with the solar calendar, replacing the feminine perfection of 13 with 12. and phallus-shaped monuments).

 

This is when you should be most afraid of the number 13. (photo by Ben Mottram)

Growing pains (in the ass). Last but not least, children become teenagers at 13. And if that doesn’t mark a period of certain misfortune, I don’t know what does.

 

For all these reasons (and so many more. seriously. do yourself a favor and Google it. in-sanity.), 13 has been forever ingrained in our minds as a number we should avoid.

But why Friday, of all days?

It turns out our now-beloved day of the week, too, has a checkered past.

Nothing says total relaxation like eternal unconsciousness. (photo source: Capital Punishment U.K.)

A Great Day to Hang Out. Fridays were public hanging days in Britain. What better way to welcome the end of a work week than with a corpse hanging on the end of a rope?

 

They may not have had clothes, but they certainly had a cat. (painting by Hendrik Goltzius)

Even in Eden. Ah, religion. Friday was the day that Eve tempted Adam (clothes, no. days of the week, yes. priorities, people.). They also died on a Friday. Nearly a thousand years later.

 

No picking up people with excavators. Not even a little bit.

Don’t even start. Period. Because Friday is not the day to do it. Don’t begin a journey, don’t start a new job, don’t get married, don’t commence a business project, don’t move house and — Heaven forbid — if you’re pregnant, don’t start pushing until after midnight, lest you push out the spawn of Satan or otherwise doom your offspring to a life full of misfortune (I have no interesting historical facts to offer on these. word on the street is just don’t.)

And that’s just scratching the surface.

Lucky for all of the triskaidekaphobics out there, as a door prize before the world ends in December, 2012 provides not one, not two, but THREE opportunities to revel in all that is Friday the 13th.

And they’re exactly 13 weeks apart.

What luck!

No Comments by on January 13, 2012
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glad to see you, 2012 [6-month haitus update]

Happy New Year!

I suppose, being a new year and all, it would be appropriate to give a brief summary from where we last left off in 2011. Since the most recent of my hiatuses has lasted 6 months, you’d assume many things have changed. And you’d be right.

Let’s see.

By mid-2011, I’d long since abandoned my former life (and ex) in Melbourne and had created a new life in Sydney. A nice, cozy, comfortable life. I had a stable job that paid incredibly well, an expanding group of expat friends, and the best housemate one could ever hope to find.

I was happy.

Reality, however, was tapping me on the shoulder.

Fact was, the time on my visa was slowly running out. I’d entered Australia nearly a year prior, which meant I needed to be out by that date the following year. Renewal, for Americans, remains an impossibility and, bar being sponsored (possible, but costly) or staying beyond that date (hello, 5 year ban!), I needed to think of the future.

India was, for a brief time, a real possibility. I’d been invited as the plus-one by a friend of mine to attend a wedding at the beginning of October in Mumbai. The dates, as well as my original round-trip ticket itinerary, fit perfectly. I concluded that I’d spend October and the better part of November trekking around South Asia before returning to the States to celebrate the first holiday season in two years with my father.

And then I met someone.

Someone nice.

I’ll be the first to admit it: I temporarily lost sight of things. We moved in together. Enticed by the suggestion, I stopped working. I leisurely lay around the house by day, reading and writing. In the evenings, I ate homemade Brazilian cuisine and was serenaded on the guitar. Saturdays were spent at the beach, where he had the patience to (attempt to, at least) teach me to surf. And, on Sundays, I received breakfast in bed.

Now you understand why I lost sight.

And also why I was subtly uninvited as the plus-one.

So, India was out. Regardless of that fact, I still had to leave the country, which made things all the more difficult. I had an upcoming flight to Madrid that was immovable, having already been pushed back as far as possible. And, although I was quite pleased with my relationship, I’d already crossed out Australia on my mental list of countries I’d entertain as my next “home.” So much so that the very thought of continuing on in Australia, albeit beside an incredible man, caused those leisurely days to transform into anxiety-filled, list-making sessions.

As I awaited the day of departure, I tried my hardest to live in the moment and make the most of my remaining time. I jetted off to Perth, visiting The Canadian in the glorious, backpackers’ paradise that is Freo for a week, spent a weekend in Adelaide where I managed to fall head-over-heels in love with a complete stranger in a period of 24 hours, and even crossed an item off of my Bucket List by learning to dive at the Great Barrier Reef.

On October 5th, I got on that flight to Madrid with the honest intention of returning to Sydney later that month. I even bought a one-way ticket back. All in the name of love.

But I didn’t go back.

I decided, once away from the entire situation, that sacrificing my happiness by living in a country that I had had enough of was not worth it. Moreover, making another’s life miserable because of my volatile disposition, born from my own inability to stay in one place for “too long”, was not worth it.

I was ready to close the chapter I’d written in Australia. I was ready to begin anew.

So, with a heavy heart, I proceeded to smoke and drink years off of my life in Madrid for a month and a half amongst people I’d long since seen, but far since forgotten. I terrorized them with my state of emotional despair, divulged depraved theories and thoughts about love and life, and cried more times than I care to admit. And I read. A lot.

By November 22nd, practically a walking, nicotine-infused rum and Diet Coke, I was ready to go “home” to spend the holidays with my father.

And I’ve been here ever since.

That’s not to say I’ll be here long; merely people to see, preparations to make, tickets to buy.

Argentina, prepare thyself. You’re next.

No Comments by on January 1, 2012
filed in australia, personal, travel
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