It wasn't always easy, even at the time, to maintain the kind of concentration required in my profession. It was my responsibility to sort through the many words that often flowed, and sometimes spewed, from the mouths of those principle writers, and organize them into something coherent, and hopefully meaningful. Looking back at it all, I do have many fond memories. I have few regrets, although we were much different people then. We learned a lot. And that is all a person can hope for in this life: to learn from one's mistakes, and move forward in a way that is increasingly legendary.
I sometimes go back in my mind, and recall those Dystopian days, and I am always assured that we did create something that was deep, and meaningful if only to us. It certainly all seemed like a good idea at the time. And it almost went on forever. But some flames are too hot, and are doomed by sucking all the oxygen out of the room. Such was our fate. Things got too dark, too weird, and were at the point of becoming ugly. We, unfortunately, had to fire Mr. Falcon for excessive binge drinking, and increasingly violent attitudes toward God. What followed after that was the great and beautiful tragedy that changed everything forever.
Steven H. Falcon, Esq. did not go down quietly. He broke a lot of windows on his way out, and let a lot of monsters in. We never fully appreciated the burden he had carried in his single-handed efforts to keep the vultures at bay, and once we let him go we realized that things had only begun to get weird. Nothing made sense any more. The hounds of Hell were baying at the gates, and we had to burn everything before narrowly escaping by the rooftops in the black of a Tuesday night in the pouring rain. Then Mr. Wilde disappeared for a while.
He told me only that he was going to Iceland to remember what was forgotten. When he came back he seemed a different color. Rumor has it that he bludgeoned Mr. Falcon to death with a volcanic rock, and buried him at the foot of Helgafell, or some other stony, barren fire pit. I try not to speculate, and he has never spoken of that trip with me. That was all a very long time ago.
So, now that things have calmed, and there has been ample time for quiet reflection, and meditation, he has asked me to rejoin him, and be his voice of reason once more. I have been following this blog carefully from a distance, ever since it's creation. I have sometimes seen some faint premonitions that it could be something better than the old way. Writing is a tricky business, and is particularly difficult when one suddenly finds himself to be a different person than he was before. So We have had many discussions about it, and I am convinced that we can, indeed, get back some of what we once had. But this time we will open up our voice and sing the old songs without all the ugliness that became our hallmark toward the end of that fearful odyssey of the soul.
We are older now, and wiser. We still have things to say, maybe more than ever. We have seen, and still see things that are hard to describe without resorting to course language. But Mr. Wilde has expressed to me a new found desire to express himself in a way that is, if not positive, at least less abrasive. I believe this can be done, and although Mr. Falcon would certainly not approve, we wish to do this in his memory.
- - - Roger Dwellings, editor in chief
Vita Ipsa Loquitur
Steven H. Falcon, esq.
May he remain wherever he is, and burn eternally.
*Photo of Mr. Falcon by Jake Penrose
