London's Stations, or, The Mystery of the Invisible Editor

For many months now, we have been invisible.

Why? For what possible purpose, for what conceivable intent, could this be the case?
There are no good replies... (Remorse is requisite. It is duly laid out, here, with penitential heart and truthful spirit.)

...Save for this: Lost in London. We (part of the newly functioning UK branch of Creative Works Int'l Media) know the train stations very well. They are a nice, fixed point in the ever-turning wheel of the city; they are magnetic, and deceptively spaced. A ten-minute wander in any direction can, at times, lead one to half a dozen stations. On the other hand, a three-hour ramble can lead one to precisely not the spot one had hoped to find. Lurking in second-hand bookshops. Market research, incognito. And such summer schemes.

Why incognito? --Valiantly, we go forth. Valiantly, we persist. (Despite that once the fabled spot is found, 'market research' often takes a backseat to grovelling among old children's books. Old travel guides. Old oddities, of diverse sorts.)

Valiantly, we find our way back to the station, having not discovered it: the secret to the perfect children's book. It is, after all, the new Philosopher's stone?

Join us, and see--

Details of our new forthcoming contests to follow.

Of Time, and Other Musings

Time is a fascinating subject to catch hold of...on rainy days, brooding about, it is a balm--to the lovelorn, the brave, the bored, the foolish, the splendidly happy, the mournfully lonesome--all things pale before this consideration.

We profess to know so much about it: 'Ten twenty-five,' said I promptly in response to a bewildered passerby this morning.
'A.M.--that's in the morning, is it?'
'...yes.'

For it had not occurred to me, you see, that it could be otherwise than ten twenty-five AM. And yet, this bewildered soul was quite right: there is not a topic on this earth, or outside of it, about which we know less.

For example, does it run in circles? Is it, then, the ever-present whirlpool? A matrix, perhaps? Or a drudging line, stretching out into oblivion, never to return whence we have come? Can past and present exist at once? And how would one know? It is the eternal mystery, of all the mysteries in this thing we call life.

I am aware that I may be delving into morose monstrosities of brooding here, but never fear: it does wrap round to return to publishing in the end.

For if time is not an arrow, but a sphere, then all the ideas, all the experiences we have been carrying about within ourselves for years (and doubtless wish to banish many from the groove of our memories) are as fresh and new as they were when they sprung into being. Thus, though we grow and learn beyond our stories' capacity, betimes, we can never leave the feelings that once we owned. Every instance of great feeling seems, to me, an hour-mark, every moment of passion or sorrow or envy or joy a tick-mark, a sundial-slash in the fluid sand of one's life. Tho' the tide of years may come up and seem to wash the mark away, it remains. It is ever being made, and disappearing, at once.

It may not be true, but what a good brooding introductory theme it makes.


© 2009 Creative Works Int'l Media, all world rights reserved

Lost, and Found

I apologize for my unwieldy absence; I've been away, and relocating to London, where I shall hope to sleuth about the literary scene on behalf of my fellow editors with equanimity. And, doubtless, walk into a great many passers-by.

In the process, I seem to have forgotten Dr. Johnson's dictionary--still under the bed, this time in my old house. A great pity indeed.

But all is not lost! I have had a hint that great news is ahead. Please watch this space, for a grand adventure unfolds...But how do I know?

...It buzzes, within, this sense--clear and qualmless as any bell. See? If you can't beat them, join them: words are fluid, as is language itself. Perhaps someday we shall communicate purely by images 'sent' to each others' brains. A great pity, one feels, indeed. For without words, without the weight and heft of them...

Let's just leave it at that for this evening, shall we? And, back to the pondering-board as one contemplate a wordless life. A human existence, or no?

http://www.facebook.com/topic.php?topic=9653&uid=111734314017#/pages/Creative-Works-Intl-Media/111734314017