Editorial Hex by Scherezade Siobhan & M.J. Arnett
“A Writer is the shortest distance between two worlds” {Jim Bowler}
You ask us who we are … We, who are the reincarnated snakeoil merchants at the border-towns of Algeria or the gas-mask dervishes dancing in Fibonacci spirals at the mouth of a ripe canon. We, the curios of our own desires as we put the pen to the roadmap of our trapdoor destinies, live relics with phantom limbs brush-stroking the digital zeitgeist; to make ephemera into eons. When you look for us, we are au corant even as we are the archaeological metronome of Time sifting the banyan roots in Sumatra temples. There is suppleness to this space that is sentient within its chaosphere. We are not writing poems, we are flinging coins into the vast inkwell of cyberia as wishes cast to the fountainhead of duende. Is there a form to the beast that flickers its teeth in the razor light of an Andalusian sun? Is there a grammar to the grief of our Nada Brhma? We sit on the cusp of the digital and the tribal. We are half camphor, half rose quartz coruscating in a runic waltz. We are an arts and literature journal dedicated to coloring outside the lines: lines of genre, lines of narrative, lines of language, lines of persona. We are fault lit – asymptotic and volcanic. We welcome breaks in the assemblage. We whisper in the fissures, murmur in the crevices. We want old forms in new storms, visceral and ethereal, incantatory and hermetic. We are Dada. We are OuliPo. We welcome surrealism. We welcome abstraction. We are glitch. We are belle grotesque. We are the thrumming aorta of a hull that believes in the mammoth civil disobedience of its own blood. We are all and we are nothing. The page is white noise & we are bringing a Mariachi band to the library. This is who we are; a disembodied voice crafting operatic undertones from within the void of virtual storytelling.
Pocket sarcophagi hidden in the cracks of the sidewalk, the mourning whisper waiting beneath your fingernails. Sterile incantations stuttered by the white-robed acolyte, his eyes groping beneath the bleeding quarter moon
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