Eris X Eris
September 4, 2019
Star-mangled inner connections. Online interactions smashed by Amor asteroids and Klonopin marbles. Call it what you want. For me, the subconscious meandering towards the salubrious orbit of the Eris duo tugged at my heart like a violent tidal inertia. Upon first reading their words, I was instantly attracted to their prose, and their personalities. So similar to what I normally look for in literary art, yet so uncannily different.
Finding myself publishing, sharing, reading and posting edge-tearing literary pieces on sites like Surfaces and Expat Press, it should not be difficult to find diverse voices from the fragmented fringes of society. Yet, since my inception to this inner circle near the beginning of the year, when I decided to take up fiction carving in earnest again, I’ve found the majority of my interactions have been with predominately 25 – 40-year-old, middle-class, relatively well educated, white males.
Basically, people equally invested in spontaneous self-taught writing that highlights irregular subject matter mined from the same demographics and backgrounds as me.
Nothing wrong with that, just the way it is, the way it has been, at least so far – for me.
I have been that person – nearing the end of high school, trying to find a way out and through the other side, a little anxious as I try to learn life through cool art and weird people.
I have been that person – losing hope in my mid-twenties, lust-smacked by the pain of deep love lost, mind constantly numbed-out and crushed in a drug-fuelled haze only to find something important again.
I have been these people.
But I am not anymore.
These elements of myself I cannot change, nor would I want to. They are gelatinous foundations that I miss, essential moments that I can recall vicariously through these two talented, energetic, beautiful, young people I now call friends.
Most of all though, what attracted me to the voice of these girls was the sheer delicacy and destruction of their writing. Before I knew any of their back stories, even the most rudimentary details, I was taken by their ability to transcend the liminal space between tenderness and trauma via their extremely contrasting styles. Both startingly vivid and otherworldly unique, their words can drip equal parts pinkshiny viscous liquid and blown-out gray brain matter in the space of a sentence. It is in this dichotomy, something I strive for in my own writing, that has me most excited by the creations of these two girls.
What’s published now is just the start, their words sure to outlive our washed-out souls and reverberating vibralux bones. Prime yourself for undulating waves of sparkling vomit. Standby and submit to the pungent emotions of torrential incandescent gutter glitter.