Style/Flubs [There is Nothing Left to Say (On The Invisibles)]

Some common responses to There is Nothing Left to Say (On The Invisibles) include:

I’m not following [this one part].

I went down a rabbit hole after reading [this one part].

I would never have considered [this part].

I don’t see how [this part] is relevant.

That was nonsense (I love it).

That was nonsense (I hate it).

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3.11
Style/Flubs

Any piece of nonfiction has elements of overreach and talking nonsense. Most of them know this, but plow along anyway, but probably less than that admit it.

This is not speculative nonfiction, but I am, at times, writing prompt more than conclusion. It would be impossible to be an expert in enough things to expertly conclude on the subjects and details we deal with.

Something I feel The Invisibles does wonderfully, is to demonstrate with archons or with the King in Yellow, that a trick of the Emperor’s New Clothes, is that in believing at all in the invisibility or nonexistence of the new clothes, we either forget, don’t understand, or buy into the invisibility (and Invisibility), as well as the reality and visibility, the truthfulness, of, The Emperor’s New Clothes.

Dressing ideas in story, the ideas become believable. Material reality is ascribed to silks and golds of word and fancy. Fairy dross and faerie gold are not the prize or degraded forms, but one in the same. It is all ectoplasm, again, all the part of Heaven we can touch, the thought we can hold, the hold we can think, the place we can time, the time we can place.

I become incredibly cranky discussing a comic I think is formally beautiful and sometimes elegantly drawn and colored, because I cannot get past Promethea’s seeming insistence that misogyny is necessary and also it is necessary to weather it, to overlook or to accept as a burden for the grander good. Abusive, rapey, manipulative older misogynists can torment and insult young girls, but if they say they are doing it because girls need to come naked through Hell like a mythic deity, well, they know things. If they demand “sacred” prostitution in which a girl will be unconscious, this is high magick. This is the stuff! If they stick around til the end of time and space, it is because at the beginning of reality: rape! Glorious, hard, generative randy emoting rape!

A lot of pretty drawings and condescending billboards cannot, for me, justify much faith in this.

Errors also get us places and paces.

Arrows get us time.

The Invisibles, too, is imperfect and I may not agree with mechanics as they are presented, but The Invisibles not only implicitly, but explicitly asks you not to.

Weaving leafy and veiny things. Machine of organism, the bark is flesh and the flesh, cry.

When talking of The Invisibles as a hybrid of Sentimentalism in a Nonsense frame (Sentimental Nonsense), I honor the game’s commitment to being a game. The comic, The Invisibles, is loomed. It may not know it is put together, but the authors do, and they made a comic which appears to act as if it does. Twixt self-reflective and autocritique is self-dissembling not to end, but to progress.

The inns and ins of laurel ingress and apple egress, pomegranate and cyclamen and nymphaea. And, the sour associations do.