Are You an Invisible?

Are You an Invisible? —Manichean Mutant Metamorphosis, A Chaos Magic Artifact Brought Out of a Reading of THE INVISIBLES by Grant Morrison

© 2013 Jonathan Zap

(Note: All italicized quotes are from THE INVISIBLES unless otherwise indicated.)

A sometimes surreal exploration of Grant Morrison’s graphic novel masterpiece THE INVISIBLES asks the reader to consider whether they might be an Invisible—an empowered and transforming mutant.

Are you an Invisible?


If you’re willing to read to the end of this document, or the book, THE INVISIBLES, then there is a high probability that you are an Invisible.

But there are many sorts of Invisibles—some are part of a hermetic circle of Invisibles, others seem to drift at the margins of social matrices, never fully bonding with fellow Invisibles. Some Invisibles fulfill their mission to shift the matrix in some essential way; others fade from Invisibility and become passively alienated or even merge with the opaque herd.

It’s important to know what sort of an Invisible you are, because some types of Invisibles have much brighter prospects than others.

invisiblesreaching hand

Every sentence that goes by diminishes the chances that non-Invisibles are reading, because Invisibles are more bi-hemispheric and able to process oblique information, thought-forms coming in from odd angles, while non-Invisibles require thought forms that are highly stereotyped and absolutist.

Of course, a source of information that is always oblique can get really annoying, like asking Confucius for driving instructions and getting a series of parables and kōans. Soon I will switch to straightforward mode and come up with a working definition of an Invisible.

Invisibles are in need of being named and defined, but not to a degree that they are made too visible, because then, of course, they lose their invisibility. To paraphrase Lao-Tsu, the Invisible that can be named is not a True Invisible.

While the Invisibles tend to be unnamed, many of us have names for non-Invisibles—some call them muggles or zombies; Jung called them “mass man;” Gurdjieff called them the “hasnamuss.”

I’ve never found a perfect name for the Invisibles. I use the word “mutant.” In an attempt at nonobliqueness, I wrote the following definition of a mutant in A Glossary of Zap Terms, which will also be our working definition of an Invisible:

A Mutant is not a genetic anomaly but a person who is undergoing evolutionary metamorphosis. Mutants are empowered by a core of self-actualization (what Jung called “individuation.”)  A Mutant is a self-aware interdimensional traveler who is taking charge of his or her own interdimensional journey into the unknown. A Mutant is someone who has a deep commitment to consciousness, which means a willingness to peel back the many layers of acquired conditioning and to help along the project of consciousness in general. This means that the deep commitment extends to others who are also committed to consciousness. A Mutant with a capital “M” is one who serves transpersonal aims, and is not merely looking to enhance his own status. It is this sort of Mutant that Jung referred to when he said, “Every advance in culture is, psychologically, an extension of consciousness, a coming to consciousness that can take place only through discrimination. Therefore an advance always begins with individuation, that is to say with the individual, conscious of his isolation, cutting a new path through hitherto untrodden territory. To do this he must first return to the fundamental facts of his own being, irrespective of all authority and tradition, and allow himself to become conscious of his distinctiveness. If he succeeds in giving collective validity to his widened consciousness, he creates a tension of opposites that provides the stimulation which culture needs for its further progress. (from A glossary of Zap Terms)


You joined a long time ago, but if you don’t want to come with us now, if you don’t want to find out more about what this is all about, you’re free to go your own way. THE INVISIBLES 

The problem with this definition is that not all Invisibles have fully answered the call to adventure. There are many faded or fading Invisibles. To the perception of an empowered Invisible, they throw back a weak radar return—the distinctness of their invisibility is becoming a gray blur, browning at the edges. These are the Invisibles who disappoint their potential and succumb to the tragic magic of the Babylon Matrix.They are in a state of falling (sometimes quickly, sometimes in slow-motion) through the wrong end of the telescope. Reversed telescope portals are available everywhere—some are in the form of white powders, others reside in fluorescent-lit cubicles, junk food meals, advertisements, and inauthentic social situations.

You think you’re an outlaw but you just do what they want you to do; cause trouble for a little while, screw some tart, raise more robots, and on and on and on.  THE INVISIBLES

Diminishing Invisibles eventually become invisible to themselves and thereby lose their Invisibility. To be an Invisible, your self-awareness must be ever growing, and if it’s not, then it is ever diminishing. Dylan described this steep bifurcation:

He not busy being born

Is busy dying

Grant Morrison wants to empower Invisibles who are busy being born. In a fax he sent on October 26, 1993 with his proposal for THE INVISIBLES, Grant stated his intentions this way:

One of the things we should be trying to bring out is the idea of the Invisibles as a group to which anyone might belong. Involve the reader in the whole process by making him/her realize that she/he too can join/has already joined the ranks of The Invisibles. Part of what I want to achieve with this title in the long-term involves actually changing the consciousness of the readers by presenting them with various techniques and concepts which will undoubtedly alter their way of looking at the world, in that sense, THE INVISIBLES isn’t a comic about something but is the thing itself and every reader is a potential Invisible. If the Invisibles are Shamanic Terrorists, the comic itself is an act of shamanic terrorism.

The Invisibles in Grant Morrison’sTHE INVISIBLES are mutants who have answered the call to adventure and are willing to undergo a quest with transpersonal aims. They are part of a cognitive, imaginal, and sometimes fully physical, insurrection against the toxic patriarchal structures of The Babylon Matrix.

Invisibles never rebel from a default reality through purely physical means. It would be literal, obtuse and self-defeating to battle the toxic structures of a matrix while fully identified with its manifestations. It would be like someone having a manic, psychotic episode while playing World of Warcraft such that they forget about any existence outside of WOW. The deluded WOW player finds that he is in a hellish world surrounded by enemies and adversarial forces. In his state of self-forgetting, he assumes that the only way out of this hellish World of Warcraft is to defeat every single avatar that comes at him until they have all been defeated.

An Invisible, however, knows to just let go of various game controllers when they become disempowering. An Invisible realizes that to really transform a matrix you must hack into the source code and rewrite the linguistic and translinguistic reality definitions.

Rewriting these codes is another way of saying magic, which, as Aleister Crowley defines it, is “the science and art of creating change in conformity with will.” Of course, someone frying an egg is creating change in conformity to will, but they are not shifting a matrix in the more essential way that Invisibles seek to. So we could rewrite Crowley’s principle: An Invisible is engaging the science and art of creating fundamental change in conformity with will. George Bernard Shaw was hinting at the Invisibles when he said,

The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore, all progress depends on the unreasonable man.

A classic way for an Invisible to create fundamental change is for them to create portals, portals which other Invisibles can gaze into, possibly interact with, and expand their awareness. The portals they create are sometimes cultural artifacts such as movies, books, websites or graphic novels…

Grant Morrison used his linguistic skills and chaos magic to work collaboratively with other artists to create a portal called THE INVISIBLES, a serialized work, which can now be experienced as a massive single volume of 1600 pages squirming with colored images, and words that horrify and inspire.

The Invisibles Omnibus is an expensive book, but it has to be—sewn binding, 1600 glossy pages exquisitely printed in full color and with no bleed through (except in your mind). And there are the thousands, if not tens of thousands of man-hours and mutant-hours contributed by Grant, and all the letterers, inkers and colorists who produced the 10,000 or so panels comprising this massive book. If you have money to spend on this book, I also recommend the purchase of a magnifying glass with a five-inch diameter lens. Magnifiers this size diffract light in such a way that it makes illustrations and photographs seem 3-D, and this effect, as well as the magnification, increased the portal effect for me.

invisible magnifier

Someone, probably an Invisible, once said that you shouldn’t read a book unless it is like a ball of light glowing in your hands. Reading the Invisibles Omnibus is like holding a 13-inch diameter sphere of what appears to be clear quartz crystal in your hands. It’s heavy and a bit unwieldy to keep a grip on for long. These physical considerations, however, fade into the background when it starts to radiate strange images and you discover that it is a Palantír. To paraphrase Nietzsche, if you gaze overlong into THE INVISIBLES, it begins to gaze back at you. And sometimes its gaze is like the Eye of Sauron and it penetrates you with fell visions and the spells of Mordor.


As Invisibles become drawn into THE INVISIBLES they will see images of many things, some intentionally false and distorted, others revelatory of hidden truths. It takes strength of mind to look into a Palantír, or The Mirror of Galadriel, or THE INVISIBLES—an interactive portal made of words and images. An Invisible who engages THE INVISIBLES may find synchronicities linking them to this work in uncanny ways.


They may also find that dark forces which whisper at the edges of their mind will be revealed in THE INVISIBLES, like a series of illuminated X-rays. The metastasizing spells of parasitic magic revealed in the X-rays will be tough to look at. But these things were much more uncomfortable for the Invisibles who underwent them. For example, imagine yourself held captive in an institution at age seventeen. The head of the institution is a man named Gelt, who wears glasses with round lenses of nearly opaque blackness. Introducing you to your institutionalized captivity, Gelt tells you,

We have mummified the LIVING here.

Removed all their anger and frustration. All their feelings; left them hollow and dry, ready to be returned to the world…

Here we make little soldiers. Empty heads, marching to a common beat. Living, growing old, dying in our service…

Two things we will make you; smooth between the legs, smooth between the ears, and what we take from you, will feed the kings of this earth.

It is this sort of X-ray you must be willing to endure to read THE INVISIBLES.


THE INVISIBLES is a spell. It’s not just a comic book. It tells the future. Things happen around it and to the people who absorb it. I’m not lying to you. I present a slice of human experience in this form. I started out writing a story and slowly, over a few years, the world I live in became almost exactly like the story.  —excerpt from Grant Morrison’s final “Invisible Ink” essay, from THE INVISIBLES Vol 3, #1

The Invisibles is a nexus of synchronicities and crossover effects for both its authors and for many readers. For example, I found many synchronistic links to my own unfinished fantasy epic, Parallel Journeys.

There were several, but here are the two that are the easiest to explain. In a panel with a picture of a tower with six high-tension power lines one Invisible says to another:

One day when we’re all gone, the creatures who come after us’ll find these old steel skeletons marching across desert wastes or tropical swamplands.

Think how mysterious they’ll appear, like the old stones are to us. The new caretakers of the earth will wonder if these pylons were built to mark highways of unknown and forgotten power.

In a passage from Parallel Journeys written in the mid-eighties, a character named Tommy, who is an Invisible in multiple senses (he is a mutant with literal cloaking abilities) is also standing before a high-tension, power-line tower:

In the center of this dry ground stood an enormous geometric construction of steel bars, an abstraction of a standing human form with upstretched metal arms holding six black power lines against the sky.

Tommy stood before this structure with a deep, primitive dread, feeling its power through the pores of his skin. Invisible energy from the lines made his muscles twitch and pulled at his hair.

One issue of THE INVISIBLES is entitled The Last Temptation of Jack. Jack’s full name, his Invisible’s name, is “Jack Frost.” The largest section of book one of Parallel Journeys (which also dates back to the 80s) is entitled The Last Temptation of the Snowman.

Note added: On April 24 of 2013, the day after I wrote the above, I found that my very close friend, Jack Savage, had just taken his life. Jack had just turned 24 and was one of the greatest poetic and soulful voices of his generation (Savage Reflections—the Soulful Poems of Jack Savage). He was, by far, the most significant Jack ever to cross into my life. The Last Temptation of the Snowman takes place in an astral realm. Two weeks (and again three days) before the suicide (and with no information about Jack for the previous eight months) I had a powerful dream where Jack appeared to be in a distressed, paranoid place in a lower astral realm (which looks like a grim, abandoned, urban landscape) written about in Parallel Journeys. That part, and the Last Temptation of the Snowman involve an attempt to help persons having a difficult time in a lower astral plane. No specific dream was recalled three days before the suicide, but I awoke with an overwhelming and anguished concern for Jack. In the panel where Dane, a young man is being given his Invisible’s  name, Jack Frost, he says: “Fuck off! I’ not committing suicide…” Dane also looks like Jack.


p. 589 of the Invisibles Omnibus (Jack Savage was born in 89’)

I could go on, but the synchronicities I experienced will not be as interesting to you as the ones you will likely experience if you approach the uncanny energies shimmering around THE INVISIBLES. As with the example outlined above, be prepared that the synchronicities could be intense and life-changing.

When you were young you spent hours writing with your left hand, didn’t you? You were trying unconsciously to break the alphabet spell our teachers placed upon you.                                                     

P.S. I have written this essay as a suicide note because your “education” system is retarded and rooted in an 18th-century production ethic and by the time you find this and award me zero out of infinity, I will be dead.

Issues of the THE INVISIBLES were originally printed with a warning that they were for “mature audiences.” I would add that THE INVISIBLES is not for those who confuse maturity with a persistent, socially sanctioned immaturity that many will bring with them to the grave.

The only way to do that is to jump “up” from the surface of timespace and see all of history and all our tomorrows as the single object I believe it is.

THE INVISIBLES is a jumping up from history and all its blood-stained pageantry marching through time and space.  It gazes down at all that from hyperspace where it can be seen as a single object.

The universe— the entire space-time continuum, from big bang to heat death, no less— was not a linear stream of events with beginning, middle, and end. That was only how it felt from the inside. In fact, the totality of existence looked more like a ball of sphincters, constantly moving through itself in a way that was hypnotic and awe inspiring to observe.

—Grant Morrison, Supergods

THE INVISIBLES gazes down from hyperspace at human history, that particular ball of sphincters glowing in the night of time, and then cross-sections it from odd angles.  These crosssections are then stained, colored, lettered and otherwise made into the 10,000 or so panels of THE INVISIBLES.

 I’ve been here before.

You’re here still. Prepare yourself.

Initiation never ends.

All it takes is the correct angle and you’ll see what you have always been.


II. Answering the Call of the Invisibles


You joined a long time ago, but if you don’t want to come with us now, if you don’t want to find out more about what this is all about, you’re free to go your own way.

Imagine you’re made of smoke, blue smoke drifting in the breeze. A ghost of blue smoke. Be invisible.    

The way this works, Jack, is that we fold psychic constructs of ourselves through from one point on the supersphere to another.

You are in a room with wood paneling and leather-upholstered furniture. Bookshelves filled with old books line the walls. The room is so dimly lit you see little more than the outline of these things, but you can smell the old books, cracked leather chairs, pipe tobacco and dusty carpet. The carpet seems to be charged with an inordinate amount of static electricity. You feel it every time you move your bare feet. Or perhaps the electricity is coming from the Invisible who has entered the room from a shadowy corner. You feel him, the silent percussive waves of his personality and presence, the sense of long journeys and the magnetic pull of inexorable destinies. He has come here to offer you something. At the edge of your vision you begin to see the swirling of a blue smoke that has tiny scintillations of color within it, a prismatic mist scarcely visible beneath the smoke like tiny diamonds nearly hidden by the nicotine haze of heavy cigarette smoke. The scintillating smoke draws nearer, and for a moment it shimmers into different human forms—a seventeen-year-old boy with blonde hair and a couple of missing fingers, an athletic looking androgynous black woman, a man with a shaved head, a tall transsexual who is possibly Hispanic, an old homeless man with a scraggly beard. But none of these forms stick, and you sense that the Invisible is not here to meet you in any personal way. He/she is here to offer you a portal. The thought form crackles like static electricity in your mind space. What little it’s willing to say is offered telepathically and impersonally. The information appears in your mind as implicit thought forms, like the things you know in a dream without being told.

The subtle scintillations within the swirling blue smoke grow brighter and become more kinetic. The smoke is spinning itself up like a dust devil whipping up loose paper and other bits of debris from the carpeting. It is forming the portal, and the spinning of the vortex seems to tighten and focus itself until suddenly a definite form emerges and stands before you. It is a suit of clothes that is filled out as if by a person, but no person is visible, only a faint remnant of the blue smoke.

The suit of clothes is more threadbare than fancy—just an old green hoodie with slightly tattered sleeves, faded jeans and black Converse high top sneakers. But the outfit is also fringed by a corona of blue electricity and it seems to have an immense gravitational field. The field lifts you just off your feet so that now you are hovering a couple of inches above the carpet. You are not pulled into the outfit because there is a decision nexus preventing that, a choice that must be made.

Telepathically, you are made aware that choosing to enter the outfit means, among other things, that for eight minutes you will show up in this suit of clothes in a dimly lit room, the private library of a well-educated man of the 16th Century. This time displacement will be slightly unstable and may make you feel uncomfortable—some nausea and vertigo—but you will have to master these feelings and use these eight minutes to tell this man something that he will find highly disturbing. You must tell him that he has missed a whole dimension of life, and that this dimension, though unseen, forms his life and all the life he sees around him. You must make him understand that hidden in this dimension of invisible life are potent predators and parasites that could diminish or end his life. You’ll know what to say to him, because from where you come from, knowledge about this hidden dimension of life is commonplace and a summary of it will come quickly to mind. What is commonplace to you, however, will be an ontological shock to the man of the 16th Century, an Invisible living at a four hundred year displacement from you. For him, what you have to say will be like a tear ripping through the whole fabric of his reality. And yet, you sense that this message must be delivered and as you make your choice you are pulled toward the suit of clothes.

Your visual field interrupts for a moment as you feel an elevator drop twisting in your stomach, sudden figure/ground reversal, and now you are in the suit of clothes hovering in the dusty airspace of the room. There are things in the pockets of the hoodie. From the left pocket you pull a crinkling bag of candy, brightly colored capsules of sugar and chemical flavor, the brand name is revealed on a shimmering, rainbow-hued Mylar surface —Skittles. In the right pocket is a familiar oblong object of rounded edges and precision surfaces of glass and metal. Your fingers trace the familiar contours of an unsheathed iPhone.

A strong breeze blows through the room now. There is a sphere before you, it appears to be made of liquid metal which has the look of slightly iridescent Damascus steel with a rippled structure that undulates so that the sphere at times becomes amoeboid—a moving free form of liquid metal that is coming toward you, enveloping you. On the inside, the liquid metal is huge, it seems to have as much space as a universe and you feel yourself falling through it. Your fall accelerates to the speed of light, and then the speed of thought, and then it suddenly decelerates and you find yourself tumbling in slow motion toward what looks like a very old mansion with narrow diamond pane windows glowing faintly with the flicker of amber candlelight.

You are in the room and it smells of burning animal fat candles, of old paper and ink, and the old man, an Invisible living in the 16th Century, is sitting before you at his desk, his eyes dilating with astonishment as you come into view.

He puts the quill feather filled with ink back in its stand and stares at you as if at an apparition of unknown intention. From his perspective, you are an apparition of unknown intention, but he masters his astonishment. This is not just any old man, but a highly experienced alchemical adept who has seen many uncanny things and studied secret arts and sciences for many decades before you ever appeared in your slightly tattered outfit.

Words form in your mind and you speak them aloud and, as you do, you sense the strangeness of your accent to this English speaking man of another era.

“Sir, I am here for only a very brief time and must tell you something, tell you something about the nature of who you are and how your world works that you and all the other initiates and adepts of your time have missed.”

Through his eyes, you can feel the man’s mind racing to interpret your words, adjusting to your strange accent to decipher the content. You sense that his is a brilliant mind, rigorously trained in the unraveling of mysteries.

“Sir, do you know that there are far away lands, lands across the ocean that have not been fully explored and that have animals and plants that have not yet been named or studied?”

“Yes, I am aware of this. It is an inevitability.”

“What you don’t know yet, is that there are animals and plants that are not far away, but all around you right now, and yet you don’t see them or hear them.”

“Are they some sort of spirits?”

“No, they are all too solid, and as real and physical as pigs and sheep…Let us look beneath your writing table and I will show some to you.”

You get down on your hands and knees to the handmade, intricately patterned, Persian rug and allow your hands to pass over its velvety texture.

“There are animals living in the threads of this carpet as if it were a forest. Come, I will show them to you.”

The old man kneels down to see.

You pull out the iPhone, which has enhanced capabilities and a magnifier app. A beacon of white LED light is projected from the back of the iPhone, spotlighting a small, circular area of the carpeting. You move two fingers apart on the glass screen to zoom in and reveal hideous crab-like animals with tiny heads and huge mandibles crawling between the threads of the carpet.

dust mites


He is more shocked by the images revealed than by the iPhone that he assumes to be some sort of miniaturized camera obscura, an ingenious machine of magnifying lenses and prisms.

“What foul beasts of hell are these?”

“‘They are called ‘dust mites.'” The name, “dust mites,” sounds eerie, even to you, as you sense it revolving in the man’s mind. “They are not beasts of hell, but very ordinary animals which you could find in almost any carpet. They are a type of very small insect.”

“What do they feed on?”

“They are eating particles of your dead skin.”

You can sense that the answer seems logical to him, and realize that you are forming a telepathic bond with the man, and that he is becoming aware of it as well. You both shift from kneeling on the carpet to sitting on it across from each other.

“You see, there are two great domains of physical life—the macrobiological and the microbiological.” You sense his knowledge of Greek and Latin aiding him in decoding the novel terms you are employing.

“And these creatures, the dust mites–” he gestures toward the carpet “–are microbiolgical?”

“No sir, dust mites are at the small end of the macrobiological kingdom, but would be inconceivably large compared to the microbiological realm. Each of these dust mites is composed of billions of microbiologicals called cells.” You sense that there is content preloaded on the iPhone, a video illustrating the microbiolgical world, and you hold up the device, displaying the screen in landscape mode. “Through this glass you will see moving images of the microbiological realm.” You touch the screen to play the video and quickly you narrate some of the familiar basics of the microbiological world. “Like the marcrobiological, there are predators, parasites, and symbionts.” Some of the creatures, you tell him, are helpful and others—images of viruses and spirochetes pass by—can be deadly and are the hidden causes of so many diseases and plagues.

“And these creatures are swimming about in the water that we drink?” You see that he has made an assumption about the liquid medium in which they appear to float.

“Yes, but they are also in food and in the very air you breathe. And, don’t be alarmed, but they are in you right now. They are in everybody. And yet, this is not the strangest thing I have to tell you. These creatures are not merely without; they are within, but not merely as guests or invaders. You, and I, and all the plants and animals we see, are made up of these creatures, these cells I have shown you.” You launch another video that zooms in on an illustration of a human form with revealed anatomy. It zooms in to reveal cellular structure. “Your body is composed of about 60 trillion of these cells.” The video displays the number: 60,000,000,000,000. “You are they, or your body, at least, is they, a cooperative colony of a vast number of these cells, these microbiological creatures, and each of these creatures has an internal structure as complex as a small city.”

The man’s eyes are dilated with shock, but you sense that he is getting it, that he is a man capable of sudden gnosis, a man who has plumbed great depths of inner knowing that have prepared him for the profound shock of your revelations. Telepathically, you sense the assent of this man’s inner truth sense, and can feel him filling in the gaps in his understanding of the natural world.

You stand up, and the man does too. You feel a growing sense of vertigo and realize you have only seconds left in this space/time displacement. You have just time enough to reach into your pocket and throw the Mylar bag of Skittles on his table, concrete evidence of the strange encounter, before everything destabilizes. And then profound vertigo, and it feels like you are falling backwards off a high diving board and falling in slow motion into a whirlpool of some sort—a spiraling vortex— spinning you into a discontinuity of time and awareness.

You reemerge into the dark and dusty room where you are hovering again, still costumed in the hoodie, jeans and high-top sneakers, and the Invisible, the one who sent you on this displacement, is there waiting for you, a swirling of blue smoke at the edge of your peripheral vision.

The communication is all visual telepathy now, a logos beheld. You see THE INVISIBLES Omnibus before you, a huge volume with a pink hand grenade on the cover. The book is opening and the pages are flipping by at great speed—visualized thought forms exploding in your mind. It is a download, a sort of training manual in story form—images and words flashing through your eyes and into your psyche. The content swirls inside of you, stirring deep fears and hopes.

The words and images seem to coalesce into a nexus of meanings. With some telepathic assistance from the Invisible, the vortex of words and images begins to act like a high-speed centrifuge spinning out content that was hidden between lines and behind images. The content takes the form of more definite thought forms, thought forms that have a radioactive afterglow. The thought forms emerge in a rapid staccato as pulses of words and images mixed. The words are easier to hold onto:

There is a third domain of life–

Energy based organisms–

Recognized by all cultures except the fundamentalist materialists–

They are called “spirits” and many other names–

Their forms are even more various than that of carbon-based life since their substrate is subtler and more plastic–

Similar energetic transactions as macro and microbiologicals–

Symbiosis, predation and parasitism


Potent energy parasites feeding off Homo sapiens—

Harvesting the energies of darker emotions and sexual chi–

Called by many names by various cultures—incubi, succubae, pretas, hungry ghosts–

The Gnostics called the most potent of these parasites the Archons–

Archons, the masters of deception–

As spiders weave webs, Archons weave matricies–

Archons have infiltrated the whole matrix of history–

Their spells are woven like threads of spider silk–

Woven into the bloody pageant of history–

Woven to keep us bound into conflict with each other–

Woven to keep us in a state of sweet fermentation–

Sweet ethers of suffering and dark passions–

Sweet ethers that feed them and fuel them–

Sweet ethers to harvest from us forever and ever and ever–

They are the harvesters—

Hiding above us on the food chain—

Their enemies are the Invisibles–

The ones who have awakened to the secret harvest–

The ones who glow as seed crystals awakening the host–

The ones who threaten the harvest–

The harvesters need us energetically—

Just as we need the energy of plants–

Or of animals who have eaten plants–

Plants have a catalytic enzyme, chlorophyll–

They are transducers of solar energy—

They can feed directly on the energy of the sun—

They can step down the solar energy into sugars and carbohydrates on which we can feed and fuel our existence–

We learned to eat the plants and the animals that arise form a food chain that begins with the sun feeding plants–

We learned to become hunters and gatherers and then harvesters—

As harvesters we came to believe we were above everything–

We lost sight of the harvesters above us–

We converted fats, proteins and carbs into subtler energies that fueled thoughts, emotions and sexual energies.

We also stepped down raw chi or prana that the hidden harvesters could not digest directly–

The energy of pure prana or chi was toxic to them, could burn them the way the sun could burn us if we got too close–

The harvesters need us to ferment energy from the source, to step it down into the redder, baser energy that has the right octane for them–

The Invisibles are like animals waking up on the way to the slaughterhouse–

Animals that want to disrupt their food chain–

The Invisibles are animals that have taken forbidden medicines, medicines that have allowed them to see forbidden things–

The Invisibles have noticed the words and image spells whispering at the edges of their minds–

The spells of the harvesters who want us sleepy and suffering, or crazed with hatred, jealousy, addiction, greed, and bloodlust—

The Invisibles see through to the hidden harvesting—

The Invisibles need you to join them—

They need you to help awaken other potential Invisibles to the secret harvest—

The vortex begins to slow, the centrifuging of meanings contained in THE INVISIBLES is spinning out what look like jig saw puzzle pieces, word and image pages from THE INVISIBLES.

The images and framed shapes of the panes dissolve as they come toward you until there are only words floating in thought space and then these words become zeros and ones and fall into the device that is before you right now, a machine with a labyrinthine core of silicon. The zeros and ones are racing through the labyrinth and they are being rendered as pixels—pixels that form words, words which cascade below as a series of 97 quotes from THE INVISIBLES. And just as the thought forms fall into zeros and ones and are reconstituted as pixelated words, you have stopped hovering in the darkened room and are returned from all displacements and are looking at the pixelated screen of a device…

Three things you can do with these 97 quotes.

You can read through them and let them affect you. But be forewarned, some of these thought forms are potent spells spoken or telepathically transmitted by Archons or by the meat puppets that they possess.

The voices of the Archons have a whispering, hissing sound—sometimes you may hear them as the sound of ancient animal skin parchment being torn into slivers by cold and spindly fingers; sometimes you may hear them as a wailing, rising and falling sound, like the sirens of ambulances racing through the night toward highway carnage or bodies riddled with bullets bleeding out on city streets; sometimes you may hear them as the insinuating whispers of unauthorized surgeons who wear leather face masks; sometimes you may hear them as voices that are childish and horrific, the whispering of the toys that rattle in the attic.

The voices of the archons weave dark spells, but they are dark spells revealed and frozen for observation, like mosquitos caught in amber.

These are the voices whispering from the shadowy edges of history, weaving bloody pageants to be harvested and devoured.

Comprehending these spells can help to immunize you from their fell power.

These are the spells that can become magnified into matrices when you are in a state of inner chaos.

When you dream and when you take potent hallucinogens, your boundaries become dissolved and part of you shows up in the world of the energetic organisms. Sometimes the Archons will attack you during these times with fell word and image spells. (see Shred to Black—Salvia Blue Moon Apocalypse, Andrew’s Ayahuasca Experience—An Encounter with the Singularity Archetype).

If you are strong enough, you will see that these attacks are also moments of seeing spells revealed, and even if it is only in retrospect, comprehending the spells can help to depotentiate their fell power.

Other of the quotes are spoken or telepathic messages from the Invisibles and they may be like lifelines, showing you ways through deceptive matrices, ways revealed by other mutants who are willing to be your allies.

These quotes have also been turned into an online oracle by my friend Nicholas Suski:

The following instructions were written before Nicholas made the online oracle and are another way to do it that is more old school:

The second way you may make use of these thought forms, the 97 quotes from THE INVISIBLES, is to physicalize them by printing a hard copy.

When you have them rendered into pages, cut the quotes apart from each other so that each is a separate piece of paper.

Collect the pieces and put them in a bag or bowl or other suitable vessel.

Some of the pieces of paper are dark spells; others are pearls.

Now you can ask the oracle certain questions such as:

What principle of the Invisibles is the important one for me to realize and employ at this phase of my life?

Without looking you let your fingers choose a piece of paper.

If your prefer not to deal with slivers of paper you can take a ten-sided dice (the kind of dice made for role playing games) and do two tosses. The ten sided dice tossed twice can produce any number from zero to ninety-nine so if you get a zero, a ninety-eight, or a ninety-nine, consider whether you already know the answer to your question. If not, toss again.

Often it will be a dark spell and you must read it, these spells are like the dragons guarding the pearls. You keep going until you get a pearl. You have before you now a dragon and pearl oracle made out of THE INVISIBLES.

Third, once you have encountered all the dragons and pearls from either or both of the two activities outlined above, read THE INVISIBLES Omnibus and see how each quote, each puzzle piece fits in until you have assembled the entire image.

If you have the will to follow these steps you are almost certainly an Invisible. What kind of Invisible you are depends on what you do, and have already been doing, with what THE INVISIBLES reveals.

III. 97 Quotes from THE INVISIBLES

(I did my best to guess at appropriate line breaks.)



Our world is sick, boy, very sick. A virus got in a long time ago and we’ve got so used to its effects, we’ve forgotten what it was like before we became ill.

…Cities have their own way of talking to you; catch sight of the reflection of a neon sign and it’ll spell out a magic word that summons strange dreams.

Have you even seen the word ‘Ixat’ glowing in the night? That’s one of the holy names.



 Human cultures were originally homeostatic, they existed in a self-sustaining equilibrium, with no notions of time and progress, like we’ve got.

Then the city-virus got in. No one’s really sure where it came from or who brought it to us, but like all viral organisms, its one directive is to use up all available resources in producing copies of itself.




     Two things we will make you,

smooth between the legs, smooth

between the ears, and what we

take from you, will feed the

kings of the earth.



Stick with me, boy, I’ll show you how to stay alive in this hard and hungry world.



And this here’s what we’ve come for; the blue mold grows here. Smoked it brings visions and opens doors to other Londons…



…city’s full of magic, neither bad nor good, just there to be used by the people who know. Cities live and breathe magic.



Two Londons there are; There’s the one you can see all around you and there’s the other city under the skin of this.



Cities aren’t what you think, see. If you make it past the first ordeal, I’ll tell you what cities really are and what they want.



People look at us and see the poor and the mad, but they’re looking at us through the bar of their cages.

There’s a palace in your head, boy.

Learn to live in it always.



You don’t think this world is any less real than the one you left, do you?

Everything that ever happened to you is real, even your dreams. Them, most of all.



This wars’s been going on for a long, long time, behind the world you know. Sometimes people hear distant rumblings or glimpse bomb-light reflected in faraway windows.

On one side there’s the invisibles on the other…

Well, it’s not my job to tell you. You’ll find out soon.

You think you’re an outlaw but you just do what they want you to do; cause trouble for a little while, screw some tart, raise more robots, and on and on and on.



Your head’s like mine, like all our heads, big enough to contain every god and devil there ever was. Big enough to hold the weight of oceans and the turning stars. Whole universes fit in there.



Sorcerers have to be warriors, Dane. We don’t lie in our beds, waiting for good old death to come sidling up in his cap and bells when we least expect it.

No, we go a-knocking on the bugger’s door and when we opens it, all surprised and sleepy-headed, we leap past him and out.



You joined a long time ago, but if you don’t want to come with us now, if you don’t want to find out more about what this is all about, you’re free to go your own way.



 You’d be looking for a purely random sigil, a pattern made by birds or the reflection of clouds in a shop window.

You’ll know when you see it….



A cannon fires only once but words detonate across centuries.

One day men and women will be equal and free from tyranny, free of God and fear, and we will have helped to hasten that day with our words.



The utopia I speak of lies in the imagination. It is not built, it grows. It grows in the hearts of men who love freedom. Our words must draw the maps of this new world, so that others may find their way there.



Ganesh is an old pal of mine. The god who breaks down obstacles. I always like to make a dedication to him at the start of any big venture and nine’s his number so we’re here at nine o’clock…



Our agents have been watching you for a couple of years, checking you out. You’re young, fit, smart, and you’ve spent most of your life rebelling against control and you’ve got a mean psychic talent worth developing.



It’s better to keep a sense of humor about this stuff. Some people totally lose it in the field.

We got agents out there who don’t even remember they’re invisibles. We’re talking ultra-paranoid.

These people are operating on the edge of reality, Jack. Cover stories inside cover stories, like Chinese boxes.



     The way this works, Jack, is that we fold psychic constructs of ourselves through from one point on the supersphere to another.



     We call them Ciphermen, humans who have been modified by high frequency subliminal transmissions. The signals suppress individual thought and encourage hive mind loyalty.



 But what a case of jewels is here unlatched! Unknown landscape of soft rubies…I’ve imagined the human body, the female body, subject to every outrage…but this…to see this…here…real…



Poets have a right to vanity and pride; they steal the power of creation from the gods.

They remake the world with words and in the image of their dreams.



Where is the love, beauty, and truth we seek but in our mind? The golden country, forever new? The home of all hearts, untouched by time and pain?



Molten imagination, the bricks and mortar of the universe, endlessly morphing, infinitely pliable.

Liquid looking glass.

The door to everywhere.



   And Mictlantecuhtli, the dead landlord in the place of weeping, the place of the unfleshed.



You’ve strayed far from home, little Orlando.

Little unfinished one.

You don’t belong here. In the world of the fourth sun.



   …See, it’s like there’s this attractor at the end of time, like a sort of singularity, a black hole, and it’s pulling us all towards it, so things are getting faster.



  Outside, fleets of good UFOs and bad UFOs clash in slow motion.


Normally, it’s advisable not to do anything that might attract the attention of a parasitical bad UFO, but right now my belly’s rumbling.


I have to use my ojas radiation to attract a good UFO. I need nourishment now.


It descends, lets down an umbilical and I drink its blood fuel. Like the placenta in the womb, the original Christ who dies that we all can live, it sacrifices itself to feed me.



Ultradimensional Moorish/Arabian spaces and motifs, patterns in constant kaleidoscope motion. The souls of dead crackheads imprisoned in vampire seedpods. Endlessly drowning in their own sweet sprit nectars.


Poisons and acids bubble in pools…heat flashes and the stink of burning ants under glass…formic acid…egg chambers…faceted eyes.


He’s coming. I can feel him. I can feel the wind of the billion shadows he casts.



They were given to me!

I am preparing a feast for my family. For all the little ones who burrow and sting and when we are done, the rind and pulp of these souls will undergo metamorphosis…



The key is a prism, the prism is a key. I’m not sure which. They taught me how to angle it properly. There are five distinct hand movements



It’s very beautiful at first, to watch the glass surface begin to shimmer and pulse like a beaded veil, like rain falling.



Maybe it’s like a whirlpool, and the closer we get to the apocalypse or the eschaton or whatever you want to call it, the more things happen in a shorter time.



Hilde will have to become a girl, it’s the only way to pass on our teachings.



  That is why they say a true initiation never ends, how can it end when it takes place outside of time? The moment of your initiation is a ripple in the bubble of time.




Of course you’re dying.

This is the land of the dead, after all.



 Just as the interpenetration of a spherical form into a two-dimensional plane is seen as a circle of varying diameters—

so too does the interpenetration of /(            )/ into your three-dimensional continuum appear as a lens  form capable of altering its shape.

This is a magic stone. Do you understand? It is made from  /(              )/

We are going to put it in your head and activate your /(Third Eye Ajna Chakara)/



     That’s shite. This

isn’t a fucking spaceship


Not real Aliens.

This is just

like a


Except it’s

in 3-D.



Jenny orgasms as she dies. Airbursts of blood like liquid fireworks. Slow motion plasma, neutrophils, lymphocytes, several hundred million red cells, rich in hemoglobin, shimmering in the sunlight.

Type O —common as muck.



  One of the Archons walks nearby. He’s coming from the direction that can’t be pointed to. He’s ready to intersect.

For God’s sake! You’re not bringing one of them through!

I wasn’t told about this! I’m not prepared for the interface! …I…

Bow down slave.


Adore the king of all-tears.



That is why we are devouring our environment. Man, like the caterpillar or the maggot, is a creature in its larval stage.

We consume to fuel our imminent metamorphosis.



How you must loathe yourself, so eager to struggle against any thing but your own inadequacy. The truth is, you long to be like us but because you cannot fit into society, you dream of overthrowing it.

What is this infantile urge to destroy that which others have labored to build?



When you were young you spent hours writing with you left hand, didn’t you? You were trying unconsciously to break the alphabet spell our teachers placed upon you.



   Entitiespresences….I hear the drumbeats of assassin gods…they’ve come to teach me…it’s horrible…the things they’re showing me….How to destroy….souls?



The world-that-was facets–honeycombed by her compound eyes– she scuttles through a jeweled maze of appalling colors. Vast perfumes and grotesque emotions–optic lenses morph to accommodate changes in the light stained glass vision—migraine agony on overdrive–everything seems sickening, artificial.

Her remade palate clickers and whines–

The hymns of her order self-replicate through the building making it resonate like a hive.

And at her side the King-of-all-Tears—god of the endless iron room—manifesting in earth-plane matter—the warning siren of his voice rising and falling—activating the fourteen chakras and hyper-chakras in his spinal lattice—each lamenting outcry carefully modulated to programme his nanofactories with dynamic mobile blueprints of a more welcoming environment.

They swarm and breed, infecting the simplistic atomic structure of the local reality grid.

Contagion takes, contagion spreads, contagion rages along precise parameters.

The world sickens and begins to change.



The story is told of a woman who finds herself in a glorious garden—orchard of unsurpassed beauty and luxury.

Each perfect day is spent indulging in pleasure. Godlike, she wants for nothing.

And then, on one more glorious evening, she ventures to the crystal lake of sweet ambrosia which nourishes her and, as she dips in to drink, her eyes are opened to the hideous truth behind the illusion of existence.

And she realizes that she is a monstrous, parasitical insect.

The heavenly garden is simply the skin of her unsuspecting host, the lake of heaven no more than the bloodstream upon which she battens and feeds.



 The touch of the king comes from all directions simultaneously. He is outside and inside and somewhere else.

Suddenly she can’t remember the name of her husband or the sound of the voices of her daughters.

All she can remember is the time when she was twelve and she let the man in the swing park touch her. He gave her ten shillings and she bought chocolate and was sick.



And Mary Brown, who won ten pounds in the National Lottery, who watches Oprah most afternoons, wakes into nightmare, recognizing her own immortal soul in that last screaming second before the royal eggs hatch inside it, before she hatches with them, newborn, and begins to tear hungrily at the glowing essence of all she was.



I remember I was dead calm. I reached into that bag Tom had left me and there was a little tin filled with fag ends he must have saved up from ashtrays and gutters.

I crumpled them into ash and drew a circle around me.

Then something just clicked. It wasn’t in my head, it was like a door opened in my heart and I knew what to do. I’d always known.



 It’s weird because they don’t really look scary. They’re aliens and all that, but when you see them it’s more like special effects…

Every shitty thing you’ve ever done, every horrible, sick thought you’ve ever had, they turn it back on you until you can’t think of anything else.

They can read you like a book and pull out whatever page it takes to make you feel like you’re sick or useless or guilty. They can break your heart and shit on your soul.

And they can remind you why you deserve it.



   You couldn’t love your mum or your dad. Not really. You couldn’t love your mates or you’d just be a poof. The only person you were really allowed to love was your girlfriend.



And the lie was what the alien got hold of and started twisting around in my head.

They always fall back on the monsters and the shitty special effects stuff when they’re up against the wall.

Somewhere, somehow I knew I had him beat.



There is a war on but it’s …we’re like ants on a battlefield. We haven’t the heads to understand even a fraction of what’s going on all around us.



There was this sound started up, like a million people humming or something. A circle of minds…an infinite circumference…And I was humming too, joining in.



Towering behind him, one of nine corrupt Buddhas—obese and senile, his brain rotted like a tooth by the sweet, unending bliss of false enlightenment, the Buddha masturbates like a monkey in a cage.

Lacerating voices of the scalpel choir. Worm-eaten leatherbound Bible spirits. Maimed women in white Marilyn Monroe dresses, with false eyelashes stitched along bare, bleeding forearms.



 Mandibles gnash language down to the root-raw nerves of sound—a six-word sequence she learned as a novice in the steel cells of the outer church—six words engineered to resonate with human cell structures producing massive tissue breakdown—pure sonic cancer.



Cum out of the sir-kull .

You will not pass except to cum with uz to the House of Tears…

Cum out of the sir-kull.



The King observes—five dimensional lenses flow and interlock—mold-forms analyze the conceptual space around the boy’s word sculptures and identify a positive intent.

Elsewhere, the king’s nun is already compromised—probability fronts are becoming disagreeable—the King examines the facts, decides, and rotates the supersphere to access a new point of entry—he selects a stress window and moves in to attack his enemies in their future.



 I tore his aura away. He won’t survive long without it. Every etheric parasite from here to the abominable plateau of Leng should be sniffing him out by now.



   A predator which has disguised itself as the entire universe. It’s all around us, breathing, waiting, hiding in everything.



 It means… I don’t know. It means, basically, that some movies are clearly being made by Invisibles and they contain messages for other invisibles.

Invisibles talking to one another in their own secret language.

The movies are signals. They let us know that others are out there…



Vision narrows. Monotonous insect humming begins. Things are stripped of all meaning, all significance, all association but that which is determined by Control.



To fight the empire is to be infected by its derangement.

Whoever defeats part of the empire becomes the empire; it proliferates like a virus…thereby it becomes its enemies.



The only way to do that is to jump “up” from the surface of timespace and see all of history and all our tomorrows as the single object I believe it is.



   I think my great-grandfather’s origami is from the future. I think I will send it back to him from a time to come so that it will pass down through my family to inspire my efforts.



You in your chaotic state, may experience our efforts in value-laden terms; feelings of degradation, shame and humiliation are common.

“Individuality” is the name  you give your sickness.

Your deviation from correct functioning.

Understand this: We have come to free you from chaos and uncertainty. And “individuality.”



You are already in us.

We have always existed in you.

In your fevers,

In your sick longings,

In your cruelties and

In your despair.

On the flat surfaces of all the feelings you categorize using these value terms.

The gate leads from what seems to what is.

Come home to the machine.



 The crucified god-image has been replaced by the new aeon’s dominant religious motif—a CHILD fucking about with the building blocks of reality itself, restlessly destroying to create.



She attacked my mind. I retaliated by shedding part of my structure into her. I inserted a self-cloning incubus. It’s growing in a dark and fertile part of her unconscious mind.



   More self-awareness. And soon now, it’s going to wake up. The entire universe is going to open its eyes and blink. And we’ll be here to see it happen.




You are already in us.

We have always existed in you.

In your fevers,

In your sick longings,

In your cruelties and despair.



Only in your world are tortures eternal.

I am from the solid world where things pass. I have been a boy, a girl, a whore, a sorcerer…

The darkness in people doesn’t frighten me.

When you shut your eyes, afraid to see yourself as you truly are…

That is when you see only darkness…



The story dissolves in my head like sugar in coffee. It hangs in suspension, not quite complete.

I’m almost scared to finish.

I’m scared if I write myself in, I’ll never get out. They’ll find me trapped here in my own words.

How many people have to tell a true story before it becomes true?



 …Stanislav Grof calls it “Basic Perinatal Matrix III.” It’s visions of death camps, biological filth, demonic types of sexuality, inhuman technology.

We abused one another, we experienced psychotic, morbid states of shame, disgust, greed, fear and power.



What I know is this: unusual information and insights seem to download into the brain…

A kind of ego annihilation is followed by euphoric reintegration and a sense of extended understanding.



Conditions within time are ferocious; our suits begin to disintegrate after the first twenty years…



I’ve been doing a great deal of thinking and what I’ve come to is this:

Amid all the bangs and the drama and the grand passions, it’s kindness and just ordinary goodness that stands out in the end.



 I can see the Ericksonian commands emerging through your sentence structure.

All of your neurolinquistics technics are visible to me as emergent structures.



We are the Midwich Cuckoos. We are the Stepford wives. We are the forgotten.



Kalli giving birth to skeletons—a picture of spacetime seen through the eyes of the fearful—time turning through itself in endless self-generating iterations—

–endless horror all at once—Belsen Columbine Cambodia—the torture cells and the cancer in Terrence McKenna’s head—death all at once triumphant——blood-red ogres of Kali—

—Kali is the terrible mother of the negative universe—

—where milk is venom and shit is

gold and death is life—deranged

reversed entities fill the spaces

between things and concepts—



Screaming, as little ones do when they are made aware of what they truly are.



I saw the bloodstained, tiled and hopeless wall at the end of history; the infinite deathcamp of tomorrow.

And I saw I had a choice.

Where fear is all there is, there is no fear.



The “aeon”? You still think this is about thelemic “magic”?

Beyond this there are no aeons, there is no evolutionary process.

There is only the machine, forever and everywhere.



 I want him castrated, lobotomized and working for US, as a cipherman in the drone-tanks.




Here in the interference, the machine has partially conquered the future but it never quite succeeds. This is a source of endless frustration to the smooth functioning of the machine.



 And here begins the infinite novelty, self-knowledge, eternal freedom…And ultimate dispersion of the archons of chaos.

We are walking behind the walls of time and the world you know at right angles to it, so that you may see yourself and it.

I’ve been here before.

You’re here still. Prepare yourself.

Initiation never ends.

All it takes is the correct angle and you’ll see what you have always been.

“Ego” scaffolding necessary to your development must now be husked before it constricts your growth.

Fear of death is only the signpost that ego has reached its limit: you are not even born yet.

This is how a human process looks to us—the body, decades long, billion-eyed and billion-limbed, the worm-cast that you leave in time, This is your complete body, not its section.



I grew up with the Gnostic Straight Edgers–anti-sex, anti-death, we imagined ourselves to be perfect simulations. Super-heros on a corrupt digital planet conjured in the mainframes of epic, monstrous A.I.s. The universe a program inside a Manichaean murder machine. Tormented by individuality, cursed by 2000 years of ego. The end of history.

Before the memeplex, before the super context.



Do you feel as though time’s speeding up, darling?

 I mean ACTUALLY getting faster.

and your initiation is about to begin.



That’s them: the bits between everything, come to life and showing themselves.

Scare the shite out of you for a little bit if you’re not ready for it.



Don’t believe nothing you hear. Trust what you know. Remember it’s all just a mirror we made to see ourselves in.

 And when the archons come and it all turns inside out with scary miracles. It’s only all the things you left outside when you were building your little house called “me,” ey?



P.S. I have written this essay as a suicide note because your “education” system is retarded and rooted in an 18th century production ethic and by the time you find this and award me zero out of infinity, I will be dead.



There’s no difference between fate and free will. Here I am; put here, come here, no difference, same thing.

Nothing ends that isn’t something else starting.

So which side are you on?

Do you know yet?



Excerpt from a Fax sent on 10/26/93 to supplement the Invisibles proposal:

One of the things we should be trying to bring out is the idea of the The Invisbles as a group to which anyone might belong. Involve the reader in the whole process by making him/her realize that she/to can join/has already joined the ranks of The Invisibles. Part of what I want to achieve with this title in the long-term involves actually changing the consciousness of the readers by presenting them with various techniques and concepts which will undoubtedly alter their way of looking at the world, in that sense, THE INVISIBLES isn’t a comic about something but is the thing itself and every reader is a potential Invisible. If the Invisibles are Shamanic Terrorists, the comic itself is an act of shamanic terrorism.



Excerpt from Grant Morrison’s “Invisible Ink” essay for THE INVISIBLEs Vol. 1, #16 in which he encouraged readers to do a sex magic ritual involving a sigil they would create to revive sagging sales numbers for THE INVISIBLES which threatened its viability:

The idea is that the original desire, reduced to abstraction, can be more easily implanted into the subconscious mind, there to do its work. When creating sigils it’s best to start with very specific desires that have at least some likelihood of success. Performing magic has a lot to do with the arrangement of apparent coincidences and providing pathways along which desires can travel or, to put it in more basic terms, there’s little point in sigilizing for a lottery win if you don’t also buy a lottery ticket.   



 Excerpt from Grant Morrison’s final “Invisible Ink” essay, from THE INVISIBLES Vol 3, #1:

THE INVISIBLES is a spell. It’s not just a comic book. It tells the future. Things happen around it and to the people who absorb it. I’m not lying to you. I present a slice of human experience in this form. I started out writing a story and slowly, over a few years, the world I live in became almost exactly like the story.

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  1. Nice Jonathan. Grant Morrison is one of the most impactful storytellers I've ever come across. I never new I was an invisible until I read his. stuff… 🙂 We should get together this week.


  2. Right before I read the sentence in the picture at the start 'the most hideous crab-like creatures' my roomate offered me a a crab pate sandwich that made my stomach churn…great article, this comic looks amazing. I wonder if you've ever seen the work of the website called 'Zen Pencils'? He does illustrations to excellent quotes.

  3. Thank you for this gem Jonathan.

    The night before I pulled quote 18.

    "Ganesh is an old pal of mine. The god who breaks down obstacles. I always like to make a dedication to him at the start of any big venture and nine's his number so we're here at nine o'clock… "

    I was listening these angels and their song Aloha Ke Aku,

    "On a day of silence while the island slept, I cast my demons out at the feet of Ganesha,  said remove the obstacles bravely with grace." #Nahko #medicineforthepeople

    I'm just about of a mind to drop everything and fly off to Hilo to work with these invisibles going Xibalba supernovae.  Check out their medicine. 

    Much love!

  4. Hi Jon, I’ve never been a big comic book (or graphic novel) fan. The last series I read was Mad magazine back in the 70’s. But your description of this volume has me interested. I ordered it from Amazon. I’m looking forward to the experience. Thanks for posting the recommendation.

  5. Just finished the Invisibles. Wow, what a great ride. A fascinating story that has a great breadth of ideas. The artwork is superb too.

  6. I’ve just kinda came across this randomly, and, well, I don’t know what to say. I don’t think I understand any of this, but it still feels…right.

    Yeah…that probably doesn’t make any sense. I’m just glad I found this. It’s really interesting.

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