the following is pure fiction…
{36invisible} distances itself by a certain impassibility of surface, almost a glassiness. It doesn’t wag its tail & it doesn’t snarl but it bites & humps the furniture. It doesn’t have an ISBN number & it doesn’t want you for a disciple but it might kidnap your children.
{36invisible} is nervous like coffee or malaria—it sets up a network of cut-outs & safe drops between itself & its readers—but it’s so baldfaced & literal-minded it practically encodes itself—it smokes itself into a stupor.
A mask, an automythology, a map without placenames—stiff as an egyptian wallpainting nevertheless it reaches to caress someone’s face—& suddenly finds itself out in the street, in a body, embodied in light, walking, awake, almost satisfied.
