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She is descending from the Mountain

She is descending from the Mountain.

The island-born is descending from the Mountain.

Weena is descending from the Mountain.


She descends on a boat traveling along a tiny ribbon.

From the world of stars the boat travels along a tiny ribbon.

To the world or rock the boat travels along a tiny ribbon.

She comes seeking the house of her fathers.

The island-born yearns for the familiar ground of her mothers.

Weena has come home.


The air here is the same, but different: dirtier but vibrant, dusky but warm.

The land calls to her feet with an urgency so perfect.

It calls out, “You are home! Run through my grass! Swim through my waters! Eat from my trees!”

But she sees no grass to run through.

The island-born hears no ocean to dip her feet into.

Weena smells no sweet fragrances of fruit ripening upon the tree.


She looks back to the sky, beyond her tiny ribbon.

She cannot see the Mountain.

She cannot see the Wandering Ones.

She cannot see the Multitude, Shining in the Sky.

She cannot see the Great River of Light.


She cried out. The island-born cried out. Weena cried out.


“How can the people of the world not see the wonder of the Mountain?

How can they not see the mystery of the Wandering Ones?

How can they not see the majesty of the Multitude, Shining in the sky?

How can they not see the awe of the Great River of Light?”


Suddenly, she missed her life among her islands in the sky.

The island-born wished to see her islands in the sky.

Weena would show them her islands in the sky.


Surrounding her were the cities of her fathers.

Around her were the people of her mothers.

Their cities were full of false light.

There was no night in the cities of her fathers.

There was no sky for the people of her mothers.


She would bring back the night in the cities.

The island-born would return the sky to the people.

Weena would break their lights.


I really enjoy reading the Inana’s desent to the underworld, an ancient Sumerian text thousands of years old. The versions that I have come across are very rythmic and chant like. In the above text I tried to replicate that in a short poem that I had on my mind today on the way into work. I would have to say that it comes from a few different peices of source material, an article on light pollution in cities from the Planetary Socitey’s newsletter, Kim Stanley Robinson’s book 2312, and of course the Sumerian texts on Inana. Just wanted to make some art today. It was fun getting to play with structure and ideas, and it really got my brain going this morning.

It’s a good thing I got my brain going early, the rest of the day sure did it’s best to blast away any motivation and drive. Today I almost exclusively worked on my M16/M4 online course. I had to bash my head against memorizing all the parts of, and how to clean a weapon I haven’t touched in over 4 years, and never took apart. Even the Air force guys were surprised when I told them that on board ship all the weapons used for watch standing were maintained and cleaned exclusively by the Gunners Mates. I checked a gun out, stood around for four hours then unloaded and handed it back. Sure I fired it at regular training, but I never disassembled it. The first time I cleaned a gun was a .38 for Arizona department of safety licence.  I made it through though, with a score of 91.2% after taking extensive notes. I’m just not a gun nut, or an engineer, but in my defense the diagrams on the screen were pretty shitty.

So I took a break and looked for something else to spend my afternoon drill on. Medical sent me over to the hospital to get vaccinated. Anthrax, Meningitis, and Typhoid. The lady with the needles seemed to think this was not enough so she also gave me a Tetanus booster and Hep B. Thanks. oh and a flu spray up the nose. I appreciate it. oh and they drew blood to find out if I need a Chicken pox booster. I am done with needles this week, I swear.

Tonight’s links include a sound file you need to pump into 720p. Also here is a translation of the Inana Text. You’ll never regret reading some of the oldest text the human race has ever written.

Feverish. Todd.


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