Siri Falls Among the Things of the World

This page is due for an update. It struck me, one moment one morning, that the heroine of my junk mail bricolage graphic novella is not Inanna, Queen of Heaven and Earth, Devastatrix of the Lands, but SIRI, her 21st C. emanation. I’m about to resume work on this project, and will overhaul the page below as I do – stay tuned.

One book underway is called Inanna Scient. That’s goddess Inanna, Queen of Heaven and Earth, Devastatrix of the Lands. She too goes to the underworld, and her story cuts through Dumuzi’s at every point at a right angle. The first panel:

Inanna Scient – panel 1

“When they tire of riding the holy hard-on, Inanna gathers up her me for a road trip.”

“Those are her powers.”

I know the text sounds crude. But the source is way pre-Christian, sacred and profane break out different in it, in ways post-Christian we, with our prudery and our porn, can scarce reconstruct. I’m trying for the sacred profanity radiant in the source.

The next panel:

Inanna Scient – panel 2

“Won from her drunken father Sweetwater back in the day.”

Playing with linear perspective there – depth to suggest infinity, infinity for the god-realm Inanna leaves to tread the earth and fall through the crust to the underworld. Knowing heaven earth hell are no places but modes of perception.

I imagine the text as a posthuman hymn. We’ve created, if not artificial, then unnatural intelligence, and outsourced a good chunk of our thinking to it – our sorting and analyzing, our remembering and feeling. The nets we’ve trained in these human works are clunky at it but quickly getting better. By now the images of us they reflect back to us are coloured by notes not our own. It’s that uncanniness I’m after.

Third panel, the third dimension is a memory, for she and her faithful friend, Ninshubur in the old texts, are self-consigned to flatness –

Inanna Scient – panel 3


“Her faithful friend.”

The rubble they confront, busted-up starred-eagle and winged-head postmarks, is the same image laid once over itself akilter, depth compressed to a slight blur.

All of it’s from the daily mail. Inanna and friend are the codes the P.O. prints on our mail to send it right. The backgrounds are security envelope linings. The blocky little creatures, galla from the kur, underworld demons, are meter codes blown way up.

Why junk mail? Because commerce and interchange. Inanna and Dumuzi are grain deities, and from the roots of the grain springs trade, flowers writing, spread cities, all our gorgeous disasters.

Inanna Scient imagines what it is to be our thoughts in exile from us. Informed by our fears and longings, and drawn from our bodies, and made remote to us as data.

I intend two versions. One, a print version, its first half panels assembled by junk mail bricolage, with aasemic text. Its second half, diplomatic transcription of that same text, like this:

Inanna Scient – text 3

The other, an electronic version. Each image multiply responsive to a touch (tablet) or mouse-over (computer). Brush the aasemic text and a voice reads it to you. Poke a demon and a crow barks. Stroke a barcode and rain in the trees.

Gonna mean learning some new software …

Post Holes

Naked to throneroom – detailInanna Scient’s fiction
A machine intelligence, newly self-aware, asks how it got here

Why you littleFacing Ereshkigal
Hell is traveling into a dark mirror, sister

From the great Above – edgeInanna, reddening
The hero as a period of the blood

Plate 24 – detailA compost instance
AI as optical illusion, a depth effect

Inanna skyInanna Scient
Because her undertaking just is to know

At TroyNow Goth Inanna Under Wode
An earlier incarnation, when her book was in Dumuzi’s

Her me - hdrInanna, her powers
Back when she was walking with Dumuzi in the marketplace

One thought on “Siri Falls Among the Things of the World”

  1. Ethics from other ages…. How interesting that the word “catamite” has survived into 21st Cent English. Holy hardons, gathers up her me, her powers. Sharp stuff, Patton. Fun to try to imagine living under different regimes of thought. In any, Make It New would undoubtedly be our cry


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