Sep. 17th, 2017

“[nita] munus-ra munus nita-ra ku-ku-dè ᵈinanna za-kam”

trans. “to transform men into women and women to men is yours, inanna.” from in-nin ša-gur-ra. enheduanna, ca. 2250 BCE (via patrexes)

ok, so I was gonna infodump in the tags, but I think this is important enough to talk about on the post itself.

Inanna was the supreme Goddess of ancient Sumer, a region of what is now known as the middle east. She was a queen who ventured into the underworld to save her husband, and came back alive. (Her story is one of the many pre-Christian stories of death and rebirth/resurrection.) She was heavily revered, more so than any male god at the time (even though she did have a male consort, as mentioned before).

Enheduanna was a priestess to Inanna. Not only was she one of the first (if not the first) priests or priestesses whose names are still known today, but she was actually one of the first authors to still have her name still preserved. Pretty much all the writing we have that was from before her time was written by anonymous scribes or chisel-workers; her writing is the oldest (or one of the oldest) with a name attached to the writer.

It’s already known that many ancient and Indigenous societies accepted trans people, but…seeing writing that’s pretty clearly supposed to be about trans people, written by the oldest, most ancient priestess we know of, which says that trans people are under the *direct* care and domain of the most important goddess in the society of that priestess…sure is something.

(via earthmoonlotus)

thanks for adding some context! here’s actually some more, because i’m real fucking weak for inanna. 

trans people played a major part as priestesses and other staff in her cult (it’s even been argued that trans people were the only people who served as her cultic staff, though that’s generally received with some discontent). transness was considered inexplicably tied to the goddess and imparted by her in some respect, as we see from erra IV, “lú kur-ĝar-ra lú issini ša ana šuplu niše ištar zikarussunu uteru ana sinnišuti”, trans. “the kurĝarru and assinu, the people beneath ištar/inanna whom she has transformed from virile men into women”. 

now, note, all of the english translations of erra IV i’ve come across (i’m mostly affording my own translations here, because people use slurs a lot when they translate sumero-akkadian and i ain’t about that life) add something like “in order to strike fear into the people” when quoting that transliteration, but a) there’s nothing in that passage i can figure to get that meaning and b) that description is inconsistent with other descriptions of the kurĝarru and assinu (who are also called, variably, gala, pilipili, sag-ur-sag, kalu, kulu’u, and ur-sal). in “the descent of inanna to the underworld”, we see the creation of the first of these by enki for the indisposed inanna: as you noted, inanna does indeed survive the trip, and it is solely because of her explicitly transgender priestesses. 

[the gala-tur and kur-ĝar-ra] flitted through the door [to the underworld] like flies. they slipped through the door pivots like phantoms. […]

[ereš-ki-gal-la] asked: “who are you? i tell you from my heart to your heart, from my body to your body – if you are gods, i will talk with you; if you are mortals, may a destiny be decreed for you.” they made her swear this by heaven and earth.

they were offered a river with its water – they did not accept it. they were offered a field with its grain – they did not accept it. they said to her: “give us the corpse hanging on the hook.”

shining ereš-ki-gal-la answered the gala-tur and kur-ĝar-ra: “the corpse is that of your queen.”

they said to her: “whether it is that of our king, or whether it is that of our queen, give it to us.”

they were given the corpse hanging on a hook. [the kur-ĝar-ra] sprinkled on it the life-giving plant, and the other the life-giving water. and thus, inanna rose.

when the fuck have your faves ever, am i right? 

and, hell, inanna herself in a šir-namšub (”incantation hymn”; a hymn or poem written in voice, for the sake of performance) says this: “e kaš-a-ka tuš -a-[ĝu-ne] / nu-nus-ĝen šul giri-zal-la me-e-ĝen-[na]”, trans. “to sit in the tavern, i go as a woman [or] i go as a joyful young man”.

(via patrexes)
Well. Busy Saturday. Mostly personal rambling, because I have a terrible memory and otherwise sometimes don’t know where my whole life goes. Discussion of guns, potpourri, and babysitting.

 Made potpourri the other night, which went to the market yesterday and sold about $30 worth, which pays for the ingredients, hurrah. Shopped at the farmer’s market, cleaned Middle-Little’s kitchen sink and counter, laid out the Master Plan for how she’s rearranging her furniture, planned future sessions of cleaning because she’s hosting a party next weekend, and then us two middle sisters went up to our absent, vacationing parents’ house to feed their cat and practice shooting the hunting rifle I intend to use for deer season. Then we cut and made about 15 grapevine wreaths to make into Halloween and generic-autumnal decor to sell at the farmer’s market. And then we drove out to a gun shop and bought ammunition to replace the hunting rifle’s ammo that we’d been practicing with. We also stopped by a craft store to get inspiration for this autumnal decor we’re making to sell. 

Gun stores are weird, man. I was going to buy a rifle cleaning kit, since I know Dad has like a million but I don’t think there’s one at the farm– but the most basic ones were like, $30, for like, a couple of rags and a ramrod and a bottle of gun oil, and that’s dumb. I’ll research and pick up the components myself, and in the meantime, Middle Little has a cleaning kit I can borrow to clean the Winchester 94 that we were using. [That gun, by the way. I figured it was nice, and old, and such, but there was one in the gun store, used, same vintage, about the same model, and they wanted $700 for it, so holy shit.]

Also, a single box of Remington Winchester 32-30 hunting ammo is $40, so, like, god damn, I’m glad I decided to only shoot a couple of practice rounds.

(That’s from both of us. The low ones are when I started to get tired and decided I was done.) (If the deer is 50 feet away I’m all set. If it’s farther, well. I’m going to have to set up a longer range and practice, but I’m also thinking, well, I’m just not going to take any really long shots; I’m here for nuisance deer, and if they’re keeping their distance respectfully, I’m not so worried. Also 32-30 just isn’t that powerful a caliber for hunting, so I’m better off not trying to make a kill with a near-spent bullet. And given the kick on a 32, I don’t think I’m eager to use the 45-70 instead; Dad has a couple of those kicking around and I’m not super into it. My dirty secret is that I’m not really super into guns, I just think they’re kind of a rural life skill one needs.)

Then we made it back to the farm in time to take over care of Farmbaby so that Farmsister and her husband could get dressed up and go out to dinner, since they missed celebrating their anniversary about a month ago. Middle-Little and I cooked dinner and collaboratively looked after Farmbaby. She had spontaneously requested this, that her parents could leave for a night so she’d get to be babysat by both aunts, because this is something she enjoys. She was quite well-behaved for us, insofar as she’s capable– we did a lot of bargaining with her to get her to do anything, but she did all the things we wanted her to, with a minimum of fuss and no tantrums at all, so that was good.

(Yesterday morning as her mother and I were trying to leave for the farmer’s market and my meetup with Middle-Little, Farmbaby pitched a shrieking fit that involved hitting and pinching her mother and screaming about how she was a bad mother, because– here’s the thing– she was wearing shoes on her hands and wanted to go the market like that, and her mother said, well, you do what you want, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. “YOU NEVER LET ME DO WHAT I WANT,” Farmbaby shrieked upon hearing this, which was– it would have been funny if it weren’t so goddamn annoying. Like, kid, she didn’t say no. She just pointed out that you were likely to regret doing this. Ay yi yi. THREENAGERS.)

So anyway. She didn’t do that shit for us, which was great. Her parents came home so early, though– they hadn’t bothered trying to go see a movie, so they got home after their 5:30 dinner reservation and it was only 7:45 and the kid was still in the bathtub. So they snuck into the house, and went and hid in the living room. 

Farmbaby finished her bath, and wrapped herself in her towel and set off to walk upstairs. This route goes past the living room. The door was shut, but the light shows in a crack underneath. I was some distance behind her, not really expecting her to react, but she saw the light, and said, “No, we can’t leave the light on in rooms we’re not in!” and flung open the living room door. I didn’t know what to do, so I just braced myself. 

She went in, turned out the lights, and came back out. “Grandpa hates it when we leave the lights on,” she told me, and continued up the stairs after shutting the living room door behind herself. 

(It turns out her mother had heard her coming and ducked down below the couch back, so she didn’t see her. I was about to find out where her father was.) 

We processed up the stairs, just as the bathroom door opened and her father came out. “Oh,” she said, spotting her father. “Hi, Daddy!”

“Did you sneak back into the house,” I said, not really knowing what to say.

“Yeah,” her father said, looking like a deer in headlights. “I just kind of snuck in. I’m gonna go again now, though. Go to bed, kid. Goodnight, I’ll see you later!”

“Okay,” said Farmbaby, and incredibly enough, continued down the hall and put herself into her pajamas, and at no point asked where her parents were. I read her far too much book, and she bargained and bargained for one more book, one more, so I read one more. And then she got out of bed. “I need a bedtime snack!” 

Kiddo, you already brushed your teeth, you had a huge dinner, you had dessert and then like half a head of broccoli right before bath, you are not hungry. She started running around the upstairs shrieking and giggling, clearly intending to Be Bad, grabbing toys and throwing them and so on.

“Well,” I said. “I was going to sing you a song, but if you’re not going to go to bed, then I won’t.” 

She instantly ran and climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. So I sang her two songs.

She fell asleep and I left, rather smug. 

Today I need to measure the broken zipper on the case for the Winchester and order a replacement. I think I’m just going to replace the case, though– it would be probably easier to just make a whole new case, which I could do out of the material I have with me (which I brought to make yurt quilts but there is definitely extra), and anyway whose father wouldn’t want a handmade quilted scrap denim gun case lined with old draperies to replace the cracked plastic-leather one from the 60s with the busted zipper that it’s currently in? New nylon gun cases at the store are $45 and I can beat that. I might also practice my embroidery-machine quilting on it…

I also have to hang up those grapevine wreaths so they can dry. Some of them were pretty green in places. 

This coming week I need to tidy the yurt and its surroundings, since my bestie is coming to camp out with her kids and I’ll need to clear out an area for tents. I can probably just mow the whole area, or use a weed whacker. I forgot my metal firebowl but I bet I can nab some rocks to make a firepit. 

And I have to spend at least one evening at Middle-Little’s tidying, so I can come back with Farmsister and the pickup and get a filing cabinet and two coffee tables out of the apartment, which will let her rearrange furniture so her cocktail party will have adequate places to sit. (Bonus, then I’ll have a coffee table for the yurt.)
In our world children have been shot for throwing rocks at occupying forces. Did Cassian watch kids, kids he knew from his neighborhood being killed? Did he run away and hide, too scared to even cry, still clutching his rock and wishing it were a blaster, or a bomb?

By the time he was seven the Clone Wars ended and the Republic was replaced by the Empire. His enmity simply transferred to the Empire, a logical if extreme continuation of what the Republic had become.

Yet even in the Rebellion it was the Senators who called the shots, the Senators who told him to get blood on his hands, grinding him down to be harder and sharper until he hardly felt like a person. Even the name was cruel; the Allience to Restore the Republic. To restore what? Repression and destruction, children dying in the streets? The Senators promised things would be different this time, but that’s what they promised the first time around.

Did he think about taking up arms against the Republic, too, giving them more than rocks and bottles if the Alliance won and the demands of the downtrodden were not met? Did he think to live that long?

Perhaps his victory lay in this small, hard fact: The Senators might have had his life, but his death was his own. It wasn’t some Senator or General who told him to go to Scarif, he went against direct orders for the conscience he found still beating in him, for the wisp of a hope that he could protect other children from the fires of annihilation.

So Cassian Jeron Andor went to Scarif a free man, though freedom demanded an unfairly high price. He had known that already, though, from the moment his father’s lifeless body came home. Freedom was a mean, demanding bitch and he reached out and grasped her with both hands. He died in that embrace; it was all the choice he had in a broken universe.
ok I bought fancy chickens. Females of Silver-Spangled Homburgs and Barred Rocks, 10 each, and then a straight run of Silver-Laced Wyandottes. And orders come with one Free Rare Chick, so we’ll see what I wind up with.

We don’t need roosters, but I saw a lady yesterday walking downtown in steampunk attire (there was an event or something), and she had this hat adorned with beautiful blue-black rooster tail feathers, and I want some of those, badly. And hens don’t grow them, and the roosters of the other two breeds do. Actually none of the three *really* do, but the wyandottes are closest to what I want.
The Farm Family is trying to play Bananagrams (which is like Scrabble without a board, as far as I can tell), but Farmbaby is having predictable trouble with participating, despite a lot of help. 

FB: When I was little, I couldn’t read, so I was bad at Bananagrams.
Her mom: Um… can you read now?
FB: *sings the alphabet*

(No, she can’t read. She can recognize a lot of letters. You have to modify Bananagrams a lot if one of your players can’t really read…)
via replied to your post “ok I bought fancy chickens. Females of Silver-Spangled Homburgs and…”

yay fancy chickens! I hope you post lots of pictures when you get them

thesacredreznor replied to your post “ok I bought fancy chickens. Females of Silver-Spangled Homburgs and…”

omg i’m so excited for you!

I’m excited for me too!!

The only downside is that they’re arriving the week of Oct 2nd… which is a week I’m not here. I won’t be back until… oh, the following week, that’s not too bad.

It does throw a wrench in my plan to hand-tame them, since they have to be handled EVERY DAY, but I’ll be back in time to take some cute pictures of them still as babies.

They’re arriving the same time, just about, as 350 red hens, though, so it’ll be hard to keep track of them I think. 
Whiskey cat has rediscovered the yurt and is now making air biscuits. #yurtlife #catsofinstagram #perpetualkitten #farmcat (at Brunswick, New York)



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