Save The Inland

Meetup: Earth Team in London

Thu, 03 Jun 2010 13:57:00 -0400

UK meetup was a success for Earth Team representatives.

Bulletin: UK Meetup

Thu, 15 Apr 2010 12:59:00 -0400

Stephen Reese, translator of the Inlanders manuscript, and Lynn Davies, Inland map illustrator, will be in the UK this May to meet members of the Earth team. Timing should coincide with the Earth Door’s return to London after an appearance in Glasgow.

Front Lines: Indash Compromised

Fri, 09 Apr 2010 19:42:00 -0400

Indash team reports heavy congestion of Squatters in both sub- and superconscious planes of visiting population. Requesting reinforcements from Piirahn and Earth teams.

Dream Detail: Clara Planck

Tue, 23 Mar 2010 09:46:00 -0400

“Psychic Sidekick,” said Clara, tired.

The caller stayed silent.

“Hi there. I’m a psychic. I’ll do my best to help you make sense of your life. I can see bits and pieces of what’s coming to you, but I can’t promise to understand them any better than you might. If we work together, we could find some meaning.”

Except, she wasn’t seeing any bits or pieces. There wasn’t anything in her head, though she’d emptied it, carefully, as she’d learned. No tiny buds of thoughts flowering in from the edges, as dreams did, shot from the pons into the middle of the visual cortex - or so the lab tech had told her when she’d went for her first readings to get a handle on what was happening. Here, nothing. Not a stem of something.

Clara leaned forward to check her mic.

Wait. There was a sound. Small at first, but rising in volume to jab jagged into her temples - where only the dull smear of headache pain had persisted before. It was a buzz, wasn’t it? Bees. They’re flying backward, she thought, their wings clipped and somehow moving faster, cradling space and shoveling it forward with the paddles of trimmed gossamer membranes…

…scullers heaving across an expanse of…

“Clara?” said a voice, through the swarm.

“Yesss,” she droned, her voice thick and honey-slow.

“We’d like to take you back.” He cleared his throat. It was a he, yes? “Er, that’s forward. We’d like to take you forward.”

“Oh?” she wondered. It was a rhetorical question, so empty of inflection she almost didn’t need to say it.

“You’re being wasted in this dead-end phone call biz. We’re offering something that’ll get you out of the office. With a pay hike, and benefits you can’t quite imagine.”

“That sssounds nice…” Clara heard herself say.

“It’s riskier…than you’re used to. We can talk about that when you get here.”

“Forrrrr shuuuure,” she intoned, and already the vowels were lengthening. She was mildly aware of her fingers stretching, her forearms. Shoulders seemed to be miles from the desk now, nowhere near the keyboard or mouse. Long forgotten, she thought. Soon remembered. She was receding. She was growing. Rowing backward, a sculler on a plane of flat, clear water so sharp and mirrored it felt like glass.

“Hang on an aeon, here,” said the worker bee. “This is gonna sting a little.”

He wasn’t kidding. A moment later and she was pushed, pulled; far and near; here…then; finally, too soon; arriving—

In her new position.

Door Sighting: Oudan

Thu, 11 Mar 2010 17:36:00 -0500

The Earth Door was in France:

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Dream Detail: Bill Oaks

Tue, 09 Mar 2010 09:51:00 -0500

She’s sitting alone at the table in the corner. The bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. Dirty blonde hair you want to put your fingers in. The way she holds her cigarette is like she’s doing ballet with just her arm. The smoke takes its time drifting away from her.

When you sit down, she turns her head as if she expected you. Her smile says she understands you’re doing what every other guy in the bar wants to, but not for the same reasons; you’re looking for something more. Her laugh makes gold of every stupid joke you end up telling, and you’re already way past the standard stuff. Now you’re saying everything you want to say but never do: where you hurt and where it feels good, where you’ve been and where you wish you could go.

She’s got a farm she can’t look after since her husband died, their kid she loves more than anything, and two sisters who help out, ‘cause a family needs more than one grown-up. And you think, how’s this kid going to turn out without a dad, and find yourself wondering if you could contribute, if she let you. That part makes you a little sick to your stomach - it sounds like he was something special.

Before you know it, here you are running across a field with the sisters, the big one who’s fastest though she’s carrying twice your weight, and the witchy, skinny one whose face looks like she’s spent most of her life frowning at people, only now she’s encouraging you, holding your hand: “We have to run, she’ll see us!”

You don’t know where they’re taking you, only that it’s over this hill and down the next, and you can’t see it from the house, which is good for her - she doesn’t like to look at it. If she comes away from her plants quick enough to see the three of you heading for it, she’ll never forgive them. Nobody’s supposed to go there, that’s the unspoken agreement. If the kid catches you going, he might follow and see it too.

Now you have to work to keep your footing ‘cause it’s really steep, way steeper than you expected, though Tammy the big one is having no problem, she’s finding her way as good as a goat on loose rocks. Astrid the witchy one goes straight down like a silver bullet (that’s how you think of her, she’s prematurely grey and lets it grow long). What they’re bound for makes you look twice. There’s no reason it should be here, not in the middle of a sweaty July with temperatures the hottest in forty years.

“That’s where it starts,” says Tammy.

It’s a snowdrift, at least five feet high with no sign of melting.

“We have to get to the middle.”

“What the hell?” you’re saying, and Astrid takes your hand again.

“The Blight,” she tells you. “Two years old and growing. It’s time to kill it.”

You don’t understand what she’s talking about, but you follow her anyway as she rolls up her jean legs and steps right in. Tammy does the same and then you, and you can’t help swearing, the snow is so cold.

Ten steps along, shivering, you turn and look back, first to check and see that Danna can’t see you from the house - but that’s impossible, she’s on the other side of the hill, unless she followed you - and by God if your footprints aren’t…gone.

The one right behind you, even, the one you just made, you’re watching the snow seal it over, hiding the evidence you were there. It’s pristine, sparkling and new again, like nothing ever happened.

You check to see if your own legs are being swallowed.

“Don’t worry.” Astrid gives you some kind of a smile, not exactly reassuring. More, this is par for the course and buck up, buddy - ‘cause from here on out, it gets even weirder.

It does.

Translation: To My Father

Mon, 01 Mar 2010 16:21:00 -0500

Following is a partial translation of the oath exchanged between father and son when youth in the tribe of Rising People have come of age and are about to make their first Rising. Structured as a call-and-answer, this portion of the text contains a son’s reply:

My Father
I am of you
Made from you at the first
Sworn to you ‘til the last
Map my days beside you
Rise and pay tribute to you
I want only for your joy.

Though our time to part has come
And I follow a path my own, away
It is in your footsteps
Without them I am lost
I couldn’t find the higher ground
If you hadn’t known it
And shown the way
That I may know it myself
And one day know you.

May I not forget what you taught
May I not shirk my duty
From Father to Son and my Son after
Each taking the journey higher
Joining one to the other
Your path to mine
Mine to my Son’s
All to the heavens as one
A circle unending.

When your map is full, Father
When your paths are marked
Followed by those you love
And have loved you in turn
Myself not least
May you rest, Father
Your trials at an end
Your Rising at its peak
May I reach the summit
Or my Son after
And draw you home
To the heather forever.

For it is willed
Your worth unquestioned
Your way open always
This is the truth
I cannot keep from you:

Accept my pledge, as is your right
I Rise
That you may be Eternal.

translation by Stephen Reese

Front Lines: Eranthus Clear

Fri, 26 Feb 2010 14:01:00 -0500

Eranthus team reports all instances of Rogues and Squatters cleared from superconscious planes of the indigenous population. Soulstring is secure.

Bulletin: Detecting Infection

Fri, 26 Feb 2010 13:54:00 -0500

Record and study your dream narratives and geographies. Ask yourself:

Is there a perception of malaise and wrongness, something that ‘shouldn’t’ be there?
Do you sense a presence distinct and separate from your own personality?
Are persons appearing whom you don’t recognize from your daily life?
Will familiar landscapes or locations block your dream-self’s entry?

If you can answer Yes to any of the above questions, your Inland may be occupied by a foreign invader. Please contact the Inlanders with a written description of a suspect dream narrative, or an illustration of a potentially compromised dream landscape.

1) Use the Submit link below right. Include your materials in the body of an email or as attachments. We’ll review your submission for publication on this site, and contact you directly if we determine you need assistance or intervention from our Earth team of Searchers, Soldiers and Solvers. A Door will be assigned to your case.

2) Watch this site for new dream imagery and text. Sharing notice of potential infection sites can help others determine if their own Inlands are at risk. Look for patterns in what you read and see, and let us know if any of the same aspects occur with you.

Door Sighting: Berlin

Fri, 26 Feb 2010 12:59:00 -0500

The Earth Door in Berlin.

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Dream Detail: Gerald Petty

Fri, 26 Feb 2010 12:39:00 -0500

He waits for the ball of fire to pass the distant reaches of the membrane, skirting the edge farthest from his slot so many leagues away. It spins, circles and for a few precious hours spears its light into the depths. Now his eyes are open. He can see. Shaft by shaft, luminance reaches into the deep and shutters open the darkness.

Fathoms across the span, the slotweave arcs over, crushingly vast, endless, impossible to look at. It’s too far to make out faces or count bodies, but even from here he can see the fleshy clouds of drones ebb and flow, silver hourglass wiggles streaking and schooling and scooping up harvest. He watches their movements absently. His mind is elsewhere. He knows if he keeps his eyes on them, he’ll see her. They always home to the source.

They’re made in her image. Her intention. And though they’re merely sketches of her shape, laughable cartoon simplifications, he can find some of her in each. The giant, intense eyes. The pointed nipples. The sweep of belly into hips, twin spokes of leg. The long, thin hands and elegant stitch of lips. They look like her. Their movement mimics her own. Perhaps they even think like her, a reduced automaton scribble of the complex lattice that must be her mind. And yet—

There’s nothing that can compare. There she is, speeding like a current, a jolt of pure energy through the blue, the fireball shutter strobing her pearly expanse. Crest forehead to graceful neck to heaving breast to flat midriff to triangle of sex to mile after mile of cruising legspan, shaping the depths to her whim, pincers and contrails and cradle at turns. He is miles away, but he can see the white and pink of her. The limbs tilting aquiline, mane of hair pulsing, fingers and toes pointing and grasping.

She meets the drones like children, gathers them close. Pulls from their faces the mouthcups and transfers the gallons of harvest to the glint of silver tubing that encircles her waist and anchors her somewhere beyond his sight. She does it with such speed and delicacy it shortens his breath. His chest feels tight. His head seems to contract.

Before he has time to memorize the way she collates the dronecloud, or commit to memory the precise interplay of her palm against the perforated skin of the tube, or convince himself that her dark, purposeful eyes have looked his way, the performance is over. Her gleam coalesces and shoots like a missile to the membrane wall, spreads out flat, seems to disappear into the clearpore.

Water bucks in her wake.

Map: Alhain Solmner

Fri, 26 Feb 2010 12:28:00 -0500

Artist’s reproduction of an original diagram by Freines
Solmner, depicting the Inland of his brother Alhain: