Where Is Your God Now?

I was once asked ‘Where is your God now?’

I could not answer.

Millennia ago homunculi had been forged from horse shit and spilt seeds. Those that had formed like stalactites became known as men while those that had formed as geodes became known as women. Each an incomplete being. Each requiring the other to perpetuate their mutual existence. Each mixing their elemental stone mass to create metamorphic rocks, an amalgam, transformed forever never to return to their original state.

In time the homunculi, believing themselves above the natural order, sought out the fruit of knowledge so as to complete themselves and be equal to their creator. Imbibing it they came to understand the azoth the animating spirit hidden in all matter that makes transmutation possible, but in doing so were themselves locked into a single form forever.

In time God grew weary of the people and turned them to pillars of salt upon the baked earth. He flooded the world and thus the seas laden with their undrinkable waters were created. Other Gods rose from seas of frothing milk and in time were but personas of some greater beings which could not be conceived save though explaining what they were not rather than what they were. Others say that all things were but flakes of skin and detritus from a giant who is the universe complete in one being. His dandruff the people. His veins the rivers. His breathe the winds. The sun and moon his eyes.

Others yet say that the queen of the black lake cast her pale sister amongst the stars but was too weak to exile her completely. Thus comes the waxen moon mocking the earth every night when the queen dreams only of slumber yet is unsettled by her sister’s reflected glory.

Some were both of the earth and return to the earth and consider life to be but a terrible punishment to be tolerated until that return to dust. The Gods not so much deities but cruel, ennui afflicted, ubermensche who toy with their inferiors to try and forget their own inadequacy.

A growing number consider there to be no God save logic. And in logic they find their deaths. To become tools, a single tooth in the never ending cogs of the universal machine, to have purpose but no greater value. One day the universe will fade out or just pull the plug and there will be no backup to restore.

Perhaps God killed himself two thousand years ago when he became flesh realising the futility of what her had bourn into creation and seeking release from his burden. Others would say only an aspect of the one true God died. Others again would argue that this form was but a shadow, created by God, trying to explain his logic as a scientist, raising chicks from the egg, would use a sock puppet. Humanity cannot understand the divine. Prophets come and go saying they know the true word of God. Could a single cell life form like an amoeba contemplate the office politics of a multi-national’s CEO having an affair with his foreign national subordinate wherein, while caressing each other in the post coital chill, they decide the budget cuts which will affect those lower tiered staff who chose to dedicate their careers to working hard, yet blindly, to the reality of humanity’s selfish genes and this coupling’s infidelity? Of course not – nor can a single, flawed, being understand everything that their multi-faceted creator thinks or believes before, during or after their existance.

Where is your God now?

Beyond your reach. Beyond your understanding. Beyond thought, wisdom, logic and emotion. Beyond fire, water, wind and earth. Beyond all things and existing within all things. In the things that exist and the things that do not exist. In between the cracks of reality and the gulfs of the imagination. Where there is both light and dark and where there is neither yet both simultaneously exist. Where you think God is and where you do not realise where God is. Where it has always been and always will be.

Do not even question where you God is now…

No one can answer.


Another off the cuff vignette to keep things ticking over. No editting. No real focus. Just an experiment in writing. So there are a few made up creation myths and a few actual ones in there. The divine is beyond our understanding in whatever form you wish to believe in it in. Some wait for the end times. Some think it has already passed. Scientists believe that the Higgs-Boson will reveal all the answers to life, the universe and everything. The answer is 42. It is all beyond our understanding.

Prospero:
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d tow’rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 148–158

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A Working Homunculus Heart

I walked to work in the early morning and the air seemed to be on fire burning my nostrils with every breath made visible by expelled water vapour. I can still taste the dull mint of the toothpaste from twenty minutes ago as the ground beneath me seems to ripple, on the verge of perception, undulating beneath the frost of mid-Winter. I arrive at work and hear no one speaking while we wait to be let in. I feel my homunculus heart sink. I touch the machine switching it on and the static electricity stings me as it has done every day but I do not react.

Our marionette minds are not taxed by the labour. It is a simple, repetitive, task and in the dying days of this year it is only we who are expected to work though there is no urgency in the completion of our task. They are, however, more than willing to find us more to do so we are not ‘just sitting there twiddling our thumbs’ vacantly.

I recall being unemployed years ago and being told I should not pursue a job in publishing or any creative industry even as behind-the-scenes office staff. I was told this by an advisor in a government funded recruitment agency who would soon be fired but regain his job when the company that won the contact subcontracted it to their failing predecessors. It was two years later I finally got a job having to live with that comment. My heart was replaced by this homunculus sometime back then.

I do not work the whole day. I leave after six hours though I am told we can do just five in order to get a full day’s pay. It is the only act of defiance I can muster without cutting the red strings that bind me to this society down the road.

I had once been skilled in drawing but, with time preoccupied fulfilling others agendas for low pay, I found I had no time to do this and my marionette mind was enslaved by the puppet masters whose lives are their careers. I attempt to doodle occasionally but find where once there was scale and texture there is only a caricature line art not even worthy of being crossed out. My mind is plagued by the demons and dark thoughts accumulated through the passage of time. Nothing is done once work is finished. I lie rotting on the floor sheathed in the blue glow of the television in power saving mode as it rests.

I feel nothing. I care for nothing.

I am not living but merely existing nowadays.I am not human. I am not even humane. I am a homunculus.

A little man made less by society’s demands.

My homunculus heart is incomplete.

And yet it moves.


There is a PS2 game called ‘Haunting Ground‘ (‘Demento‘ in Japan) and a character in it called Daniella who is an artificially created servant (everyone else seems to be some sort of homunculus made by the alchemist, Lorenzo, so I assume she is too) who goes crazy and chases the main character around as the second stalker ‘boss’ of the ‘Clock Tower’ style game (Which it was initially going to be part of the series of before being made a stand alone title). It’s based on the sort of Gothic Romanticism in novels written by Anne Radcliffe (1764 – 1823) amongst others. Long story short the alchemist, Lorenzo, has kept himself alive via cloning/homunculus creation and wants to be reborn in the womb of the main Character Fiona. (Who he kidnapped and is his last living descendant so there is a bit of a creepy incest aspect to it too in thhe grand tradition of Gothic literature). In one of the bad endings one of his clones, Riccardo actually achieves it and you see Fiona sat docile in a chair about 8 months pregnant having apparently lost her will to resist…

People really liked the character of Daniella as a sort of tragic villian because although she was insane and trying to kill Fiona it was Lorenzo’s fault due to her maltreatment in his service by Riccardo. Unfortunately I can’t find a comprehensive video of all the scenes of dialogue but this one has a few of the key ones before Daniella starts chasing the main character around the castle. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nkhy16_zsAQ

Oddly I have watched play throughs of it a few times but never played it myself. Sometimes I feel the urge to get an old copy and do so but I just don’t have time.

… and that is what inspired this vignette as silly as it may seem.