The Latest God

I've felt it so strongly, for such a long time.  Our native language is not spoken here.  Not readily.  Oh, some brave souls do.  More and more as time goes on, even though others misunderstand them and ridicule them.  But even though it is our native language they speak, and I drink it like water, when I read or hear their words they still sound funny.  Almost as if I should be ashamed to hear them spoken out into the air, speaking of childish things.

Even though it is our native language, forming the words feels weird in the light of the shape my mouth is in after speaking the other language.  That's the one we've been asked forever to speak.  It troubles our souls from the day we're born and then blames us for being troubled.  "Speak like this," the latest god says.  But I've never felt at home in it.  Its words itched.  They separated, divided, conquered.  Many of us have been impaled on its spikes because we forgot that our native language was real.  It was more real than the language the latest god has asked us to speak.  The latest god said, "This is the only possible way that you can see."  And we accepted what he said because that's what we are wired to do, to accept authority.  Even though it itched, and it quieted what should not be quieted.

"That language is primitive," the latest god said.  "Follow my way." And even though we didn't like it we did, and it took us years to be able to admit that as we followed along behind the latest god what we really were seeing was his bare naked arse.  Because apparently no one else was seeing it.  And anyway, the only way we could speak about the nakedness of the latest god would be to translate it into our native language, the old one, the one we have forgotten, and then translate it back into the latest god's language.  And when that happened the words sounded weird. 

And anyway, the latest god tells me that there is no space or room or time or necessity to see things in these old-fashioned ways - to see things as connected, to desire to do things for love.  And so for years you have felt this golden thread that connects you all is some weird mystical thing that you have to be a bit embarrassed about.  "Those are primitive concepts," the latest god says, "childish things, and you must put them away if you want to get ahead.  There is no space or room or time or necessity for those things that make your heart beat faster, or that enable you to see the person in front of you and the earth below your feet as anything other than elements completely separate from you, elements which you must transfer into goods and services to make money from."  This is what the latest god says because he has one eye in the middle of his forehead, like the chick from Futurama, and that eye has blinkers on either side of it so he can't look from left to right.  The latest god is like a giant head connected to a giant arse, that has spewed his shit all over the earth.

We are addicted to the latest god in the same murderous way that a diabetic is addicted to sugar.  But the latest god he has brought us so much, we cry.  We think that we have one eye in the middle of our forehead with blinkers on, too, and that all those things we yearn for are stupid.

But still we know, deep down.  Hundreds of thousands of years of ancestral knowing flood through our veins, and they know.

I listen to the news and the subjects of the latest god are talking about his dominion and about his growth and expansion.  The latest god is standing right beside them with his testicles hanging in the breeze like an ancient old man whose time has come, but they are blind.  They are terrified because they have forgotten how to speak their native language too.  There are no purple robes for them to wear in that land, and they have not yet developed the synapses that link the thirst they feel in their mouths to the words they have forgotten from since before they could speak.

But some have.  Like here, for example:

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