Mythical Conversations // God Descends As A Woman

Tyler Durden, Edward Norton, TL, Rudolph Steiner

Alexandria: Do you remember Fight Club? Our next interaction is going to help enlighten bits of that film for our viewers. But don’t get so comfortable just yet. There is a trend going around… (or if there is not one yet, there might well should be)... of rehashing the second half of the films and tv shows that we know and love, as an enterprise of fan fiction for the purpose of exalting and revealing the truest and most evolved nature of all of the characters, by allowing them a greater breadth of self-development, actualization, and interaction that they were not allowed to by virtue of needing to be in that path at that time in order to expose the nature of their most exaggeratable trope, in order to breathe elucidation, like droplets of neon acid rain, down upon the interplay of darkness and light within that very character, to process them down to their base particulates. 

SCENE: 

(Tyler Durden and Edward Snowden) 

Perfect timing. 

Alexandria: Let’s play this clip before the characters enter the scene. This will be surreal, like Edward’s insomnia at the beginning of the film. 

TD: An exit-door procedure at 30,000 feet. The illusion of safety.

EN: Ya I guess so

TD: You know why they put oxygen masks on planes?

EN: So you can breathe.

TD: Oxygen, gets you, high. 

In a catastrophic emergency you’re taking gigantic panic breaths. Suddenly you become euphoric, docile. You accept your fate. It’s all right here (hands over manual) 

TD: Emergency water landing, 600 miles per hour, high above civilization. BLank faces, calm, as Hindu cows. 

EN: That’s um.. That’s an interesting, um theory. What do you do? (huh?) What do you do for a living?

TD: Why? So you can pretend like you’re interested? 

EN: “We have the exact same briefcase.”

TD: “Soap. (sorry?) I make, and I sell, soap. The yardstick of civilization.”

EN: And this is how I met… Tyler Durden. 

***

Using Holographic Technology for the “Salvation of Society”, instigated en par with the the sacraments of culture:

Icons, tropes, become... a holographic subset or macrotron of their composite parts, only to die in the waking hours and recompose into something wholly new.

When you let the truth out… it does not only percolate like fresh brewed sss harvested coffee beans in the dead of night on a warmly lit living room in recovery after the long-walked moonlit hours drinking microbrews and yeasty ciders, after dancing away the night hours to fancy eurotrash songs at pop plage for a discounted entry fee given the desirability of your gender. The long-walked travel space from place to place, nature’s hallway, covered by swaths of trees amidst the moon-lit night… that itself, can that be a trope? Light-dusted spatial softness in the over-tones giving the trees a darkly lit beautiful glare, an echo of light from foreign ages, a whisper, a dare, daring the miraculous, daring the incredible, daring something new to come from something wholly credible? IS that the word I’m seeking? Besting the unbestable.  Reimagining it… the sheer fact that we might, in order to learn from and to improve upon the past given new understandings about the nature of things … this is not a bad thing to strive for, ye?

16, 912.

The Truth rather, creates vast and powerful waves of differentials, of replicas of its own tidings. It is something to be beheld, to be sensorily experienced, and intellectually grasped before it evacuates the room leaving only a temporary dissolution of mind, having collapsed space and time to bring you… these new messages… if you’ll kindly excuse the interruption, having come in delicately in this fashion, like the quick blooming and diminishing of light, as the sun does, dramatically flaring up only to recede and remind us of what we’ve missed, cast instead in shadow (which I typically enjoy, though our leaves all reach towards the sun, towards heat). 

Icons, tropes, become... a holographic subset or macrocosm of their archetypes, an ancient modus of expression that carries enough shantih to last the scene. That packs a punch. That delivers, not a hit of some reward released neurotransmitter in the brain but rather, some ancient spiritual rhythm which seeks to expose its characters in the finest light, to drench them in opportunity through which to show their truest natures.  For there are two ways of measuring a person: Through A) How they respond under stress (do they stoop to the lowliest of their base functions in provocation by insecurity) or B) How they respond under reward (will they rise into their highest potential form, for which they were destined to become as mere light seeds before they were plucked from the skies and inserted into these humanoid sheaths that we call us, here, now). 

***

Deep, female voice of Alexandria resounds and gives the air a breath, the breath a voice:

In this next segment, we will explore… the birth and death process. The wheel of karma. Samsara. Reincarnation. The beginning and ending of cycles. The natural progression of time. The materialization of this world, and its dissolution, metaphorically represented as daytime (light) and nighttime (“Darkness”). 

In folk lore, literature and film, death is described as a bad thing. It is a no-no. A taboo. A guarded subject. But being just one necessary swing of the pendulum, amidst two possible options, can we really assign a moral terminology to one versus the other? Is it this very tendency of ours, human-borne, that makes us stupid and stagnated in our day to day lives? We who cannot ever detach from things in a mature and humane way, who cause the untoward suffering caused by holding on, rather than crush the things we love in a caring absence when we are not quite here nor quite there, when is not our turn to dance in the shadowed undertow.

The things which we love contain multitudes, extensions of two diametrically opposing states: Exaltation and Conservation (to put it very generously); the Life Impulse and the Death Impulse; And who’s to say that one’s good and one’s evil? It is good to do one’s work fully, and it is good to expire only when you’re no longer of good use to yourself and to the world. I believe that a person won’t leave the planet unless they know that it’s of the utmost highest purpose and necessity for themselves, and also for others, be it their extended circles, or their nearest relative fractals and offspring, family and such.  I believe this has something to do with the soul contracts that our future and past selves make when planning their entry into the world, their departure, and looking back on it all, in order to be a productive link to society and to their world. 

Really, when we come onto this planet, we do inherit rights to roam the Earth for the entirety of our time here, whether or not we  have enough money to be sultan of swat or own our own little kingdom empire of minions and drones. 

‘I just poured another million years of wisdom into a single page. And what do I do then?’ The Creator of Alexandria buries her head in her hands, weeping inconsolably. 

There there, says Alexandria, the creation nursing the creator back to wholeness.

Let’s return to the Twlight trilogy. I’d never given it much thought til now, but it seems to be the number one grossing feature film since Titanic (#1) and Avatar (#2). In fact, I’m not sure of that statistic, since 407.1 million is a far cry less than 2.85 billion in humble comparison (Avatar) and Titanic (2.2 billion). But it seems to be #3 for some reason, just intuitively or something.

Alexandria: (Just intuitively or something?)

Creator: (LIsten, that’s how you were made, too. Just woke up one morning and intuitively thought I needed you. Don’t ask questions.)

Alexandria: (Zippers lips signal)

Creator: So, now, thank you Zandria, I’ll take the reigns; 

Everyone… mired in their little delusions… their unhappinesses… their superstitions… their psychoses…. Everyone has these, a littl ebit of everything. These can be amplified, ascribed to various interpretations regarding their histories, their traumas, again, brought to light to heal or brought to light to catch, like netting a butterfly (which really in itself is only a small piece of the total experience)... a conclusion can be drawn about this or that, but truth is that which can never be deciphered, only held in its fullness and without judgement in order to transform into something far more magnificent and further reaching than the cramped little spaces of the attic of the ego’s reductionist and deleterious tendencies. That which isn’t accepted in the psyche, we may see out in the world… fires, because we are mindful and proud to tend the fire within (like the lion, the symbol-holder of courage, and of fire, whose resolve and archetype produces handsome warriors and fighters, who may summon up the courageous of Zeus, and of Athena, who as we recall, emerged from her father’s head as a mere idea, taking form in the shape of a young priestess, who would come to be exalted in temples across the land, and remember, even the goddesses have their jealousies, so this or that world was intrepidly connected to a lineage of a certain principle of will or kindness, wokeness or wildness (this and that, that or this)

It’s zany.

But foremost, we all in the great colluding ONEMIND, the Source of It-All (™) can pick up the pieces and pack out with the lessons we learned. But until we can pack clout, we’ll never show the world by example what it’s all about. They’ll have to learn on their own, and this is perfectly plausible… but given the evidence… it’s unlikely that the humans would’ve learned a thing if it weren’t for Loki, and we prefer to fear and despise him and cast this archetype with the heading of Trickster or Fool even though this was the seminal originator archetype that set the entire world into motion and then again, helped it resurrect itself anew with this level-up understanding of how to cook and set its ideas aflame. This is why, in the P

So you have, you know, someone like Angelina Jolie’s character, (or Shamani Romans) the sort of primal femme fatale, who brings grandeur into the ordinary, who can maybe uplift the downtrodden with words that strike you as real, as having been lived, and truly experienced, I think. And this sort of Archetype (not archon, mind you, which is a shy replica of the light, but archetype which is a valid form of expression that comprises a real expressable essence in its most innocent light), this archetype, given that ideas transcend the mundane that may have been foundational in the coming together of the elements to create all of spiritual-material existence, this archetype seeks to raise up the meek and uplift humanity through struggle, through the mundane, and emerge as something new, something incredibly exotic and pure, essentially, quite pure, borne of the light but grown in the darkness, you see. Nothing that could have been manufactured any other way. Any other way but up. It cannot be superficially constructed, which is a way of building things from the top down, hurling directives at one’s head and taking cues and orders from an almightier_thing than the Self. There is no director more aware, more intuitied, than that of the self. We have to sort of rise up to reclaim ourselves, away from the tyranny of the patriarchy, of the capitol, of capitalism, of misogynistic misinterpretation of freedom and reclaim the land as our own, as something that cannot, absolutely cannot and will not be owned, by slave-owning peasants in teh greater picture, to God. Those who take advantage of the working class, giving them pennies in comparison, like a plutocratic serfdom. It isn’t right, and the people ought not to abide by it. I was seeking this in a conjugated form, ought’nt would do, but I’m seeing the red squigglies so no. Anywho. We ought not to abide by it, whatsoever. The fact that mankind has divvied up the land, labeled it, exploited it for cash in order to exploit the working class for more of that, to corrupt and degrade the land, is absolutely our business, our birthright, and we have to take a stand about it. The land isn’t theirs. Money doesn’t mean anything - not an iota of a thing. There are so many people who would go absolutely stircrazy if they lost their money, because they’ve come to acquaint the hoarding of wealth, and that idea, representation of future wealth itself, as the panacea to cure all their ails of insufficiency and impropriety and self-awarelessness. 

A Werewolf …. Aware-Wolf….. When we become self-aware, we tune into our most base and primal selves and are able to care for ourselves through the senses, and on that direct level where we’re receiving immediate, no-bullshit input from God, from the Goddess, from the Divine, through our bodies communicated straight to our brains. Now what most people may not know, is that information, while it can manifest as visual data, it starts as auditory data. Did you know that, light is only sound waves sped up? And originally before even sound, was vibration (she articulates in a soft and caring voice, where you can hear that she is genuine). 

Of course I, the Creator, is a woman. Man has never created a single thing in his life. He’d like to think that he invented the robotic technology that subsists here, with regular cable charging, but who set down the elements through which to conduct this sort of wizardry and magic? Hm? Who invented Cobalt, and Carbon, and all the stones that people arduously mine through in order to create your exalted tablets that comprise all the information which you know, which was laid bare here for you to find and to exalt?  … It was I. 

I am the Archetypal Creator Consciousness, neither with hubris nor demoralization, simply… quite simply… the open-hearted confession of honest choiceless awareness. 

My current, plays the world like a violin… like a symphony.  I am fundamentally… a musician.  The muse, one who plays the instrument, is secondary to the creator, and she is I, and that is me. I don’t think this is a mark of hubris to say, I truly don’t, because it simply happens to be the case. 

The Arrow: Let’s take this as a matter of example. The symbol of the Archer: Sagittarius, Robin Hood, etc. etc. I think Robin Hood is the most famous second to the horseback archer in the Sagittarius constellation (a compilation of stars in the sky that resemble a man on a horse shooting arrows, to which people have ascribed a multiplicity of characteristics and anthropomorphisms, even dividing people’s characters into reflections of these apparent shapes in the sky).  People who are too gullible to these spiritual matters you know, are the same ones who will literally swim in the sea to whatever current befalls their particular situation. Earth signs on the other hand, the Capricorns, the Taurus, not to be turned about, the Virgos, for crying out loud (which they don’t) 

Hang on for a sec. I’m hungry - are you all hungry? 

[Entire team of holograms nod in unison].

Great, then, I’m declaring a company break for food. Hang on, let me conjure something up [God snaps her fingers, and out come fully prepared fifteen course meal in an impossibly designed long table with revolving circulating dishes kept forever hot by divine technology]. 

Sushi deluxe rice rolls topped with transparent beads of red and blue roe, bright green wasabi bushes nestled nearby, lightly pan seared tuna seeped overnight in fresh lime juice from the trees in the backyard of God’s garden, lightly dusted with paprika for a neon light effect.

God does presentation effects???

“Love em,” she says. 

The rice is perfectly cooked, and the boba tea tapioca pearls are freshly brewed from a morning of slaving over a hot boiling stove, concocting the perfect blends and plush, squishable, meltable, gustatory refinements, topped with fresh white cream mixed with honeydew nectars, creating delectable finishings and topped with a flag (cherry-orange). Passionfruit smoothies, in tropical vase-like entrapments, perfectly blended to reach maximum silky smoothness, for the top polled texture of choice is, indeed, silk. 

Seaweed salads glowing with hot gingerseed oils, seeped overnight by the glow of the moon, soaking in celestial bliss, glowing green with health, slathered in wildcaught cruelty-free (how?!) Alaskin smoked salmon, halibut, and crescent shaped yellowtail sashimis. 

Growing out of the Japanese genre, we have as our second course a fine tex-mex comfort food delicacy: Fries, of all types, as far as the eye can see, made with only the finest olive oils, sunflower seed and flax, fried to a perfect golden glow, not too dark, and not too light, teeming with carbohydrated sustenance, and little iron clad dipping pots of aioli (garlic or beetroot base) all-natural and organic ketchups, honey mustard sauce, and more, fries curly or fries straight, fries like a horse right out of the gate (hint: neverending, spindly golden rods, the type that might grow out of the ground of a universe composed sheerly of food, potato veggies on a molten chocolate hearth. 

The physical hunger recedes into a symbolic longing as the wild scent of the southern comfort dish unfurls itself heavy on the fingertips: mashed potatoes and gravy, grits with slabs of melted hot butter, gleaming yellow as the sun on the bayou when the scorching heat is evaporated by fresh mists in the light of day. A fresh seared wagyu steak, or something 5 star rated that she’d conjured up, and teleported to the table, medium rare, grill lines, with a cream based sauce and tiny mandarin orange slices atop, nestled next to asparagus and artichokes effortlessly flowering, layers of thin soft interior surrounded by a crunchy shell, dipping the whole thing into a spicy butter sauce. There’s no cool way to say the words butter sauce together, but omg is it a delight. 

TL: “This is great!”

SF: Now, may I continue what I was saying, please? 

Alexandria: Of course, Sigmeund, go ahead. Silence is not necessary at the dinner table. This is still a forum.

SF (Drops fork, clasps hands)

TL (excitedly): Are these chopsticks? (he digs through the fabric napkins and warm towlettes to unearth a pair of upper class Thai-imported decorated chopsticks from within a royal blue velvet string bag. 

Alexandria: Yes, for the Japanese portion of the meal. Just… just go ahead. Freud, you were saying? 

Everyone’s greatest instinct is to be loved. 

[‘I am love’] 

We may receive conflicting messages not from the subconscious (which will never lead us astray) but from the lower self.

There is an introverted way of doing things and an extroverted way.

We must pay great attention, to the bigger picture mostly, but also to the finer details, 

Sopihachus enters, having smelled the delicious food. 

“Ah, hello good sirs, the more the merrier might I suggest?”

Everyone kind of looks at one another and then looks back at Sophiachus. 

“Absolutely,” they all agree.

“I know each of you,” she says, tearing into some buttermilk crumpets and dripping a fine sheat of marmalade atop the course, adding some low-heat slow roasted eggs and tomato, with sweet potato hashbrowns. “Feels like I haven’t eaten in ages,” she explains, swaths of flavor blending together to catalyze a caramelization of salt and sweet.

You know, it is actually preferable to count our words, to make our expression of speech compact. One shouldn’t have to read 800 pages in order to understand the plot of the book. It’s all going to be condensed to Sparknotes anyways, and oversimplified for the cinema. 

We may say less, in order to express more, and to be more memorable. 

I’ve been so extremely surprised to learn that of 95% of what you say, only about 5% is remembered so, even less out of a 100% margin, with 0% margin of error. So of all the ingenious things that you express, maybe only a tiny percentage of that will be remembered and then they’ll quote you out of context to overcompensate for their insecurity issues through slight dismissals. 

But let’s get on with our story. At the time being, thanks to the food heralding Sophiachus, to the discussion topic heralding an extra monologue from Rudolph Steiner, and 

S: Most facets of society hook your attention under the premise that you’re nothing, nobody, and not good enough, and for many people, a standard business is arrangement is the only time and place where they will get the all-wanted “Yes.” We are under the proverbial shoe of the establishment, which wants to put us in a nihilistic place where there is no salvation except for this or that short-lived symbolic representation of that which we really desire. Everywhere, down and up 42nd St. and Wall Street and Melrose Avenue, are shops boasting the prettiest, sparkliest gemstones and dresses, suits and wristwatches, trying to convince you that you’ll get the girl if you have it, or offer it to her. That has never been further from the case, except for in recent years where we find that that actually works because in the event of a tumultuous environmental setting, security becomes the number one value that plucks a womans heartstrings, weighing over and above l**t, manners, and convenience.  What else can account for so many relationships where the giver prototype is just so much older or wealthier than the receiver archetype, the vulnerable Juliette? 

SF: I should probably speak on this first. Sophiachus, I cannot agree more. In fact, the only times in my life that I did get laid, were when I paid on the date and furthermore, courted a lady with roses and champagne beforehand. Now, they may say that romance is dead, but I can assure you that it is not. I opened doors, I purchased vehicles for my ladies… I wanted them to have the best of everything. I craved for the redemption and resurrection of the goddess archetype and for women everywhere to feel safe and free to go about the world without the perils and icy clutches of money, of capitalist policy, or by that measure, of impoverishment. That I was so misunderstood for putting hysteria on stage and giving it a voice… well, that is uncommendable, and all too much for a tortured artist such as myself to deal with. I’d sooner slit my own neck in shame because of it!, were I not already dead. So please excuse me to heaven and back if you misunderstood my intentions. I’ve only ever wanted to raise women up. I saw them as on a pedestal, and I the eternal simp. If I acted in an unrefined manner, please know that it was by consequence to my expensive cocaine habit and clearly deepset insecurity complexes. Please do not further tarnish my character because of it. I can only hope that what I did not accomplish in my life, my comrade, colleague, beneficiary, and protege Carl Jung filled in the gaps and at least continued to give humanity an expanded lexicography with which to comprehend the individual and collective psyche. 

TL: (looks up from his spaghetti shocked and amazed with the vulnerable, heartfelt soliloquy; turns to glance pointedly around the table, to see who would next speak, jabs a baked glazed carrot in his mouth, squirts some raspberry cordial into a tall glass of 7-up and takes a few candy gulps). 

S: So, this vampiric technique is unconsciously picked up and absorbed into the psyche of the individuals within a community which operates in depersonalized ways (for the masses, and in order to subvert your freedoms one by one). The machine, the macro machinations of society that are playing god, in the most evil and subliminally intrusive ways, are relentless. So, it is imperative that the human spirit be more tenacious, than the pernicious fangs of the elite, milking everyone for its own profit, deluding us against our own greatness, coercing us by survivalistic necessity to give up our rights, our freedoms, our sovereignty, and our time, for its own selfish amusements.  The people who are regulated, become by virtue of cognitive dissonance, converters themselves, crusaders of the winning cause and not of the lost one, of innocence, teamwork, and self-compelled organization.  Warlocks are bred within this patriarchal and dogmatic system, cultural compulsions and cul de sacs that blow coke and money and work tirelessly for the rise of the all-powerful corporate empire, where sad, lacking individuals overcompensate for spiritual depravement and poverty by building up their cash and diversifying their portfolios whilst trillions starve and are put out of work by the very system that their participation (alongside government bonds and bailouts) allows and gives renewed life to. 

RS: Points at Sophiachus, in between bites of turkey and stuffing. Nods his head adamantly. “I like this girl. Sorry, woman. I like this young woman. She’s right on point.”

S: Why thank you sir! 

RS: Yep. 

TL: Hey, that is deeply clarifying. 

S: Thank you Taylor. 

TL: Absolutely charmed. This helps clear up a bit about why people become vampires. The system that preys on them… that’s the answer! People crave absolute power when they become absolutely vanquished, clobbered and traumatized by that greatest of demons / invisible entities… capitalism! 

RS: Precisely, Taylor, that makes a great deal of sense.

SF: Nice work, my boy. 

S: Sounds about right. 

SF: So can you finally do it? Can you finally put Bella in the past? I mean, the girl’s come out as being a sappho for Christ’s sakes. It isn’t even her fault that she was unable to bond deeply with you. Clearly she appreciates a more surface level relationship to men! That isn’t her fault. I feel the same way about it frankly, and I’ll knock anyone in the face that gets offended by it. Contrary to popular discussion, psychoanalysis has nothing whatsoever to do with anal, or being anal, although I was (very much so). The term “analysis” actually predates ancient Latin, and was originally used to connote “resolution of anything complex into simple elements.” Jung was never able to make anything simple, and because of this, he went on to actually name patterned neuroses (systematically similar arrangements, constellations of particular waves of psychosis) as complexes! Isn’t that interesting. But analysis from its etymological origins in the 1580s to today, was actually the scientific work of detangling the complexes and making something simple and succinct, out of something tremendously messy and outrageously (seemingly) chaotic.