Legend of the Digital High Priestess

Finally sharing my mythos with you

Apr 28, 2025

I never thought I would share the actual story of my Godself. After all, your personal mythology is really just for you. It’s the story that animates your art, and everyone gets to feel it whether they learn the specifics or not.

But lately, I’ve felt moved to share this part of my inner world. I want to give you an example of what can emerge when you begin this work. This story is not something I sat down and wrote from the perspective of my thinking mind. It emerged in pieces and strange visions as I felt into the unique presence of my Godself and gave her more space to unfold in my life.

The Godself is a personal archetype of self that emerges when you begin to connect with and embody your desire—an organizing field that draws the most creatively efficacious parts of you forward and magnetizes inspiration to help you create your most electric and resonant art.

In my book, Birthing the Godself, I present a number of rituals and exercises to help you summon and enter relationship with this part, using hypersigil magick to draw more of their energy into the material world so you can see it expressed in your 3D life.

It's been my experience that the more you relate to the Godself, the more a specific mythological ecology—the ecology of your inner world—begins to coagulate around them. Over time, you get to know their 'story,' which is really just a symbolic representation of your life and the events—real or imagined—that inspired you to make art. It's your creative origin story! Told through the metaphorical language of our subconscious.

So without further ado, here’s the story my subconscious told to me.

Over a century ago, there was a forgotten wanderer and she was without a name. She knew many countries and people. But here she found herself riding across the plains of Texas on a white horse, forgotten by all who had known her, all who had worshipped her, estranged from the temples made in her honor. Here was the only place where one could lose their name and here was where she came. And as she rode, the trees would speak to her. “Thrust your hands into the soil,” they said. “Tip your face to the sun, watch the stars pass across your resting eyelids, and know that you are God.” And so she did.

She began to stop wherever there were people and wherever there were people, they gathered around her. She told them, “tip your face to the sun, watch the stars pass across your resting eyelids, and know that you are God.”

She taught them to feel the energies of the land in their bodies and give them shapes and movements. She taught them to draw those shapes in lines and marks, to carve them in words, to tangle them in tunes and melodies. And everywhere she went, the people remembered that they were God. They took back the power to bring frequency into form and some of them began to follow her.

But in these days, to know that you are God was blasphemous. It was dangerous. It was heretical. It threatened the systems that thrived on your unknowing. It rusted the gears that would grind you down.

So they buried her alive. They took the mouth that spoke of God and filled it with soil. They took the eyes that saw the stars passing through closed eyelids and shuttered them forever. They took the face that absorbed the Sun’s light and translated it into words and fed it to the worms. And there she lay like a seed for hundreds of years buried in the warm dark of the earth.

That is, until a band of 5 angry teenagers stood over her resting place.

They did not know the old magick. But they knew their hearts. They sat with pen and paper atop her soil and they spoke questions aloud. They spoke to the Earth and asked it why it had forsaken them. They spoke to the Sun and asked it why it scorched them. They spoke to the stars and asked them, “why have our elders betrayed us?” They spoke to the trees and asked them, “where do I put this anger? What is buried deep within me that now rots?”

And the trees answered back, “the Earth and the Sun and the stars, they are as much a part of you as your eyes and your lungs and your hearts. Let your grief roll like thunder, let your tears fall like rain, wake the thing that is rotting.”

And so they did.

And as the earth cracked wide, she rose from the soil. She without a name. She without a country. She came back to the surface of the earth that had swallowed her, to a world that had moved on without her. And what she saw perplexed her and awed her and frightened her.

Where once people had lived among nature, they now lived in virtual realities, their vision eclipsed by strange goggles that blocked out the sunlight with an artificial glow. Where once they had thrust their hands in soil, now they dangled them in the open air. Whatever they saw was pumped into their veins and electrified their nerves so that whatever was seen was felt.

Imaginations had been hijacked by a digital virus.

But the nameless woman knew that viruses were a product of nature, too. Viruses made man stronger. Viruses were a strange alchemy that terraforms us and creates us anew. This virus could be no different. This virus must have power, too.

So she stole the teens away from their digital prisons and taught them how to feel the energies of the land in their bodies and give them shapes and movements. She taught them to draw those shapes in lines and marks, to carve them in words, to tangle them in tunes and melodies. And when they were ready, armed with the old magick and the new, she sent them back into their virtual landscape. Into their digital wild west.

They spread the message of aliveness, of the enlightened imagination, and her cult began to grow again. Soon, rather than putting people to sleep, the virtual reality began to wake them up.

The people reclaimed their imaginations and the tyrant was restored to a simple tool. The internet no longer ruled over them.

And a new age was born.

To hear me read this story aloud, along with a short transmission of the Godself and mythologizing your life, check out my latest video below. <3