I found myself watching the movie Free Guy the other night. I didn’t mean to. It didn’t look to be my kind of thing at all. But I clicked on it for some reason and, within minutes, it had hit with me so many shamanic and mythic metaphors about the true nature of life itself that it kept me glued for the whole thing.
At first glance, it’s just your typical action-adventure romp, except this one is set in a multiplayer online game called Free City. Free City is a dystopic metropolis where there’s an armed bank robbery every two minutes, and where the streets are continually full of ricocheting bullets, shoot ‘em up car chases, exploding tanks and airborne corpses.
The hero, Guy, is a bank teller, and an NPC – a non-player character – who meets, and falls in love with a real player character, MolotovGirl. MolotovGirl is the avatar of Millie, and she has come into the game to search for the original source coding, to prove that the game Free City was based on her own game, Life Itself, which had been stolen and twisted to the dark side by the ruthless, narcissistic, demiurgic overlord Antwan Hovachelik.
So I probably don’t have to go any further for those who know me to realise why this movie was ringing so many bells. Ever since I could string a sentence together, I’ve been looking for the “source code” of this life. I’ve read a library-ful of ancient myths, trying to unearth and then re-tell the original story of this simulation – the one that was bent out of shape for us to be controlled as NPCs unless we Paid to Play. I’m also sure that I’m not the only one; how many, reading this article, are here because they’re looking for the original source code? Please do let me know in the comments.
But the metaphors didn’t stop there – Millie’s partner in real life and co-creator of Life Itself is Walter ‘Keys’ McKeys, and he turns out to provide the key to the mystery. Guy and MolotovGirl eventually find the evidence that Hovachelik had stolen and based his Free City on Millie’s Life Itself by the reflections in the window blinds of Guy’s apartment. Hovachelik had wiped out all material evidence of Life Itself, but he had forgotten to wipe out its reflections.
By now, I’m practically jumping out of my seat! Bingo! Yes, the original coding is found in the most reflective substance we have, the memories are hidden there… by which I mean in the waters of this planet, and in the waters of our own bodies. And when we open the window blinds of perception to allow the waters of this planet to ‘speak to’ the waters in our bodies, it leads to greater enlightenment about our true nature. We have agency again over our own life and that of life itself, and so we no longer have to be a mere NPC.
Let me explain further….
If you’ve come across the work of Veda Austin, you will know how picture thought forms can be projected into water because she has shown evidence for it.
The shaman is continually listening to the waters, for his or her inspiration. The Celtic bards called it the silver stream of awen, which came through in their poems and songs. The reflections of the original game are all there in the waters, but they have to be transcribed through the subsconscious mind, and that part of our brain system doesn’t deal in written words, but only in pictures.
Our ancient ancestors would use the same form of technology to ‘speak to’ the waters, to get this communication going. The Indians called these thought forms ‘yantras’. Yantras are picture forms of sound frequencies called mantras.
The Vikings also had such symbols that they used in bathing rituals, most notably, the Helm of Awe.
I believe it was also the purpose of the Celtic knotwork designs used in the illuminated manuscripts, like this one from The Book of Kells.
Yantras and their equivalents are always dedicated to a god or goddess, represented by the dot, circle or square at the centre of the ‘coding’. The Helm of Awe, for instance is dedicated to Ægir, the Viking god of the sea, whose white hair spreads out in rippling waves. The ripples are a metaphor for the resonance of the thought form, of how it spreads from the initial ‘pebble’, or thought, thrown into the water. Guy begins to get an inkling about this process when he throws a pebble from the beach into the sea.
Ægir is the equivalent of the Greek Poseidon or the Roman Neptune. The importance of the sea god in every culture derives from the fact that his salt water covers more than two-thirds of the planet, and makes up more than two-thirds of the human body.
The climax of Free Guy has the hero crossing a bridge over a sea into the world of the original coding that he’d found reflected on his window blinds. The shaman initiator is known as a bridge. This is because we’re the means by which the initiate initially crosses from one world — this one, aka the hellish Free City game — to the more peaceful and real world of Life Itself.
When you cross the bridge of the shaman you are taken into this picture land, in the Underworld as we call it, so that you can start to gain greater wisdom into who you really are by understanding the nature of life itself and, in this way, you no longer have to be an NPC in a diabolical game which is the projection of a crazed, evil mind.