The audio of Britney Spears’ voice proclaiming her sovereignty is the voice of the Deep Feminine roaring out of the trance of performative “femininity.” 

Exposing the legacy of dominator culture and our warped relationship to The Feminine. 

This is a spell-breaking occult event of incredible significance. 

A symbolic and magical act rippling out through space and time.

Britney Spears is not just a human being though she deserves human rights and healing. 

She is an avatar—a symbolic voodoo doll of the collective trope of distorted femininity. 

And the Great Split in the Feminine Principal. 

She is the personification of the Madonna-Whore Split. 

Her entire life story has been the living myth and archetypal expression of the state of the feminine in the era of the Lost Feminine. 

The psychic energy she has absorbed from the collective gaze, the collective unconscious projection field of the misogynistic, inverted, split concept of The Feminine principle that has been transferred onto her, and the sheer power of that vested psychic energy and attention have molded her into the ultimate avatar for a larger collective phenomenon. 

It is the living spell of the dominator virus over earth for the last 3,000 years. 

Britney Spears is a pre-cog for the current zeitgeist and collective dream and trajectory of the Feminine. 

And she is breaking the spell.

She is an oracle. 

And now the oracle is saying: 

“After I’ve lied and told the whole world I’m happy and I’m okay…now I’m telling you the truth. I’m so angry it’s insane.” 

When we first met her, she wore a plaid schoolgirl outfit and pig tales. Cooing in a high-pitched contrived voice of performative femininity. Seducing us with her girlish innocence and coy submission. 

Provocatively tempting us to “Hit her one more time.”

A few years later, she crawled on all fours, looked us in the eyes, and sang, “I’m a slave for you.”  

Videos of her singing as a young girl reveal her true voice: deep, guttural, and gospel. 

Belting out with operatic bravado that is stunning to behold in the small body of a seven-year-old girl. 

Following her performance, Ed McMahon leans in close to whisper the real important question we all need to know when witnessing a female exhibit such raw talent:

“You have the most pretty eyes. Do you have a boyfriend?”

As years passed and her career boomed, the deep gospel voice of passionate artistry and power magically vanished. 

She aged, yet her voice regressed. Her body grew, yet her clothes became smaller. 

Like tight corsets stitched around her vocal cords, contorting her voice into the signature high-pitched, breathy, innocent, little girl tone—with a dash of ditzy helplessness. 

Always smiling. 

Always pleasing. 

Being a good doll for us. 

Even her nonsinging voice in any interview or social media post was that same signature squeaky high-pitched little girl. 

Doe-eyed. Submissive. Pleasing. Innocent. 

She pranced for us. She was perfectly “feminine.”

She was the poster child for the good girl. Obedient. Pleasing. Nonthreatening. 

Her sex dressed up as a power we could eat and consume. 

But don’t worry. I won’t ever be challenging or powerful in a way that might be threatening. I won’t use my true voice. I’ll say what you want me to say. Look how you want me to look. Offer my sex and my beauty for your consumption. But never bring in the messy reality of my sovereignty or personhood. 

I have no boundaries; eat of me as you like. 

I won’t invite you into the true magic of my deep power. 

I won’t provoke you into the potent unraveling of lies and revelation into a truth that occurs when the true essence of the Feminine is met. 

I exist for you, on your terms. 

Do you like me now? 

Is this how you like it?

How do you want me to be? 

She was eaten and consumed. Siphoned and exploited. Controlled, stalked, and harassed. 

Living underneath the heavy cloak of the projection field of what it means to be a good girl. 

In an interview with Diane Sawyer, she began to uncontrollably cry when asked about the constant harassment she was enduring. She fought back the tears and then pointed at herself and said:

“EW! Bad Britney!”

And then one day. She snapped.

Shaved her head because she no longer wanted us “touching her.” 

Drowned herself in pills and booze. 

Tattooed that silky flesh that had never been her own. 

Reclaimed her body. 

Made herself into a hideous monster we would no longer be attracted to just to get some room to breathe. 

The bound Feminine tore off her tight corset of control and exploitation. Went feral. 

Exposed her wild underbelly, which is closer to her true nature. 

She rebelled. She dropped the script. She broke the deal. 

And instantly, through the power of the vested psychic energy of the collective unconscious of the Great Split. 

She became:

The Crazy Woman. 

Damaged Goods. 

The Scarlet Letter Reject. 

No longer on her pretty pedestal of Madonna perfection. 

She became the whore. 

A hot mess. 

The Damned Woman. 

As it would have to be if one is the living myth of the archetypal condition of the Feminine in the era of the Lost Feminine:

She was quickly detained. Drugged. And imprisoned. 

Her rights taken away. 

Keys to her life handed to Daddy to take care of her. 

At that moment the archetypal vessel joined in the age-old tradition of abused women exhibiting symptoms of trauma being diagnosed as mentally ill. Hysteria. 

And for the last several years, we have watched her. Make-up smeared. Rocking back and forth, visibly traumatized, in a lithium-induced haze. 

A look of brokenness and heartache in her eyes. 

A sense of being out of her body. Struggling to just be alive. 

But that pretty smile was painted back on. 

That high-pitched squeaky ditzy effect of “femininity.” 

Cheerful. Grateful to be alive. Inspiring. Simple. Nonthreatening. 

Not powerful. No. Not disagreeable. No. Not opinionated. No. Not with her own voice. No. 

A good little girl. 

Except now, the girl is a woman. 

And her battle scars are showing underneath as she grimaces and winces out her seductive cooing and fawning. 

Enduring her abuse with Feminine Grace. 

Convincing herself and us that she likes it. She needs it. She needs to be told what to do. She needs to submit. 

She isn’t bothered. She isn’t angry. She isn’t hungry for true life. That wouldn’t be feminine. The Feminine isn’t hungry. 

The Feminine does not have a life or desire of her own. She exists purely for the Other. She does what she is told. Coos in just the right way. Says all the things you want to hear. 

Embraces her abuser as her savior. 

Knows love as the act of being controlled and consumed. 

Loves to get pimped and siphoned off of because it feels so good and so right to be so loved and accepted. 

And now, in her first public statement speaking out on the decades-long abuse, pimping, siphoning, and imprisonment she’s endured…her voice is deep. Low. 

From the belly. The cunt. The womb. 

Her true voice. 

And you can hear it in her tone. In the urgency and speed at which the words run out of her mouth: 

She literally can not take it anymore. 

“I’m so angry it’s insane.”

“I’m tired of being pretty and being perfect.”

“I want my life back.”

And, the most profound statement of all:

“The control that he had over someone as powerful as me. He loved it.” 

Like a collective gong shattering through all our gas-lit notions of what power is. 

The power of the pimp. 

The power of the abuser.

The power of the controller. 

The power of the dominator.

Revealed and seen through for what it is: 

The pathetic fetish for attempted and illusory domination over the power of the feminine principle. 

And this goes for all of us of every gender and the way the consciousness of Patriarchy moves through us as the violence of extraction, control, entitlement, and domination to extract from the creative life force of the Feminine. 

This is our collective distorted relationship to the Wild Goddess of Groundless Reality, The Life-Giving Potency of Eros, Earth, and Creation.

“The power he had over someone as powerful as me, he loved it.” 

The psychic vessel for our distorted vision of The Feminine is speaking. 

And she is not only a woman and our relationship to women.

She is all of us.

She is Earth. 

She is the untamed wildness of existence. 

She is the collective soul. 

And her voice is deep and low and full of clarity, passion, and anger. 

“I’m not crazy. 

I’m not happy. 

I’ve been in denial. 

I am traumatized. 

I am angry. 

I want to be free.”

~