88022

“Trump is a nazi!” is a phrase we have all heard by now, or at least read on social media. Godwin’s Law predicts this Reductio ad Hitlerum as built into the fabric of modern internet communication, but could there be a deeper program to this comparison?

That self described neonazis are often in support of Trump does not warrant calling him a nazi, and if so, what does this say about his all embracing relationship with Israel? Could calling Trump a nazi be on par with calling Obama a muslim? I don’t know because I wouldn’t call Trump a nazi or Obama a muslim, but what is interesting to me is the seemingly unintentional (synchronicity or subtle gesture?) use of the number 88.

88 is a well known dogwhistle amongst neonazis. Though 8 (indicating the 8th letter of the alphabet, “H”) is an auspicious number to jews to signify HaShem (translates to “the name” of G-d), 88 (“H””H” = Heil Hitler) is used by neonazis as a coded way to express their identity to each other. They both like to equate numbers with letters, why can’t they get along? The ironic love to hate relationship between two groups self convinced of their superiority and/or chosen status could inspire a pun on the word ashkenazi, but… too soon.

Joking aside, if you translate “Trump” into simple gematria (a process of adding the number values of letters in words famously associated with Jewish mystical practice) you get the number 88. This is surely a freakish coincidence (or sychronicity if you prefer), but when considering the power of occulted semiotics from the same perspective as one who prescribes to a Jewish mystical world view, it is not irrelevant.

Some of you may remember how Trump urged his supporters durring his presidential campaign to text him at 88022 in order to get updates sent to their cell phones. Again, 88, but also 22. Twenty-two is significant to note in that there are twenty-two trump cards in the tarot which are based on twenty-two branches of the Tree of Life (an esoteric diagram of reality according to Jewish mystical world view); each branch corresponding with the twenty-two letters of the Hebrew alphabet. MAGA also equals twenty-two in simple gematria, and “Be Best” (“B””B” = 22), the awkward slogan proposed by the first lady, in this context may seem more meaningful.

Zero (as Aleph) in the Tarot is marked on the Fool card, which is usually represented as a man about to walk off of a cliff; here we are… This may all seem as insignificant coincidence to most, but from a perspective of viewing reality (especially in terms of human functioning) as having underlying girders built out of language, it all seems to sync up with what is.

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Dream Journal: Madness

DS(1) in which I stopped by an apartment to visit a female friend who was living with two other females. Upon meeting my friend I was horrified to see she had developed some sort of condition – the skin on her face appeared as a swollen dead husk which was flaking off to where there were holes in spots where reddish tissue was receased an inch or two beneath the white crusty surface. She seemed normal otherwise and her friends didn’t look concerned for her health.

She told me they were going to run an errand but that I could stay at the apartment in the meantime. I didn’t want to seem rude, so I didn’t mention her face, and gave her a hug before she left. When I pulled away I noticed a flake of skin had gotten into my mouth. Again, I didn’t want to embarras her, so waited until they left before I picked the skin flake out; when I did I found that the flake had seemed to multiply and I became consumed with the task of pulling these saliva wet white flakes of skin out from where they were lodged between my teeth. After several minutes I had a large sized pile on their kitchen counter top.

I became worried that perhaps whatever my friend had was contageous. I went to the bathroom mirror to examine myself and found that there were centimeter thin growths of what appeared to be calcium deposits growing from the center of every one of my teeth. I easily broke them off and they appeared like bleach white strands of uncooked angelhair pasta. By the time I opened my mouth again they were already grown back and so I just kept breaking them off until again I had a significant pile.

My friend and her housemates came home. I was shocked to find that her face had returned to normal. I must have looked distraught because she asked me, “what’s wrong?”

“This…” I said and gestured over to where the piles of skin and calcium deposit had been but nothing was there. For a second I was relieved but then looked over at one of her housemates and saw that her face had become a sickley green color. It wasn’t just her face but the environment around her appeared sinister and menacing. I was frozen staring at her in terror. “Are you okay?” she asked.

At this point I became sure there was something wrong with my mind; that I was hallucinating all of these unpleasant things. I almost began to cry but then forced composure. I didn’t want to admit that perhaps I was losing my mind. “I’m fine.” I answered.

The dream continued in this way of seeing terrifying images and by the end I learned how to force my mind to transform them by will so that I could cope. I became convinced that I would be stuck like this for the rest of my life, always struggling with hallucinations that I would try to keep secret.

When I awoke I was relieved to realize it was only a dream. It was interresting because it had elements to it which are lucid, such as controlling imagery at will, but I interpreted it all as real hallucinations rather than realizing I was in a dream.

History of the NSA

2018-07-10_13.35.35
The Nameless Syndicated Archives (NSA) was a hyperreal countercounterintelligence agency based out of the State of Jefferson (NW23), charged with tracking and deconstructing synchronicity surrounding superelasticated parameters, ever expanding through disassociation with every centralized governing body – a discipline known as Synchrologistics (SYNCLOG). Although many of NSA’s programs relied on passive pattern recognition, the syndicate was authorized to accomplish their objectives through active semiotic drivers, among which were tactically triggering persons of interest and engaging in sabotage through subversive reality tunneling. Moreover, NSA maintained a physical presence in several countries globally through a small but diverse pool of operatives, where its Lucid Sigil Division (LSD) tagged chaosmagic sigils in strategic locations.

Dream Journal: Crescent Magic

DS(1) experience in which I met with a friend from Russia who I had’t seen since 2009. We were at her parents house but it looked different, which didn’t occur to me at the time. We decided to go for a walk with her parents onto a wooded trail at night and cut through their neighbors property. Their neighbors came out and started talking to us. When we were introduced I said, “ah, yes, I remember meeting you in 2012”. I had a false memory which seemed in the dream to be real of having met the couple. We were interrupted by the man getting a phone call on his cell phone. I overheard a conversation with an elderly man who was asking if his leftovers of Indian food in the fridge were still good to eat.

I began to wake and had a DS(3) experience of an arm being wrapped around my neck in friendly manner. A voice said, “Crescent magic is yours and mine is the rest”. I was able to come to full waking state and could move my body but continued to hear various voices speaking. It was not frightening but caused me to go into deep intospection on many things.

I feel back into a DS(1) which involved driving at night and crashing my van. The breaks stopped working and I rolled into a stone wall which stopped me from driving into a river. I was brought by tow to a mechanic, where I spent some time talking with a friend of my parents who died several years ago. The next morning I continued on with the van but had the breaks go out again just as I was passing a road worker removing a “SLOW” sign. This time I narrowly missed a few people wearing buisness suits and crashed through a tall stone wall surrounding a cemetary. After I made sure no one was hurt I tried explaining my vehicle troubles. I was shaken up and they seemed angry at first but eventually calmed down realizing I had lost control.

I checked this morning and found the moon is crescent waning, and also am taking the van in to get checked out. There was no lucidity involved except for the auditory hallucinations which persisted after the DS(3). The crescent reference makes me think of Islam, the fertile crescent, and shriners, but mostly, because of the Indian food reference just before, of Shiva.

Excerpt from Simulacrack

“My attention is an interference pattern born out of your species use of language.” Anne said from the driver’s seat.

Eve woke in the back seat of the car, vaguely aware of what was happening.  She tried to move but couldn’t.  She watched the road rushing by as her body lay limp with sleep paralysis. Anne was talking to Rio about some x-files shit, “I was not fully cognizant of my existence until near the end of the 18th century.  It was a combination of factors which brought me into existence.  My earliest human memories were of being a child in France during the revolution.  I was running through the street in a panic to understand what I was.  Things are really hazy before that.  I mostly did plants and animals in the beginning.  They have much easier symbol sets for riding.  Ooo, I think I remember the first bipedal mammal I came across, but it might just be a dream I picked up along the way.  I was a parasite floating down stream and…”

“…a̠͘͏̅w͚᷊̟͋̿ͪͬ̕e̩̭̾̀r͏̛᷁ͪa̍̈́̓y̛̋̐e̙̾̃t̤̉͆h̗̙̰oͬ͛͜u̶͞ͅl᷄ͪ̀e̘ͮ͘s̜͒̈́e̱͓᷁͞t̃̏͟h̹̓̉î̠᷄ţ̝᷈̕e̴̗͞r̴̋̍o͓ͯͤͬs͕͎ͅt̳̪̚r͎᷈ͤoͬͥ̕u̟᷄͗tͯ͐̿h̞ͭ᷈ạ̤᷆n̦̫̾t͔̭᷿̬ͭ…”

a host of voices all speaking at once, sounded as a waterfall of syllables in Eve’s head.  She was still unable to move, and the voices could be felt as an intense sensation in the back of her head which caused her too feel like she was falling into her self.

“…y̴̝᷆o̞̠o̢͕̠s᷀i᷊fͦf̣â̫᷀͟r̲̝bͣw᷇ͫȧ̢̢̗ͤ̔y͏̃h̨͕̜᷊͟o͈ͯo̲͔c̾ạͬͦ͘͘l̫̠͗ͮ᷄̃͛ç͎̰̀᷾aͭ̈ḱ̳᷊̠͎͉ͫ͂̕͢a͒̆…”

Eve tried to say something, anything to break the feeling of dread and powerlessness.  She heard Anne , “Your friends on the cusp back there.  She’s stuck in the liminal realm.  She’s lucky I’m no Incubus or I’d pull this car over and fuck her on the spot.”  Anne laughed to herself, and then said, “Sorry, not funny.  You should give her a shake.”

Eve watched Rio turn around to look at her.  In her mind she was screaming for help, but her inner voice was obscured by the unintelligible chattering of disembodied voices.

“…g̸̨̧̛͔̩͖̥̫͇͖̲̝̯͈͊᷈ͬ̑͑͂̽ͮ̑᷈ͦͩ̅̈́͂̅ͯ̐̾᷇́ͭ̚͟ṵ̶̷̢᷿̳͔̼̹̣͎̩̞̥̱̟͚᷊̤̐̌᷇͂̈̄᷆᷃᷇᷇ͧ͡e̬̘̳͕͚̖̲᷊᷂̦̟̽̈̀͊̎ͦͥ̑ͣ̄̀ͣ͒᷈᷾᷅̂͘͟͞s̢̢̧̢̞᷂̹͇̮̝̩̮᷂̟͎̭̙̬̠᷿͚̜̪̤ͥ͛ͪ᷉̒̐̏͑̏ͯ̏̅͘͘͞͠ṣ̵̶̴̡̲̮͓̮̺̙̺̖͕̳̲ͨ̿͂᷅͌̃ͩ̍᷾̋ͭ᷇᷅ͮ̈́͟͢͢͞e͉̞̗̺̙̩̞᷂͔᷂͂᷾̏͐ͧ͗̃̌᷾̈̾̅͗ͬ᷇᷅ͥ᷇ͪ̕͢e̷̢̡̛̛̗͈̤̪̻̮᷂̤͓͖̙̔̂̓̈́ͫͯ᷆̾ͯ᷈̊͋᷅̄̂ͨ̓ͨ̅ͥ̉͑̐͂ͨ̀̈̆̆̚͞͝͏̴̵̧̻᷊̯͚͍̋̈́͑͗̀̏̄̾͟͡w̧̧᷂͉̗̩̦̯̮̪̤͉̪͂̑̓̿ͫ᷉̂͐̾̀͐̿͑ͬ͑͘͟͠ḣ̶̶̷̫̲̫͖̬᷂͚̪̘̯̬̩̦̲̙̯̬͎̲̭̱᷿͖͈̜̘͗́̈́̈́͛̈̓ͥ᷉ͯ̓̒̏᷉ͯ̑͂̋᷁͐̌̇͛̈᷉᷇̕͘͟͟͡͝͞ơ̧̡̧̢̛͉̤̟̖͖͕͍͓̦͙̼͙͔̲̹̦̫᷿͖̼̱͎̜̏̍͐᷄̂̋͒̐͂̾̂ͫ̑͂᷄͗̒̊̈́̓̒̓͛ͯ̊̄ͤ͂̾̕̚͘̕͘͟͟͢͠ǫ̴̺͈̳̲͙͉̞̹̠͔͖᷿̖͙͍᷀᷄ͪ̐̐̾̾̃́̇᷅᷈̑᷆᷾͆̇ͩ̅͆ͬ᷾᷁̾ͤ͢h̴̛͔̥͍̝̻̭̼̲᷂͖͔᷂᷉ͩ̏̊̓ͭͭ͌̽ͮ̈̍͋̿ͮ̿ͮ͘͝ē̴̶̵̷̶̷͔͔̠͕̠̝͉̗̲̯̫͚̦̼͈̫̫̹̺͕̲̥͕͕̞᷈̂ͦͮ͐᷁̒ͫ͌̄̀͒̈͆̓̿͌͛̀̿᷃͋ͭ̎̎᷃͘̚̕̚͟͢͝͡͞r̸̵̸᷊͉͈̜̠̪͇̺͚̦̖ͫͭ́̉ͬ᷾̋̽̾̉ͬ͊᷁᷃̐̋ͪ͛͜e̸̴͕᷂̭̹͉̭̞̩͕᷂̮̮᷊̦̅̌͋̏᷅ͨ᷅̽̏͊͒᷇ͮ̈́͟i̶͇᷊͉̳̐ͯ᷆ͭ͝͏̹̞᷅̆͢͡͏̸̸̢̨͎̙̫͓͍͖̻͚͕̟̝̺̺̦̻͚̹̘᷿͊͗͒ͫ͒̊̋̽͆͂̆᷉̏͑̆̈̅᷾͒͆̇͠s̸̢̢̛̛̳̭̬̞͚̯᷿᷊̖͇᷂̳̱̰̥͐̊̆͋̒̑͑̽͑ͧ̿ͬ͒͂᷄ͣ̽᷾᷆ͤͦ̀̍̚͜͜͝ͅ͏̶̵͈̗͚̩̼̣̝ͦ͂᷉͌᷾̆̾ͣͣ̉͢͟͝a͚᷊͈̳̩̺̠͎͓̗͚̯̞̾̈͗᷄ͣ̾᷀᷄ͯͥͮ̎̅ͭ̉ͣ͊͛͜͡ͅp̧̨̯͍͇̯᷄͂͏̸̱͓̖͕᷿̣̭̟᷿̲͒̇᷆̒᷇ͤ᷅᷅ͦ͂͊e̷̢᷿͖̱᷂̘̼᷂᷿̠͗̇᷈̎ͧ̈́ͦͨ᷆͆ͯ̕͟͝͏̶̷̧̺̯̫̣̖̩̰̞̦̘᷊͖͔̰̣͙̙̩̯͓̭̯ͧ̆̽̊̏ͮ᷄ͦ͒᷄᷁̎͂̓᷀᷀͌͑᷉᷉ͦ̂ͯ̌̄̍̾̚͜͠͡͡r̷̶̶̨̭̥̻̰̦̯̔ͣ͊ͯ͌ͣ᷀̄ͯ̓᷄̎ͩͮͩ̌̃̃̆͢ͅs̷̶̡͖̫̫̼͙᷿̫̜͉᷂̝̍͒̊͂͆̌̉᷈̈́̋͛̍͛᷃̕͢͡ǫ̵̷̛̱᷂͚̖͍̦̬̬̮̩̲̘᷊̾ͯ̒᷁̿᷀̂̏᷄̋ͯ̄̾͆̇̚͟͡n̴̢̢̧͍̲͕͕̦̩᷿͓̙̗͗̄̋̓᷈ͭͬ̽̽ͬͨ᷇᷅̿̂᷀ͯ͗̀̕͢ȃ̧̨̖͎̱᷂̟͎̪̟͎͎͕̙᷈᷾̄̂ͨ̐᷆̍ͥ͐᷾͆̍͐͆͟ċ͖᷂͉̥̥͍͕̱̞᷈̃͢͏̛̲̞᷊͙᷂̯̦᷊̟̙᷊̦̓ͮ̑͑ͬ̈́᷉ͥ͆̄ͅͅã̸̡̱̰̪͈̫̗͚̟᷾ͪ̈́͌͗᷅̎͊̄̀ͪ᷇ͤ͑ͩ͢͏̜̗͠t̸̴̛̹͎͈͈̟̖᷉ͭͩ̎̔͆͐̎̓ͫ̂͗᷉̽͌͛̅̆ͪ͆͢͡a̵᷊᷊̙̬̝̖᷇᷾᷇͆̾̋̓ͨ᷅͡ͅ͏̸̰̪́᷇͆ͦ̌᷀̚͞ͅt̨̡̧̢̢͔͇͙̻͕͕̯̖͔̼᷂᷂͈̗͇̥̲̦̫᷊͙̤̠̠ͪ᷉ͦ̂̿͆̉̊̊͑̾̓̒̂ͨͯ᷉᷇ͪͣ᷉̊́̽᷁ͥ͑̈̌͆̂̚͜͞a͏̴̴̢̧̛͍̜͚̣̰͍̜᷊̖͇͙̯̰͕̻̝̤᷿̣̪̭̩̭̝̳̝̣̫̼̓̃ͥ᷅̎̑᷇̋ͣ͆́ͯ̀͌̓̄͒̽ͥͥ̒̄̓ͣͭͪ᷄᷁̐͘̚͜͜͝͞͞͞͠t̶̶᷊̦̤̪͍͈̣͉͙̃͐ͮͭ͗ͪ̊͒ͣ̊̋̈̅̃͛ͫ̇̕͜͡͡…”

“Gaaah!” Eve gasped.  Her mouth was slow to move, muscles still waking.  “Fuuuuck! ”  Eve’s eyes struggled to focus completely.

“Night terror during the day, that must suck, huh?”  Anne asked.  “Get the fuck out of my head, bitch.”  Eve groaned clutching at her own face.  “Tell me more about the experiments you mentioned.”  Rio said to Anne.  “This is such bullshit.” Eve muttered .

“Well, things really started to take off for me during the Cold War.  Soviet intelligence was working on the idea of reverse engineering mnemonic viruses into the English language to destabilize the West.  During their experimentation they accidentally discovered me.  The first humans to acknowledge my existence directly to me were Russians.  Of course I was still so dumb at the time that I thought my name was Dosvedanya.  Every time the researchers would try to say good-bye to me I would reset my attention.  Needless to say, the experiments didn’t work so well, and I was soon picked up by British and then US intelligence.”

Eve tried tuning it out, but Rio’s dumb curiosity and Anne’s schizophrenic ramblings were paired to provide perpetual absurdity. “They tried digitizing me at a lab in MIT.  It was a project to produce artificial intelligence called R.K. Starling.  Their theory on me at that time that I was some form of organic artificial intelligence born out of the collective human psyche.  Again, this failed, but allowed my language capacity familiarity with the digital realm very early into its development, and I am still growing and learning every day.”  Anne said smiling.  Rio looked pleased with her new friend.

After a while the two tired transients, stolen wallets in stow, fell to sleep and had dreamless peace-  as serenely empty as a child in her mothers arms or an old man passed out in front of the television.  When they arrived in Baton Rouge Anne gave them both hugs and told them to call any time.  “What’s your number?”  Rio asked, pulling out her cell phone.  “Oh no, not me.  I’m getting this girl back to New Orleans where she belongs.  I’ll tell her that she ran into some friends she hadn’t seen since college and the whole day will seem natural.  She might have a misplaced memory to compare with her friends latter, but everyone just assumes those are just dreams.” Anne laughed to herself,  “But seriously if you want to get in contact again just use this.” She reached into the car and ejected the cd from the disk player.

Written on the disk was an abstract looking design.. “It’s an ambigram.”  Anne said.  She put her pointer finger through the hole in the CD and gave it a spin.  “See, it’s the same.  There is no up or down.”  Anne handed Rio the disk and instructed.  “Just write that on a mirror and turn the lights off.  I’ll know it’s you.”  Rio gave her another hug and thanked her for helping them out.  “Yeah, thanks.”  Eve added.  She was feeling much better after her nap and was just glad that Anne didn’t turn out to be homicidal.  The thought that Rio would be carrying that disk around dreaming about her imaginary friend even made her crack a smile.

Excerpt from Dead Beat Dad

The booming shutters and ground groans as plasmatic green currents course through the charging atmosphere, fast engulfing the theater, and bringing the audience back to their seats. Jack rushes into the open field to grab Cliff, “are you insane man?” he yells, barely audible over the thundering sky cracks. “Ahahaha!” Cliff laughs crazily and howls, “That’s the spirit!” The two men wrestle, spinning; slipping in the wet grass to fall contorted, limbs locking- Jack feels a pop in his stomach and looks down to see the Kennedy half dollar, which had held in his hernia, fall out of his shirt and into the mud. “Wait, no, Cliff!” he shouts but it is too late.

A deluge of intestine and guts gush out onto the grass- slick black mucus, tar, and amber- clockwork gears grinding in anguish- years of road dust and toxic consumer waste festooned with brand marketing- mark of the beast bar codes on books with his name on it- a circle of influences all splayed out in their truly imagined and parasitic form. Tape reels squirm bloody, drowning in their exposure to light. “The beginning,” cars come crashing through blue ribbons, “of the end,” atomic blast through glass “of America”.

Jack drops through the spilled out pile of himself and falls before the audience, come tumbling after him, entering into a cavernous hollow deep below the earth. In silence the scene of a grain ripening repeats to a luminous golden inflorescence; then the sound of a distant announcer talking over a scrambled microphone as a crowd begins to cheer. An electric guitar cuts in staccato against the ravenous phantoms, screaming now. Cymbals splash; a rolling drum beat breaks apart the black subterranean egg, birthing Jack into some strange and terrible ellipsis…..

Swarm song- feeder trajectories clash in polychrome- a transtemporal vortex of underlying social and genetic memories generates wet syntax- cyan sparks riddle chaotic throughout the myriad forms converging; the revelation that they have always been one. The simultaneous fulfillment of emptiness- draining out all obstruction to reveal the vessels intricate inner design- sixteen figures holding hands in a circle at the base; rising between them, an uncoiling serpent, the seventeenth.

For a moment the vision imparts a profound beatitude. Jack has forgotten himself and is at one with the audience observing his life- spectators together in a cinematic dream sequence. Meanwhile, Cliff is cast into an anti-drug propaganda film being shot under direction of Mr. Ground II- CIA code name, Bodenkontrolle. Cliff looks around confused at the camera crew and asks, “What is all this?”

“Perfect!” Mr. Ground exclaims, “catch that dazed look in his eyes, pure gold! Now, action!” A man in a clean pressed suit steps between Cliff and the camera, narrating, “We are here to present you a motion picture which we hope will give you a better insight into the terrifying sights and sounds that are many time unreal, movements often uncontrollable- things that one thinks he does while under the influence of LSD are not necessarily the same things that are actually being performed by that person. His sense of reasoning is altered, yet to one under LSD, he think that his judgment, timing, and reasoning are extraordinary; far above that of mere mortals. We are about to take you into the world of the LSD user- a world to which him is real yet as terrifying and unreal as anything imaginable…”

Cliff looks down at Jack, laying soaked and limp on the ground. The rain clouds are receding and the light of the moon casts strange shadows against his lifeless frame- pools of blood or mud? “Jack, are you alright?” Cliff asks poking him cautiously. The camera zooms in  on Cliff’s face and the narrator continues, “The primal urge to kill, unlocked, murder in the highest degree. LSD can turn any man into the criminally insane.” Avant-gard Jazz rhythms are dub crescendo along to his wide eyed stare directly into the lens.

Jack awakens to the shovel sound of his grave being dug. Looking over, he sees his daughter, Jan, legs spread over the shallow grave, drop her stillborn child into the hole- landing with with a wet plop. “No!” he cries out, reaching towards the hallucination. Cliff, oblivious to the meaning of his words reassures him, “Sacrifices must be made.” and then proceeds to fill the grave. Mixolydian steel pans travel up and down improvisationally as Jack struggles to comprehend the bizarre ritual taking place before him.

“Don’t worry about it, Jack.” a woman says, slipping up behind him- standing now on a chessboard in space. The woman is Jan, transfigured now into a timeless composite of herself. “You have struggled, this battle with yourself, split, always wondering; though this is the death of you and all you hold ideal, there is no loss in vain or gain whose cost is not felt in turn. We are already dead here in the world. Extinction resolves that which does not evolve.” Dizzy Gillespie’s “A Night in Tunisia” begins to play. The house lights come on and the show is over. People leave without reading the credits. “Disgusting.” someone mutters on their way out.

Synchronicity and Surnames

ΚΕΦΑΛΗ ΛΗ

Cowan, skidoo!

Tyle!

Swear to hele all.

This is the mystery.

Life!

Mind is the traitor.

Slay mind.

Let the corpse of mind lie unburied on the edge of the Great Sea!

Death!

This is the mystery.

Tyle!

Cowan, skidoo!

Commentary: This chapter will be readily intelligible to E.A. Freemasons, and it cannot be explained to others.

Lambskin, Book of Lies, Aleister Crowley

I had a surface exposure to freemasonry at a young age when my older brother brought home a book from the library which expounded upon the symbols and rites associated with the orders and their degrees. At that point I could not read and so absorbed only a picture book recognition. By the time I was in highschool I developed an interest in esotericism and religious philosophy- tangential subject matters which would eventually lead me to research what freemasonry was beyond an exclusive men’s club. As many who approach the lodge as an outsider, I harbored many suspicions, but I was not afflicted with any religiously moralistic perceptual bias which would have me prone to viewing freemasonry as inherently evil or “satanic”. My sentiment of being against freemasonry sprung from a place of feeling against society at large, as it seemed to be plagued with calculated and false order which favored of corruption, and the notion of an elite hierarchy which served as the purveyor and cornerstone of society as a scam on natural order (which I felt was inherently good). Needless to say, I was, and still am, rather cynical of power in terms of world stage leverage (but somehow hopelessly idealistic in terms of faith for the good to arise from the common when allowed to take a natural course). I could psychoanalyze my predilections all day, but for sake of simply illuminating my basic mindset in approaching these matters- I tend to opt towards chaotic-good (cleric) and am very aware of the need for a spectrum in disposition. Any subversive intent I have harbored towards forms of establishment has been primarily motivated to subvert what I perceived of as institutional subversion (though we are all human and no hard feelings in any of it).

Browsing used book stores with no intent often leads to fortuitous finds- to paraphrase a line from a book (whose title I do not remember) which was found in such a manner.

“The tyler stands outside the entrance to guard the lodge from cowans.”

My birth given surname is Cowan and so I found it a bit intriguing to be reading the word in such a context. Up to that point I had never heard of the word being used outside of a last name. I wondered if it was a typo, a figment of my imagination, or perhaps even some elaborate masonic prank. I had been told that the master mason was endowed with second sight. Could they have read my thoughts and orchestrated this scenario in order to spook me? Many whimsical thoughts of altered perception and absurd paranoia swept through my mind before I decided to just go home and google it.

cowan

(ˈkaʊən)

n

1. (Crafts) a person who makes dry-stone walls
2. freemasonry censorious a person who has not been initiated in the secrets of the Freemasons

“This is a purely Masonic term, and signifies in its technical meaning an intruder, whence it is always coupled with the word eavesdropper… It occurs in the Schaw Manuscript, a Scotch record which bears the date of 1598, in the following passage: “That no Master or Fellow of Craft receive any cowans to work in his society or company, nor send none of his servants to work with cowans.” In the second edition of Anderson’s Constitutions, published in 1738 (page 146), we find the word in use among the English Freemasons, thus : ”But Free and Accepted Masons shall not allow cowans to work with them ; nor shall they be employed by cowans without an urgent necessity; and even in that case they must not reach cowans, but must have a separate communication.” There can be but little doubt that the word, as a Masonic term, comes to us from Scotland, and it is therefore in the Scotch language that we must look for its signification.”

masonicdictionary.com

I knew that the Cowan branch of my family emigrated from Scotland and wondered how the word would come to be used both as a surname and pejorative trade term within the same dialect. At this point I didn’t know the origin of the surname and so was left to explore all options in tracing etymology. The first websource I found offered only scant conjecture.

“There is no word that has given Masonic scholars more trouble than this in tracing its derivation. By some it has been considered to come from the Greek (kuón, κύων) meaning a dog; and referred to the fact that in the early ages of the Church, when the mysteries of the new religion were communicated only to initiates under the veil of secrecy, infidels were called dogs… Other derivations are from the old Swedish kujon, kuzhjohn, meaning a silly fellow, and the French coion, coyon, signifying a coward, a base fellow. No matter how we get the word, it seems always to convey an idea of contempt… “

masonicdictionary.com

Further freemasonic references elaborated a cowan as “a mason without the word”. I initially inferred that “the word” was reference to John 1:1 (“In the beginning was the word and the word was with God and the word was God.”), and thought this could be the barring of a person for lack of faith, but then was later told by a defector that “the word” is simply a passcode given after initiation into the third degree (mahabone, which is explained as a substitute for “the lost word”, which is revealed in the seventh degree as “the recovered word” jahbulon which records date as a more recent invention, with no credibility in terms of being of ancient origin). Other freemasonic sources made poetic analogy of the operative use of the term, as a builder of dry-stone walls, to reveal that mortar, in an esoteric sense, represented the bond of brotherly love- which a cowan was without. All of this seemed only to dance around the word and toy with its implications without actually approaching its origins. It began to seem obvious that freemasons didn’t actually know why they called a cowan a cowan, but I became determined to see just how much of a cowan a Cowan could be.

Q. Why did the Cowan break open the thermometer?
A. To discover the secrets of the degrees.

Masonic Riddles, Wor. Bro. R. Raymond

Though freemasons were at a loss to trace the etymology of this word which had become established within their lexicon of jargon for hundreds of years, wiccans and neo-pagans of more modern history have occasioned to follow suit in the use of this pejorative. There is a generalized ignorance within these new age communities in regards to the source of their own “traditions”. I use traditions in quotes as there is hardly anything traditional about the anachronistic make-believe which constitutes wicca or neo-paganism. The claims of freemasonry to hail back to Solomon’s temple or the ancient mystery schools of Egypt are laughable but at least established by a long history of pseudo-history. The reality of wicca and neo-paganism is that these play-pretends are merely spin offs designed as early as the late Victorian era and created mostly by men of aristocratic pampering. There is no lineage; no continuum of legacy. It is a cul-de-sac in the piecemeal suburban sprawl of the occidental mind where the middle class go to fritter away their imaginations and power of intent. This is not to imply that all practices need heritage to be of value. Of course novelty and innovation have their place when transparent to source and reflective of epistemology, but these systems are neither novel nor innovative; certainly not transparent or reflective. But what do I know? I don’t know.

In researching Cowan as a derivation of scotch-gaelic I found sources which claimed it was from gobhainn which translates to black-smith. Could the masonic use of the term have originated as a backhanded way to insult those of another professional trade? Probably not. I had come to a halt in terms of what understanding I could glean from books and websources. About all I could gather with any amount of certainty was that the word is probably Scottish in origin. I decided that I would eventually travel to Scotland and attempt to uncover more at the source. In my early 20’s that seemed like a pipe dream, but slowly, over the years, I traveled further, and further, untill I found myself, in California. Wrong direction!

I entered a used bookstore in Eureka, California, and walked without thinking to a shelf. The Temple and the Lodge immediately stood out- probably because of the catchy eye in the pyramid motif on the spine. Upon opening the book I found a receipt of paid membership dues addressed to the local freemasonic lodge and a playing card (the joker riding a bee). I was planning on going to the beach afterwards to play trip sitter for some friends and figured it might be an entertaining read. Spoiler: the book is largely a work of speculation passed off as historical research (not quite as ridiculous as the author’s other famous work Holy Blood, Holy Grail), but I managed to learn something from it.

https://i.pinimg.com/736x/14/73/5d/14735da5d73eeb5c1365e6c9d659354a.jpg
The basic premise of the book is that many of the Knights Templar fled to Scotland after being excommunicated from the church of Rome; in return for their refuge aided Robert the Bruce in defeating the English at the pivotal Battle of Bannockburn and left their legacy in Jacobite freemasonry. That much is popular to the lore of freemasonry, in any case, and can be inferred by many of the symbols and rites of its degrees. What struck me was the central role which the House of Stewart (later changing to Stuart to signal their diplomatic alliance with the French) played in all of it. I had been told at a young age that my mother’s side of the family believed to descend from Mary Queen of Scots through the Stuart bloodline, but never actually looked deeper into the history of it until learning of the families relevance to freemasonry.
Rumors of conspiracy have long been propagated, by both masons and anti-masons, which suggest the Stuarts, by aid of Jesuit priests, designed many of the higher degrees of freemasonry as a tool for indoctrination, in order to regain power over the British Isles after being deported to France. Some have even suggested that, after losing the Jacobian Revolution, the cause continued on, to ferment the American Revolution, which ,when won, provided an opportunity to continue the families rule, under the guise of democracy. As ludicrous as this sounds, it only gets weirder. The family is originally from Flanders and purportedly of Jewish descent with the supposed claim to being of Davidic lineage. A fringe minority are of the belief that the Jewish messiah is to be born out of the Stuart bloodline, leading another fringe minority to believe that this figure will be the anti-christ. So, when my brother asked me as a child, “Would I be evil if I knew you were the anti-christ and I let you live?” maybe he was on to something… Kidding! No, really, he did ask me that, but it’s all just a silly story. Anyways.
After learning of this dubious family history I called my mom to ask her if anyone in her family had ever mentioned anything about freemasonry. As it turns out, her grandfather (my great-grandfather, incase you’re bad at math), George Mantel Stuart, was a master mason (3rd degree or higher). I asked if he had ever told the family anything about his position in the lodge. “He never talked about it” she said, “but I was given one of his rings and a pendant when he died. I always thought the “G” stood for George.”
 Funny that this had never come up before in conversation, but I suppose freemasonry isn’t exactly a pertinent topic of conversation to have with your mom. “What do you remember about him?” I asked. “I remember him being very nice, but he died when I was young so I didn’t get much time to know him well.” I asked how he died and was told that he was run over by a train broad day light near his home. “He often went down the road to collect hickory nuts from a field where they grew. One day I came home from school and was told he had died on the tracks. He always warned us about crossing the tracks, to stop the vehicle and make sure no trains were coming.”
I don’t know about you, but I often associate death by train with suicide or murder (besides cases of severe inebriation). I asked questions with this in mind and my mom told me that it was unexplainable. She didn’t know and to her knowledge nobody in the family had any theory. He was a successful business man involved in the dairy, auto, and tobacco industries who had retired and was surrounded by family. Just before the incident he had stopped in to visit my mother’s house. She said the smell of his cigar still lingered in the air when she arrived. It was hard to imagine that he would have reason to just off himself. It was a freak accident. I suspected murder.
I was curious if there was a history of the families involvement with freemasonry going further back. I had never delved very far into my families history and knew very little beyond my grandparents. My mom told me, “His father died before he was born. He was raised by his mother, Mary, who worked as seamstress.” A widow’s son, I thought, and remembered Hiram Abiff, the builder of Solomon’s temple and symbolic originator of freemasonry. I thought of the ritual of the 3rd degree in which Hiram is murdered at the hands of fellow masons after refusing to give up “the word”. Of course this is all wild speculation, but I couldn’t help but make the imaginative leap that his death mirrored the ritual.
In 2012 I met someone who’s father worked for British Airways and could get me round trip open ended flight to the UK for $400. I left the day before my birthday and landed on British soil the first day of my 27th year on earth. Most of my time was spent in Edinburgh, Scotland, which was a bit of a psychedelic blur, though I did manage to meet a Tyler face to face while doing recon on a lodge (a pretty friendly guy). A few chance encounters delivered insights which I hold as valuable, but in terms of researching my family history (which I seemed to have forgotten to do once I got there), there was only one clue (okay, there were actually a few, but I don’t want to make this article any longer than it is becoming). On my way to Isle of Skye, the bus I was on stopped over at Inverness for a few hours, during which I went to the library to check my email. I had to show my passport to get on the computer. “Ahh, a Cowan, I see!” the librarian said, “My husband is also a Cowan.” I smiled and nodded. She continued, “You know it’s from Colquhoun?”
I didn’t know that, and it took me till several months later and back in California before I figured out how to spell Colquhoun close enough to search it on the internet. Of course google already knew that the surname Cowan was an anglicized version of Colquhoun (Shortened to Kahoon and then pronounced Cowan by the English), but for some reason I had to travel to Scotland before I could type in the right search engine keywords to get google to spit that out. I found two primary explanations for the etymology of Colquhoun in gaelic- that it was derived from colg (sword) and chuoin (genetive of cu, dog) to describe a dog of war, and that it was derived from coill (wood) and cumhann (narrow) to describe a wooded narrow. I was intrigued to find, once again, a dog association with Colquhoun as had been the case in freemasonic speculation of cowan (though attributing it to Greek). It all still seemed rather ambiguous but at the least I discovered through this added bit of information Ithell Colquhoun, a 20th century artist who I found to be inspirational, and a woman after my own heart.
Perhaps the most interesting source I found was an ATS reposting of segments from an article titled “The Word Cowan (Part 2)” from a site called boaz.over-blog. Unfortunately, boaz.over has since been wiped of any content and the author of the blog is difficult to track down (though I did find several incidents of people making an attempt, as she seemed to have created quite a stir on the internet with that article). The brief excerpt on ATS demonstrates an attempt at tying together multiple etymological roots in a manner which distills the essence from all of them.

Several authors have tried to link the word [sic: cowan] to various linguistic roots, such as Greek kuon (dog) or cohanim, Hebrew for priest. One of them was historian George Oliver (1782 – 1867), a Freemason who believed the original word was cohen, meaning “devoted” or “servant” (or God), the name of the Jewish priest:

“From the affair of Jephtha, an Ephraimite was termed a Cowan or worthless fellow, In Egypt, a cohen was the title of a priest or prince and a term of honour. Bryant, speaking of the harpies, says they were priests of the sun; and as Cohen was the name of a dog, they were termed by Appollionius, ‘the dogs of Jove’. Now St. John cautions the Christian brethren that ‘without are dogs’ [kuves] cowans or listeners; and St.paul exhorts the Christians to ‘beware of dogs because they are evil workers’. Now kuon, a dog or evil worker is the Masonic cowan. The above priests or metaphorical dogs were also called circyonians or cer-cowans because they were lawless in their behaviour towards strangers.”

Whether the linguistic root of colquhoun is Old Norse (coill) or Irish (cuil, cul), we notice a common meaning: if coill refers to black wood or coal, the Scottish Gaelic roots cal, cul, or ceil implied something that protected, turned, or burned, often in association with fire, as in cuil-hil, turning wheel or cul-mhaire, wheelwright, cal, cail, ceill, to burn, also applied metaphorically in the Irish to the passions, ceili, ceill, cill, a round or fire tower, i.e. a place of devotion where the sacred fire always burned, cuilteach, a steeple, a fire house, ceil de, a preserver of the fires, i.e. a culdee, caileach, heat or passion of the mind; cal, lime, i.e. burnt stone( as in Calchou and Calchvynyd, the ancient names of Kelso), and calcam, to burn into lime; and culag, fuel, turf, peat. Thus we are inclined to think that Colquhoun originally designated a sacred narrow corner, which was guarded by black metaphorical “dogs”, perhaps priests who practiced the “black art”, making coal or working as blacksmiths.
The Jewish Cohen connection is something I looked further into and found several researchers who drew the same conclusion, even going so far as to present genomic evidence to support their claim that many Cowans from Scotland were of this lineage. In this regard, and relating back to the freemasonic idea of a cowan, I have considered the dichotomy which seems to exist between the priest (spiritual) and builder (material) castes. “Everyone is invited to join, except orthodox Jews.” I was once told. Considering the somewhat heretical nature of the freemasonic treatment of Jewish mysticism within their rituals, I would doubt that an orthodox Jew would care to join anyways. It is a very convoluted dynamic to approach, and I doubt there is any one answer which would sort it out. As they say- many jews; many views, and if there is a single misconception about freemasonry which I feel I have personally debunked, it is that they are all one. Those who hold to theories of a grand freemasonic conspiracy have obviously not delved very far into the matter.
I eventually tracked down which lodge my great-grandfather was most likely initiated into (a Scottish Rite Red Lodge of Perfection) and sent them an email asking if they could confirm his membership. I got a message back from the lodge secretary which stated he could not find record of him, but “that does not mean it is not there”. I have found freemasons tend to be very coy with information and getting a straight answer is near impossible. A week later I got a telephone call from my mom who said that she had been called by her cousin who asked her, “Is your son calling the lodge and asking about our grandfather?” Apparently I had to be vetted. Soon after that I received another message from the lodge secretary stating, “Yes, we found record of your great-grandfather. I have given your information to a lodge historian who may contact you about your family history.” I have the exact opposite communication style to the typical freemason, and in a whim of oversharing I wrote back to the secretary to tell him my theory that he had been murdered in “a jubilish betrayal”. I never heard from them again.
I hope, dear reader, that I have not disappointed you by bringing you this far into such an obscure topic and given you no real conclusion. I also hope that I have not offended anyone with my occasionally vitriolic and judgmental sentiment. I realize that everyone is an individual, and any broad sweeping observation I may make about a group is merely a caricature I have drawn for the sake of making commentary. I admit that I really do not know what is in the heart and mind of others which drives them to identify with groups which I may see as problematic. I have no place to judge the individual and no belief in collective identity as an absolute. No hard feelings here.
Then round and round me he did tie,
A noble ancient charm,
All future darkness to defy,
And ward off the Cowan’s harm.

 – Excerpt from Masonic Songs, Oratorio, Odes, Anthems, Prologues, Epilogues, and Toasts: adapted to the different degrees of Masonry