Truesdell 𓏏𓂋𓅲𓋴𓂧𓃭

This cartouche is an artifact dating to the 14th century BC. 1,000 years before the Old Testament. “To give, Those that travel on foot, YHW3[W]” Cartouche is French. The ancient Egyptians called it ‘rn’ meaning ‘name’. It was a name of a high official or, most likely, a Priest.

For those who still crawl before the parchment idols of the synagogue scribes! Those skilled scribes, jealous guardians of the Egyptian mysteries, they had stolen the idea of deliberately veiling their fables. They copied the priests of the Nile and Euphrates, along with Plato’s “noble lie,” reserving the true stellar meaning for the initiated elite while feeding the mob a moral tale of patriarchal virtue. What disrespect! Look at the story they left us, stripped of its celestial cloak. Joseph, the Hebrew, is plunged into personal war, the very enmity and suffering the ancients marked by קרב, #Scorpio’s conflict. Betrayed and nearly murdered by his own brothers, sold into slavery, falsely accused by Potiphar’s wife, then left to rot for years in an Egyptian dungeon. A perfect portrait of Scorpio’s sting, hostility, confinement, the soul under the heel of malice. Yet, out of that conflict he is exalted. Pharaoh, (God only knows which one), sets him over all Egypt, he becomes second only to the king, the ruler who judges and feeds the nations in famine. Here the allegory turns to opposition, שׁור, Taurus. Deuteronomy 33:17, blesses Joseph as the firstling bullock whose horns push the peoples to the ends of the earth. The sufferer of Scorpio’s war is raised to the ruling strength of the Bull. As always, the lying scribes hide the truth. Joseph is not a historical Hebrew, but the Suns story of conflict transmuted into dominion. They stole the Egyptian, Mesopotamian, and Platonic device, dressed it in tribal costume, and sold it to the credulous lame as sacred history. Laugh, if you have the wit. The stars still tell the tale more honestly than the Jew scribes ever did in the Torah.

The Egyptologists, Hittitologists, Historians, Archaeologists and Philologists, make themselves the high priests of fact and the custodians of stone. They have taken the writings of a Nile and made it into a military gazette. They have imagined 5,000 chariots and 70,000 men clashing at Kadesh, and then, finding neither chariot wheel or arrowhead, harness buckle or broken spear, they have made the silence itself a kind of evidence. Silence is the only artifact Tell an-Nabī Mindū has ever shown. Not one bow. Not one quiver. Not one warrior’s armor. Not a single wheel that ever rolled across that plain. The ground is as empty as the tablets. The cuneiform tablets contain not one syllable that records the battle itself. The so called, Hittites, (a name these people never called themselves), must have forgotten to mention the greatest chariot battle in the history of the world. An omission from a people who recorded the price of barley. Look at the rock-cut relief at Abu Simbel. There is Ramesses II, upon an enemy. He is not a man of flesh dispatching a man of flesh; he is Orion, trampling the celestial enemy. The Pharaohs did not waste limestone. They carved their names so the name would live forever. They wrote themselves into the sky, now, 3,000 years later, men have taken the allegory for a field report. This is the true miracle of the science they give you, that a king who wished to be remembered as the living god of Egypt should be so great that even the empty sand is made to testify on his behalf. They have turned propaganda into archaeology and celestial drama into logistics. The ancients, who knew the difference between a star and a soldier, would have laughed them out of their buildings.

Those who still bow to the letter while the heavens themselves preach the allegory! Revelation 11:8 does not babble of three separate places of vice; it welds Sodom, Gomorrah, and Egypt into one great city, one spiritual place for the underworld, the dark half of the solar year. When the Sun slips beneath the autumnal equinox it enters its cosmic detriment, bondage, submersion, and spiritual decay. Gomorrah, Amorah, is the drowning, the overwhelming by the primordial waters; Sodom, Sedom, is the scorching, the sulfurous choke of dead cold. The luminary that was exalted in Aries is weighed in the scales of Libra, found wanting, and cast into the Water and Earth quarters, stripped of power, trapped beneath the horizon in the material abyss. The twin plates of that balance hanging at the gate of the underworld! The Great City is not a map of Palestine or the Nile, it is the realm of pure materialism where the divine spark is buried, blinded, and bound through the winter months. Fire and brimstone mark the dive from Libra into Scorpio and Sagittarius, the very transition the priests have turned into a moral scarecrow while they hide the astronomy. Egypt is the narrow strait, the containment. The Cities of the Plain are the drowning and the burning. Together they named the Abyss, Hades, the realm of Spiritual Death. Both Moses and Jesus must be called out of Egypt before their work can begin. The resurrection is not a corpse walking out of a cave for the comfort of literalists, it's the vernal equinox, breaking of bonds, the return from detriment to exaltation. The Clergy who deny the cosmic scripture preach a fable and call it faith. The heavens have already spoken. The people of truth have only repeated them.

Look not for a wandering Jew by Jacob’s well, but for the Sun himself at the horizon, where Virgo the Virgin stands with #Libra the Balance! There, the woman of Sa-Maria, that is Mary and the emblem of the Egyptian sailors, she draws from the well that is not a well on earth but the very sign of the Scales. Five husbands she had, granted after she prayed in the unison of five, the five points of the celestial figure, the five months of her longing till the Sun should meet her. And what saith this Jesus? “I will give thee living water.” Not the dead puddle of priestcraft, but the waters that flow from under the ecliptic! He is the Sun, offering redemption as he rises, acceptance as he crosses the line of the Balance, spiritual nourishment as he pours his rays upon the thirsty earth. The woman of Virgo drinks and is no more barren; the well of Libra is filled; the horizon blazes. The gospel is written in the heavens, and only fools read it as history. Amun, and a fig for the bishops!

The Word itself cries out: “I am a worm, and no man!” Not the common maggot, rimmah, but tolaʿat. The name of the scarlet worm, the tolaʿat shani that dyed the Tabernacle curtains and the high priest’s robes. Now, the Kermes! That little scale insect clings to the oak, fastens herself to the wood, lays down her life so her young may live, and in dying pours the crimson stain. Welded to the tree, her blood becomes the dye of atonement. Archaeology even found a three thousand eight hundred years, the same scarlet insect dye, on a desert cloth. And look to the Torah’s very heart! The scribes counted every letter, three hundred four thousand eight hundred and five, and they marked the center with an oversized vav in gachon, “belly,” the word of the crawling thing. That vav is the nail, the hook, the peg driven through the middle, as the spear thrust at the center of the crucified body. Aleph to Tav! First to last, Alpha and Omega. Insert the nail—vav—and you have ot, Sign/Star. The First and the Last joined by the Nail for completion. The worm on the wood, the nail in the center of the Law, the Sign that spans beginning and end, every letter, every creature, every drop of scarlet points to the same wounded Heart.