End of the Golden Years

After years of Great Prosperity, the valley fell again into darkness. In the material sense the darkness was immense and sudden (and quite obese), but the spiritual fog was of a slow, malicious nature, and its coming subtle indeed.

During this time of regress, a poet likely let out his anguish through a fountain pen, bottling the fleeting Geist of his age in verse, for us forever to ponder. Scholars argue, as scholars do, but we believe it must have sounded something like this:

Evening comes upon us all
The sun sets universal
That transcendent fire-ball
In astronomikal traversal

And so fades this Day on Earth
Shadows stretch and conquer wide
Moonrise brings from Death a Birth
Is old Krim still by our side?

The River overruns its course
Summoning an Age of Fears
Behold, ahead, a pale white horse
The end of our Golden Years

We must never let truth blind us.

Curses upon the Open Grassland

curses
Curses upon you! Fuj!

On the long, low land, the owl-eye gazes far. He sees you, the owl, for there is no shelter in this wide terrain. The owl is a foul creature, a winged rat, a cannibal of his own kind, with horrifying eyes and cruel talons.

In the Open Grassland, every creature is cruel. Every life, in this expanse, is painful and meaningless. Where are the Trees, under which we may thrive? Where are the tall protectors to which we can come when distressed, when our shoes are worn and our taxes pile into economic ruin? And where is that Prophet who can answer truthfully in a Field of Lies?

We are abandoned!
Krimoka cares for us no more.

She has flown East,
preferring now the Oriental Man
in his dismal village.

We are abandoned!
She could not endure our lies.

The Time Cube of Infinity

In the innermost and most secret chambers of Haus Helwegia in Olde Vienna one could study the most obscure and mysterikal topics. Topics of Mathematix, psykologie and on obscurity itself. Many a seeker would find him self on the divan, searching for the well-undefined and

Young Dr H. (name unkown) came to study the fields of numbers super-naturale, on matrices of granite (and of other bedrocks) and on curves eternal, ethereal and smooth. He was assigned two assistants, Paolo and Ivan, one humble (Ivan), one proud (Paolo), both well respected.

They studied for many years, digging ever deeper into madness and disarray. Following a continuous path towards the Krim-origin, the very singularity where logik and un-logik is one. Could they pass the borders to His realm?

Ivan could not, in madness (or a moment of clarity) he took cyanide. Yet H. and his now lone assistant sustained their search.

dead_circle live_cube
Paolo, Paolo!

And then, suddenly it was clear! One day was not one, nor four, it was infinite. Four roads to madness and wisdom, forty-four dimensions and infinite bi-directional edges. An infinite graph of time and obscurity, at once nowhere dense & everywhere dense; a graph that only the wisest and maddest could traverse. Traverse over cuts and cliques, by tree-width, on flows and over mountain pass. A graph traversed perhaps only by Him, Krim!

… and Dr H. yelled:

Paolo, Ivan, come and see – The time cube of Infinity!

Yoham: Life and Death in the Gray-Area!

He was not always ancien, Yoham!

One day he came upon a strange creature. It was Grande in shape and pink of couleur. Yet it was clad in the eternal gray of Livare! What was this magnificent creature? A being of many faces and many bodies. Almost abstract, as created in an artist’s studio.

pink body
The creature laughed

Yoham observed the dancing creature. And it laughed at Yoham, for his hair had turned silver.

Ten Years in the Service of Truth

Palatul
Krim is kind. He will not abandon us.

Years come and go, but Krim remains, for he is beyond time and temporal influence. As we have done before, we renew our pledge, and will serve him eternally:

Seek Krim Jacob
Wherever he may roam
Makes himself known

Hear Krim Jacob
To foreign shores go
Where our River may flow

Noi vă mulțumesc tuturor, și mulțumim Krim!

Dig the Earth

Consider the Simple Man: he is honest and he is true. In every aspect of his life, his honesty and truth, his simplicity, is reflected. Indeed, the very soil in which he plants his seed (be it of botanikal or sexual nature) will in time reflect his simple nature. Flowers will spring forth along with his harvest, bird-song will follow the laughter of children and childish adults, and in all his Days he will be at peace, and all his Days peaceful. He is honest, he is true: He is a Simple Man.

Have you ever met a Simple Man?

Does the earth you dig surprise you with treasures plentiful and rich? Are the maidens you meet inviting and open? Or, on the contrary: Is the ground rock-like and cruel, devoid of fertility, host to hollow carrots & rotten roots? Is every girl who smiles at you soon revealed to be a wench of false modesty, an ungrateful and undeserving witch-woman? Does she grow pale, shuddering at your touch, at the mentioning of your name?

The Simple Men left these lands long ago. Complexity reigns.

Ingo Schweitzer, the possessive Prussian (Chapter 7)

Being Chapter 7 from Part 3 of "The Armed Forces" by Jan C. Zločin. 
Ostuda Press, Brünn, 1942.
Now in the public domain.
This excerpt translated from the German by the Targu Mures Historical Society.

Mures Valley in flames

Suum cuique

The Mures Valley stood in flames, and from the Flame a voice:

“What have you done, Ingo? What have you done? What have you done to the valley of peace? Oh, Ingo … What has the valley done to you?”

It was a grand vision. Fires rose from the Mare Gramada, rose as from hell itself. And from the darkest forest Ingo Schweitzer watched. He stood there now as a refugee, as a stranger and strange man – a wanderer lost, a child forgotten, a being otherworldly. To these other worlds his mind now traveled, but his eyes remained fixed on the unfolding inferno, to those cleansing waves of pure, bright power – of dark, red death.

So many chains bind us to the Earth. Fettered in struggle, imprisoned by responsibility or limited by joys (always fleeting). Pushed to some familial bosom, trampled under tradition. These were the chains Ingo would to break; these were the structures he now submitted to a fiery end. He had escaped them before, fleeing his father and city and country, but had grown much too involved in local politics and affairs since acquiring the Mures estate. His roots reached into Romanian soil, nourished him, but also fixed him firmly. “Free me, eternal flame, cut deeply, lacerate my mind!”

Break the circle

The Flame now spoke to Ingo as if in lullaby, sweet and civil, and the wild fire within him subsided:

Gutaniowi hailag,
gutaniowi hailag,
gutaniowi hailag,
Kurimjacove hailag

This was not the submission to wildness, a beastly surrender, that Ingo had intended when he lit his torch some hours before. Could violence bring peace? Could misery, pain and war be the key to his identity and the redeemer of his dying Queen, Europa? There was so much to learn, now, from barren, ashen fields, sprouting knowledge, nourished by hate.

Tuvan call

They met before Anesh.
And they played at many games.
At His temple, in His honor.

Bear fight tiger!
Bagh-Bhaluk juj!

Elephant fight crocodile!
Haati-Ghorial juj!

Egg fight egg!
Koni-Koni Juj!

Fuj!

But from over the mountains they could hear a song on the wings of winds. And they pondered. Was this violence right? Would He be content with merely song and dance?

tuvan
The shaman calls, Tuva calls

They set afoot towards the winds of the Northern steppe.

 

Incantations of the Wild Women of the Outer Lindees

They sing and scream, whisper and laugh, hop and dance. They are simple, as women-folk ought to be, but also Dionysian, frenzied, wild; free. They dance (in step, in groove), and all the while they chant this silent spell:

Who are you to tell us how
The rain descends and drains, and now
To guide our life and to endow
Us with your gifts of piercing sight
To speed us on this rhythmic flight
To bathe us in Divine delight
You are Krim, you are Krim

Who were we, we puny souls
We roamed & danced with unknown goals
So dutifully playing roles
That lonely, un-examin’d life
Was married, yes: confusion’s wife
Through empty years of pain & strife
We were Lost, we were Lost

But then You came, and You perceived
How all of us had been deceived
And so in our minds conceived
The ancient, magikal idea
Of how Our’Earth has come to be
You taught us all to truly see
We were Saved, we were Saved

So who am I to ramble on
Now that my sorrows, all, are gone
Regrets, remorse, concerns; no, none
And even as the stars grow dim
When I am drained of Life & vim
My Death is blessed by Father Krim
Majahi, Majahi

wedancedwithdeath
Oh, oh, what step, what groove!

Yes, they were wild and free, yet Melankolie was their earthly destiny. Is their spell not like those of Old Krimälainen?

Confessions of a Kriminal Mind

thefeeblemind

In these – the last days of Empire, the final days of Peace, the first nights of Shadow & Sorrow – I write my confessions of Kriminality. They are not intended for any listener but my own conscience, except perhaps the Lords above or Demons below. They are of no morality but those Eternal & Unshaken; that is, unmoved by any but the Prime Mover – raw, original, true. They are, also (and finally), of no consequence, as my Life and Life-line are already ended.

limitsoflife

I will first provide some context to my Kriminality, so that you (and I) may better understand it, better appreciate my position and choices, and, ultimately, better avoid such a Grande misfortune as mine.

It was not so long ago, in a certain perspective of Time, though it feels now like Æons & Ages: I lived for some years on this Earth before I found Him, but was then birthed anew, and reckon now my days since that Event – and these Days are in a very true sense an entire Lifetime. I think it valid, then, to claim that while the Calendar-Years since my discovery of Krim amount to Six or Seven, it was a discovery Most Ancient and Mystikal. So old, in fact, that That Person I was before is to me like some Classical scholar or poet, an explorer in times long lost, of Ancient Kingdoms and Customs. He, that past me, was a wanderer & seeker, fresh and hopeful, swiften’d by False Faith, unburdened by True Knowledge.

In studies Metaphysical I first encountered Krim: obliquely, indeed, and never by Name – as a whisper or echo in Poems and Treatises. His harbingers were Hegel, Von BrotenManné, others too. Their inferences frightened and fascinated me deeply. Is there a Man that has lived forever, that predates the Christ and all our Religion, and – worst of all – entirely denies Divinity? And does this Man, this Eternal Man, walk among us still? Where? How?

I believe now that the rush of consequences that arose from asking these questions were entirely unavoidable: My fate was set at the very moment Krim sparked into my Thoughts. Yes, like His original Creation, that hollow husk, I was doomed from the start. I denied Home & Family, and resorted very quickly to Violent Measures when they would not let me go. Yes, I did things in those fevered months that will forever cast me as Depraved in the eyes of the Godly – even to the Heathen in his primitive hut and beastly life-style. Yes, by infernal machinations I sent my own, eldest Mother, Europa, to her Ruin. But I have no regrets.

seeonlyevil.PNG

My position, as you should now understand, is this: To taste of the True Knowledge, the Ancient Logik, leads inevitably to Earthly doom & death, but in that brief, sweet moment of Realisation all that is Earthly (even doom, even death) is understood fully, and discarded knowingly. Krim chose me, and I chose Krim. All else I cast aside. And he will Reign when the acid gun-smoke has settled, when the Fire ceases, when all the World is barren & at last Reborn.