Sajjbajr and the Hajj

He would use the Viennese opening, a C-line pawn-plopp could follow, soon castling on the queen side – and he would win! Sajjbajr of the Levant was a master on the old, noble tiles. His unorthodox style, hurried pace and unforgiving pressure on weak squares made him the greatest Grandemaster in Europa, the Levant and beyond.

viennagame
Olde knight, where will you ride? To Yerusalem, Mecca or the very edge of the world (like Livare)?

In his youth Sajjbajr left his home among the Levantian olive & almond groves to train and travail in the service of a European minor nobleman. The knight had been cast into shame on the very edge of the continent after losing a great tournament, but he still schooled young men in the game that he loved – the game that had cursed him and exiled him in barren lands.

Sajjbajr was a diligent student and his skills would grow. Soon he surpassed the nobleman and would, with ease, crush any opponent in the court. He left the service to seek greater opposition and greater knowledge (of the game, of the world, of himself). He ventured deeper into Evropa (Majahi-na-Majahi).

He would go to France and Bohemia, Britain and the Germanic lands. His path even led him to the great city of the Czars. He played in the courts of mighty men, he played the greatest minds in schools and universities and even common, but worthy, men in festivals of wit and fysicales. His skills and reputation grew still. Were there any opponent that could beat to our Grandemaster?

Oh, there was one! With great precision and skill he would strike his hammer and move his pieces. A blacksmith by trade and a person of much mysterie. Could this humble, unknown soul take on the great Sajjbajr, the Levantian Grandemaster?

They met in Vienna, and Sajjbajr opened Viennese, but the hammer struck and Sajjbajr lost. Once, twice … Of the twelve games played, Sajjbajr lost all! A tear fell from his eye: Sajjbajr cried, he cried so very sorely.

Sajjbajr, no longer a Grandemaster, saw that a life dedicated to any game, ever so noble, was futile. He left Vienna in shame, and headed home to follow a more pious path. The Hajj was approaching, and Sajjbajr decided to visit the holiest of cities and seek solace in the religion of submission.

On the road to Mecca he met a man clad in red – a man of the Church, it seemed? This red wanderer had crossed the continent to confront Sajjbajr, to challenge him. They stood opposed to each other, with hostile stares, but Sajjbajr felt calm and not at all threatened.

Then, suddenly, the bishop moved, sideways, and behind him a great female figure was revealed! “Fuj!” she yelled, and Sajjbajr fell to the ground, never to rise.

Advertisements

False Waldemar – The Boolean Prophet

truewaldemar
They call him Jacob, my Lord …

He who is True, who liveth in truth
Is never welcome in Unholy Halls

I am the True and Final King
Son of the son of the son of The Bear
And I am a True Bear, also
Westfalie and Brandeburg bow low before me

This was the personal prayer of False Waldemar, true Skolare and true King. A true King who was mocked and abused by the weak-minded, scorned by the Jealous Men in his time. We will not further assert nor argue for his legitimacy here, but recite instead some more from his Grande Book of Prayer. This wild tune he called If ever you see a tall mast:

If ever you see a tall mast in the woods
Linger a while and reflect on the mast
And the woods

If ever you meet there a grey-bearded stranger
Listen a while to his maddening ravings
And his truths

If ever you know then that you are true king
Claim what is rightfully yours, your domain
And reign

 

The Final Days of Jakko Krimälainen

In his final days, Jakko Krimälainen lived more in the world of Visions than that of the Common Earth, spoke more of Truths Eternal than of Lies Naturelle, cared more for Eternity than for Mortality.

His diary was indeed recovered, including a sparse outline of these desperate end times, but lore whispers wider and softer tales of his Melankolia & Remorese, his Demise & Salvation. They are faint rings in Lappish lakes, echoes in dark-green treetops, dissipating foam on cold barley drinks, but they are true, and they are heard:

In the final days of Autumn
When the first snows have fallen
When the shallow lake has frozen
When the younger birds have flown
I will pass, I will pass

Despite my dear companions
Who scatter through the canopies
Who break on through the thicket
Who listen in the azure deep
I move on, I move on

I see so much and so much clearer
The knowledge and the power
The ever-untrue, true-false logiks
The cursed combinatoriks
So I splinter, so I splinter

And the Eyes of He who watches
Those of starlight & dark myst’ry
Those of silver starlight shining
Those of weariness and starlight
Are like glass, are like glass

In the final days of Autumn
When the first snows have fallen
When the shallow lake has frozen
When the younger birds have flown
I will pass, I will pass

Yes, in my Autumn’s final days
When I lock my wooden door
When I close the leaded windows
When the thatched roof-top aches
All will pass, all will pass

 

The Frisky Mill of Nerich

The studio of lively advancement, so virile, so fresh.
Almonds in abundance!
Welcome in, young lad. You shall know pleasure …

Beware, it is a trap!

The She-Devil Grande is tempting young men, full of virile youth. Young men, just like you! She stands in the field exposing her bosom, Grande. Who can resist Her?

She calls young men of sin and lust, lures them into the mill. And there she shall eat. But her hunger can never be undone. So she must eat again!

The mill is frisky, but for young men lured, the pleasure it gives will soon turn into sore itching and regret.

Remorese and Melankolia

Nikeli
Long live the strange white / Foreign on naked isle, once whole

Norilsk and Nikel, abandoned by God, embraced by Kirim. Vomit smoke and sulfur, drink narcotic sludge. Where have you gone, Angel Mykyle, Pikkiya’s saviour of old? Oh, oh …

In Remorese, deepest sorrow sing
Have a seat and dip your head low
And never will you return to the surface
Let this barstool be your resting place

It was there the Krim of Old died, there the Krim of New was born. So, too, was I reborn in the deep blackness and coal-dark mines that are the eateries & pleasure-houses of these abandoned, yet blessed places.

Melankolia, soot on the soul
Poor is the meal of
The toothless soup-man
& the bird in flight

nikelio
As bright as her light had flashed, it was now snuffed to darkness / and in Jakko grew also a tumor of cold, black realisation

Yankal Krümmel’s revolutionary view on tales of the Blajini

Feast of the Blajini

Among rural people in Romania and Bessarabia there is a widespread belief in the existence of the Blajini, they are beloved by both God and Krim because of their purity, innocence and moral neutrality.

Children and women throw the shells of easter eggs into the many tributaries to our Mures, while the men smile at their childish (and womanly) joy. How simple they are! Their belief is that all rivers and streams will flow into a single flood, the river of life, and along this the Blajini lives. The blessed creatures will then find the shells, and thus know it is time to celebrate the Easter feast.

blajini-dobre-dobre-si-si-si
What is that in the river? And has the rhubarb already grown tall, now, in spring? Surprising and pleasing, this leafy creation!

Blajini and the Eternal Man

It is said that the only man ever to pass back and forth between the realm of the Blajini and the realm of common men is Krim the Eternal. He is said to be the father of the Blajini and at home in their realm. The Blajini loves their father, and likes nothing more than to celebrate the Easter feast in Krimean fashion.

What ship may sail the river of life? Will Krim voyage on the ship of His eternal son, Livare the soulless sailor? Or will He swim and wade, back and forth, from our world to theirs, as time and ages pass by?

Livare and the soulless children

However, not all sources claim that the Blajini are of good and blessed nature. Old Yankal was a hefty critic of this view. In, among others, the Matrice Granit, Blajini are referred to as dead children who did not receive the benediction of the Holy Spirit. That they are the children of Livare, and like him soulless!

Old Yankal has been criticized for this view, but who are we to judge? We know so little of Krim, Livare and the children, compared to the knowledge and wisdom of Old Yankal.

The Escapades of young Herr Ploppel

Young Herr Ploppel to his mother, his father, his niece and his colleagues, to his memory and to his mirror. Yes, he was Young Herr Ploppel to most. But to the ladies distributed on his bed, so naked and Nerichian in size and superstition, to the high-thighed lurkers of nightly Gasses and city gates, to the alleys and oil-lamps and unforested fields, he was only Hermann.

vienna
Ever older

Young Herr Ploppel, or Hermann if you like, was a seeker of the most precious and pure escapades, a wanderer of the paths moist, soiled and unsacred. An explorer of coves and caves.

And he laid her upon that divan.

Her skin pale and fresh, reflecting light diffuse.
Her curves, womanly and fertile, yet modest and continuous.
Her eyes, tracing his, rays of creation.

And they laid upon that divan.

Ploppel (Hermann, our man) awoke as if a new man, and that new man was old, so old … He walked into Viennese streets, upon Germanic cobblestone and ancient manure, piss, blood, sadness. He was changed and unchanging. He raised his gaze, and saw nothing. The scholars of the Sexual Soldier’s Sorrow School hold today that this was the very moment at which Ploppel & Europa slipped irreverisbly into infinite debauchery, endless genocide, unending un-logik.

 

The sixteen shades of Phong

The sun with light
Intense and true
Shining on
Our Earth, Phong-blue.

Phong saw a world of light and colour. The rainbow was

  1. Phong-blue, like oceans and Mures Grande fair. Specular, spectacular!
  2. Phong-green, like grass and woodlands. (who is that wild Krim on the trail?)
  3. Phong-red, of Blood and apples, and the coat of Krim (peace be onto Him).
  4. Phong-yellow, of sun and concentrate of pérè (Majahi-na-Majahi)
  5. Phong-pink, as sweets for children and of feminine homo-gay (Fuj!)
  6. Phong-purple, of the halls Kings and of Emperors!
  7. Phong-brown, of soil so fertile and of almonds roasted! (help yourself)
  8. Phong-orange, of flowers and flame! 
  9. Phong-sky-blue, like the sky!
  10. Phong-white, of snow. Cold and harsh. 
  11. Phong-diffuse, Suddenly the colours faded! Spread thin over too many objects.
  12. Phong-fog, and then they became it was unclear! 
  13. Phong-gray, of ash and destruction, of uncertainty,  would it be light or dark? 
  14. Phong-shadow, it came over him.
  15. Phong-black, light was gone. Every colour dead. Phong was afraid!
  16. Phong-darkness. And he fell to un-logik, poor, foolish Phong!

Ultimately the rainbow had betrayed him.

Every soul,
I think, in time
Is captured in
Sistem sublime.

The tragic Livare, condemned to an eternal soulless life

In pre-ancient times the spirit of Kyrim created Man and Woman. He was Livare, She was Flynn! Yet Kyrim the Great made but one mistake! On that dreaded Night of Obligations His Son was not given a soul, no Spirit, no life force.

So was the creation of Livare, the premier tragedie.

Oh Livare, the Tragedy you are.
Alive, yet not living.
You smile, yet you cannot feel happiness.

Majahi Livare!
I pray for you.
Will you ever be releas’d  by Death?

Livare my Livare,
are you doomed to forever be
Kyrim’s single mistake?

Cursed, Livare embarked his ship and set sail. On to that eternal gray ocean. Cursed to forever sail the eternal sea, to search for a soul, until the end of time.

And for ages he sailed. His body beaten by salty waves and harsh weather. His skin scorched by the burning sun and withered by that most treacherous enemy of all (young) men, time. His face grew old and its features diminished. But he sailed on.

The tragedie of Livare is not unlike the tragedy of all men. We must all segel & sail on restless seas, hoping to find a calm shore where Krim may receive us. But beware of the skerries of the Outer and Lesser Lindees, for un-logik is there! Yet mortal men are blessed with mortality, our search will soon end. Livare is cursed!  Forever will he sail, searching for his Father’s realm, that Majahian Kronkolonie, on those Greater Lindees.