Reflektion on some Tall Trees

Old Mykyle, Oh …

These are the writings unconstrained. Of no consequence, yet of great consequence. This is what it is.

Recall the story of the sculptor: he who would render the World in clay. The sculptor, wise in years, struggled. He found the World depraved, as clay it crumbled. And so the painter: every painting black, darch, void. What is art, in His absence?

Ayem, Ohm? Oh!

Consider then the lonely seeker: he writes poem and verse, song and psalm, but finds only his own weakness. He suffers under some tall, dark branches. Those trees are History; he cannot grasp it. He never will.

The Merry yet dance. They are imagined, or possessed, and they dance. Know they sorrow? Know they Void?

These are burdens Apokalyptik. Toil, Olde Pykkia, eternal serpent-kind coil! You have purpose. We are not dead!

Divine Silence – Part Two of One – The Poetics

Morning mourning, day-time daydreams, evening prayer

I. It is said that when Krim first came to the Valley, he took the shape of a Crow. From tree-top perches the Crow traversed the grand tributary-system of Mures, taking in its sights and souls; the dread Bear, the nymph & the dryads, the thieving dwarf-folk, Altars to gods long abandoned, and all sorts of creatures and creations that scamper or sit still along the banks. The Mures people, gifted in algorithmics, saw that the black-winged Crow traveled with Divine, linear speed, and sang new hymns in its name. This pleased Krim, who had in those days an ear for melodies both merry & somber.

II. On the high seas, sailors dream in verse. This was dreamt in an inland sea:

Ayem, Om
To our Doom

To our Doom
We journey

Red and golden, high above
A staircase-ceiling,
A ladder-window,
And a chandelier of blinding crystal
Beyond all riches
Rises Krim
Wanes the moon

Ayem, Om
To our Doom

III.

  • “In my final days I have come, at last, to understand the meaning of the Philistine Fables, and also of cow’s milk and the warmth of spring.”
  • “Take care that you do not fall into the well, Ioanis. It is full of life!”
  • “If you climb that hill, you can look back and see the city burning.”

Ian Whitehouse, Ostsee – Gurskaya – Altaij – The Outermost Lindees – Abandoned in Total, Terrifying Terra Incognita, July 2022

Divine Silence – Part One of Two – The Practicalities

Pestilence and war ravages Europa anew. While painful to behold, it will perhaps offer some succor to remind ourselves of Historie: Europa is a cursed continent, and sees seldom peace. Like her eponym, the Princess Europa, stolen away by the Bull of Heaven, or her namesake – celestial Sister, soaring lonesome in that vast darkness of this Sistem Solare – hers is a tale of sorrow.

So, too, the story of our Society. In the shifting sands of policy and economies, the Targu Mures Historical Society finds itself without official support. Indeed, the offices in the once-proud Palace of Culture (what parody, now!) are abandoned by men of letters. Call upon them (as I have, repeatedly), and be greeted by some entrepreneur, musician, addict, river-child, etc. In short, there is (to my knowledge) no Society per se, only I. Tell me otherwise, and I would be very glad.

I can not, and will not, unravel here some grand conspiracy of Nerichian intrusion into every orifice of high court and Royal lineages. Nor can, or will, I deny it. These matters I leave for the young: for those not yet born, those who have not yet come to be.

Ian Whitehouse, Pennsylvania, July 2022

(De Re) Culore di Krim

Some say BLACK is the absence of light, of color. WHITE, on the opposite end of the spectrum, is the totality of light and color; all that can be seen or imagined condensed in one intense ray; the Earth and all her creatures in singular brightness, our Universe summarized as a single Star.

Some say also that 2 and 2 make 5, that at the edge of every Ocean awaits the gaping void, that men and women-folk are equal in capabilities physikal and mental, that the Moon is made of cheese-stuff, et cetera, et cetera. I do not mean to lampoon the proclaimers of such known un-truths, for any truth needs a challenging falsehood to come into full fruition, only to highlight that the naive claims put forth in the previous paragraph – of BLACK and of WHITE – as such falsehoods.

There is only one color: GRAY. Really! – Only one. Light is light, dancing and changing, at times specular and at times diffuse, but only of this color, which we call GRAY. It could take any name, obviously, an arbitrary identifier ordained by us speakers of human language, but GRAY is suitable as the well-known in-between of BLACK and WHITE. GRAY is in fact BLACK, and WHITE, and all else that there is to see. In the movement of GRAY, we conjure other “colors” as explanations, naming wavelengths and phenomena, but they do not exist. Not more than the 2 and 2 that make 5, or the waterfalls at the extremes of the Atlantic.

What then of the PINK creature?

That is not a question of optics, but of theology, even heresy. Such a kreatur (or should we say kreation?) has indeed been attested by many a scholar of color and change (Goethe, et al). Too much, I find, has been said on the subject. I will not add to this flaming pyre of lies.

A Meeting long remembered

Excerpt from an unfinished essay attributed to the young and un(in)formed Rau Cartuar. We see the gentle beginnings og a larger Krim-Cosmological Philosophical Sistem, but the sophistication and pure power of its later incarnations are not yet bloomed. This is Rau the rose-bud; the babe, grasping towards the clouds and stars above, believing them always to be just out of reach.

At the creation of the World – the birth of thought, when Life came to be – Life immediately assessed the situation: “I am, so I must be, and I must continue being.” The first thought was of Immortality.

This should come as no surprise, as the only purpose of Life is to live. In slightly vulgar terms we may call this ironic, but it is rather an inevitable tautology; the Living must necessarily understand existence through their fleeting moment of apparent endless Life, and this false assumption grants purpose. Tautologies can be deceiving.

That autumn, when the world was gray
I met Great Krim when on my stroll
Through nearby woods (the woods were gray)

I saw him, there, beyond the trail
He didn't notice me, but
Whistled a wholesome tune 

And the skies opened with immense color
And I fell to the forest floor
And the world turned abstract and immense

He slit the sky with a finger
Passed through, out of this World 
Without as much as a wave

An encounter with actual Immortality, with an Immortal Soul in Immortal Body. Imagine my rapture!

The Gentle Lips of Aud Majora

If you travel to the Outer Lindees, in search perhaps of those Wild Women depicted in lost songs, pay special attention to the curves of the coastline. In the archipelago, the most noteworthy island in this respect is that of Aud Majora, Grande Aud: her beaches and cliffs are of such continuous grace and beauty that many a geographist has fallen into sensuous fits when laying his gaze upon her!

Oh, but what is that I see just beyond Aud Majora? I, that am sexless and calm, at peace in Krim and far beyond the sensual realms, no student of the old Sorrow School – I see the Sister, Aud Minora, little Aud of the right angles. It is on this island I disembark. Nothing grows here anymore, only rolling pebble-stones and whispering wavelets are heard. Yet there is great comfort in this land, this place of Scholars & Learned Sages! I take a moment now to reflect in the Aura of Aud Minora on the fate of the Wild Women who once danced on these shores with unmatched fervor.

My memories leak out of every orifice and gather in a shallow pool, reflecting at once the eternal starry sky (especially bright and brilliant tonight, is it not?) and the earthly woes I have brought with me from a profane and pestilent past: triangular despair, shattering eyelids, fever-dreams of red-gold birds; a house in flames, an abandoned homeland …

When I am drained of Life & vim
My Death is blessed by Father Krim

Crypto-Brandonites and other Beta-folk

Blessed are the Brandonites
for they shall inherit Boolean Tautologies
and the Beta-Reductions held within

Unknown, foolish, author

The self-titled Tribe of Brandon, followers of the Jorsalian Exile (counting among them Arch-Rabbi Darch of great stature and weak mind), are as an ethnographic and sociological phenomenon not yet fully understood. Their scholarly corpus, espoused especially by the academic outcast Yanolf from Ararat, is much studied, yet somehow even more mysterious to modern minds.

At the heart of this elusive society, and both lock & key to their knowledge, is the concept of the Grammarless Grammar, an integration of algebra and Kabbalah which is said to prove all that is True, but to the unbeliever also all that is False: a logical gambit which sacrifices reason for faith, a universal arithmetic of non-prime Primes.

While accomplishing no mainstream Rabbinic acceptance, echoes of the Grammarless Grammar (pronounced in Wordless Words) are heard still over afternoon tea in learned places. Yes, you have most likely met Him, this Eternal Student – not inside the lecture hall, but waiting just outside, pondering Eternity. Though they remain hidden, and indeed enjoy this air of mystique, the Crypto-Brandonites are certainly among us.

Apologies are due to Dr. Prof. Hegel

The great sickness, the curse thrown upon Europa by her enemies abroad, by all her disbelievers, has come upon even our insular Institute, otherwise so well-guarded against the waves of trend and sands of time. It is true: MODERNITY has struck us.

Our great fever-cough, produced by this ailment of no known cure, has spread even to the grey brain-masses of our entire congregation (yes, even to our close friend Mr. Whitehouse, where it has manifest also in great lust and severe venereal disease). It has caused a dense mental fog and an inexcusable delay in the publication of this, our letter to the great Doctor-Professor of grandiose thoughts and writings.

While we expect no forgiveness, let this meek offering be at least a token and a symbol, an utter prostration. This is the land, and age, of beggars.

In apology,
Your Dear Staff

Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel was born in Stuttgart on the 27th of August, 1770 Anno Crimini. There are those who hold that he passed on some 61 years later – a much disputed statement, of course.

I am sure that you, Dear Reader, observing the World of Today, know very well that the Geist yet lives!

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.