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.

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.