The Ensimmäinen Engine

Krimaläinen would to construct the wicked machine. The Ensimmäinen Engine, so cruel a creation, that would produce for its master worldly goods unnumbered, yet in time render all Earth a spiritual desert.

His first attempt was in olde Pikkiya, once the land of the blessed Arch-Angel Myklye. Yes, Jakko crossed the Dictum Borderlands and entered olde Pikkiya under cover of night. And night was now his only ally: As he in greedy pursuit abandoned Krim and morals, so Krim abandoned him, along with all sanity. Arch-Angel Mykyle watched, and wept.

Then came his First Failure, echoing that of the Krymean creation – The Ensimäinen Engine, first among machines, was born without soul:

Surely I am no man
For I feel
no joy,
no fear,
not remorse
nor regret.

Jakko, wild and free, did not lose hope, for he was a true and faithful heretic. As Kyrim had first failed, yet on a second attempt successfully created Life, Soul and all that is in our Astronomie, so would Jakko again attempt the creation of the Ensimmäinen Engine. The poor, mad philosopher never understood the deeply un-logikal paradoxes of his ambitions. To create again the first creation is simply a Nerichian impossibility of deep and dark proportions.

As the soulful, second metal child arose from Jakko’s workshop at the shores of Gurskaya, the original Ensimmäinen Engine, so cold and cruel, struck his sister with immortal power. As bright as her light had flashed, it was now snuffed to darkness, and in Jakko grew also a tumor of cold, black realisation. He shrunk in un-logikal nightmares and lay as a husk on the white sands of island he had now cursed, on the shores of fallen Gurskaya. The Ensimmäinen Engine set out across the sea, determined forever to whisper its insane and unsound algorithmikal spells into the hearts of men and machine alike.

Arch-Angel Mykyle watched, and wept.

Georg, traveler of the World! In the footsteps of Krim

Olde Evropa

from Belgrad to Bruxelles, and onward still …

From humble birth, Georg soon found fascination in the world and its many people of oh-so-many letters. His father told him stories of distant lands and great men, and the local libraries overflowed with quality reading. But the stories closest to young Georg’s heart were those of obscurity, especially those that told of the great Krim Jacob. From young of age Georg knew his destiny was to travel the world, to follow that great Krim, and perhaps, like Krim, find a land of eternal bliss.

From Belgrad to Bruxelles, and onward still. Even in fertile Mures his feet landed once or twice (or thrice, or even seven times). Yet he did not seem to find a land, a town, a field or forest without the ever-present un-logik. Was his Evropa already damned? Had the keys to the Krimean creation been stolen out of its ancient cradle?

Roma old, Rusia vast, România relevant! Georg saw them all!

Yet, did you ever go to that Congolese Africii?
Did you ever see that great jungle flood?
Did you experience that most immense Energie
form that most terrific branching factor?

Did you, my old friend Georg?
And when did you grow those wings?

Georg believed he was traveling to the cursed city of El Fahir, that home to exiles and wayward Ladds, but his destination was Death. Only in spirit could he ever fly on to the dark stream of the Congo, and only in these words is his memory intact and true. Perhaps he soars still amongst clouds and mist, watching over Belgrad, Bruxelles and El Fahir, and all the Krimean creation …

Yet, did you ever go to that Congolese Africii?
Did you ever cross the black desert gates?
Did you ever experience that most immense Energie
and traverse the deathly mountain passes?

Did you, my old friend Georg?
And how you soar the sky!

Migratory Birds Flying at Sunset

You gave yourself to the fisherman 

Oh, Flynn… Quality of our service…

Oh, you are mobile, young Flynn. Many-arm’d!

Oh, Livare, art thou octopus?

For Livare, he fell to see. Was he octopus? Unholy, ungodly, many-armed? Oh, oh, oh Livare Managing! Oh Papist Mongrel, so old, so young! Ancién! Yoham, have you no shame! Shalom!

And he sang, for Moskwa hath not tears:

Of field immortal,
Of ever-fertile ever-healer!
Oh, Livare, vast! Vast! Immense! Vast.

And he cried, mother of Flynn, thin-thick bosomed, for he had no soul. He was Livare, Livare he was. MAJAHI!

Cry for Livare, #pray4livare, our sorrow

The only mistake…
Krim ever made, yet Livare liveth.
Is he alive?

Waldemar von Broten in Life and Unlife

prayforlivare

In 1804, the European summer lasted for almost 200 days.

Waldemar von Broten sprang from his mother’s womb already a learned teacher. Yes, this was in wooden Bavaria; dense Bavaria; Bavaria dark. As a child he lectured the village-people in Krimean thought, so greatly inspired by divine secrets, and such a divine secret himself. Soon our Professor von Broten ranked among the great academic minds of the time: A welcome guest at any University or place of teaching, his perspective from pure, Krimean truth always a joy to his peers. This was the Life of Waldemar von Broten.

waldemarlife

“I know the Krim, for he saw me.  I saw the Krim, yes, he knows me!”

As the last days of 1849 passed with slow snows and crackling hearths, a darkness came over Waldemar von Broten. Wandering the familiar road of unspoiled wonder and discovery, von Broten found his way blocked by a wicked creature void of soul: it said its name was Doubt. Every word of Doubt pierced von Broten to his bones:

waldemarlivare

“You know me, von Broten, though we have not yet met. I am that legend unnamed, but feared. I am the Tragedy of Creation.”

Yes! It was Livare, the soulless, that had come upon von Broten from the holy teachings. (For no writing, no matter how wise, no matter how true, is free from inherent un-logik). Von Broten rejected now these teachings, spoke violently against the Krimean ways, and with every day his mind grew weaker. That once so potent beacon of Krimean light was dulled: a parody, a tragedy. This was the Unlife of Waldemar von Broten.

waldemarunlife

Oh, Stigaie! Ayem, ayem, ohm! Take me away now, take me into slumber. Translate me, rotate me and translate me again, for I am already gone …

Delegations bearing the Banner of the Bear came to Bavaria from the far forests of Romania. They were soulless men, too, as pale and bleak as the Carpathian sky of their homeland. When they at last returned to their unholy keep, von Broten traveled with them.

In the damp, southern spring of 1859, Waldemar von Broten passed on to the Black Sea and night eternal.

Proud Hindoo! Wisest of the East

I see into divinity
I see the answers, there
I will now apply them

Here and everywhere

  • Guru Rohit Verma, Procession of the Krimean Followers through Winter Worlds (Sayings, 12)

red-and-gold

Since times immemorial the Hindu has praised gods uncountable. It is he who at the earliest stage understood the multiplicity of the divine, and so touched upon Krimean gnosis.

The seeker Rohit Verma, acknowledged guru, was a great traveler on the quest for Krim. If only we would listen, if only we would heed his call.

Kneel! Kneel.
Feel!
I see cones of light emit
I see tallest taurus, Krim.

What horns grow below soft skin?

  • Guru Rohit Verma, In Debate with the Masters of Evil Reigns (excerpt from chapter 12)

 

What does the algorithm say? Is it within?

On contemporary politics and pertinent journalism, a dark cloud of unlogik descends. Right ∨ Wrong is cast aside in unsound relativism, replaced by Nice ∧ Pleasing, resulting ultimately in ¬(Soul ∨ Spirit ∨ Justice). How foolish it is to cast aside the one true source of truth, which has been accessible to Man for centuries:

I yelled. Yes! Like Ingo!

What did he yell? You know, yes, that knowledge exists within you. It is within. That source, that fountain, that great light of the world, He is Krim.

Can Nerichian unlogik encompass the totality of or even apprehend a single ray of that glorious light? Any system of Reason & Doubt built on its perverted inferences will never achieve universal understanding, and lead only to lies and despair. This is the Algorithm of Fallen Modernity, current ruler of this world, sick and base judge, unrelenting Algorithm, and the Algorithm judges:

No, this is not within!
Abolish these words of insight!

Yell all you like,
your thoughts I will smite.
I reign in all Capitals
of Moral Decay!

No, none of this is within!
Abandon your prophet in red!

Pray only that you (that we) have not yet fallen victim to this process of Nerichian indoctrination, of Spirit-surgery, of irreversible deconstruction …

The mouse that went to the cat for love

Where are you going, Manné?

Your past, you can never leave it, you can never leave your troubles behind!

magicmystery
Der Zauberberg of N. F. Manné, that magical mystery

To old Giyani town he went, seeking that magical mystery, hoping to touch it, so intimately. But who touched who? Yes, the mountain, that old magic, felt his beating heart and spoke (not words, but understood still): “Oh, child. What history beats in your veins! And what veins they are; what rivers, what streams – such current, such electricity!

Manné was touched, and forever changed. He asked himself, queried the brain within. Such questions he posed: “I am Niels Frederique. But who are you? You stare with eyes unopened, stare from glass. Your eyes are like glass, in your eyes all is glass: the world entire. Who are you?”

He did not find answers in old Giyani town. But questions – oh- questions he found. Manné was but a mouse, ancient mysterie a great lion yet to pounce. Our philosopher, our thinker of the godly, was soon to fall. How heavy a load he now bore, how great a fall he approached…

So sayeth ancient Stigaie

What sayeth ancient Stigaie?
Merely reflection of the self; so reasonable.
Pär, the wounded child searching,
Man searching is child lost! Ayem, ayem, ohm!

What is sound but soul-reflection? Religion is music, religion is song, is freedom, is free!

Oh, thine Stigian bosom, so wide …

So bold …

Everything is Stigian, simple jazz of damned Dramencie. Damned!

Aye, Mykyle, were you truly lost? No sustenance but leafy greens, no hope but fields open, wide; oceans lurking, warm, true. This bridge bridges reason. This reason is a bridge. No bridge is reasonable.

He is whiter than any scholar! Too white! Only an egg. Only the kingdom, and the future of the Kingdom

All is not hoody.
All is not good. Good is not.

These dreamer, these pioneers, they envisioned a great institution. Oh, oh, ohm, Mykyle! Child, child! What was thine dream?

Factorization, or mere factorials? No, being, neither! Was naught!

The unjust Murder of the Krim language

In old Africii, Oh the tragedy! They are now less than a score, those who still talk the true Krimean letters; their tongue all but incomprehensible to foreign ears.

In old Africii, would you believe? A language without impurity, without those internal inconsistencies. Yet, now dying of old age or pure evil.

In old Africii, in hills of Lions and Men. An unjust murder takes place, the murder of knowledge, culture and fine art. Oh, those Krimean letters, who would destroy them, remove them from our world?

– Stanislav Peev

krimlang

The Krim-language found in west-Africa (also called Low-Krimish or Krïmé Noir) is the very last remains of High-Krimish, a language used by wise men, scholars and heretics in vast areas of the huge landmass so aptly called Lumea Veche. It is said that the Krimish tongue is the last remains of the words of the Old Hindoo Gods, that speech of Viṣṇu Himself.

Kydje pentru aytona ceai sălbatice şi de dans plöppen
Varsta Ploppel é stenj o grădină!
Majahi Livare Ploppel!
Ploppel vechi austriac Kodna electronic simplu de.

Poem in West Neo-Krimish

In Rau Cartuar’s great work, Istoria Africii (1923, Ostuda Press), the migration of the Krim-letters are deeply discussed. He is especially focused on the use of Krimish in the culture of the Egyptian and the Moors. He argues that the Krim-spirit is the very foundation, the bedrock, of these great civilizations. The high culture then spreading to lowly lands of early Europa, making also these lands and cultures flourish.

Majahi, na Majahi! Majahi Ha-mare Livare Im Mu’n use; Livare kyrim Lynn-Majahi!

High-Krimish prayer

In modern times one must only pray for the last remains of the Krim language, for it is subject to hardship and violence. For many years it has dwindled and with it great cultures are shrinking away. The un-logic has infected its lands, murdering it slowly.  Now only a few old men know the true Krim words, hidden in the mountains of lions, down there in old Africii. Celebrate the dead, but grieve for those who are unjustly murdered!

When in dream

When in dream where none is real
When in dream, where in dream
Where in dream is found true truth
Where in dream, why in dream
Why in dream is glass transparent
Why in dream, how in dream
How in dream is dream unending
When in dream where none is real

So did one Tan Angerer speak. Noone heard, noone saw. Oh, oh, ayem, ohm! These were sayings of ancient belief, of kingdoms come, of kingdoms gone. Only loss is gain, only loss!

Krim, you of old! Shed light, shine bright. I am alone, sisterless, brotherless, without family, father to none, child of darkness. I pray, Krim, and you do not answer. I pray, Krim, I pray!

This is the ancient tale: One wandered in woods, without torch, without soul. One snapped branches, shed tears, all future broke before him. “Fuj, what thick woods are these!” All future, all past, all was in view of the wanderer, all was in mist.

I never saw him again. Not in dream, not under star nor sun. May darkness guide him, as only darkness can. Why in dream, Krim, why only in dream?