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
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
Of Krim there is always more to know, the knowledge goes ever deeper. In eternity!
As a young man Yan-Olaf Montanius had a dream, a dream of unlimited knowledge and wisdom. When he came of age, he took to studies at universities. His ambitions were great, but he soon felt at loss. Un-logik came over him, and he failed all three courses his first semester.
He tried again once, twice and thrice. But never would he produce proper results. His ambitions of knowledge and wisdom dwindled, and he left the university. In the next years he took what employment he could find. He worked as a shepherd in the mountains and as a shopkeeper’s assistant. Then, at one point joined a struggling group of travelling musicians.
Yan-Olaf soon became a figure of leadership for the group and was soon known as Yan Olaf the Wise. The group played in streets and town squares to the enjoyment of many. The gang toured Europa and the Empire of Osman for many years.
While on the Osman island of Crete, Yan Olaf met a Semitic man in rags. And they conversed … A Darchness fell over Yan, it was warm and heavy.
I met the Arab. He had no grammar, no order, no sistem.
In the chaotic appearance of the ragged Arab, Yan Olaf saw also himself. He felt regret & remorese so strongly. Why had he strayed from the path of Knowledge? His ambitions returned, and he began his studies anew. And as far as one knows, Yan-Olaf is still a student, in eternity!
Valle Waling was wailing in agony as he awoke, his nightmares had tormented him yet again. Who was that olde Witchmaster in his mare-dreams?
Valle lived his life among flowering tulips, calm canals and wonderful windmills. Yet his dreams of horror were set in another land entirely. A land of darkness, a land of frost and and deep deep forests.
In his dreams he once saw a mighty Birch-tree, it stood lonely on a frozen field. The skies were (…) There was something carved into the tree, he walked closer and he saw the name “Matteo”.
Suddenly day became night,
and the birch-tree was in flames!
He was approaching, yes,
the Witchmaster was there!
Valle awoke, wailing.
Winds blew, windmills turned and the tulips danced. But for Valle, every night was terror, and every day was waking agony. When would it be over? Sun would rise, summer would come, and again turn into autumn and winter. And the Witchmaster would torment him in his dreams.
Valle would walk aimlessly among the tulips, neither asleep nor awake. Days and nights were one, and he saw no other escape than death. Valle took his knife and opened his wrist. As his life emptied onto the ground, he felt the power of the Witchmaster diminish. His mind was clearer, he would soon be free! He laid down among the tulips, yes, it was finally over. As he closed his eyes, he saw the shadow of a figure standing above him. He opened his eyes one last time. The lands froze, it was Matteo the Witchmaster!