One was Germanic from the heart of Europa, one was Slavic from the vast steppish Eastern realm. One was of catholic belief, one of orthodox faith. One of noble birth, of books, of letters. One but a lowborn son of an elk-hunter. One bright of skin, fair and bright. One more of yellow colour with certain Mongol characteristics. Yet their school and their thought were the same.
The tools of Medelev, of Torture and Chirurgie
It was possibly in their early youth Müligens met Medelev, a fellow student at the Nerichian institute of un-logik.
Un-logik, psykologie, self, denial…
Siblings exposed to un-logik of different magnitude
Denial of almonds!
Such were the cruel affairs of the notorious Doctors Müligens and Medelev.
Possibly we have lost Dr. Medelev, a good comrade!
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!
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.
The creature laughed
Yoham observed the dancing creature. And it laughed at Yoham, for his hair had turned silver.
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.
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.
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.
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)
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)
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
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!
Targu Mures Historical Society 