Category: Nerich Family

End of the Golden Years

On By Targu Mures Historical SocietyIn Ethnic clashes, Nerich FamilyLeave a comment

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.

The Frisky Mill of Nerich

On By Targu Mures Historical SocietyIn Nerich FamilyLeave a comment

The studio of lively advancement, so virile, so fresh.
Almonds in abundance!
Welcome in, young lad. You shall know pleasure …

Beware, it is a trap!

The She-Devil Grande is tempting young men, full of virile youth. Young men, just like you! She stands in the field exposing her bosom, Grande. Who can resist Her?

She calls young men of sin and lust, lures them into the mill. And there she shall eat. But her hunger can never be undone. So she must eat again!

The mill is frisky, but for young men lured, the pleasure it gives will soon turn into sore itching and regret.

Yankal Krümmel’s revolutionary view on tales of the Blajini

On By Targu Mures Historical SocietyIn Crimea Jacobius, The Tragedy of LivareLeave a comment

Feast of the Blajini

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-dobre-dobre-si-si-si
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.

The Little Prince of the Mountains

On By Targu Mures Historical SocietyIn Ethnic clashesLeave a comment
Avram-Iancu
Avram Iancu

What words. What soul!

Yes, he was perhaps some deep Krim of the Mountain, our little prince.

What words! What Words! What Words!

I am high
in the grand aboves
in sister sky and brother sky-cloud
and all my siblings (seven by seven)
with fourty-nine fathers
and I

I am deep
in muddy depths
under aunt branch and uncle branch-root
and all my sons (nine by nine)
with eighty-one mothers
and I

I am true
on Krimean peaks
in all-father Krim’s magnificent gaze
and under his paternal care
with eternal knowledge unveiled
for me

of Tulips and Birchwood

On By Targu Mures Historical SocietyIn Nerich FamilyLeave a comment

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?

Tulip fields and windmills near Rijnsburg by Claude Monet
Tulip fields and windmills

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!

The Silver Tower on the shores of Totensee

On By Targu Mures Historical SocietyIn The Tragedy of LivareLeave a comment

Where the plains of the heathens meets waves of an inland see, lies a town. A town named for the son of Krim. Not Livare, the soulless, but His second son.

Majahi Hamare Majahi!

In the name of Yoham they built a tower of pure silver. There it stands tall on the shores, shining ever gray!

Hail that monk ancién!
He who danced with death!
Yoham!
You have grown old!

Ayem Ayem Ohm!

From the eastern wanderer Ville, wild and wailing, we have this song, which may well bring us to the silver tower and tragic monk:

Pray for Livare
Pray at Hamare
Pray at that Temple to Truth

Walk for Livare
Walk by the seashore
Walk through the fields

Sing for Livare
Sing for each fracture
Sing for that broken soul

Peddie, the Rhubarb Buffoon

On By Targu Mures Historical SocietyIn Nerich FamilyLeave a comment

Yet all I wanted was Rhubarb, Rhu- ub – ba – arb!

– Peddie, jester at the Nerich court

plantofthebuffoon

Peddie is known as a figure of utter tragedie. His fall from academic roots into utter despair works as a warning to all those who think they are beyond the reach of un-logik. 

Peddie was born into a stable family, his mother and father both of academic professions. He was raised well and found love in the spring of his life. But the flames of his fiery relationship soon dwindled, and He was left all alone.

In adulthood he found some comfort and satisfaction in spirit, yet his lost love kept tormenting him. Why did she reject him then? Why did she reject him now?

His sorrow kept him from keeping employment. He sold his possessions, and took to acting and jesting to finance his ever increasing needs for the only comfort to be found, those only-soothing spirits from far Moravia.

In the end he became neallocate, an unallocated, a jester at the Nerichina Court, thus completing his tragic journey to madness.

Yet all I wanted was Rhubarb, Rhu- ub – ba – arb!

– Peddie, neallocate, tragedie

Who is Jacob Krim? Was Jacob Krim arrested? When was Jacob Krim arrested? What was Jacob Krim arrested for?

On By Targu Mures Historical SocietyIn Nerich Family, World ReligionLeave a comment

It is said that the word criminale had a sweet tune to the Mures townsfolk, and was believed to be a word of sanctuary, not evil.

from Our Fable of Malevolence

Who is Jacob Krim?

A question of grandeur indeed! He is the first and the last! The father of Livare, Lynn and Hamare!

He is everything that is good or morally neutral.

He is Logik in all its forms.

Was Jacob Krim arrested?

In Mures, in the Americas! In the dreams and hopes of all who embrace the  un-logik!

They would put Jacob Krim in chains – oh, you simple men … You may well try to bind down the winds, to constrain the execution of abstract-time algorithms, to satisfy through foods and drink the gruesome Nerichina. A parody, farce, a tragedie!

Everywhere he was arrested, but no prison, no whip, no wall or stony ceiling, can encompass the Krim.

When was Jacob Krim arrested?

When is a word for those of limited time. But for Krim Rosu, time is but a valley. For Jacob Krim, time is a mossy stone or a rotting tree-trunk, a killer crow or Becherian spiritus. In his eyes, all things are clear and simple, like glass!

That some rich ruler should hoard treasure in castles of cruelty; that some red rebel should redistribute this wealth and leave crumbling this False Keep of Twisted Algebraics – what does it matter to a man who swims the rivers of time like the fresh fish of Mures?

He was before! He is now! He will be after!

What was Jacob Krim arrested for?

A criminale (Majahi-na-Majahi) He is.

A criminale He ever was!

Therefore all evil forces will forever attempt to contain Him and attempt to hide Him from His loyal followers. Yet arresting Him will always be in vain, for un-logik will never be victor!

These are valid questions, all. But who are we to judge validity?

You gave yourself to the fisherman 

On By Targu Mures Historical SocietyIn The Tragedy of LivareLeave a comment

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

On By Targu Mures Historical SocietyIn The Tragedy of Livare, Wanderers and seekersLeave a comment

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.