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.
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!
Some say BLACK is the absence of light, of color. WHITE, on the opposite end of the spectrum, is the totality of light and color; all that can be seen or imagined condensed in one intense ray; the Earth and all her creatures in singular brightness, our Universe summarized as a single Star.
Some say also that 2 and 2 make 5, that at the edge of every Ocean awaits the gaping void, that men and women-folk are equal in capabilities physikal and mental, that the Moon is made of cheese-stuff, et cetera, et cetera. I do not mean to lampoon the proclaimers of such known un-truths, for any truth needs a challenging falsehood to come into full fruition, only to highlight that the naive claims put forth in the previous paragraph – of BLACK and of WHITE – as such falsehoods.
There is only one color: GRAY. Really! – Only one. Light is light, dancing and changing, at times specular and at times diffuse, but only of this color, which we call GRAY. It could take any name, obviously, an arbitrary identifier ordained by us speakers of human language, but GRAY is suitable as the well-known in-between of BLACK and WHITE. GRAY is in fact BLACK, and WHITE, and all else that there is to see. In the movement of GRAY, we conjure other “colors” as explanations, naming wavelengths and phenomena, but they do not exist. Not more than the 2 and 2 that make 5, or the waterfalls at the extremes of the Atlantic.
What then of the PINK creature?
That is not a question of optics, but of theology, even heresy. Such a kreatur (or should we say kreation?) has indeed been attested by many a scholar of color and change (Goethe, et al). Too much, I find, has been said on the subject. I will not add to this flaming pyre of lies.
Excerpt from an unfinished essay attributed to the young and un(in)formed Rau Cartuar. We see the gentle beginnings og a larger Krim-Cosmological Philosophical Sistem, but the sophistication and pure power of its later incarnations are not yet bloomed. This is Rau the rose-bud; the babe, grasping towards the clouds and stars above, believing them always to be just out of reach.
At the creation of the World – the birth of thought, when Life came to be – Life immediately assessed the situation: “I am, so I must be, and I must continue being.” The first thought was of Immortality.
This should come as no surprise, as the only purpose of Life is to live. In slightly vulgar terms we may call this ironic, but it is rather an inevitable tautology; the Living must necessarily understand existence through their fleeting moment of apparent endless Life, and this false assumption grants purpose. Tautologies can be deceiving.
That autumn, when the world was gray
I met Great Krim when on my stroll
Through nearby woods (the woods were gray)
I saw him, there, beyond the trail
He didn't notice me, but
Whistled a wholesome tune
And the skies opened with immense color
And I fell to the forest floor
And the world turned abstract and immense
He slit the sky with a finger
Passed through, out of this World
Without as much as a wave
An encounter with actual Immortality, with an Immortal Soul in Immortal Body. Imagine my rapture!
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.
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!
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.
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!
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.
Off the northwestern coast of ancient Pikkyia, beyond the forests of Finnish northlands and across the Dictum Borderlands, lies a bleak and barren isle. Once splendid and spiritual, now a wasteland of unholy prayer; once bountiful, a land of plenty, now only supporting the poorest of diets (of roots, of bark, of hollow vegetares). This is the island of Gurskaya and its Temple of the Arch-Angel Mykyle.
Fuj to my conquerors! Fuj!
In times past, the orthodox monks of Holy Ortodox Temple of Arch Angel Mykyle were the most prominent scholars of Jacobian philosophy and wisdom, in all the Tsardom and beyond. Their leader, Yoham Stariy, devoted his life to the studies of Krim and Logiks true, granting divine blessings and boons to their northern isle.
That would all change. A young and well educated priest called Jurii came to the temple, and with him a companion called Matteo. The monks welcomed their guests with traditional foods and drink, blessed upon the alter of Mykyle! Jurii ate, but Matteo did not.
Are you not hungry, friend Matteo? Yoham the Elder asked.
Yes, Matteo looked at his food and sighed. Then, as every sage and squire beheld him, he rose and pronounced his name was Nerich! It was clear to all, then, that un-logik had entered the most Holy Ortodox Temple. Yoham screamed, his hair turning to sparkling silver, his skin growing tight and brittle. He fell to the ground, too old ever to rise again.
The younger monks took to mournful song and prayer:
They may burn our land,
take our nourishment,
tear down our shelter.
In vain I say!
For our souls are forever blessed
by that Arch-Angel
But the Taxiarch Mykyle had betrayed them, for even that Arch-Angel had fallen to the wicked un-logik, to the Nerichian spell of Dark Matteo. To this day Gurskaya lays barren and abandoned …