Crypto-Brandonites and other Beta-folk

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.

Curses upon the Open Grassland

curses
Curses upon you! Fuj!

On the long, low land, the owl-eye gazes far. He sees you, the owl, for there is no shelter in this wide terrain. The owl is a foul creature, a winged rat, a cannibal of his own kind, with horrifying eyes and cruel talons.

In the Open Grassland, every creature is cruel. Every life, in this expanse, is painful and meaningless. Where are the Trees, under which we may thrive? Where are the tall protectors to which we can come when distressed, when our shoes are worn and our taxes pile into economic ruin? And where is that Prophet who can answer truthfully in a Field of Lies?

We are abandoned!
Krimoka cares for us no more.

She has flown East,
preferring now the Oriental Man
in his dismal village.

We are abandoned!
She could not endure our lies.

Confessions of a Kriminal Mind

thefeeblemind

In these – the last days of Empire, the final days of Peace, the first nights of Shadow & Sorrow – I write my confessions of Kriminality. They are not intended for any listener but my own conscience, except perhaps the Lords above or Demons below. They are of no morality but those Eternal & Unshaken; that is, unmoved by any but the Prime Mover – raw, original, true. They are, also (and finally), of no consequence, as my Life and Life-line are already ended.

limitsoflife

I will first provide some context to my Kriminality, so that you (and I) may better understand it, better appreciate my position and choices, and, ultimately, better avoid such a Grande misfortune as mine.

It was not so long ago, in a certain perspective of Time, though it feels now like Æons & Ages: I lived for some years on this Earth before I found Him, but was then birthed anew, and reckon now my days since that Event – and these Days are in a very true sense an entire Lifetime. I think it valid, then, to claim that while the Calendar-Years since my discovery of Krim amount to Six or Seven, it was a discovery Most Ancient and Mystikal. So old, in fact, that That Person I was before is to me like some Classical scholar or poet, an explorer in times long lost, of Ancient Kingdoms and Customs. He, that past me, was a wanderer & seeker, fresh and hopeful, swiften’d by False Faith, unburdened by True Knowledge.

In studies Metaphysical I first encountered Krim: obliquely, indeed, and never by Name – as a whisper or echo in Poems and Treatises. His harbingers were Hegel, Von BrotenManné, others too. Their inferences frightened and fascinated me deeply. Is there a Man that has lived forever, that predates the Christ and all our Religion, and – worst of all – entirely denies Divinity? And does this Man, this Eternal Man, walk among us still? Where? How?

I believe now that the rush of consequences that arose from asking these questions were entirely unavoidable: My fate was set at the very moment Krim sparked into my Thoughts. Yes, like His original Creation, that hollow husk, I was doomed from the start. I denied Home & Family, and resorted very quickly to Violent Measures when they would not let me go. Yes, I did things in those fevered months that will forever cast me as Depraved in the eyes of the Godly – even to the Heathen in his primitive hut and beastly life-style. Yes, by infernal machinations I sent my own, eldest Mother, Europa, to her Ruin. But I have no regrets.

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My position, as you should now understand, is this: To taste of the True Knowledge, the Ancient Logik, leads inevitably to Earthly doom & death, but in that brief, sweet moment of Realisation all that is Earthly (even doom, even death) is understood fully, and discarded knowingly. Krim chose me, and I chose Krim. All else I cast aside. And he will Reign when the acid gun-smoke has settled, when the Fire ceases, when all the World is barren & at last Reborn.

Sajjbajr and the Hajj

He would use the Viennese opening, a C-line pawn-plopp could follow, soon castling on the queen side – and he would win! Sajjbajr of the Levant was a master on the old, noble tiles. His unorthodox style, hurried pace and unforgiving pressure on weak squares made him the greatest Grandemaster in Europa, the Levant and beyond.

viennagame
Olde knight, where will you ride? To Yerusalem, Mecca or the very edge of the world (like Livare)?

In his youth Sajjbajr left his home among the Levantian olive & almond groves to train and travail in the service of a European minor nobleman. The knight had been cast into shame on the very edge of the continent after losing a great tournament, but he still schooled young men in the game that he loved – the game that had cursed him and exiled him in barren lands.

Sajjbajr was a diligent student and his skills would grow. Soon he surpassed the nobleman and would, with ease, crush any opponent in the court. He left the service to seek greater opposition and greater knowledge (of the game, of the world, of himself). He ventured deeper into Evropa (Majahi-na-Majahi).

He would go to France and Bohemia, Britain and the Germanic lands. His path even led him to the great city of the Czars. He played in the courts of mighty men, he played the greatest minds in schools and universities and even common, but worthy, men in festivals of wit and fysicales. His skills and reputation grew still. Were there any opponent that could beat to our Grandemaster?

Oh, there was one! With great precision and skill he would strike his hammer and move his pieces. A blacksmith by trade and a person of much mysterie. Could this humble, unknown soul take on the great Sajjbajr, the Levantian Grandemaster?

They met in Vienna, and Sajjbajr opened Viennese, but the hammer struck and Sajjbajr lost. Once, twice … Of the twelve games played, Sajjbajr lost all! A tear fell from his eye: Sajjbajr cried, he cried so very sorely.

Sajjbajr, no longer a Grandemaster, saw that a life dedicated to any game, ever so noble, was futile. He left Vienna in shame, and headed home to follow a more pious path. The Hajj was approaching, and Sajjbajr decided to visit the holiest of cities and seek solace in the religion of submission.

On the road to Mecca he met a man clad in red – a man of the Church, it seemed? This red wanderer had crossed the continent to confront Sajjbajr, to challenge him. They stood opposed to each other, with hostile stares, but Sajjbajr felt calm and not at all threatened.

Then, suddenly, the bishop moved, sideways, and behind him a great female figure was revealed! “Fuj!” she yelled, and Sajjbajr fell to the ground, never to rise.

False Waldemar – The Boolean Prophet

truewaldemar
They call him Jacob, my Lord …

He who is True, who liveth in truth
Is never welcome in Unholy Halls

I am the True and Final King
Son of the son of the son of The Bear
And I am a True Bear, also
Westfalie and Brandeburg bow low before me

This was the personal prayer of False Waldemar, true Skolare and true King. A true King who was mocked and abused by the weak-minded, scorned by the Jealous Men in his time. We will not further assert nor argue for his legitimacy here, but recite instead some more from his Grande Book of Prayer. This wild tune he called If ever you see a tall mast:

If ever you see a tall mast in the woods
Linger a while and reflect on the mast
And the woods

If ever you meet there a grey-bearded stranger
Listen a while to his maddening ravings
And his truths

If ever you know then that you are true king
Claim what is rightfully yours, your domain
And reign

 

Remorese and Melankolia

Nikeli
Long live the strange white / Foreign on naked isle, once whole

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

nikelio
As bright as her light had flashed, it was now snuffed to darkness / and in Jakko grew also a tumor of cold, black realisation

The Escapades of young Herr Ploppel

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.

vienna
Ever older

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.

 

Yan-Olaf, the eternal student (of Krim)

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!

Historical Regions of Kroatien (Elegy)

Opening Hymn

Regions five
Received five visits

Regions divided
Regions collapsed

Krim did not accept
The Land of Broken Slavs

Regions Five

Alt-Kroatien

alt-kroatien
Moon and star! Like that of Moslem Mahomet?

The Old. Who were you, Alt-Kroatien?

Old! Old! More ancient, perhaps,
than old Yoham,
oldest of his kind!

Old bones grow
and new flesh suffers,
hair shines white and
splendid,
but you are dull
and feeble.

Who were you, Alt-Kroatien?
No friend!

Dubrovnik

the-whore.png
Spin in circles, wild and free

The Whore. Who were you, Dubrovnik?

Yes, sour city …

When Krim came to Kroatien poor
In times now so far gone
Did he visit
that old hag
Dubrovnik?

Who were you, Dubrovnik?
A cold embrace!

Dalmatien

dalmatien.png
A lion, three lions. Nothing compared to the mighty Bear!

The Wild. Who were you, Dalmatien?

Three false crowns
Two times three false lion tears

Oh, yes, you have teeth
Oh, and fierce eyes, too
But you are not royalty
Not splendid
Nor divine

Who were you, Dalmatien?
A rabid dog!

Istrien

istrien.jpg
Meek, humble, horned creature.

The Humble. Who were you, Istrien?

Such pride below
false humility!

There are no songs of your
accomplishments,
as you achieved nothing
and your children can
not hold a true tone truly.

Who were you, Istrien?
Sentimental and stubborn!

Slawonien

slawonien.png

The Worst. Who were you, Slawonien?

A poor fisherman
is he who has
poor harvest

The Sea itself rejects you,
Slawonien,
and your diet will forever be
awful offal,
watered ale!

Who were you, Slawonien?
A beggarman!

Closing Hymn

Regions five
Were five-fold abandoned

Regions in ruin
Regions of eternal rain

Krim firmly rejected
The Land of Broken Slavs

Sorrows of Korbu and Far-Altaij

They went east to find their roots. Through forests, over steppes, across great floods and along narrow mountain paths and passes. Sami and Ville, friends and brothers, journeyed far, to Far-Altaij. They came in search of their roots, but what would they find? Could the grand tree of their heritage already be blackened, rotten? Or was it not such a wooden creation, but of a more floating and fleeting, yet grander, construction?

At a great lake, Ville turned left. But he was soon regretting his decision, and turned back, walking instead to the right, completely opposite to his original direction. Sami, never one for initiative or originality, followed behind. Ville strolled on for a few miles, along the lake, listening to songbirds and shamans in the breeze. It was then he came upon Korbu!

Your magnificence
Your blue, clean waters

Korbu, my Korbu
The greatest of Far-Altaij

You are as gold!

Yes, it was Korbu. The greatest and oldest waterfall along the lake, and in all of Far-Altaij, and, perhaps, the world. Ville was taken by its immenseness!

Sami, however, was not! And thus their friendship broke. Was he taken by the Nerichian logik? Had he fallen to logik untrue? These questions were there to be asked, but Ville cared not. He had Korbu, and only Korbu, on his mind!

They journeyed on, but no longer in friendship, nor brotherhood. And soon they took different paths, their lines through life diverging. Many days and nights passed, and then some more.

Korbu, immense
Bless its waters!

One day, Ville again stood by the falls of Korbu. Sami had long since returned west, returned home. Sami was weak. However, for Ville there was no longer a home there, in the narrow forest of the forgotten west, among the puny droplet-lakes of his birthplace. He had found his true home, along the much greater lake of Far-Altaij, where he would always hear the mighty roar of Korbu! He had found his roots and his destiny: the torrential stream rose above him, stronger than any oak.

Ville stood on the shore and waded into the waters. He felt the fresh coldness, and its immense immenseness. He let his body fall into the river, and it was taken over the falls. He and Korbu was now one.

Ville was quiet, Korbu triumphed on.