Proud Hindoo! Wisest of the East

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)

red-and-gold

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)

 

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What does the algorithm say? Is it within?

On contemporary politics and pertinent journalism, a dark cloud of unlogik descends. Right ∨ Wrong is cast aside in unsound relativism, replaced by Nice ∧ Pleasing, resulting ultimately in ¬(Soul ∨ Spirit ∨ Justice). How foolish it is to cast aside the one true source of truth, which has been accessible to Man for centuries:

I yelled. Yes! Like Ingo!

What did he yell? You know, yes, that knowledge exists within you. It is within. That source, that fountain, that great light of the world, He is Krim.

Can Nerichian unlogik encompass the totality of or even apprehend a single ray of that glorious light? Any system of Reason & Doubt built on its perverted inferences will never achieve universal understanding, and lead only to lies and despair. This is the Algorithm of Fallen Modernity, current ruler of this world, sick and base judge, unrelenting Algorithm, and the Algorithm judges:

No, this is not within!
Abolish these words of insight!

Yell all you like,
your thoughts I will smite.
I reign in all Capitals
of Moral Decay!

No, none of this is within!
Abandon your prophet in red!

Pray only that you (that we) have not yet fallen victim to this process of Nerichian indoctrination, of Spirit-surgery, of irreversible deconstruction …

The mouse that went to the cat for love

Where are you going, Manné?

Your past, you can never leave it, you can never leave your troubles behind!

magicmystery
Der Zauberberg of N. F. Manné, that magical mystery

To old Giyani town he went, seeking that magical mystery, hoping to touch it, so intimately. But who touched who? Yes, the mountain, that old magic, felt his beating heart and spoke (not words, but understood still): “Oh, child. What history beats in your veins! And what veins they are; what rivers, what streams – such current, such electricity!

Manné was touched, and forever changed. He asked himself, queried the brain within. Such questions he posed: “I am Niels Frederique. But who are you? You stare with eyes unopened, stare from glass. Your eyes are like glass, in your eyes all is glass: the world entire. Who are you?”

He did not find answers in old Giyani town. But questions – oh- questions he found. Manné was but a mouse, ancient mysterie a great lion yet to pounce. Our philosopher, our thinker of the godly, was soon to fall. How heavy a load he now bore, how great a fall he approached…

So sayeth ancient Stigaie

What sayeth ancient Stigaie?
Merely reflection of the self; so reasonable.
Pär, the wounded child searching,
Man searching is child lost! Ayem, ayem, ohm!

What is sound but soul-reflection? Religion is music, religion is song, is freedom, is free!

Oh, thine Stigian bosom, so wide …

So bold …

Everything is Stigian, simple jazz of damned Dramencie. Damned!

Aye, Mykyle, were you truly lost? No sustenance but leafy greens, no hope but fields open, wide; oceans lurking, warm, true. This bridge bridges reason. This reason is a bridge. No bridge is reasonable.

He is whiter than any scholar! Too white! Only an egg. Only the kingdom, and the future of the Kingdom

All is not hoody.
All is not good. Good is not.

These dreamer, these pioneers. Oh, oh, ohm, Mykyle! Child, child! What was thine dream?

Factorization, or mere factorials? No, being, neither! Was naught!

The unjust Murder of the Krim language

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

krimlang

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!

When in dream

When in dream where none is real
When in dream, where in dream
Where in dream is found true truth
Where in dream, why in dream
Why in dream is glass transparent
Why in dream, how in dream
How in dream is dream unending
When in dream where none is real

So did one Tan Angerer speak. Noone heard, noone saw. Oh, oh, ayem, ohm! These were sayings of ancient belief, of kingdoms come, of kingdoms gone. Only loss is gain, only loss!

Krim, you of old! Shed light, shine bright. I am alone, sisterless, brotherless, without family, father to none, child of darkness. I pray, Krim, and you do not answer. I pray, Krim, I pray!

This is the ancient tale: One wandered in woods, without torch, without soul. One snapped branches, shed tears, all future broke before him. “Fuj, what thick woods are these!” All future, all past, all was in view of the wanderer, all was in mist.

I never saw him again. Not in dream, not under star nor sun. May darkness guide him, as only darkness can. Why in dream, Krim, why only in dream?

The Meridian of von Struve, Madman

A shout: “Friedrich, cross not this threshold lightly!”

– Diary of René Hudderson, expedition member

meridian

From the fields of Romania fertile, through old Balticum, and in extremes to the distant northlands: Friedrich Georg Wilhelm von Struve set out to chart the earth.

His sextant, clock and compass were true, perhaps, but what of his soul, what of that internal navigator? Von Struve spent his autumn years in some southern sanitorium. Little is known of his demise. He spoke so rarely of those final days of the expedition. What did you do, von Struve, in those Dictum Borderlands?

A prayer for lost,
a hymn to the wanderer.
A song of encompassing
darkness, unresting.

He who would leave
a virgin forest of faith
to seek forbidden knowledge
will surely find it.

Bless him still,
that traveler
on true paths,
yet deceived.

Bless him.

– Prayer of Jurij the Priest

Prof. dr. ing. Yankal “Alex” of Moraria – a Portrait

In loving memory

professor

By Horatiu “The Living Liar” Griffen


You came into this world screaming, my Yankal.

That primal yell continued to echo throughout your days. Always seeking.

Even the clouded skies are silent now, on your passing. They do not mourn, no! In reverence they welcome you into their domain.


Romania is ever young, ever old. You saw great conflicts ebb and flow around you. The greatest struggle was always within, always internal.

You are gone now (moved on, that is, beyond our senses), but your grand contribution in the Krimean tradition will sing through any age that may come.

Yes, even if our valley should fall again into illogical darkness, your firm axioms will shine through: Beacons of greater knowledge, beacons of ancient tradition. Beacons of eternal Krim!


You left this world in silence, my Alexandru.

Go on, now. To Elysium, to Valhalla, to the Vale Migdale. All arms, for you, are open.

Majahi na-majahi. Majahi ha-mare, Majahi Livare!

Johann: on the arch-Angel Myklye

Who art thou, Johann? Without hesitation, you are in control of all life; all death. Even Angel Myklye!

Yoham and I, we danced with Death, oh! Oh! Death, what step, what groove, what hop of the Lindees! Are you of Mortales? Hop, hop! Yoham you Jew of infinity! Thine hair; silver! Shine!

Ohm, Yoham, you moon! Proud, proud moon! Of silver, of gold … you ghost! Leave us not …

Our body suffers, he sleeps, he is of strength diminish’d! Yoham … You, mine Lad, of orthodoxy not-too-strong, of freedoms and Judaism mystikal! Logik, Yoham? Art thou un-logikal? Like that! fair Moomin? Ayem ayem oh!

Ohm, Brandon, Proud Hindoom, Proud Yew!
Ayem, ayem ohm!

Art thou Dath? You age, ancièn, silver, Gray!

Brandon the Ladd (Die Ungere)

Art thou cursive? Yes, there is more in ancient Pikkiya, country olde … Brandon, Brandon, on knoll so green, so mystikal! Aye, I can speak no more, I have no voice, I am Sound!

Yan-Olaf of the Mountain, speak my words, speak ungrammatically, speak freely, free, Free! Angel Myklye!

Manné and Korzeniowski, brothers in struggle

Excerpt from "TEILE & HERSCHE - 
collected publications from the proceedings of the society for research in the field of literature on the Congo of the colonial era". Republished with permission.
lhopital
Hospital in Leopoldville, where Manné passed from this world.

Józef Teodor Konrad Korzeniowski (also known as Joseph Conrad) and Niels Frederique Manné are both writers of great merit, and both inevitably connected to the bloodshed of European-Imperialist colonisation, to the hypocrisy of man, and to the infinite darkness in all and every heart. Yet it was only Manné who may be said to truly have lived its horror.

In extant fragments of Manné’s diary, he paints a grim picture of the world that he visited. It was not so much The Congo itself that was dark, but it had a revealing effect on the intrinsic cruelty in all that walks the earth (“Congo is the light”, he writes, “that unveils the injustice of existence, that tears skin from the face of God.”).

Educated in the ecclesiastical studies, Manné was no stranger to the christian God, and held deep, personal beliefs. However, he rejected any claims of kindness and compassion in the Heavenly Ruler. Based on evidence from his experience, no other conclusion was available; he judged his God harshly (as God would, in time, judge Manné).

From where Korzeniowski found hope, Manné could find none. It was in this total despair, fleeing the ghosts of his past, that he formulated the Krimean-Hegelian Dialectic of God & Destruction. Curiously, he also referred to the doctrine as the “Mechanisms of God & God“, likely a reference to the metaphysical geist as both Supreme Deity and Supreme Nothing-To-Which-All-Passes (fulfilling thus, at the same time, the role both of God and of Destroyer).

manne-mask
“Congo […] tears skin from the face of God.”

For a long time, Manné’s work was not widely discussed in academic circles, but it has seen a resurgence of interest since the late 80’s. His legacy is bound to grow ever greater as scholars dive fully into his vast work and notes.

The most insightful of his writings are marked by the Curse of the Tsetse, and are at the same time fragmentary and deeply technical. Visions, truly, of some darker realm: Of the Congo, of the Heavens, or of Hell? Mannéan decipherment and exegesis is not an easy task, but the insight gained so far indicates great value (literary merit is widely accepted – only recently have the philosophical depths of his works been properly probed).

The lost brothers, Manné and Korzeniowski, struggled in darkness. Would you join them there, if only to share their insight, share in their doom?

congo-jungle