The Golden Spires of El-Fahir

When the world was young, the Sister Kings of El-Fahir decreed the construction of seven golden spires: seven sister, seven spires. The Jealous Man heard their command, and in his pale pride decided to build for himself an eight spire at the very center of the city El-Fahir. As he stroked his long mustaches, brushed his thight beard, sent his slaves to the Gold mines, he sang in a whisper:

This spire, my desire
Will shine so tall and true

This spire, built higher
Will shame the sisters seven

This spire, my fire
Will grant my crown at last

Now it is but distant memory, and there is not one, nor seven, nor eight towers, but none. El-Fahir, fair kingdom, oasis among endless sands, has also joined with its unrelenting environs, those cruel, slow waves of hot dust. Was it you, Jealous Man, who doomed fair ‘Fahir? Or was it, as the Gambler and the Angels murmur and whisper and sing through tales, the spring-born Sister Kings who quarreled and warred from towers seven? Only the Snake knows the truth, but all his words are slithering lies.

Ah, who am I to say, who I am to judge? Those towers, that far and frightening City and its cruel, cruel prisons. It is Jealousy, only Jealousy …

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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.

The Cursed Isle Gurskaya

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.

Monk of the Holy Ortodox temple of Myklye
Holy Monk of the Holy Ortodox Temple of 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.

yoham-the-elder
Yoham, ancien!

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!
Hollow, hollow!
Hallow, hallow!

For our souls are forever blessed
Blessed!
by that Arch-Angel
Mykyle

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 …

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)

 

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!

Biserica Ortodoxă Română (the barbarian oppressors)

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This is the first in a series of guest articles from my friend and former colleague, historian and polyglot Vasile Sandor. The topic is proposed connections between the Krim metamyth, Romanian Orthodoxy and the political or moral plasticity of a corrupted Europa. Vasile was recently featured in the media and will be releasing a book on Hegel-sexual trends in neo-Marxist southern Moldovan literature later this year.

What is Romanian Orthodoxy? Who was Krim Jacob? And, not least; how can the Krim Jacobinian societies of Old Europe still influence political discource and pan-Abrahamic religious dogma? These are questions central to contemporary histo-theological research at Petru Maior and related institutions. I strongly oppose any attempt to answer these questions: it may well herald the final death of the Schwartzwald soul (our last chance at bridging the conscious/subcounscious divide).

In this first part of five, I will focus solely on the concept of Romanian Orthodoxy in a Qïrim-Byzantine context (in addition to the preceding introduction). This will provide a solid and necessary foundation for further discussions on the more transcendental topics presented above.

Jacob Krim was the first truly orthogonal-orthodox man on the northern hemisphere. In the words of the third patriarch of the Romanian Orthodox Church, Justinian Gimo Marina, put it:

I am familiar with Krim Rosü, he is dear to me like a father or suspicious uncle. His life and teachings is an inspiration and moral compass for all true believers and men of letters.

In modern monomyth-terminology, we might well call Jacob Krim the ultimate and universal Oedipal/Muhammedan hero-prophet. Learned of the eastern schools have also linked him to the primal Orphic sacraments and general, historical Gnosticism. In this sense he is a still man of flesh, but absolutely also part of the supersensoral realm of pure pleasure: the “seventh heaven” of Christian-Orthodox and televisional tradition.