Bologna, Milan │27 February 2018

It dredges the spirit.

Takes the precious sediments of feeling and removes them from the shell of wondering.

This is the beginning of lost enchantments.

The ellipsis of being in dismal places.

You fend off the monotony with the enigmatic sparkle of beer.

But the enigma never lasts through conditions of superficial inducement.

We begin to surf the wave of the dread that sweeps across the European landmass.


Bologna │26 February 2018

The sky is a contemplation of miseries.

Italy comes to a standstill.

It cannot reconcile the conspiracies of ice with the ultra-modern transport systems.

Nature is able to destroy the contexts for engineering.

The delimitations of natural forces are forever temporary exertions of the human ego.

Nature remains the supreme arbiter.

Bologna │25 February 2018

Snow from red-grey palisades of ruined grandeur.

To each their tortured ends – bold harbingers of the dejected heart.

All people must suffer the rules of dejection.

Our purpose, then, is to defy the rules of the oppressors.

And to find ways of transforming our dejections into ecstatic denials of emotional regress.

Bologna │24 February 2018

There are no words for this day.

Only a ray of sunshine that dazzles the mourners.

It’s Nature’s contribution to sorrow.

The acknowledgement of our loss.

A reminder that Nature is our confidant.

And the erstwhile friend of our friend departed.

Milan, Bologna │23 February 2018

The colourful city arrests the spirit with charms of warmth and the delusion of summer.

It cannot shift the mighty inverted vacuum of time immemorial against the recessions of winter.

Winter is tactless and brazen, like some automated ghost on a loop of haunting.

It follows us across the continent like a shadow of improbable notions.

It raises havoc in the form of a moaning visage whose terrors are mute.

The Bolognese seem to enjoy the novelty of victimhood.

They know what lies ahead.

The reverse order of oppression.

The spectre of heat as heavy as a time-dependent burden of shame.

San Luca is the host of religious visions.

The presence of God is a human silhouette at the top of a thousand steps of steep ascension.

The rehearsals of Biblical Armageddon are without witness.

Played out here like creations of my lunatic optimism.

Edinburgh, London, Paris │ 22 February 2018

The sky is a search for meaningful convergences that fail to meet our expectations.

It is a raft of momentous consequences that exceeds our need for explanations.

It is not made of concrete realities.

It is a corpus of ideal scenarios that undergo their selection process through the chaotic sub-streams of their influence in the interaction of the sky’s component parts.

Weather systems are not like trains that follow scheduled routes, appearing at points of predetermined arrival in the pursuit of occupying routine functions.

Weather conditions are random consequences of their power to act within routine measures.

They manufacture a diversity of possible outcomes from the grindstone of cause and effect.

The weather systems are proof of the efficacy of the theoretical disposition of mood-building effects.

A multitude of causes converge in the great mass of possible outcomes – lost potentials finding themselves in the crux of the moment and vying with others.

But not all of them will materialise as a defining factor of the prevailing weatherscape.

A totalitarian nightmare of crushing shades may evolve to consume the reactions of the spirit, or a wintery cascade of virile enchantments – the flush reds of the splayed eruptions of cumulus massifs.

Then, the reciprocal glow of Nature inside us formulates a projection of similar tendency that settles into a state of mind that, in itself, becomes a qualititive condition of existence – one that makes us feel.

These are moments of ecstatic prominence that, even after they have departed from us, never leave us from the core of our stored memories.

Edinburgh │21 February 2018

A veil of warmth under false pretences.

The air is as vapid as a spent force.

The remembrance of alternatives falls into the mouth of bland obligations.

The hours pass like a Chinese water torture.

The enormity of comformance to the system is an utter failure of the imagination to devise new routes.

The journey on the path of stagnation is oblivious to the challenges of extreme survival.

An extinction event on the horizon moves towards us with the slumbering purpose of its definite arrival.