Edinburgh, Glenshee, Braemar │ 31 March 2017

Springtime announced in motions of dread – cloudbursts of resplendent magnitude, cumulus congestus threatening to build towers over the threshold of Eternity.

The air is abundant with seasonal warmth, an underbelly of ephemeral weight that forgets the relevance of humidity as a constant factor.

The rain is eager with its generous saturations, rigorously dismissive of the liquid moulds of the sun.

The unintended consequences of atmospheric ruptures, bridges between seasons that collapse upon themselves – collapse upon nothing – collapse upon the confusing vastness.

The light of the world has been extinguished by a careless god.

If you are the god, you cannot see beyond your own darkness.

This is how we live.

Commitments to memories.

Always revealing something like it never was.

The weathers have conspired to produce a sense of cataclysm.

The Book of Revelations has been unfolded across the sky in ragged parchments.

Today is the Apocalypse.

Today we are doomed.

It was a temporary Apocalypse.

Nobody looks upon the revelations of the sky without going mad.

Everyday, people go to work.

The definition of madness.

Everyday, people go to work.

The definition of madness.

Everyday, people go to work.

The sky cannot be described as transitory because it exists outside of a measurable duration.

Every moment is a successive moment.

The weather defines this more than anything.

Now do you understand what I mean?

Tombstones over the infinite.

To stare at the sun is to be blinded by eons.

The aesthetics of place – the genius loci – the fullest extremes of insight – landscape over a thousand acts of geological time.

The collective drift of ancestors who arrive at a singular point of blazing.

Trees absorb the golden glow of ages lost in the cosmic prattle of stars positioned in chaotic equidistance, aligned by gravitational order.

If humans were contained by a similar proximity of proportionate remoteness from one another like this, they would burn as brightly as the stars. They would need to convey their love for one other in uncontrolled explosions of desire without limits of exhaustion.

The gloom is intense in the Dee Valley, with disruptions of vegetable colours brought to life by the animated properties of the crepuscular dimension.

The domain of light invades the brain with conditions of overkill.

Mysterious adumbrations of vastness are forced to fill estranged pockets of Highland gloom – the seclusion of corries and deep ravines, tormented shadows of wooded glades and the dismal crags that overhang them.

This is a pilgrimage of vengeance against myself.

This is a religious crusade.

I lost the power to be spiritually motivated and became humanly desolate, unable to be enlivened by the multitudinous greatness of everything.

My imagination functions like a thirst without drawing from the wells of human life.

I seek its reparation in moments of weakness.

Otherwise, nothing.


Edinburgh │ 30 March 2017

The effort of sunshine amid obfuscations of dreary mist; almost enlivened by the sheen of morning, soured by the blotting aspects of precipitous masses. By midday, the mid-morning drift of stratocumulus thickens towards an overall stratus closure.

It’s like an enthusiasm for something dampened by shame – not as a consequence of any wrong-doing, but as a consequence of barking elders attempting to staunch the justified outlets of primal agency.

Politicians, propagandists, the mainstream hacks, board members convinced of their own grandeur, media blowhards – the melange of all shades of apathetic denial of the common credo (the naked involvement of human purpose with the land, sea and sky).

The trend continues: light arises in defiance of the neutrality of their smothering influence.

In the evening, the stratus layer loses its edges of greying light. Low lying cumulus begin their trawling emphasis, looking for fish in the shallow depths of the near horizon.

This is how the day will end, with traces of dusk emerging under the barely visible upper deeps.

No trembling insights of the weathermakers will penetrate this veil.

Edinburgh │ 29 March 2017

On the Day of Fools, we begin this foolish enterprise – a study of the weather, of locality, and of the interaction of both – doctored, however, by the impositions of the thought processes of the observer at the time of observing.

This cannot be achieved without the pathetic fallacy of which I, as a human vessel, am the transporter upon this mission.

The projections of my passions upon these forms of separation are an existential appropriation of the qualities that define them, to be redeployed as definitions of my own, selfish undertakings and the artifice of my emotional craving.

Nature versus the power to conceive of Nature; there is no physical amalgamation of their properties.

Instead, I issue a mimicry – a rhetorical sleight of hand – that uses the palette of words to paint impressions and brushes of willing submission to conjure forms from the principal subject matter.

In this way, the pathetic fallacy is applied in reverse: I do not project my feelings upon the weather but absorb its visual impacts – the shrapnel of detail – to shape my own responses to its momentous aftermaths.

The arrangement is one of a reciprocal interaction between Nature and the power to conceive of Nature, which becomes, in turn, an alloyed (not physical but) sensory amalgamation of colossal powers.

It is striking that this overlayer of stratus is like a manifestation of cold fury.

It is positioned like a vacuum in reverse, where the contents of the universe are sucked outwards rather than inwards – where the human spirit is disembowelled of its significance – and we are reminded of its vacuity.

The sky begins to droop in its entirety, descending in abysmal rags – a nimbostratus downpour as dire and relentless as a religious devotion.

The heavy rain applies the 50 lashes of punishment to the British Isles, while Scotland recollects its thoughts, arises from the amnesia of its torpor, considers the vileness of its extinction.

At times like these, misanthropy allows for the solace of aloofness.

There is no well deep enough to hold the quantities of my disgust.

There are no alleviations in the darkness.

Night draws in.