Edinburgh │ 30 April 2017

Brightness can be underwhelming.

The sun is at the head of the table of the sources of life; it brags about light, while the guests are diminished beneath its selfish oratory.

The prolongations of stratocumulus adjust the dimensions of the day.

The day becomes internalised – a small vacuum within which we allow ourselves to slip quite happily.


Edinburgh │ 29 April 2017

Within these dull enclosures of stratocumulus, we find the comforts of our anonymity, a sense of absence in the shadows of the day.

A heavier compactness of cloud cover can often have the effect of calming the senses, of making us feel warm in the embrace of something greater, even while the embrace is cold as an active temperature against our skin.

Illuminations in the dimness bring a perception of restricted distance. The world seems like a smaller place, intimately confined to our own position within its geography.

It is exclusively our home. No one else’s.

We are glad to be alone.

Edinburgh │ 28 April 2017

When we are ruled by buffoons who threaten nuclear war, what do we say of ourselves for letting it happen?

What have we become?

How do we find ourselves capable of existing as a worthwhile species?

In the roll call of our misery, those who perpetuate its terms and conditions are oblivious to its tokens and tributes of despair.

This is what happens when a species becomes detached from its habitat.

It looks inwards. It begins to conceive of itself as the world and the world, in itself, as a human construct.

Reality becomes internalised, becomes an abyss of attentions misdirected inwards towards malformations of unrestrained vanity.

The scope of survival is reduced to a pinpoint of overly satisfied needs.

The arts of devotions, the simple advantages of knowing such devotions, are never known – and never known enough to be forgotten.

The abstraction of priorities that are essentially hollow command our thoughts.

People, inside, become hollowed out shells of the greater possibility of being themselves.

Look at this sky. These broad absolutes of cumulus dragging their startling darkness over the backdrops of the eternal passage; stratocumulus assembling in eons of colour, in fractions of awe.

For those of us who remember, we dance upon the surface of these beautiful absolutes in the absence of gods.

Without such gods, world leaders pretend.

Degrees of wonderment are unregistered as war beckons.

Let them be crushed by the fist of our abhorrence for them.

One day.


Edinburgh │ 27 April 2017

The clashing navigation of ships, the clashing bows of galleons that rip across the hemisphere.

Light spills through cracks in the hulls of their tumultuous vapours.

We are unable to contain ourselves; light spills through us, in spite of our efforts to remain dark, aiming to prevail as disasters in motion.

These clouds are equal partners in the pact of living; equally at odds with their characteristic tempers.

Just as we are within the measure of our terrible dawn.

What can I do?

What can we do?

Tell me.

Or tell me nothing.

Edinburgh │ 26 April 2017

We lay hidden in these corners of the world, basking in the glory of our isolation.

The sky pronounces legacies of the courses of its ruin.

As one epoch collapses, another evolves, with new directions emerging from the historical scripture.

But these are as easily torn from the scenes of more emergent pictures, reformed on the basis of further ruin while we lay hidden in these corners of the world.

Unknown to anyone, not even to ourselves.

Edinburgh │ 25 April 2017

The pathetic fallacy – cerebral destinations finding outward motions – the hubris of the realisations of cumulonimbus super-clouds propelled by Winter’s vertical updrafts.

Splaying like explosions of ideas from the heads of gods.

The idea of a god is a magnification of a human reality, a disproportionate projection of emotional needs, essentially false in the face of external scenes of cloud activity.

Light is the ingredient of efficacy that defines the mix, and the mix becomes a mood, or a reflection of one, not in itself a degree of consciousness but . . .

The power of conception in itself is triggered by the absorption of what is seen and felt in the evidence of its surroundings.

This produces an emotional response which is projected outward upon the composition of the surroundings that are absorbed in the first place.

It is an emotional water cycle – not a false proposition – not a fallacy, after all – but an affirmation of agency in the framework of Nature – not its separation from the object of its appraisal but its attachment to the core conditions of the sublime.

Setting ourselves apart from Nature is an act of disowning ourselves for what we are.

We transform ourselves into Nature’s opposition.

We become a pathetic fallacy of a diferent kind than Ruskin intended.

And this is our loss – a loss of ourselves in the core of miracles – the arrival of our species to a point of eating its own tail.

Edinburgh │ 24 April 2017

The battle continues, through extreme blasts of the battle horn.

Naked sounds cause ruptures in the firmament.

The commonplace clouds of this epoch come in everlasting swathes of their ascendency – cumulus and stratocumulus, unrelenting as graves.

These clouds of choice – the aesthetics of doom  – directing light through sudden passages, bringing closures to the imitations of life forms that flounder in the celestial deeps.