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.

Edinburgh │ 23 April 2017

A callous trend of savagery.

Hatchets of light split the flesh of the clouds – stratocumulus and cumulus expansions with limbs disparted, ridiculed by the mocking wind.

The sky is smeared in the blood of evening.

The world is enthused by the love of slaughter.

The ritual ends.

Edinburgh │ 22 April 2017

The brazen trails of Winter in their daft advances over the greenery of the Lowland tracts –

Lands of the Gododdin – Winter’s inspiration drawn from the ancient mindsets of warrior forebears.

The enormity of Winter’s cumulus amalgamations – a manifestation of devastating impact that demolishes Spring.

Spring suffers its extinction without ever having evolved.

The fervour of evening closes the day with a realisation of its maximum potentials that threaten to consume everything.

Edinburgh │ 21 April 2017

Emanations of dullness and of agitated skies.

Haggard outlines of stratocumulus, the unacceptable face of decay. It mimics the potency of precipitation without giving any.

No rain falls in the bluster of the breezes that organise a cavalcade of indirect behaviour through misled streets.

No applications of permanence in the early bursts of Spring’s arrival.

The sun breaks through the entanglements of cloud cover – through swathes of vegetation, cutting with its rough, young blades.

The air has volume. It makes traffic sounds enormous in the resonance of its spatial tropes.

The wind subsides with a reluctance to continue its harsh manoeuvres – the restlessness of knowing that, somewhere in the world, there are innocent young men being executed for no good reason.

The men who kill them are drunk on the power of having guns.

Without which, they are nothing.

Edinburgh │ 20 April 2017

The visions of which we are humanly capable never reach the depths of the clouds.

Their immediate profundities cannot be challenged by our creative aspirations.

The desperation of our efforts is a remarkable contrast to the effortlessness of their aesthetic largesse.

We are caught in the revolving expectation of providing a sense of completion in the architecture of our designs.

This is our weakness, to insist upon conclusions or, in the search for answers, to fashion explanations where, in the clouds, there are none.

To exist for its own sake is chief among the purposes of Nature.

But unlike, say, Buddhism, the grim prospects of the colour schemes of the north, the innumerable shades of darkness in the human vessel – the provision of a more pessimistic strain – is to entertain a deeper sense of sorrow in the absence of meaning.

It is not in the search for peace but in the violence of Nature that we find our resolve, our residue, our true source of identification with Nature – in the resurgence of pain for its own sake, the pain of place and the purpose of place as a principal object of the poetic temper – none of this making sense, but critically enabling the disorder of the Weatherverse as a place in which to described ourselves.

This is what it means to be Gothic – to be enlivened by a desire for dire eventualities in the moment of the design – not seeking its completion, but celebrating its defining flaws as masterpieces in their own right.

This is essentially what we are, the full extent of the visionary aptitude in the fulness of its tragic dreaming, head on and imploding in the apprehensions of catastrophe – the endlessly beating heart of the demise, what it means to us, and the futility of our emotional destinies.

The brightness of the morning gives way to intrusions of gloom, and the gloom gives way to occasions of brightness. And so on throughout the day. . .

The crepuscular dimensions extend their influence over the butterfly effects of the moods.

The rebounding pleasures of loving the darkness; episodes of trauma in the erasure of each moment.

The immaculate skies are created out of turbulence.

Poems are fashioned out of pain.

Our passions are fuelled by the pre-eminence of their failure.

The clouds are beautiful in the greatness of their failure to reach the designs of the passions we aspire to.

Edinburgh │ 19 April 2017

Anger turns to resolve turns to determination.

Asserted targets will be met.

All it requires is the adjustment of the human dial to a pitch of outrage and the transference of energy through further stages of emotional and intellectual focus.

Ongoing reservations of flat-topped clouds, lenticular impressions levelled by heated atmosphere.

Blue sky beckons like the essence of culminating futures.

The clouds are like schools of whales that never reach the shores upon which to beach.

In motions unexpressed, they will dissolve.

No traces are left except in the form of memories, the recollection of being seen without being remembered.

Presences that always fade.