Val di Fassa │ 29 July 2017

Stratocumulus in 3D, absorbing and dissolving the mountain tops in acidic shrifts, with imitations of absence in the (lack of) design.

Obfuscations in the upper heights of forestry.

The Dolomite rock foregrounds the darker aspects of its dual nature.

Sunshine accentuates the peculiarities of its lighter parts.

A mottled surface.

A disordered personality of ideas in the discovery of a legion of shades.


Iconic stratocumulus, meandering over the razoring, blundering, sublimely inclining peaks.

Token hazes enforce the law of their obligations towards the obscurity of elevated fringes over the bristling pine.

The scale of the place is continental.

There are no pressures of ocean nudging the bulwarks of altitude.

There are no serrations of sea lochs cutting into the landfall of cliffs.

No darkness shifts the landscape through eons of its latent pain towards nothing.

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Val di Fassa │ 28 July 2017

Altocumulus begin the day with mother of pearl, in static episodes of vision-like intensity.

It is an architecture for the new world that will never exist.

Stratus comes in loose parchments, where all the events of the world are written on its knotted embroidery of vapours – like thoughts construed and languishing without the vent of common expression.

These patterns of altocumulus are perfect specimens, proving that perfection can exist in random acts of unique structuring.

It is not a one-off convergence of some absolute standard of excellence or exception.

Perfection is made possible by the uniqueness of a given example at an extraordinary given moment in time.


A risk of thunderstorms.

The clouds assemble amounting to nothing.

The pleasures of the day remain ecstatically unresolved.

Val di Fassa │ 27 July 2017

Repeated words in suspension of their dramatics.

They lose their verbal impact by degrees of familiarity.

They require the tenacity of effort, such as clouds must raise their scenes of worth, ambling over the heights of uncertainty, and never being the same thing.

Bologna, Val di Fassa │ 26 July 2017

Variations aplenty, obscuring the summits of these friable escarpments – spritely defined against the lower slopes of the untamed forests and Alpine meadows.

The lowlands preserve a partial lushness.

There are no wetlands in the valleys of occasional lakes.

Drainage contains the wayward rivers.


The Dolomite rock is stained with the freshness of youth – a young geology that converts the neurotics of space into pinnacles, needles, peaks and spires – so sure of itself.

We are free of the smothering interrogations of the heat.

The altitude assures us of moderate sweltering.

It is a young world that thrives upon this plateau of serenity – a taut and placid equilibrium that, when it wants to, becomes a pathological disturbance of maniacal thunder storms.

Snares of electric light are cast with psychotic abandon.

They vanish over the scarring peaks of the eastern ridges like an afterthought of a ritual slaughter.


The Cortina range: erratic blockades of resistance against the continental drift.

In defiance of gods, raised against titans.

Projections of fractures against the jealousy of ordinary belief systems.

They cannot match the excitement of raw Nature.

Raw Nature is erotically charged with penetrating stiffness – like some fertile upstart intent on spreading its vital seed, owning the birth of its new wonders.

We are controlled by the actions of its transference of passions that undermine the restraints of reason, fervent and enlightened.

Our intellect is infused with the madness of our naked desires made brazenly real in the shadow of Sassolungo and Catennaccio’s feast of resurrections.

The clouds oversee the tumult of landscape, with minds unravelling in thoughtful bursts.


Persistent flurries overrun by stratified coping.

Splayed edges of the west, with the promise of corruptions.

Flatlanders of the north remind us that the rain persists in distant regions.

It approaches without arriving.

Like a promise unfulfilled.

Bologna │ 25 July 2017

Clouds of ultimatums and supreme torments.

Tortured gods without the dilemma of kingdoms, free to reign over their vacant worlds, growing in the surplus of the infatuations of upward drifts.

Within the calamity of ages, distilled to measures of failing wrath, they are scuppered by the unlimited spaces in which they dwell, moving upwards over the dream of solidity.

The toil of explosions that never cease, culminating in landscapes of ruin and the sweetness of their enactments of catastrophe.

Ineluctable as ghosts.

Their certainty exists in substantive notions without body matter.

Marina Romea, Bologna │ 24 July 2017

Blessings of rain and absolvent cloud cover.

The temperature undergoes a deflation of its surplus.

The routines of the weather systems are miracles performed in the annals of exegesis and the analogues of forgotten tomes.


Stratus, stratocumulus, rarely seen in this Italian summer of prolonged threats – the morbid calefaction of the inactive thermals.

They bring the shadow of recovered escapades, like memories stirred.

Remembrances of the truth of wetness before its evapouration.

Montorotondo, Bologna, Marina Romea │ 23 July 2017

The insane furnace of the heat.

Miraculous breezes.

Gentle waves of reaction against the impulse of the dreaded warmth.

Rogue males of cumulus over the Appenines, tumbling like trophies of corpses over the broken summer.

The air is a balm that soothes the wounds.

It lays cold hands on the heart and relieves us of the tempers of our riotous inclination.