Kinneff │ 25 December 2017

In awe of the transitions of solar pulses.

The impact of seasons on the prospects of survival.

The pageantry of former eons.

Imagining the recovery of lost ages.

The convergence of time in one moment of recreating everything.

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Aberdeen │ 24 December 2017

There are no concessions to the glories of Christ in a Scottish winter.

Savage rains tear apart the idealism of the perfect scenes.

The nativity is trashed by excruciating wetness.

The ache of darkness is populated by depressive states of opportunistic grief.

There are no stars of Bethlehem to guide you through the formless evocations of nothing happening on Aberdeen streets.

The world exists in the suspended animation of its unexplained fury.

Fyvie │ 23 December 2017

The earth’s atmosphere has a constricted space in which to operate.

It is an entity of forceful intentions confined to a virtual stony enclosure of empty vacuums.

The grey matter of its cloud base is an expression of ascendancy through the opposing motions of unequal tendency that enliven its factual compactions of to a virtual limit of false impressions of its infinite distance.

There is nothing more finite than the Earth’s atmosphere.

There is nothing so restricted as its dimensions squeezed through ever-funded energy reserves .

Within the containment of its forces, a blend is reached – an obstreperous exaggeration of tonal resentments, a catacomb of transitions that rip through Time.

The result is to cause a cavalcade of focuses of attention, an anomaly of multiple centres of activity that cannot be presented as an absolute centre.

The weather systems are a constant assertion of the cancellation of the centres of everything.

There never was a centre that cannot hold.

The cancellation of multiplicity as a means of acquiring the uniqueness of a core acts as a metaphor for the wastefulness of too much thinking.

When heading north, the obliteration of the centre is like the surface of a balloon where the centre is impossible to achieve in relation to a random assertion of fantastically false belief systems.

It is a journey into the headwinds – into the brunt of the storms that swing towards us  in the mid-flow of careening assaults.

Episodes of brightness appear as daggers of eventuality in the breasts of tortured heroes.

In the tragedian ebb and flow of the half-lights and the darkness, they will not form a cohesive pitch of anything beyond the supernal glow of mysteries contained without release.

We see ghosts in the bottle glass windows of the castles.

We see spectres of propositions in the depths of copses where the shadows lie.

Edinburgh │ 22 December 2017

We suffer the solace of our apprehensions of death at the end of the year.

A numbness of overcomes us with the gravity of festive rites.

We drink in order to contain the presentiments of our dread forebodings, with a sense of convergence of the greater things we cannot imagine.

The full weight of our existence collapses upon us like a crushing fullness of falling buildings.

We stand at a juncture. There are options presented we cannot choose.

Instead, we must obey the law of trajectory in the direction of time.

Only then can we unburden ourselves of the realisation that we are nothing.

Edinburgh │ 21 December 2017

The invisibility of the underlying fractures of the bone structures of winter.

We suffer the glut of their fearful tidings.


There was an instance in which it all mattered.

When there were no distractions of ultimate trivia.

But then they piled in like falling creatures.

Incapable of mounting the necessary challenge to existence.

Incapable of putting themselves through pain.

Incapable of wondering.

Incapable of understanding what it is like to be disadvantaged, in spite of their own incredible disadvantages of intellect and feeling.

Wealth gives them the privilege of not having to think too deeply about anything of great value beyond the shambolic selfish proximity of their immediate concerns.

They imagine themselves in direct connection with the royal family, as if to share some unique, communal bond of eternal good breeding.

How hilariously dispicable they are.

How the weather despises them.

Fucks up their barbicues.

Wrecks their events.

They scuttle indoors at the slightest provocation of hostile conditions.

Edinburgh │ 20 December 2017

A day in which we forget ourselves.

Throwing ourselves into space like pieces of shrapnel.

No one notices how the clouds have perfected their exhibitions of disasters in the drama of their aura of greatness.

They glide with ragged stillness through the demolished apertures of their admissions of failure to be the things they cannot be.

Like tentacular disruptions of some erratic radio transmission of death, they disappear in the thrifts of time.

None of us go with them.

Edinburgh │ 19 December 2017

The irrelevance of the absence of passions.

The absence of which is spoken of with reference to the human influence of backward thinking.

Dire creatures, indeed, bereft of an instinctive interaction with the bear necessities of an existence that presents itself as audio-visual blasts of certainty.

When clouds matter, they present their expectations as unavoidable.

They expect you to see.

When weather determines life or death, it expects you to be aware of its indifference  towards you.

Humans have fooled themselves into thinking they don’t exist in a system of geophysical and astrophysical cause and effect.

They fail to recognise themselves as a miniscule debris of inconsequential bearings on the inanimate structures of the greatness of deadness that exists beyond them.