Glen Tanar, Glen Gairn│ 28 December 2017

The ancient Caledonian pine forest is the settled will of a phase of existence that has survived the assaults of human interference.

The cosmetic obsessions of human life are a traumatic interference with the principles that inhere in the perpetuation of chaos as a guiding factor.

Chaos is equal to creation, to the spontaneity of doing what it takes to create something new.

It is the equivalent of cultivating a new direction within the recommendations of what is best in the context of what is possible.

Nature doesn’t deal in the impossible yearnings of the human imagination but limits itself to radical a priori stances.

Humans will go against the grain of the logical outcomes of chaos.

They fail to grasp the paradox of an existence that merely befuddles them.

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Glen Muick, Glen Gairn│ 29 December 2017

Nimbostratus: compacting with incompletion – uncertain of its pedigree.

I stare into a perfect void as if looking into my own mind.

It is a void of finite resources that captures a geography and presents itself as repetitions of words that I am conscious of using with relentless application:

Aftermaths, extremities, manifestations and glooms, torments, enterprises and conterminous species that reappear in my texts like recurring dreams that never reveal their true identity of purpose, that cirumambulate true meanings without ever finding them.

Loch Muick spreads out before me like the tomb of my own wishes – a callous body of water as grey as an alien abduction.

Loch Muick is a reflection of the confrontation within ourselves.

It is abrudbtly cold and capable of consuming you in its freezing depths.

Such bodies of water are full of beasts, such as we are.

I realise that, staring into the absolutions of Loch Muick, I am staring into myself.

Loch Muick reveals nothing of itself: it is an impenetrable surface of skittery undulations.

There is no visible depth – only a mirrored absorption of external shades.

From our position of insufficient perspective, we look up at the combinations of nimbostratus and nimbocumulus that cannot depend upon their mix.

We cannot penetrate the limits of obfuscation to see the solid projection of shattered summits within them – monumental elevations of totemic structure.

We spend so much of our time without seeing anything in a world of obscure fractions.

Some of our most profound and exciting thoughts are guesses thrown into the obscurity of never arriving at verifiable definitions.


A tale of nefarious occupations, of characteristic themes of descent.

The clouds are vampires – nimbus essences that collapse with a palour of lusts over the necks of their victims.

They suck the colour out of the granite bodies – make them seem crooked and ancient and vitally hard.

Broad Cairn and Lochnagar are the collosi of assumptions that are uncertain of being there.

The cloud cover utters denials of their crude stature, questions their existence as physical matter, and determines them as ideas akin to weird longings.

Winter showers of soft hail manufacture a noise of chittering over the stark heather.

Through watery separations, there are sad passages of languid expressions being muttered over the waters of Loch Muick.

Ballater│ 27 December 2017

Inland.

Spacious enclaves shuttered by the defiance of explicit patterns that favour darkness.

The hills are encrusted by whiteness.

They challenge the obstinacy of the winter gloom with an unsuccessful radiance of elaborate refractions.

The windows of opportunity are limited to solemn walks on the lower hills, the humbling escapades of wandering through death scenes of Nature.

The evening weather is for drinking in pubs.

We bask in the artificial warmth of beer and fireplaces.

We exist in the ideal comfort zone.

The Cairngorms are a culmination of all the places in the world we wish to be.

Kinneff │ 26 December 2017

The reckless cliffs of Catterline Bay. . .

They reassess their static eruptions with a tendentious rejection of the evolving gateways of time.

Their cave mouths are openings into a prehistoric retention of volcanic movements.

Land is formed through geological convulsions of renegade shifts and episodes of pain.

Its geophysical boundaries are shaped by the shattered nerve-endings of catastrophic outcomes.

Its features are pushed through terrible motions to points of ultimate stillness, projections in defiance of numerical clock-scapes.

And there they stand, braced against the cavalcades of the mauling oceans.

Heroically defined by their passive acceptance of the savage contours of permanent torment.

The Crawton Waterfall breaches the sudden edge of the narrow cove by the braes of Fowlsheugh (The Ravine of the Birds).

It is revealed by the parting darkness – by the sun that causes the sky to collapse with elations of light.

Proof that the sun is your god without you knowing it – that it replenishes and destroys the fitness of life with omnipotent firmness and a finite radioactive grip of the core resources.

Proof, also, that gods must die, like shadows of passions dwindling under the assaults of the bitter truths that engulf them.

Other stars, other planets, will evolve in unknown places – cosmic harbingers of new prospects of creation  – emissaries of cause and effect.

New life forms will undertake the genetic conflux of their continuous arrival..

New gods will be worshipped. New laws obeyed.

New rebels will challenge the ideologues of the useless arbiters who impose their stunted will against the counsel of aesthetes.

All of them will die in their abundance like diminishing candles in the cover of darkness.

New waterfalls will form over the edges of cliffs on other planets.

While all the while, confined to our diminutive plane, we will know and feel nothing.