Longanlee, Pentlands │ 04 November 2017

The relentless source of the sun sustains the flotation of our existence with a volume of visible dimensions that fail to make sense outside of themselves.

A physical world is completely at odds with our mental absorptions of its solid status.

We are used to dealing with the metaphysical imagery of suggestive fluxes and turns of consciousness.

An empty sky signifies a vault of terror for us, yet it transports us through eons of luminous beauty.

The external world is a disguise that mitigates the impossibility of our mental constructs to reconcile themselves to the dominion of bewildering magnificence.

We, in turn, look to facilitate our alienation with calm denials of aesthetic interpretations of existing phenomena, which have no aesthetic qualities without the values we attach to them, based on the false credentials we assign to their dormant personalities.

We have to look into the blankness of reality in order to consider the validity of our assumptions, our ideals, our speculations and the uniqueness of our blundering sensibilities.

Our failure to entertain the negative consequences of Nature as potential positive ratifications of its validity as a thing in itself, without the tainted regard of human absolutes, is our undoing.

This turns us into miserable creatures, while dolphins swim in pods of leaping delights.

We have to recognise that a stone is just a stone before we can recognise the significance of its beauty.

We have to imagine ourselves as something else in order to see God.

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Edinburgh │ 03 November 2017

We recall the volumes of calmness.

Eons of former autumns settling within us, with dispositions of stillness and themes of landscapes startled by frost.

It’s as if the world is a cryogenic fix of permanent instability.

It has played its gambit of perpetual change.

And deliberately lost.

Edinburgh │ 02 November 2017

There are no hiding places in the missions of night.

No enclaves of warmth.

We have entered a state of trance in a proper autumn of beguiling influence.

Winter draws us on with magnetic potential.

Frost adorns the hills.

An invitation to snow oncoming.

Edinburgh │ 30 October 2017

The potency of mildness is an exhibition of being out of place.

Temperatures are invisible as spectacles of Nature.

But their touch is fulsome and capable of structuring a mood of particular strength.

The wrong temperature sits within wrong season.

It is an acceptable violation of the prevailing order of scientific mentions.

We enliven the realm of darkness.

We entertain the thought of nothingness.

We are dreaming of the expulsion of new forgotten things.

Schiehallion │ 29 October 2017

Committed to freezing conditions of the bare hubris of glacial aftermaths.

This is where the post-apocalyptic consequences of life have already discovered their occassion.

Stones on the hills are the calculus of distance between what we are now and where we have come from.

The mountain is a connection between us and the prehistoric past we can never know or fully engage.

All we have are remnants, fossils, minerals, worn out artifacts that have long since lost their practical use – no stains of blood on the shattered arrowheads, no freshly cut symbols, no smells of newly dyed adornments, no ligature of skinned hides, freshly stinking from their departures of flesh.

But the mountain begs to differ.

It remains unerringly the same, its adjustments confined to hidden minutae.

It sees over the same vastness where the ices have left their stratagems of geological torment.

It has seen the transformation of the valleys, the demise of trees, the demands of agriculture, written on the surface of the lower lands like a scripture of necessity from a human angle.

The mountain strikes with indifference against the clamour of the ages – ushers the permanence of its hardness against the domain of changes.

The unsettled sky brings the mountain into contrasting opposition.

The summit is under siege from the tongues of the wind that searches for warmth to lick out of existence.

To sit among the frantic autumnal scurries of the higher altitudes is to suffer the arctic blight of hypothermic prospects.

Being here is a reminder that life cannot exist outside of the leniency of a surface level of random chances, beyond the culminations of a thriving biological fulcrum of destructive import.

It is confined to an atmospheric smear of cancelled expansion, delimited by a vastness of catastrophic end games, in a universe engaged the perpetual decay of its chaotic masses.

The expressions of life are joyous. They investigate sorrowful consequences they cannot mitigate.

The contrast represents a dynamic of ruin, of passions stirred by an impetus of tragic designs.

Schiehallion is the living symbol of this testimony to the eventual darkness.