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Scene, seen.


Feather shuffling, for one;


standing, surveilled —


hawk-eyed seer.

love : T | decatur island
2.10.07 / 11.22am

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2.9.1955

m a d e l e i n e & g a b r i e l l e

What each of us knows
is that there’s always a
passing to every little thing —
to every large thing, from
the smallest insecta, to the
grandest universe, and it’s
hard to face that; know – that
it’s each, for all. All, end one.

There was a poem, long back
that I spoke to — repeated — to
your Mom. I never forgot it. And
I’m sure she never did, either, to
the simple character of the
missive. I might have drawn it
out for her, as well — as a gift.
And I still do that, a lot.

It was in those easier years
when all seemed light
and untrammeled; it
was, really, the year
of your ages. When you
are tumbling out of the
teens, and skating on the
20s, and moving worldwise.

The poem, the haiku was
Insects,
why cry?
We all go.
That way.
And it was written centuries
ago, by Basho, the Japanese
Zen master poet.

And for your Mother,
this calling came, sooner
known than we’d all
hoped — but not all dreams
are fulfilled — at least in the
manner that we might
venture, in the light of
imaginations.

And to that then, we
must struggle with that
ineffable proof of living.
That in living, ultimately,
we all go. This way. That
way. Any way. This one
path is certain. Life begins.
And life ends.

And, finally, that we must
look for the beauty in what
has been found, lightfinding
the good hearted way, that
surely your mother found,
and tried for, struggled
with, and struck the flint
of life with, to ignite some

thing anew. What is that,
found here? Gratefulness to
all that has been, loved and
known, and happiness there.
And too, finding solace in all
that can be, embraced in
the new sense of living.
Something lost to us all,

a new sight found, in passage.

—-
love dad
2.9.2007

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Hand-some…

What is the spirit of the hand, the art shown, the puppet catalyzed anew?

When Italian artist Guido Daniele was hired by an advertising agency to create body painting of animals, he loved the idea.

“I researched each animal in depth to see how I could transfer it to a hand, and then set about bringing it to life.” The hardest part of his job is watching his creations disappear down the drain after they’re photographed. “I’m getting used to it,” Daniele shrugs. “At least I get to start each day with a fresh canvas.” Guido Daniele lives and works in Milan.

THE ART OF THE HAND, OR THE HAND IN THE ART?

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days poem

Speech, like
smoke, wafts
just borne — right,
whenthat
calling — culled,
is true.

behind that

smoke, found

surveil, what

lies — perhaps lying

beneath;

truth be told:

twice tales

and new coins

found, there

waterdown

like sea anemones

forgotten in

salttime, turned

to fossil, metalmade

and discovered.

Lying down,

lain, lining

lied once.

Told the truth,

all —

the others.

Found.

Renewed.

The right eye,

Scene, noted.

Morning

culled.

Coins, like ideas

hammered.

t. | queen anne

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m i s t i n g n e e d l e | 5:30am

Wherefrom, it came?

Morning clarion, called — needlerise.

wishing well, in all emergences:

t. | seattle

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Luna

Gabrielle, good morning, sweet second borne daughter — hoping that you are feeling better this day.

This image came to me. And reminded me of what we’ve been talking about. It made me think of you in this way.
—-

Little Luna | Gabrielle

My little spirit
still young, yet
in the movements
of her young body

housing the old soul
that searches there —
and is — the ancient mystery
of that : the potent

feminine, surges
in the tide of time
and seeing all that
passes her gaze

beauty there, in the
coming of the washing
shore, that gravity,
the moon, her

goddess, that brings
her through the month
of love, life and the
washed shores of

experience, being here
called to the song
of the feminine, passing
in the arced curve

of that moon, circling
the earth, one calling
another, sunshadowed
yet balanced

and growing in the
challenges of the saddest
of times, and in the joy
of being full, in the

loving life, of being here
healing here, growing
here, advancing here
newlife found — for ever.

love dad

1.24.07 5.05am
New York City

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Beautiful trash: green

Hi and good morning.

I might’ve sent you the notes on Stuart Haygarth’s sculptural work with trash.

http://www.stuarthaygarth.com/default.asp?V_SITE_ID=14

Beautiful trash:The Tide Chandelier.

It is about green design, green art. People who get some of myemailings have asked where I found that. If you didn’t get that, and would like to be on a list foremailings of meditations on design, and other things that relate to it, then let me know, I’ll make sure of it. And you can let me know to the contrary, too.

Aside from his site, (above) you can find other green relevances here.Being the thoughtful designer | thinker that you are, you’d appreciate this:

http://inhabitat.com/

There’s a feed for the blog, should you choose it.

Wishing well, tsg | girvinyc

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Things that we found in fire

T H I N G S T H A T
W E F O U N D
I N T H E F I R E

Meditations on fire.

In the consideration
of passing, things move
on. Moments flicker.
Friends pass. Miracles whorl.

And new things come out —
in another understanding.
In the passage of events,
learnings turn, discoveries

translate, and in this,
visions emerge.
Fire and the firing
is like that — the

metaphor of things
transformed, objects
translate to new
revealing. And in the

person, the discovering
of fire, what is seen —
is changed. Wandering
as I have, over the world

I’ve seen the agent of
fire, in prayer, in offerings.
That taking something to fire,
changes it to another force

the spiritual smoke of
migration — from one
dream, to another.
Scent, incense, curls.

That object, newly made
in the alchemy of flames
becomes something newly
seen and empowered. You

watch it go up to the
starbound skies and it
mixes that essence with
the wind, the song in the

trees, and is made anew
while the rest of the
earth seems stable.
In that magic balance of

the one to the other,
fire creates a new
migration, of the made
to a new dream.

Sitting by fire, offering
something to it, taken
to the flames, it goes
and anew, to seeing.

And you learn something
in that passage, the heat
molds your watchful
sight, sense is tuned.

And you too become
one with the flame,
the dream, the prayer
called away, then to it.

—-
Tim Girvin
Decatur Island | 5.55am | 1.20.07

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memoria

it is about that, remembering.

you look back, to what has been, to see more of what is, and finally, what shall be.

——

Some might’ve spent the day focused on the recollections of MLK.

Others: recalling other things. I thought about my brother, Matt. And so, in looking back at Matt, what he and I did together, it was good to do that. Look back, but not stare. Remember, in the constructive focus of the moment — what was shared, learned, advanced.

I made a cairn on the island with my parents — which I’d offer is about the most delicately balanced 8 foot plus arrangement I’ve ever, we’ve ever, done.

Pictures here.

Making it.

And lighting it.

The cairn ablaze.

The crescent moon.

Fire settling down, after.


The cairn in the water.

View from above, out there…

Heading out to Salt Lake this morning. Will try to see Robert Smithson’s Spiral Jetty, on the way in…speaking of stones, arranged.

And, if you are wondering, who’s Matt —

http://tim.girvin.com/illuminations/matthew.html

warmest, happy Tuesday.

all ways looking, all ways remembering —

t. | seattle

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today’s poem

Like that.

“L’ecriture est la peinture de la voix.

This, those

that frame

vision in

those other

things, than

the norm of

the common

piece, easiest

scene, found.

But still, isn’t

it so that we

can find, that

the most

wonder full

in the very

pavement,

that we fall to,

seeing cracks

that take us

to the very

center of the

old soul.

That just once,

we forgot

about.

T | G | Nyc

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