by Tim Girvin | Jan 26, 2011 | Diary
THE SIGN TO THE CENTER OF THE WORLD I know this way, walking in a certain path, down a certain street — following a line that’s been scribed for 50 years — that at just the right time, I will find a sign that reaches to the center of the world. It is...
by Tim Girvin | Jan 25, 2011 | Diary
I found a book, turning the pages there was a guide, and that was the collection of all the angles in the universe. As I turn the pages, the book opens out, and even in the dimensionality of the turning, the book becomes a sphere — and the circle of the angles...
by Tim Girvin | Jan 24, 2011 | Diary
In Portland, last night, I could see the glimmer of the moon, fullish — hidden in the mists of the late sky; there were no stars to be seen — except straight up, in the darkest part of the arc of misted blackness. I was thinking about the moon, her...
by Tim Girvin | Jan 21, 2011 | Diary
As I walk the abandoned farm land of pressed grains, weeds and rushes, since there is a chill – I can hear the needles of cedar, pine, crackling like ice. And there, in the field, is a piece of rusted iron, found in the sea, but now resting in the scumbled soil,...
by Tim Girvin | Jan 19, 2011 | Diary
To the wood, the physical practice of chopping wood is the distinction from the hard, and blood scenting brace of cold iron — the blade of the ax — to the splitting wet of the wood that is new, and just fallen. And older timbers, that have lain, warmed and...
