by Tim Girvin | Oct 23, 2004 | Writings
The stars are brilliant,against ebonized steel,in their pricked spatteringacross the heavens, likea great wheel, sprung outin unknown spokes, castin some patterning whichis beyond my comprehension;but still — it’s not. Trees quaver, blackenedrivulets, like...
by Tim Girvin | Oct 18, 2004 | Writings
Rain patterns… I’m sitting, looking at fabric, in my lap. It’s there because I’m wearing it — a layering of black and white banded interlacings, with a mixture of gray at the junctures. It’s plaid. My daughter, Gabrielle, says that...
by Tim Girvin | Oct 2, 2004 | Writings
The ground appears to have been bathed, in milk — liquid light coming down, in buckets from her, moon. Lovely, she does that. Really only once a month, if she reveals herself. I went for a walk this morning, without any clothes. And this pissed off a heron, who...
by Tim Girvin | Sep 5, 2004 | Writings
Early, this morning,I lit 6 candles at the Wanderercairn, overlooking therippling wateredge.And, as they flickered, inthe lightest waft ofseaborne breeze,I remembered, in many ways,the wandering that I have done. And where did this exploringzeal come from,a...
by Tim Girvin | Aug 21, 2004 | Writings
That time that I savor, far before dawn, no sense of light — just this: a long, winding sheet of silk is being drawn, slowly, winding cloth, over the dead grasses and stones, trailed round the branches — it’s whispering a call to fulsome sense. And...
