by Tim Girvin | Jan 11, 2005 | Writings
There is a moment when I’m feeling that intensity of things being — somehow: right; and the indwelling of spirit, that enthusiasm — the en theos, in god, is there. But, to the realm of controlling destinies I don’t know if it is there, this...
by Tim Girvin | Dec 12, 2004 | Writings
The sun is running out to me, like a glinting, rolling skin across salt water; it’s clear now, thousands of blades, shimmering. The books on my shelves, whiten under this brilliance. All greys now, their spines, like bones on the beach. — On stones, I draw...
by Tim Girvin | Nov 7, 2004 | Writings
There’s a cat here this morning, who is always speaking to me of her need to be attended to; she’s got many stories to tell, every morning — this, that, the other. I listen and look at her, when she’s telling me these stories. It’s pretty...
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...
