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...
by Tim Girvin | Aug 2, 2004 | Writings
In my hand, I’ve cut flowers, and they are already passing, in their blossoming — some, have stayed, others flutter, incarnadine, to the green weavings, of the grass. A hummingbird comes, studying the tremor, of just my hand, in holding these. And begins...
by Tim Girvin | Apr 4, 2004 | Writings
Against glass — that fluttering noise, like the beating of feathers at the broiling embers, in a tea ceremony: Just that sound, that I heard once, seconds only — in time, sitting there in Kyoto. But it is a hummingbird that’s come into my house,...
by Tim Girvin | Jan 1, 2003 | Writings
There have been twelve full moons, this year. And each has had its expression, for us all. Each has meant something, shining to each of us, for a moment. From the brilliant clarity of the winternight orb –all is quietude over snowfield; to the mystic revealings...
by Tim Girvin | Sep 12, 2002 | Writings
the notion of memory is something that has struck me hard over the last couple of days. I went to a performance the other night called mnemonic. By Theatre Complicite, it was a marvelous “weaving” of the tapestry of the electricity that we understand as...
