I will never forget Sea Garden, it freed me. After reading H.D. love feels like an emptied word. Once you read about sea violets and sea roses and sea gardens you realise that what you believed about love was too artificial. You really crave the thought after this that maybe flowers, far to reach flowers are just better, better than love, than the word love. Maybe it's all about flowers that attack your senses and sea gardens that appear over the horizon. H.D. has broken down my defences and I feel my imagery has been ambushed by the lack of hers in my own mind. It would be unfair if it wasn't because this is a new creative life force of feelings, a storm of indomitable nature that drives you to give in to the flooding.
Virginia Woolf takes the best out of you and shows it to you (so you cherish it and admire it), H.D. just takes it and runs, exits, leaves you wondering and orphan. VW makes me feel really connected to her exquisite sensitivity, able to see those untouched feelings I secretly harboured, now revealed in my own self. I get the space that I need; I can leap forward or stay thinking, sensing, quietly reflecting. Her power is not menacing (it's almos maternal), and you can alternate and time-release her reach.
H.D. is like an assault on your senses, you can't quite say what you feel all the time; sometimes eventually you do fuelled by her luscious roses and sandy sea landscape which becomes entirely familiar to you too after her shameless and blundering poetic repetition. You start feeling when you suddenly gash your heel running over sea shells and bleed on the sand (she'll warn you several times about this), and learn to write and feel poetry too; but maybe it could happen that at the next text you'd feel lost, displaced, thrown to the curve where you don't belong, trying to catch up with the stream of her flow.
If you want to inhabit her, you ought to retreat cursing, admiring her nonetheless; go away, and later come back and blind, errant try to fetch her tracks.
Virginia Woolf takes the best out of you and shows it to you (so you cherish it and admire it), H.D. just takes it and runs, exits, leaves you wondering and orphan. VW makes me feel really connected to her exquisite sensitivity, able to see those untouched feelings I secretly harboured, now revealed in my own self. I get the space that I need; I can leap forward or stay thinking, sensing, quietly reflecting. Her power is not menacing (it's almos maternal), and you can alternate and time-release her reach.
H.D. is like an assault on your senses, you can't quite say what you feel all the time; sometimes eventually you do fuelled by her luscious roses and sandy sea landscape which becomes entirely familiar to you too after her shameless and blundering poetic repetition. You start feeling when you suddenly gash your heel running over sea shells and bleed on the sand (she'll warn you several times about this), and learn to write and feel poetry too; but maybe it could happen that at the next text you'd feel lost, displaced, thrown to the curve where you don't belong, trying to catch up with the stream of her flow.
If you want to inhabit her, you ought to retreat cursing, admiring her nonetheless; go away, and later come back and blind, errant try to fetch her tracks.
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