After a few late nights out and a very rain-soaked day dragonboating at the Alcan Festival today, I came home tonight in the dark looking for my bed and a good book. After staring at my shelves for a few minutes and making a goodie bag of books for my friend Annie, I came across a thin paperback wedged in between a few trashy smut novels that I reserve for my "stupid days" when my brain can't handle anything better. It was my much coveted copy of the selected poems of H.D. I remember sitting in an English class several years ago and being fascinated by an electric letter Hilda Doolittle (H.D.) had written to Ezra Pound, flamboyantly signed "H.D., Imagiste." Her words were the first in all of the Modernist works we were spoonfed that I was captivated by; I had to make do with photocopies as most of her work is out of print. Later that spring, on a road trip to San Francisco with my then-boyfriend and his friends, I made a pilgrimage to City Lights bookstore. I remember crowing when I found one last leftover copy of H.D.'s selected works a dark corner in the basement. I spent the entire trip back north sprawled in the back of the VW van we were (slowly) travelling in, reading lines out loud because I just couldn't help myself (you can imagine how well that went over).

So, funny. Tonight I am reminded alot of old friends, like H.D., and like that boyfriend, and other friends, who are no longer part of the life I live now. It's nice to be able to haul out that book for an evening, and remember where it (and I) have come from. Sometimes it helps to know where you've been; and sometimes it's better not to look back but to continue looking forward. The trick to life may be achieving some balance between the two. Goodnight.

"Moonrise"

Wiill you glimmer on the sea?
will you fling your spear-head
on the shore?
what note shall we pitch?
we have a song,
on the bank we share our arrows;
the loosed string tells our note:

O flight,
bring her swiftly to our song.
She is great,
we measure her by the pine trees.

-H.D.