Date: Thu, 26 Sep 1996 13:45:46 -0700 From: Suzanne Hancock Subject: SUB: Introduction & Autobiography Hello fellow Writers: Well, we can't all be a Bukowski, but I thought I'd start off with a brief introduction,--let's just call it... Autobiography Mostly my life tends to be around midnight something. A daylit world would be too much with me; whether too late or soon. Not that I don't see the light. It's right there above me, and it's pretty hard to miss. But through these dark lenses the clouds, smoglike, are not at all rose-colored. Even without the shades, at any other time of the day, I still spot the gray-green brake in the middle of each daisy field. And it's usually around midnight something, when on comes my autumn,-- another last chance, before that same clutch of trees has dropped all its leaves, and back in my room, there's one canvas left to fill with my own shade of blue. I lived that way for many years, from tomb to tomb, mostly by these malformed words, or with wild sweeps of my arms, quoting, like cousin Edgar: "Nevermore!" Looking back, as with most other things, I was probably wrong. Usually I asked for a drink at this point. But, this time, for some reason, Arthur says: "point me to something." Then, out of the blue, being tricky that way, he turns and points me to Baudelaire and it sure didn't take long before I was up there spending all my days just strolling through town with him-- under the noon. The funeral was on a Monday morning. Arthur, being somewhat distractible, didn't hear the truck careening down route 38. Naturally, it was daylit, glaring. But being totally wrapped up in his life at the time, I was there, bright and early, decked in white gowans, on one of the few mornings I remember, somehow my shoes trudged me there to where they were already gathering who had no connection to Arthur or me (but, I don't think anyone in that town did). And just about the time the snowcaps were taking on the purple of still another autumn moon, the group broke up, most of them (except for the last man with a shovel), in search of some other plot. But I stayed. And stayed. Until well after midnight something, looking into the deep, thinking about Baudelaire's flowers wasting their scents on cemetery air, alone in the still solitude, I sat on the ground, watching while Rimbaud was buried. Cyzann, 1996 ......................................... Yikes! Yet another newcomer to the list. Yes, I've been quietly lurking for the last week, really enjoying reading all the interesting contributions. Thought it was only fair to let you know I'm here, since I've been using your material to practice my skills at criticism. I have learned that one very powerful way to improve my own skill as a writer is through criticism of others' work, and in some ways nothing is as helpful as the cumulative effect of regular criticism--I mean, beyond the usual "I like it" or "that's nice, dear." Yes, writing, especially poetry, is a solitary, sometimes lonely pursuit. I like what Florence Trefethen has to say (and I can relate) about how hard it is to find the company of those who share this interest and who are willing to provide useful feedback: "The painter can hang his canvas on his wall; the potter can pass the salad to guests in his own bowl; but the maker of a finished poem has no graceful way to give it exposure. Bringing out a page of poetry before a gathering of miscellaneous friends is likely to produce uneasy looks, some foot shuffling during the reading, and kind but rather hollow comments when the performance is over." Seems no amount of reassuring them will convince them that habit has made the hurt quite bearable. Well, we've all been there. What I started out to say is that I'm very glad to see that the critiques are expected to come in proportion to the contributions here in Writers, and I am very committed to providing a comment or two (FWIW) when I can. Just to let you know, I found you through a link on the "Inkspot" WWW site. I've been looking for a new home for some time now, hoping that Writers will be able to find me a comfortable peg to hang my hat on, and prove to be valuable in kick-starting some more creativity here on this end. peace all, Cy. ......................... Cyzann Simonov Portland, Oregon rohhan@teleport.com