In 2014, I took on a project I called "I-Made-A-Thing-365" -- "making" a "thing" for every day of the year.
What did I gain from the experience?
- A handful of poems and artworks (of the many I produced) that are worth hanging onto.
- Some insight into my own obsessions and habits, e.g.:
- I brood over questions of epistemology and ontology more than I realized.
- I do better at visual art when I start with no idea of where I'm going.
- I too often go for cheap irony.
- I overuse lists.
- Knowledge about technique -- mostly writing technique, but some technical, some visual art.
- Confirmation of my theory that the best way to make decent art is to make a lot of art. ("Decent" here being measured on the scale of what I'm capable of producing, not on an absolute scale.)
- A lot of fun.
For 2015, I plan something different. Still in the makery area, but with both more structure and more variety. Every month I will take on a different project. I have some ideas -- more than 12 of them -- but I'll choose a month's project only when the month begins. (Except for April, which is always devoted to writing a poem a day.)
To start with...
Back in November, I failed miserably at NaNoWriMo. November's always a hard month for me to set aside huge chunks of time, and it was especially so in 2014.
So my January, 2015 project is MyNoWriMo. A novel of at least 50,000 words.
And since it's not an official NaNoWriMo project, I'm giving myself the advantage of starting with what I wrote in November.
A poem in celebration of Whan That Aprille Day (http://houseoffame.blogspot.com/2014/03/maken-melodye-on-whan-that-aprille-day.html). Elizabethan English is the oldest tongue I can attempt with confidence.
WHAT TIME APRIL
What time April, with its pollen thick,
Doth make hale people wan and sick,
And batheth ev'ry nose in such ichor
As the wind flingeth from ev'ry flower,
When teeth do throb, and wretched eyeballs bake,
Ears clog, throats itch, and ev'ry part doth ache,
When small birds sing, while people snort and hack,
Oh, then folk long to beck fell winter back,
Whose blast they well could meet with windows tight,
And take a nip to numb the season's bite.
-- Carl Bettis
...what I call a 5-7-5 syllabic poem that's more epigram than haiku.
A black ice morning:
I drive my daughter to school
at six miles per hour.
WHAT I DO
Planted well back from the water,
I sling weighted hooks
into the lake mud,
hoping to drag
into the air
a fighting bottom feeder.
I never learned to swim.
-- Carl Bettis
Is his life better, the anti-me who
says all that I smother? He's lost
more jobs, more friends, more lovers:
he's had more to lose. I have
what he will not: I stay.
One career, one home, one tribe.
He ends up always hated
for his nakedness; those
who surround me love,
deeply, my camouflage.
(Image by Carl Bettis)
The Overthinker's Love Song Lost Love Lament
([Once only] [That ([night] [other life]) when])
([the land] [we]) sank
([out of ([sight] [the sun])] [under the stars])
and ([our clothes] [your dress]) ([([fell] [dropped] [sank]) to] [landed on]) [¿ the floor ?], and
-- I miss the taste of you.
Somewhere, someone who long ago
knew me is now
not looking for me.
A stream of consciousness poem. Possibly one my therapist would find informative.
the doorman of the forest fire
has come down in the world he once
composed sounds for power
tools and industrial machines
as his grandfather had for
steam engines and extinct birds
his brother is a hospital gnome
with a habit of hiding
in habits of addicts or nuns
he's cute and only
by moonlight looks sinister
he could easily find garden
work but will forgive
no plot that is not Eden
they've never seen their mother
who sells to tourists
mud from the graves
of killers and ivy
from their headstones
in a little shop
made of flannel
deep in the forest
filling with smoke
(Image: Glore Psychiatric Museum, St. Joseph, MO; photo by Carl Bettis)
Who Are Your Influences?
I was adopted by Edgar Allan Poe.
This is not a childhood you'd want,
but the cognac kept me warm, if dizzy.
When I ran away, Emily Dickinson
took me in and wore me out.
In damp weather, my pen still aches.
Image: from The Bird Book by Chester A. Reed (public domain); slightly altered.
By day I see
only what light can show.
strange worlds to me
and dangerous, stalks
the day and brings him down.
She opens my ears and skin;
I dissolve into shadows
with ash tree and lilac:
crickets and frogs
My thoughts run out
in black rills
across the grass.
Night takes from me
the burden of me,
and I don't know
but that I'll awaken as you.
-- Carl Bettis