I still need to get the workflow of doing the whole thing online, but I have a title (above), a website (somedarkplace), and a start on my story for National Novel Writing Month.

I can still remember the first time god spoke to me, “That was stupid,” he said, “But you’ll live.” I don’t know how long I lay there after his first words, blood saturating the tawny clay dirt around my head, slaking the thirst of greedy dead earth, slowly expanding like used motor oil staining hot concrete. I don’t know how long I lay there after his first words, my ears ringing and leaking warm clear fluid, as I studied a singular cloud formation in an otherwise empty sky. “Cirrus or altostratus?” I asked god, but got no answer. Either way I decided it looked like a duck and lonely.

That there’d been an explosion I could remember quite well, as I’d been the one with the bright idea of setting off a pipe bomb. The confusion came when I tried to remember things like: how many bombs had I set off? had I been alone when I was doing it? what went wrong, how did I end up on my ass, and how long ago was that?

It was summer then, the sun was setting, and mom would be pissed.

It’s not a terrible beginning. Anyone want to offer me a book contract?

I’ve been wanting to try this for a while, so just signed up. My username is cjorgensen (unsurprisingly).

I also fired up a website somedarkplace.com where I intend to try to do the whole process online, but don’t hold me to that.

I haven’t figure out the best way yet, but the cms I use allows versioning of posts, so I think I will probably make each writing session be it’s own post, with all of the posts being assembled on a main page.

This way, if I go back to an early post, and make changes, it will automatically update on the main “body,” and I can track the changes in individual posts.

That’s the theory anyway. I’ll probably fail. November is already shaping up to be a busy month, so we’ll see.

If you’re interested, here’s the site: nanowrimo.org

She is poetry.
Her smile, her stride, her sideways glance,
a sestina in motion.
But how many lines written about her?
A question best unanswered.
To imagine this personal muse once another’s unthinkable.
Or worse, many others’, promiscuous instrument of inspiration,
whole volumes given over to her name.
How many men have penned her golden hair,
her small unpainted mouth, her eyes bright wide and quick?
How many attempts to capture her in sonnet or fast couplet
only to languish in cliché? A sad smirk, an upturned chin,
a blush to humble all men and some few women,
humor and sense, open arms and slender hips, saying,
“Welcome.”
And the poets of yore, were they better poets?
Does she still yearn for their concise quatrains,
their firm grasp of image and simile?
Or perhaps she still unwraps symbolism and elegant
phrasings well into the night.
As a poem about a far star cannot compare to its light,
how can mere words on a page hold even a part of her?
Too many questions to answer in clumsy rhyme
or pathetic penultimate line.
But impossible these the first, uncreative words laid at her fair
altar. She deserves better.

´06

I was looking for love when…

She reared back her ugly head
and said,
“Do you not desire a kiss
from my sour milk mouth?
Or perhaps you would like something
a little further south.”
When I figured of what she spoke,
I realized to her it was no joke.
Neither was I laughing,
and I almost threw up
when I thought of being her king.
Vile bile rose to my throat
as venom dripped from her teeth.
She held out scab crusted hand.
“Come, drink my rancid wine,
eat my spoiled meat.”
I took her hand,
put my lips to hers,
and in an obscene way made sure
that she would always be mine.
I looked into her horrid face,
placed my head upon her sagging breast.
Oh, such a strange place to find rest
from my quest of love.
I was looking for love when…

I met my luscious succubus.

christopher…. ‘88

For pretty much as long as I can remember I’ve wanted to journal on a regular basis. I read a lot. And in these books I’ve read they often extoll the virtues of being a diarist. It’s supposed to make you more creative, spur on ideas, make you wiser, give you a record of your life, and make your bones stronger, your teeth harder and give you a shinier coat (no, wait, that’s Alpo!).

I don’t get this.

When I first started my first site, I thought somehow I’d end up doing a tech site, or a media site, or some other thing that would catapult me to fame and fortune (I mostly kid), but then I realized there are a lot more geeky and nerdier people out there already doing these things. So I figured, fire up a site, and screw what people expect or thing, I’d just write about the minutia of my life. Yeah, I know, I should have looked, there were already people doing this living much more minute lives than mine.

So I thought about readers. Who would I want reading this? And honestly, I can up with no one, so I figured I’d write for myself and see who came along for the ride. This held me for quite some time, until I started worry about who was reading this. I mean, my nieces and nephew have internet connections, so do my coworkers, my girlfriend, my parents, the Vice President of the United States, and most of my prospective new employers, so I started censoring myself and had an online journal that bored even me.  I am positive “blogging” cost me at least one second date and probably at least one second interview.

So I stopped. Besides, all my fiends that were blogging stopped doing it too, and if all your friends jumped off a bridge would you? Yeah, because peer pressure is a bitch. Maybe “stopped” is too final. I took a long break. I rethought, revamped, redesigned.

So I am back, have been for a while, and I’ve been having fun. My original goal was a post a day. I’ve been failing at that. I’m fine with failure. I have other things I am working on that are making me just as happy. I still like having this site. It’s not going anywhere (unless one of the “Christopher Jorgensen” architects or lawyers out there decides he needs this domain more than me. And if you are interested, the nut starts at 100K).

I’m still uncertain why one should feel the need to journal for all to see. Guess it beats having them published after you are dead, but only because then you’re dead.