It is the year 2008. The month May. Day 10. I am a female born on Long Island New York, United States of America. My parents decided to give me the name Anna. This name is now the two-syllable utterance to which I adhere to. In a health class recently my instructor made it a point in one of our daily lessons to inform us that what we think of our name is an indicator to a deeper feeling towards ourselves, how to measure our self- esteem. I decided it may hold some truth, but in no way could be substiantial. I like my name, I like its because it is symmetrical. I have a certain admiration for symmetrical things, more often complex and intricate yet symmetrical things. Symmetry makes sense, it is easy to look at, it slides through the cornea without impediment, all at once, one fluid breath. One side agree's with its opposite, this sounds contradictory, however it is merely a paradox. When applying my name to my personality, its symmetrical diction is beleagured by my constant contradictory, indecisive, and vigorously contemplative inner voice.
I haven't kept a consistent journal since I have began my highschool career. I am presently nearing the end of my junior year, and the only expression of my emotion through writing is strewn about my excessively cluttered room, on pages of mostly empty books, jotted on single strips of papers, blantly marked on my walls. The three year gap of my mysterious history was in the shortest of expressions, in motion. Almost completely progressive, although times of digression, these years have been a time of trechourous lessons, times of complete freedom of obligation, times of wandering and nomadic existence. On the other hand, when school was in session,
it is now day 11, it has been this very day for approximately half an hour, I haven’t put the right time on this laptop yet, however I do believe that technology can be smarter then the person using it.
Technology frightens me. Play that last sentence in your mind, over the pa system, that voice in there that emanates an actor, the inner entertainer, your souls own court jester, tell this nameless entity to act as an advanced technological virgin, whose knowledge is only as vast as the pulley, the arch and the wheel, now imagine the monster, the time slaughtering plastic and metal that births light to your screen, that is thread through the fabric of nuclear bombs, the god that sent diligent labor to fend for itself, the ominous disease that hasn’t quiet captured us all. Natives to third world countries in desolate conditions may not be aware of the parallel universe that floods through the sky, the wireless connections, the translucent matter that holds data, concepts most people aren’t truly able to comprehend yet use everyday. I still can only imagine. The leisure time has escalated to a historical high, education has become a standardized value. People have more knowledge globally then ever before, the clock has seemed to undergone some incredible altercations. The time it takes to do once profound actions may only take the movement of a hand, the dance of fingers, spontaneous yet rhythmic forming of words, the stagnate lifestyle of the business worker with monitors in every direction. SO I ask that great pretender sitting somewhere inside myself to put bleach on the whole knowledge of such technology, to get down on his knees an attempt to scrub these life long memories off the pink mush that simply can’t let go. How I’d love to know…how I’d love to put and end to the commercials, the adhd that is inevitabley thriving in our genes, I want to endure patience without a wince, except the silence as satisfactory. Alleviate the distractions that blockade the dedication of my being to a purpose, to some sort of personal reason to fulfill my duty of living. That is not to say that this is the sole distraction ; growing up on long island, their might night be a place free of distractions. Atleast not in decent proximity. So the question comes down to where should I reside when I graduate? The city? Why? Because I pursue the goal of learning patience a different way, jumping into the monster head first and using all my strength to look it in the eyes, teach myself how to get by along beside the beast, im am going there to test myself, learn to ignore the distractions, to see the inner workings of evil corporations, to walk along the victimized plebians oblivious to the ripples spread around potentially the world by their individual yet ultimately collective actions. Im talking about the big money holders that can effect and fluctuate masses of people through economy, and the little men that beg for the dollars they lend. And if I get out alive I will disappear into the silence of the west and retreat to the biggest test of them all. I will learn to live on the desert floor, all alone, the frequency of any neighboring thoughts miles away. I WILL love the seductive breeze and unforgiving sun, my voice will subjugate the landscape and will be my only company, I will learn who I am stark and unaccomadated. I will be unbound by any effects of unknown beings. I will be a foreigner in my true desire. I will suffer and I will thrive.
May 15
its a thursday and the weather is beautiful, long island is in seasonal transition. the atmosphere is slowly drifting in the listless sun burst afternoons where the air is weightless. Today I woke up around six thirty AM rolled out of bed, pulled pants on, hobbled about and caught the bus. I listen to my mp3 player on the way to school, it serves as my pacifier as my mind battles the foggy torpor that insists on hanging about my 'soul'. My eyes are pointed at the the storybook neigborhood that has become just a back drop in my mind by years of daily routine. I look out about at the passing houses, the figity squirells, the urban residue washed up in puddles along the curb. But my mind is somewhere else. It seems as if I'm always questioning, the thoughts aided by poignant music, making assertions and seeking some kind of concrete convictions that I can never hold onto. I realized the vacant expression I must fashion in these early moments when I observed Sandy(luis's ex girlfriend who sits diagnoly in back of me) face when staring out of the bus with the accompaniment of her ipod. I saw the intangible curtain infront of her eyes, with stitching just enough for the light to come through. The thoughts that must have been conversing during slumber and are reluctant to quiet down to let the body awaken to the surroundings.
The feeling of morning is one of complete sobriety. Many of the cultivated feelings harvested during the duration of yesterday have withered away and some are forgotten as the next day starts new. When I arrive to school I walk with for the most part complete strangers that drag there feet into the front doors. I see people walk, in straight lines, out of the big yellow mama trucks that scoop up the chirping youth. The the big yellow transportation devices used to bring the local children to the biggest institution I am actively a part of. I walk through the doors and see familiar faces, usualy of teachers, make a left at the first hallway and walk down to my first period class room to put my books down before I go back outside to have a ciggerate. Out side I am most often one of the first arriving participants that take advantage of the convient, most neglected corner of my highschool. Since I was a freshman I have started my morning here. In the beginning of highschool I had smoked pot here everyday and had several friends who have graduated by now. Some I hardly remember, faces connected to voices that were ahead in the game, that have fled from the nest that I still take comfort in. Now I usually stare out into the the parking lot, ignoring the tangle of atleast fifteen kids that gradually come out of the gate and spark a cancer stick. None that I am very friendly with I usually am off in the street as they hurdle in there separate groups on the side walk. I usually keep an eye out for Mr. Jantzen, an english teacher who I am entirely attracted to. He drives a black malibu and pulls up in the spot approximately in the middle of the long string of yellow painted lines. I am addicted to tobacco. I have this effusive longing for the smoke in my lungs, the moments that are stable and reliable, however always with the dark cloud of regret and self awareness of the crime I am commiting to myself. The self destructive nature that humiliates me. My silent loss to the ciggeret industry. One of my bad habits that invokes the strongest inner contempt. But it continues, through out the years. Lately I have felt a change in the feeling of my chest and feel as though my heart is beating excessively fast, the oxygen robbed from my blood. Stupid, stupid little girl.
In a lighter note, an old friend is in town to visit. Luis' mothers ex-boyfriend, a fellow survivor of that corrigible dysfunctional family, has come from Arizona (his home state) to New York. That state that consumed years of confusion, displacement, and growth in his past. I'd love to go on but I have to take a shower and get ready for work. Listen to some tunes and soak inf the steam.
May 26th
Hello Journal. It is memorial day. A day that signifies smoke rolling out of the BBQ's in the infinite stretch of backyards in suburban America. Heinz ketchup, hot dogs, burger buns. I have no extended family that my nuclear family is close to. No aunts, no uncles, no cousins, no grandparents. The closest substitute to extended family was my fathers friend from child hood who felt me up in a trailer while we were camping on the eastern part of our island home. It is clear as day to me now, but my mind repressed the memories for years. The consequences I am still living out. I guess I will record my recollection of this memory of one mans actions that silently and immensely impacted my life. Ironed, melted, Imprinted shadows that trailed in my personality and effected my actions, my initial outlook. Well. The Feitzingers and the Yakkos were camping at an unknown(to me) location out east. Uncle Richie was through my eyes my best friend. At school I was an outcast. Even at a catholic school where strict uniform rules were enforced, the kids found other ways to segregate each other. Without the easy bias of external attire, ones personality was all that could be judged. I'm not sure what my motive were. I was a declared 'elezbian'. One hazy lunch-time on the church parking lot that was our official and naked 'play area', I can remember running after girls and proposing to them with 25cent machine rings. I think I was around 7 or 8. The nickel and plastic would symbolize my attraction to the same sex. Hop scotch was the height of our excitement. That blacktop reflected heat and absorbed the children in a torpor. The fresh energetic spirits had enough stamina to pick out the differences between the rest of the girls and me. I seldom had company when eating lunch. My best friend was a short Phillapeno boy named Eric. We would converse about immature perverted bullshit. Standing in the blinding light of the high noon sun and observe the others. Pointing out perverted attributes to anything and everything our minds could create. Everything was always sex related. Their was something about us that was obsessed with the idea of sex. At night I would hump my wall and speak to it using his name. The last day of fifth grade, sitting on the bus on our way home, I grabbed his crouch right before getting off and leaving the institutional catholic education forever. As the years passed and I left for public school and he remained in OLPH and then to a catholic highschool I would find out he was a ebullient member of some kind of extreme cheer leading team. He would send me gay porn through the internet and it was no secret of his homosexuality. The boys would insist I go on the boys bathroom line. I wore the OLPH issued sweater in the fervor of summer because my insecurities didn't mind the heat. I grew angry at the world for not accepting me, day after day the 'abuse' dug deeper into a part of me that inturn grew numb. A part of me that iced over and internally blossomed self hatred. I contemplated suicide at an early age. One day Eric and I were looking up sex in a set of encyclopedia's and were struck with a fit of hysteria when we saw the name Anna Sexton. But as I read further I was extremely intrigued. I myself wrote what I called morbid poetry that consisted of short blunt clauses that rambled about ridiculous ways of killing myself. This female poet wanted to kill herself and she did. Kurt Cobain was another childhood hero. In the summer between fifth grade and sixth grade I would ___ go into my brothers room, read his biography in intervals and return it to his book shelf. This aided in my sickly obsession with Nirvana and the lifestyle that was depicted in Larger Then Life. I would fall asleep to incoherent screams of a dead man through my headphones on full volume. At 9 years old I was curious about drugs and sniffed aerosol cans mainly because of the availability. I sat on the computer the summer before sixth grade and chatted with older boys that I lied to about my age. At one point I convinced myself that kurt cobain was god and that he came down from the beyond and was with me all the time. My imaginary friends were onces dalmatians with painted toe nails, but that quickly matured into the 'ghost' of a twenty seven year old heroin addict. That summer I even talked to for the first time the boy I would have all my first sexual acts with not even a year later. His name was Andy, my brother's friend from school. He was four years older then me, a sophomore in highschool when I was in sixth grade. My brother handed me the phone while I was cooking perogee's and we talked for the first time. I fell inlove with anyone who was remotely benign to me. I started to IM him from that day on and over the course of a year we would have an internet relationship that grew into something more. The first week of middle school, public school- a world entirely foreign and new to me, I burned my house down. By accident of course, but the dusty guilt still lingers. It started in my closet. My sacred place. A huge closet that was my sanctuary with doors that could conceal my true expressions. There was a postcard with topless girl holding dice above her nipples that I had convinced my dad to buy me when we were in vegas. There was a poster of a naked girl covered only by a guitar, ripped out of one of my fathers music magazines. I would try to draw naked girls and rub my vaginal juices on it; inspired by Cobain's seaman glaze. I rubbed piss on my guitar as a dedication to 'territorial pissings' I painted everything black and silver and lit candles to please my inner pyro. I'd never know that those little flames would engulf everything I owned, incinerate what my parents worked for there whole lives to accomplish and force us to live in a trailer for nine months. But that is exactly what happened and thus I turned into an emotional reck for years afterward. For days I would lay down at night and have episodes of post dramatic stress; id relive the tragic moments of watching flames whip and roar out of the windows of our home. Family dynamics were dysfunctional and convoluted. I pushed my family out into a surrealistic waste land where the light was hard to find. I'd wonder through the rubble, pick through the remnants. I used my finger to smear lyrics on what was left of the charred walls. What have I done? I needed to punish myself for hurting my family. I needed to hurt myself to balance out my bad deeds. That is why I started to cut myself regularly and although I havent cut myself for atleast three years the scars are clearly visable on my left wrist. In the middle of seventh grade I would put myself into a psych ward for about a month. Enter back into civilization and then a month later digest two bottles of tylenol and anti depressants. Wake up convulsing in the ER apologizing to the nurse who was having trouble sticking me with needles. Immediately I was sent to another psych ward. These memories are a story in themselves. Today I find all this behavior very childish and unnecessary but what is the past will remain the past, valuable in its ability to inform and guide the future.
By the end of the school year I was trecking across lindenhurst to see him. The first time I went over his house we sat on his glossy wooden floor and I pushed my tongue in his mouth. Im pretty sure the very same day I insisted on sucking his penis and he licked my pussy. The next time I would see him I gave him head again and we attempted to have sex. I was eleven. I can remember laying on his bed and seeing his figure obscure the light casting a shadow over me, I was thinking, this is it, it is finally happening. He tried to push it in, both of us being spotless virgins were not sure how to go about it. Thats when my phone rang and my dad was on the other end. I walked back home and felt as though my mother could smell his dick on my lips.
Early in fifth grade I wrote a suicide note to my friends.
I will continue the tail of my past later, as for now I will interject some current ruminates. Well my latest boyfriend Alex, which our relationship is a saga in itself, is wandering the streets of Lindenhurst homeless by choice. His mother lives in rockypoint, his father could be dead for all we know. He was diagnosed schizophrenic and was put on lithium and a variety of other drugs but refused to take them after i'd say a month. I was tranquilized for three years so I know that they truly change a person. I wonder if hes alive and how he is doing. We have extremely mixed emotions about eachother.
May 27 I had sex with a 27 yr old peruvian guy named jurby while sara fucked a 39yr old father of five named luis that is a regular library goer.
june8 last night sara and I were sitting behind quiznos in this shady area where Ive found quiet and isolation for years now, especially at one in the morning no one really comes around there. Three people came out of the bar and this one 28 year old woman insisted that I come in and dance but I wasn't about to get kicked out of a bar. Her brother stayed with us and we talked about all of our dirty little secrets. He was in prison for five years for bank robberies or something and was explaining how the transition from prison to freedom again is tough. The sink in his cell shut off automatically- he flooded his new bathroom five times. Solitary confinment for five months? I could only imagine. But he was a truly nice person, offering to buy us a motel room just for ourselves so we wouldnt have to stay out in the street. After he got out of prison he turned his life around- now he is a cell phone tower enginner. Once I found out that we both went to OLPH we hugged in understanding. Ive met so many souls that were lost and found some place of stability. A man name richard I met on the bus outeast last summer was in jail for years for drugs and robbery and the way he talked of life after the consequences is logical and they see everything in a different, enlightened light. I will never forget an old fellow I met in portjefferson outside of the seafood restaurant..i was stranded waiting for alex for five hours and I struck a conversation with the sweetest man named..i think I may have forgot..i want to say james or charles I honestly dont remember fuck. Well anyway he lived in the woods for three or four years, through the winter and all. He told me to follow my dreams, and he made me feel like it was possible.
I like this boy named mike. It is beautiful when we make love..i love when he claims my body, I want to give it up to him. Im just a real sucker when it comes to sex. I feel this cosmic connection after a mans penis has been inserted into me, its hard to except just being pussy sometimes, but I am avoiding a relationship so I have to except it and grow numb to this. Its sort of a love story though. I am the crazy dirty 'hippie' white girl and he is the straight out of brooklyn gautamlean&black varsity football player. We keep it on the down low in school, but there is something brewing. We both have spectacular eyes. His eyes are brown but they remind me of the grand canyon. I love opening my eyes when we fuck and seeing his brown skin and the southern genes of his heritage, years of genes that have grown close to the equator. His father grew up in gautamala and lost his virginity when he was nine. He lived a very third world country life- cracking coconuts and fishing. His monther is jamaican and black- she lives in canarsie or something? I dont know whats gotten into me but I am such a horny girl, I want to FUCK. I love to FUCK. I feel like rape was once a fundamental element of our prospering race. And I like to imagine myself being raped by a man using pure instinct- the force of natural production being exuded by hormones and coming to life by the friction and pleasure of sex. The clitoris' soul purpose being pleasure, tie me up and pleasure me.
ive had way much more sex in middle school then in highschool. Before I took drugs I would fuck my life away with my ex boyfriend luis in his basement admist his HIGHLY dysfunctional family life in the garage he called home. His family was at eternal warfare and there were marker lines drawn on coke bottles to make sure the amount hasn't gone down, or drank by a member of the family that wasn't entitled to their grand cocacola. I would walk to the seven eleven and buy Krafts mac and cheese, milk and butter and we would hide it in a corner of the fridge. We walked around. We would talk. We would get into emotional turmoil and hurt eachother. We were connected at the hip, much like my more recent boyfriend alex of two years. A boy ive been to every depth of the human mind with. The most unimaginable unexplainable perceptions and unified thinking. Our brain waves could easily intercept and we could communicate through any medium, what would make absolutely no sense to any other, could have a plausible purpose to us. Everything had a purpose to us. And even if it didn't, it didn't have to. We were both starving artists of our own creations, seeking something so far away in the metaphysical horizon that it was easy to get lost in such a tangled and cloudy atmosphere. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia and slowly we grew apart. But seriously, I needed to find myself, I needed to find myself for the most part alone and not dependent on another. And that is where I am right now, althought my innate longing for affection sometimes wrecks my mood, I tell it to stop the nonsense and that we as in I, will make it through perfectly find standing alone.
Hours of sitting on local transportation. The public bus that hovered through numerous towns stretching over the island. Taking people, transferring people, dropping people off, allowing people to transfer to another bus. The music from my headphones, the silence around me as I sat and watched the variety of natives drag themselves up the stairs and make themselves comfortable on the upright blue hard pieces of plastic perfectly sliced to serve as their personal sitting devices. But I loved most of all looking out the window at the parts of island that I li
jun21
I live my life with some strange intentions. My convictions are elaborate and ironic. I bath in what I loathe. I dive into my worst enemies and proceede to make love to what in my eyes breeds evil. When you make love to what you precieve as evil, as you look in the their pupils as your face consumes their vision, you realize that your worst enemies are only humans after all. My whole life I've had strong contempt for gang violence and the United States intervention with Middle Eastern affairs. I've always felt these gave fuel to the forces that slowly destroy our civilization. Of course, people are behind these forces. For instance gang members are normally brought up in desolate conditions where some kind of brotherhooed is desired, some type of unification between boys growing up through economic struggle. Boys being brought up lost and with no sense of security. Abandoned by their fathers they look up to the men around them. They see who seems to be making it the best and they bend their growing personality in that direction. The only problem is the people making it best in the ghettos are theifs and killers. The war is powered by soldiers. Soldiers are young american men that decide to dedicate their lives to whatever the government expects of them, yet under the impression that whatever they are doing is some how protecting the people of their country. Although I am against the governments ambitions and skeptical motives, the excessively greedy brains of the US know how to influence people to do what they want. And that is why young boys that feel they are better at nothing but joining the service end up as killing machines. I fucked a gang member born and raised in brooklyn. I fucked an american soldier who recently returned from iraq. I talked to them. Picked at their heads and observed the beasts. They were only humans brought up a certain way as I and their influences differed and they only reacted in ways that seemed natural to their environment. I've seen them close theirs eyes tight shut because of the pleasure being stirred deep within the by my body and in those moments I feel united to all sides, I feel empathy for the devil.
Sun jun 22. yesterday I took sara to massepeuqa park via train and legs. I lead her deep into our last standing wilderness in this part of the island. For the most part of my day I can be seen, outside of my house I am always vulnerable to the variety and number of suburban eyes wandering out windows while doing routine duties, during leisure time, in any state of mind they all have the oppurtinity to see me if they take a look out the window as im walking past. People busily making there way from work or on their way back home. The people working at the local establishments. It is my desire to find the lonely and isolated pieces of land scarce and scattered about the surrounding towns. I travel far and wide to find peace and silence. We got lost in massepequa and in the excitement of being a great distant from familiar people and places we danced down the streets singing and running in directions that could of taken us anywhere, no where we knew and no where we cared to know the coordinate. Just to know that we were alive and breathing and the night was doing its job by giving rest to the earth and striking a note deep in a girls soul that drives them wild and wanting. Wanting and loving the heavy dark air that is flooded with littered lights along long streaks of black asphalt. The escape into the true wilderness, stepping on roots growing moss and a collage of fresh green moist brown and the crispy burned orange of last years dead. One minute being smug in the beating heart of out ecosystem, the next hour making my way across sunrise highway dodging the late night traffic, the machinery that drags its owners where it is told. The eyes back in a titanic twist and tangle of humanity. It amazes me the difference off such w
e proximity of lashing and of two complex civilizations one of men and one of nature. Both have the potential to be warm and rugged, inviting and threatening, dangerous and soothing. Being around the constant figiting of neighbors unites one with the human collagefhe emotions only our species own. The electrical wiring we can relate to. The schematics dusty yet recognizable between one another. I feel as though the inner workings of plant life or in no way inferior to our biological functions. We may be kings and queens of the metaphysical universe but they are rooted deep deep to universe that we can see that is denuded of imaginary illusion, all tangible and never ending.
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