To The World

Dear Readers,

I started this blog, to the best of my knowledge, in late 2007 when I graduated from college for the first time. I wrote on it vigorously, desperately, eager for feedback and attention. But that didn't happen, and I lost interest.

There wasn't much to write to an audience who didn't exist.

I didn't post to my blog for a very long time, but I continued to write fragmentally, in pieces throughout the many shifts in my life. When I began to post on it again, the writing came monthly, if that. There were only certain people I came to trust, respect, and want as my readers - usually other disenchanted or eager writers I had come across in my wavering path.

For a long while, the only ones who were able to read my blog were the ones whom I'd invited and had accepted that invite.

To everyone else, my writing was oblivious.

To most, it still is.

There are several reasons why I kept my blog private for a time:

For one, I didn't want my students to be able to search for me. For obvious reasons (they were in seventh grade, most of them). I won't try to explain.

I didn't want my employer, supervisors, or coworkers to be able to search for me, either. Also, for obvious reasons. That makes two.

Thirdly, I didn't really want my family to see what I was up to, internally. I felt I had it all together on the outside and on paper, and I wanted in a very real way for them to continue believing this to be true (that's all gone to shit now, mainly because I don't have the energy leftover to pretend anymore, which has been freeing in a very real way).

Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, I didn't want anyone to be able to search for me and read what I wrote from the place that's most vulnerable in my soul. That would be akin to walking naked into the Lincoln Tunnel at rush hour, where everyone is moving slowly enough to really gawk at you, see all of your imperfections as they angrily pass; I imagined feeling more like more of an obstruction than a sight to be seen. I imagined I would meet these people and they would have infinite power over me, knowing that I had bared all and asked for nothing in return.

These are all silly and irrelevant fears for me now, of course, but for a time there they were very real. And I will say that, despite these fears and concurrent shyness, my writing has always been desperate and yearning to unfurl out into the open. While I didn't want it to be seen, or heard, really, the words kept coming. Discombobulated and true. I wasn't sure how to make these two very real and conflicting feelings coincide. So, I just kept on writing and hiding, writing and hiding, and so on. That worked alright for a while.

But something has changed. Now, I want to share this - whatever the fuck it is - with the rest of the world. To be vulnerable, it seems, is to experience love, compassion, to become a part of the human race.

I want that. I've always, somewhere inside of me, wanted that.

My only hope is for you, my dear reader, to enjoy yourself while reading, and to feel my gratitude for your participation in my being able to finally express myself freely, as corny as that sounds. I'll own it.

Thank you &

happy reading.

Love,

Anna Bee

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Imaginary Boyfriends

I've had a lot of boyfriends over the years.
I taught middle school
for four school years while I lived
in Brooklyn, and
my students always wanted to know about
my boyfriends.
Most of that time I had one, but
at the end of it
I did not.

In my first year of teaching,
I didn't tell my students anything
about my boyfriend
or myself.
I wasn't sure what was appropriate
so I told them nothing.
I later discovered that sharing some things
in vague detail
helped them to trust me, to
see me as a real person.
It helped me to see me as a real person,
too.
"Are you married? Do you have kids? You better hurry up, Miss,
you're getting OLD!" I laughed, and
smiled when they asked me
if I had a boyfriend,
one that I loved?
They knew I did after a while,
and they felt in on a secret, because they knew
without me really ever
saying so.
"Do you like black guys?" one of them asked me.
Out of the blue, one day.
"Excuse me?" I thought maybe I heard wrong.
"I bet you she likes BIG black guys," his friend said.
"Nah, she wouldn't date a black guy," the first one replied.
I felt this an opportunity to defend myself!
Prove that I wasn't racist, or something,
so I assured them
"I haven't dated a black guy yet, but that doesn't mean that I would not."
They seemed satisfied with that response, for
whatever reason
I don't know.

In my second year of teaching,
the only thing I told my students
about my boyfriend then
was that he was
Italian,
which was true.
Italian-American,
but still.
They asked me all the time if he cooked me spaghetti,
lasagna,
meatballs,
garlic bread?
Was he a good plumber,
like Mario and Luigi?
He wasn't really good at any of that, but
I told them that he was
anyway.
I liked to imagine him in green overalls
cooking for me
savory sauce
using his grandmother's recipe,
over the course of hours. It was
something he'd never do,
but I loved him anyway.
One student, very seriously,
offered to beat up my boyfriend
if he ever hurt me or talked to me wrong.
He was very passionate in the way he said this
So I just laughed and said
"Okaaay...Thank you?"
He checked in with me periodically
about that,
to make sure nothing had changed.
He was a very good boyfriend, I assured him,
I assured all of them.
I promised, without any doubt or fabrication of the truth, that
I'd hurt him before
he could hurt me.

In my third year of teaching,
The Jersey Shore had become a big hit on MTV.
These students also knew that my boyfriend was Italian,
they'd heard from my students the year before,
and I'd confirmed, but would not tell them his name.
They begged, but no.
Some things are sacred between the walls of a middle school
in the projects
of Crown Heights.
His name was one of them.
So they called him Frankie.
Every day, I would walk in with my mug of coffee,
set my bags down, and they would yell out
"How's Frankie doin'?"
Sometimes jokingly,
sometimes not.
Discuss among themselves what they thought Frankie
did for a living,
how tall he was,
the color of his hair.
Sometimes I'd give them little details as incentive
to do their work, and
they'd work hurriedly
in silence. Sometimes I had to find out from him
inane things they wanted to know like
his favorite color?
or favorite food?
I could have told them the way his skin smelled in the morning,
where my gaze met on his body when we stood side by side,
the way his eyes looked when he laughed. Those were the things I knew
without having to ask, but I kept those
to myself.
We broke up badly,
Frankie and I,
in the middle of that year.
I had to lie about how good Frankie was doing
to my students and myself
many times that Spring.
"When's Frankie going to propose to you?" they'd ask.
"I don't know," I'd say
heavily
and change the subject.
I didn't want to break their hearts
with mine.

In my fourth year of teaching,
I was getting sober again,
starting anew.
I didn't want to teach that year.
In the beginning, I re-hashed a few old romances,
to not have to try so hard,
easily fall into the familiar
after dating one too many
friends of friends and strangers
when I hadn't really wanted to date
at all.
I officially decided to be alone.
The plan was to focus on my teaching,
my students, where I wanted to go next.
But still,
my students,
they wanted to know about my boyfriend.
I didn't tell these kids I had a boyfriend.
They just assumed.
They assumed he was a white boy and
the only names of white boys they knew were from that show,
The Jersey Shore, so I got stuck with an Italian boy again.
This one's name was Roger.
Roger was the boyfriend I never really had.
Roger supposedly rubbed my feet after yelling at these kids
all day,
did nice things for me for Valentine's Day like make me dinner
from scratch and
buy me chocolates with delicious centers.
He'd bring me roses when he messed up,
which wasn't often.
Roger listened to and supported me,
told me I could quit my job,
he would take care of me.
I don't know where they got these ideas
it certainly wasn't how their mothers or sisters
were being treated at home,
but they imagined.
They wanted it for me,
and for themselves.
They imagined things could be different,
what love would look like
in all its glory,
in a time when I could not.

In a very real way,
Roger was the best boyfriend
I never had


Roger
was really
me.

Taming the Insane

I have been unable to
focus
lately

Always
this time of year

It used to be gold stars
on a chart with the promise of ice cream,
smiley faces - or sad ones, depending on the day -
the prospect of coloring in the outline
of one in a bunch of balloons,
that guided me towards behaving.
Paying
attention.

Now, what is there to reward me?
for not slipping into dreams when
the sun is out
and the days last longer than the night?
What promises have been made
that could match the ones of then?

I will not cut into my fantasies
like that
so abruptly
harshly...

The stars were just another part of it all
back then.

Show me it's worth it, living
in reality

Then maybe
I will
listen.

To a friend who often sleeps the day away

Night owl, awake me
Let me seep into the darkness with
You
Teach my eyes to glow and see
through all the lack
in light.
Show me the way to swim in dreams,
Follow my heart,
Anew.

Flying

It's snowing here in Denver. 

We woke up at 4:30am this morning

in Tucson. It's 10:30 here now. 

Yesterday,

it was 98 degrees outside. My shoulders

are stiff and red today.

and I'm exhausted, but can't
sleep.
The tiredness just hangs there
behind my eyes
like a heavy headache.

I always fall asleep before 
- and during - takeoff.
On the runway,
sitting upright,
through the pressure change.
Things I want to write about
always
come to me when 
I'm about to 
fall asleep.
I ask myself to 
please remember
so as not to interrupt my own descent
into dreams,
but never do.

I never learn that 
lesson.

Gets me every time.

I wonder how many stories I've lost
poems have dissolved
to the calling of sweet darkness.
Traveling makes it even harder to pack 
and unpack
the ideas in my mind.

Last time I was in this airport
I was traveling from Las Vegas 
which had been the saddest - yet one of the most memorable -
places I'd ever been.
While I'd waited for my flight to Denver in Nevada,
on my way to see my mom,
I sat down at a bar and ordered a Stella.
The first time I'd ever drank at an airport.
It was 11am
but time's different in those places,
and three hours behind from where I'd come.

Restless,
I walked to one of those enclosed smoking sections 
with the colored lights of pinball and slot machines
dancing - muted through the smoke -
like tired strippers.
I sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor,
adding to the smoke,
called my older brother for some reason-
I knew he wouldn't (couldn't)judge me -
watched people walking by
carrying books and bags and dreams with them
through the thick plexiglass.
I couldn't bring myself to smile at anything
but sarcasm.
THAT almost made me laugh.

I finally realized that I was cutting it close, 
had a plane to climb onto, in fact.
Hadn't been paying attention to the time, as if 
that plastic cube filled with smoke had been 
my destination
at last.
The image of my mother waiting for me 
- a real smile on her face, so white it's almost blue -
on the other end
was about the only thing that got me to 
stand up and start 
walking.

I meandered towards my gate, 
not really wanting to go
or sit on another fucking plane 
smushed my strangers,
all the while
digging through my bag with hands full,
looking with my fingers for my 
boarding pass and ID.
I could find just about everything else in there.

When I was almost there, all the seats at the gate were 
empty. People in uniform asked me as I approached
"Are you Anna?"
I stood staring at them, brows furrowed, confused.
How did they know my name?
"We were about to leave without you! Plane got here early, we were trying to take off...We've been calling you over the loudspeaker..."
"I didn't hear you..."
My brother still on the phone,
listening to the commotion, my breathing, 
"Jesus, Anna...you're that person."
"Sam, I love you. Have to go."

I started to run.

I didn't need to, but I did anyway.
Exasperated, sweating, I fumbled down the ramp
onto the crowded plane
scanned the aisles to find my seat,
avoided eye contact with all the other passengers.
I sat down, shoved my bags under the seat in front of me, 
asked for a water from the flight attendant 
in an arch over the person next to me
-so dehydrated-
buckled my seat belt across my lap,
closed my eyes and 
as the plane began to move across 
the runway
I fell into a deep vaccum
of a sleep - one of the most peaceful I've ever known -
didn't wake up again til 
Denver.

Roadkill.

There was a dead raccoon
on the side of the road today
while I was driving to work
with the
sunroof open,
smiling,
listening to cheerful
Summer
music
(in the hope that summer might come
sooner
if I enticed it
that way)

and the raccoon looked so peaceful
perfectly intact
its head to the side, facing me
eyes closed
its small black hands held the pavement
like a pillow
to its cheek
and suddenly I felt tired
wanted to pull over
curl up beside it
absorb the warmth of the sun
off the pavement
let the dreams slip out of me
while I rest

I passed it slowly
due to traffic
looked back at it in the
rearview mirror
Saw the blood oozed out
into a small red heap
behind its head
and wondered how
that even happened?
how it could just be
popped
in the back of its head
that way,
the rest of it just fine?
Perhaps the bones were crushed
the soul escaped
the hair sprung back into place
filling in the space
around the cracks
of death
with blood
and sun
and sleep.

Trapped in the Lincoln Tunnel

I made the mistake of reading on the bus
Because I was anxious
And excited
Wanted to feel like I'd accomplished something.
Now I have a headache.
The seatbelt seems to want to choke me,
My sweater suddenly too tight
My legs longer
Somehow
Is it possible to have grown
In two hours and however many miles
It takes to get from there to here?

Of course I think of you

I thought about running all the way
down to you
today, as beautiful outside
as it was.
I didn't want to be willful,
though,
it's less romantic that way,
I think.
Maybe it's not.

I don't know what the fuck's romantic anymore.

Then I remembered sitting outside your bedroom door
not unlike waiting outside the room where
my parents would fight
thumbing through the books you were getting rid of
not wanting you to leave.
I took a few under my arm,
a keepsake, I mumbled
under my breath.

I hesitated to say anything,
but then found it easy to strike up a conversation
once you came towards me
yellow light behind you,
calming me
down.

I've forgotten anything we said to one another
but the feel was
(always) good.
Still is,
matter of fact.

An sense of urgency, I recall,
crept its way
into the very center of my belly
right under the sternum
(they say that's where God grabs you
when He wants to)

Tell him not to leave...or take you with him
it squeezed.
But no, I thought, pushing the urge down,
swallowed knowingly.
Let him go. 
If it's meant to be, it will be easy,
another time.
Now is not the fucking
time.

And so I did, regretting it a few times
over the years.
Until now, sweet one.
I don't regret that
anymore.

Martinis in the Morning

I was distracted all day, right from the get-go.
When I don't allow myself time to write in the mornings, the whole day is fucked. That I know for sure right now.
Just about as soon as I arrived to work, I couldn't sit still or concentrate on anything.
I tried to keep myself moving, sometimes scattering with my thoughts helps me to stay productive.
I walked towards the kitchen and called back
"I'm going to grab a glass of water...you want anything?" I'd already gone to the bathroom, organized the desk clutter, rearranged a random shelf of a bookcase. I'd only been there half an hour.

"Grab me one, too," the artist said, then laughed "Actually, I'll have a martini! Grab me one of those!" totally joking, of course, but it echoed in my head all day.

For some reason, maybe because Tom died yesterday and my nerves are shot, or because of the warm Spring morning and that always was "our time", the artist's words struck a cord. Not an "I want to drink" cord, but an "let's explore that old fantasy for a moment" cord.

I wanted to remember
the way we were for just a
moment.

And I remembered when that kind of talk wasn't a joke at all
when we had nothing else to do but hold one another,
watch movies and drink, make gravity bongs out of
2-liter soda bottles and the bathtub filled
with skunky water,
eat sandwiches then burn them off.
I'd wait til we were good and sloshed before I started
to provoke you
egging you to push me into walls
without telling you to
thought that would
prove that you loved me
it was the only way I knew
you played along right from the start

but I don't want to play that way
anymore.

I'll always love you,

but not like that.

So as I walked back into the office
with two glasses of water,
one for me, one for the artist,
I couldn't help but think:
I'm so glad that's not my life
anymore.

One day I think I'll write a novel about
all of that
turn it into fiction
another story
that'll get old and
not feel so real
after a while.