Kiddy Carnival

Didn't quite make it to a museum yesterday. We set out for one, but passed a carnival on the way and kids immediately began begging to go. Of course we went, and after paying 27 dollars for all three of us to get in, Kate announced she was not going on any rides. I told her after the admission price I just forked out she damn well WAS going on some rides. The downside of that is that I had to go on with her. The giant slide you ride a burlap bag down was particularly horrible, and I had to pretend I was not freaked out on the ferris wheel, but all in all we had a good time. Jack had to replace me as the lead in the fun house as I kept walking us into glass walls. It was hot for the first time this spring and we huddled in the shade of the dragon roller coaster to eat snow cones. Had to fight the Virgo in me and not get pissy over Kate dripping cherry syrup all over a new shirt. In my next Life I would like to be a Libra please, or some other charming, carefree, less annoying sign.

Around five O'clock we met Alison and company down at the beach. Alison and I talked ghosts and cosmic signs while sharing an eggplant parm hero. We talked about birds of prey as messengers. Then a crow landed on the garbage can next to us and I tried to psychically intuit what he was trying to tell us. I think it was "give me a piece of sandwich." Next time we are bringing a bottle of wine. Kids quickly scarfed down pizza and ran off to enjoy the sand and surf. It is so nice that they are now big enough to not need constant close supervision. Talked to Alison about my suspicion that I am missing some vital mommy gene because as much as I love my kids, the day the second one leaves for college will be a day of champagne soaked celebration, followed by a trip to the airport with a one way ticket to Paris.

Gracious Goodness
by Marge Piercy

On the beach where we had been idly
telling the shell coins
cat's paw, cross-barred Venus, china cockle,
we both saw at once
the sea bird fall to the sand
and flap grotesquely.
He had taken a great barbed hook
out through the cheek and fixed
in the big wing.
He was pinned to himself to die,
a royal tern with a black crest blown back
as if he flew in his own private wind.
He felt good in my hands, not fragile
but muscular and glossy and strong,
the beak that could have split my hand
opening only to cry as we yanked on the barbs.
We borrowed a clippers, cut and drew out the hook.
Then the royal tern took off, wavering,
lurched twice,
then acrobat returned to his element, dipped,
zoomed, and sailed out to dive for a fish.
Virtue: what a sunrise in the belly.
Why is there nothing I have ever done with anybody
that seems to me so obviously right?

Mommy Likes Museums

Weather keeps changing today, sunny to cloudy to sunny etc. We are going to go to the beach late this afternoon with my friend Alison and her kids, dinner on the Sound. Right now it is lunch time and have finally routed kids into showers and clothes. Now I am waiting for the water to heat up again so mom can shower and we can get out of here. Where I am not exactly sure. My Whaling Museum suggestion met with much derisive laughter and a suggestion from Kate that I hire a babysitter for them so I could go to the museum. They USED to love it there. Will take a quick look at things to do calendar in local paper after I finish this post. I am stuck on museum idea...they'll like it once we get there I figure. There's a small art museum in Huntington with a surrounding park that may work. Okay, I want to go to a museum, but culture is good for them too, isn't it? I am yearning to be surrounded by quiet and beautiful things today. Kids can run all over beach later.

Why I Am Not a Painter
by Frank O'Hara

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.

Where is My Kun Pao Chicken?

Thursday night, starving and waiting for the chinese food guy to come back with my delivery which he left at the wrong house. It was a teenager who looked so stricken I couldn't even get mad. I think if he doesn't come back soon though I will die of starvation right here in front of the computer. One more day of work in the Kiddy Academy salt mine, and then a three day weekend. Oh the joy of not getting up at 5:30 am, followed by a mad rush that continues right through the work day. My friend Kadabra is coming out for a BBQ for Memorial Day, and I hope to snatch some time to work on some poems for the project I am doing with Russ. Jack had concert last night, his last one in elementary school. When they sang "What a Wonderful World" I cried. After the concert we went out for ice cream, and then got back just in time to see Taylor sing the last notes of his song in the Idol winner's circle. Happy he won, but feel like I'm losing a family in a way with the show over. How sick is that? I am too hungry to think of a poem for this post. Wait, here's one, "I like rice/rice is nice/rice is nice with szechuan spice!"

After Reading the Gospel According to Mary Magdalene

Could it not be as poets
That we prophesy?
Divine mouthpieces,
As Socrates proclaimed,
This Peter,
This Mary.
God words spill
For those who will drink,
From you,
From me.
Both streams flow by truce,
Separate by agreement.
A river would be stronger,
A torrent of change,
But then love would need
To usurp agreement
And though we speak divine,
Our souls prove weak and mean,
and mortal.
We eschew deluge.
Jealousy and fear make a fork.
My news creates orchard valleys,
Yours makes the mountains green
But slowly, slowly
In a world very close
To over.

M.J. Tenerelli

Saturday To Do List

A gorgeous Saturday morning, after a stormy yesterday that included a hail shower Kate and I watched from a window. Right now the divine Ms. K. is sleeping. When she gets up I will drive her to her father's and then I will have the weekend to myself. Some observations this morning: Stop and Shop brand coffee sucks; Pierre Reverdy is a poet I don't like; and it is time to go back to school to get my reading specialist certificate. I got my masters in education but then had Kate and never went back for the specialist certificate. Job security, 401K, summer's off, good salary...and the one-on-one teaching I became a teacher to do. Seems like a smart way to go. Still entertaining editorial job move too. Time to stop reeling from recent turn of events ("What do you mean I'm not getting married and moving to the UK?!") and make a plan.

Today's plan so far is to take my sucky coffee and a poetry book and sit on the front porch reading. There are flowering trees and shrubs all around the house and it's a cool and sunny morning. Breathe in, breathe out, re-center.

Haiku

by Ransetsu

On the old plum tree,
one blossom by one blossom,
the spring thaw is born

Italian Ice and Hippies

Just me and Kate today after work because Jack is on his school trip to Washington DC. We went to Chillie Willie's for italian ices and sat on a bench together watching the traffic on Laurel Road. I had the Almond Joy cream ice, while Ms. Kate went for Cookie Dough. Kate asked me what the building directly across the street from us was. Told her it looked like an office, and then realized the building was once the mysterious "Hippie Place" we used to pass by on our way home from school around 1968. The door would be open sometimes and you could peek in and see hippies sitting around on cushions on the floor underneath a black light. There were posters that glowed in the dark and the place smelled of incense. And probably pot. Hard to tell at 8 years old. Now it's just an anonymous office space, and Kate won't be walking by it unaccompanied for quite some time. Children below the age of 13, in 2006, don't go anywhere alone. I stand somewhere in the middle on whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. I remember for a while finding pornographic cards sprinkled around the path we would take home from elementary school as a kid, and not one of us told our parents about it. Maybe the world is as dangerous as it's always been, and we've just gotten smarter about protecting our children. Gotta get some sleep before returning to "the dark place" to quote someone I used to know. Below is a poem by Richard Brautigan, an excellent hippie poet and writer. Read Trout Fishing in America! Night all.

At the California Institute of Technology


I don't care how God-damn smart
these guys are: I'm bored.

Richard Brautigan

Walla Walla

Monday after dinner. Stayed home from work today and went to the doctor. I have a sinus infection for which the good doctor Kalonaros perscribed antibiotics and cortisone pills to reduce swelling so I can breath. Feeling lousy and jumpy, suddenly don't have a grip on the future, just know something has to change so that the kids and I are not perpetually in survival mode. Better paying job is the first thing on the agenda, but where and doing what? Saw a job in Walla Walla, Washington believe it or not. Job sounds great, writing on healthcare topics. Looked up Walla Walla, and watched people go in and out of a cafe on a web cam. Looked up poetry in Walla Walla, and there seems to be a thriving poetry scene. There are two colleges in Walla Walla, which would explain cultural bent of the very pretty town. And house rentals are significantly cheaper than here on Long Island. Walla Walla is fun to type and say. I wonder how far Johanna in Albany, Oregon is from, well, Walla Walla. Here is a poem from a Walla Walla poet:

WELCOME TO WALLA WALLA

by Charles Potts

Welcome to Walla Walla,
Tiny Republican enclave
In the desert,
Reluctantly giving it up,
Lot by lot,
To a consortium of
Italians, who had it first,
And Hispanics, who’ll get it next.

So what am I doing here?
Free Berkeley radical
Lunch bucket liberal
Capitalist poet
Marxist real estate broker
Overweight Hippy without a hot tub
In the brutal summertime.

Blue

Late Friday night and I can't sleep. I've got a nasty cold and the cold medicine I took that knocked me out has worn off. Rain rain everywhere for days now and it is extremely depressing. I hate my job which it turns out is peon work for peon wages. Child support has stopped and I have to go to family court to fill out papers to get the moron I was married to investigated. I'm feeling overwhelmed and hopeless. Jack walked in on me crying and said, "I know what will make you feel better." I asked what that would be, and he said "A show called Murderers is on T.V." I burst out laughing and went to watch with him. This is the stuff that keeps me going.

If anybody has a hot job tip (editorial work preferred), email me. Even if it's in Alaska.

Black Rook in Rainy Weather

by Sylvia Plath

On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident

To set the sight on fire
In my eye, not seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Leap incandescent

Out of the kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then ---
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent

By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant

Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel.
For that rare, random descent.

Mothers


Back from work and I feel like there's a razor blade stuck in my throat. Strep is going around the center. Shaping up to be a wonderful Mother's Day weekend. The place I wanted to make reservations for closes at three and once again I forgot to call before then. It will be my sister, my friends the Willnauers and their son Mark, and the kids and I, for brunch. Weezer jr. wants to apologize graveside to my mother for the fight we three had on the mother's day before Vi (mom) died. This is because jr. keeps waking up at three a.m. and she is sure it is my dead mother haunting her. I said, "Weezer, do you really think our mother would deprive you of sleep?" She said, "Yes I do. Don't you remember her?" While our mother might hang around to make an angry point, I don't think she would repeatedly distrupt our sleep, jeapordizing our health. She could cut you to ribbons with her tongue, but was always worried about our health. I thought this was unique mother behaviour until I saw the Hal Hartley movie, "Trust." The heroine's mother in that movie (one of my all time favorite movies) could have been based entirely on my mother...may she rest in peace!

Here's a "mother" poem I wrote for Kate.

For Kate on her Sixth Birthday

Small hand sticky with green icing
And brilliant with magenta marker.
Swift hand balled up to pound the brother
Who tossed the rabbit off the pink bed.
Lawless hand that draws mermaids on the walls
And ballpoint makeup on storybook girls.
Give and take hand that once clutched my breast,
And later returned my love, pat for pat,
In a toddler past.
This is the hand I want
Pressed to my forehead when I’m old
Enough to be dying, old enough
To let go of all the hands I’ve known,
Even yours which have been cupped
Around my heart since the morning
The sweet weight of your newborn skull
Eased back into the cushion of my waiting palm.

MJ Tenerelli

Time Crawl

Everything is moving so slowly today. Work dragged, and right now Kate is dragging out her homework, and my computer is downloading pages at a glacial pace. It has been cold and cloudy here and all I want to do is curl up under the covers and sleep for at least twelve hours. Feel as if I were slogging under water tonight. Keep dropping and spilling things too...wonder if the planets are aligned strangely. Kate is ranting that her homework is too boring to do, and has been doing next to nothing for the last hour. I'm too tired to care. She can suffer the consequences tomorrow in class. American Idol in half an hour. Could life get any more exciting?

Time Drags So Slow

by The Tourists

See through my window
The lady cries
Down by the river
The seagull flies
I climb the hill in solitude
Oh-oh
Time drags so slow
Oh-oh
Time drags so slow
You watch the sky and you wait for dawn
You wait forever
It never comes
And then you see
The sun's bright glow
Oh-oh
Time drags so slow
Oh-oh
Time drags so slow
The horns of the cars
In the morning rush
You feel so numb
You can't feel much
Courting the hours by the light of time
You're looking through the thin white line
Sooner or later
We fly away
And you remember
It's another day
I climb the hill
Where the new wind blows
Oh-oh
Time drags so slow
Oh-oh
Time drags so slow

Horror and My City

Woke up craving rice this morning. I am making yellow rice and pigeon peas for breakfast, which will be good as leftovers for dinner too. Oops, just remembered I said I wouldn't talk about what I ate in this blog if I made it. Maybe the mention doesn't count if I haven't actually eaten the food yet. Last night had fantastic caramel apple pie with ice cream after movie with Russ (I didn't make pie so still not breaking my stupid rule). Russ and I discussed music/poetry collaboration, many things paranormal, and moving away from NY Metro area because of higher and higher cost of living. Problem is we both love Manhattan and don't want to go far from it. I knew from the first time I saw the city, on my 9th birthday, that I wanted to live in it. Managed it from 1979 through 1993, and still curse the day I decided to move to Brooklyn which was followed even more disastrously by a move to Long Island. Long Island, good for the kids, blah blah blah.

Movie, Silent Hill, a waste of three hours of my life (okay, 2 hrs, 45 mins. The first fifteen minutes were interesting.) Plot a mess, acting lousy, and most importantly not scary, just gross. Left Russ after pie and walked a good way back to Penn Station. Happily soaked in the energy, moon over Union Square, cool night air. Had a nightmare last night that 200 planes attacked NYC, and I watched buildings fall from the window of a highrise. Loud speaker announcement that amounted to "We told you we'd be back." Maybe it is time to move.

A Step Away From Them
Frank O'Hara

It's my lunch hour, so I go
for a walk among the hum-colored
cabs. First, down the sidewalk
where laborers feed their dirty
glistening torsos sandwiches
and Coca-Cola, with yellow helmets
on. They protect them from falling
bricks, I guess. Then onto the
avenue where skirts are flipping
above heels and blow up over
grates. The sun is hot, but the
cabs stir up the air. I look
at bargains in wristwatches. There
are cats playing in sawdust.

On
to Times Square, where the sign
blows smoke over my head, and higher
the waterfall pours lightly. A
Negro stands in a doorway with a
toothpick, languorously agitating
A blonde chorus girl clicks: he
smiles and rubs his chin. Everything
suddenly honks: it is 12:40 of
a Thursday.

Neon in daylight is a
great pleasure, as Edwin Denby would
write, as are light bulbs in daylight.
I stop for a cheeseburger at JULIET'S
CORNER. Giulietta Maina, wife of
Federico Fellini, é bell' attrice.
And chocolate malted. A lady in
foxes on such a day puts her poodle
in a cab.

There are several Puerto
Ricans on the avenue today, which
makes it beautiful and warm. First
Bunny died, then John Latouche,
then Jackson Pollock. But is the
earth as full of life was full, of them?
And one has eaten and one walks,
past the magazines with nudes
and the posters for BULLFIGHT and
theManhattann Storage Warehouse,
which they'll soon tear down. I
used to think they had the Armory
Show there.

A glass of papaya juice
and back to work. My heart is in my
pocket, it is Poems by Pierre Reverdy.

Ghosts II

7:30 on Saturday Morning. Cats woke me up at 5:30 but, as they are still in my good graces since murdering the mouse, I am not complaining. Lots of check cashing, bill paying and other stupid money related things to do today. Right now though just listening to "Joni Mitchell Radio" on Pandora and sipping coffee. Will call Russ later about movies. There are two that look good, "Silent Hill" and "An American Haunting." I actually know the story "An American Haunting" is based on from listening to paranormal radio. Family is cursed and then haunted in the 1800's by some nasty spirit who beats up particularly on one daughter, but seems to be fond of the mother and does stuff like bring her exotic fruit from the Far East. I wondered at the time how something disembodied could cart stuff from one continent to another. I know I wouldn't be eating that fruit. Watched something called "The Ghost Whisperer" on TV last night. Jennifer Love Hewitt in way too much eyeliner, and employing three, max, facial expressions throughout show, but storyline interesting.

In other ghost type news, Weezer Jr. called yesterday to tell me she had been dreaming of our dead grandmother. Grandma Hamil (originally from Bristol, UK) was telling Weezer that she had found a house for the children and I in England. My sister told her that this would not be necessary as I was no longer moving to England. Grandma Hamil repeated that we were going to live in England, and that she was going to live there with us. My sister pointed out to Grandma Hamil that she was dead, but Grandma insisted she wasn't. So now Jr. thinks the kids and I are going to die in a car crash or house fire and live in another dimension with my grandmother. As Weezy erroneously predicted I was pregnant just weeks ago, I think she may be off about my imminent death as well. If Grandma Hamil wants to do something nice for me, perhaps she could scare away the mice in the house I currently live in (more evidence of damn mice in kitchen this a.m.) And weezy, I think all our dead relatives are currently residing with YOU.

The Truth The Dead Know
by Anne Sexton

For my mother, born March 1902, died March 1959
and my father, born February 1900, died June 1959

Gone, I say and walk from church,
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.

We drive to the Cape. I cultivate
myself where the sun gutters from the sky,
where the sea swings in like an iron gate
and we touch. In another country people die.

My darling, the wind falls in like stones
from the whitehearted water and when we touch
we enter touch entirely. No one's alone.
Men kill for this, or for as much.

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes
in their stone boats. They are more like stone
than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse
to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.

Mice Must Die

Oh my god, woke up this morning to find a dead mouse on the livingroom floor. Audrey the Cat behaved like the excellent feline she is and killed it (and I am sorry now for yelling at her for running around like a maniac in the middle of the night). But for godsakes, a mouse! I HATE rodents. Danced around going "ew, ew, ew" earlier, then got up the nerve to pick the disgusting thing up and fling it outside into the bushes. Maybe the carcass will serve as a warning to other mice. Good cat, hideous mouse, and now I have to get ready for work.

Work

Hallelujah! Today was first day of sharing Assistant Director duties with a rather sullen "I used to work alone" Assistant Director. Morning spent in three year old classroom (the one full of crazy children, not the one full of my wonderful former students). Played head teacher till 10:00 am, and then, wonder of wonders, was called in to begin working in the office. The Virgo in me was delighted to take on the mess that was class pictures, get all the money and paperwork squared away, make a few phone calls and walk out at the end of the day with mission "class pictures" accomplished. I also came home tonight feeling much less exhausted. On Monday, my hours become 7:00 am to 3:00 pm and I begin working with the school's owner on a computer program they're having trouble using. I am such a damn geek that this is exciting to me. Also scored a new freelance article and will be writing a piece on beauty supplements for a trad mag. Rent is covered for the next couple of months...hurray! And...tonight is Thursday night...I am kid-free! A glass of wine and a movie on demand from Cablevision for me. Life is sweet.

I Hear America Singing
by Walt Whitman

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand
singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning,
or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work,
or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day- at night the party of young
fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

Funk and Fleas

I am too exhausted to go on at any length tonight. Took Kate to Dr. with what turned out to be sand flea bites from our lovely afternoon in the park. Poor baby girl. Watched Idol and Taylor was funny and sexy and quirky as per usual. He sang "Play That Funky Music" by Wild Cherry which I LOVE, and a Beatles ballad. Jack placed a vote for Paris, and that he got through right after the show to vote for her is not a good sign for the girl. Oh well. Did I say I was tired? Work crazy with emotions running high and one teacher bursting into tears on the playground and another cursing about the place, and swearing she was leaving. Jeez Louise, to quote the late, great John Valma aka Farmer John.

PLAY THAT FUNKY MUSIC
by Wild Cherry

Once I was a boogie singer
Playin' in a Rock 'n Roll band
I never had no problems
Burnin' down the one night stands
And everything around me
Got to start to feelin' so low
And I decided quickly
To disco down and check out the show
Yea they were dancin' and singin' and movin' to the groovin'
And just when it hit me somebody turned around and shouted

Chorus:
Play that funky music white boy
Play that funky music right
Play that funky music white boy
Lay down and the boogie and play that funky music 'til you die
'til you die, oh 'til you die

I tried to understand this,
I thought that they were out of their minds.
How could I be so foolish (how could I),
to not see I was the one behind.
But still I kept on fightin',
woah, loosin every step of the way.
I said I must go back there,
and check and see if things (are) still the same

Repeat Chorus

(Solo)
Hey, wait a minute

Now first it wasn't easy
Changin' rock 'n roll at Myze
And things were gettin' shaky
I thought I'd have to leave it behind
But now it's so much better
I'm funking out in every way
But I'll never lose that feeling
Of how I learned my lesson that day
When they were dancin' and singi' and movin' to the groovin'
And just when it hit me somebody turned around and shouted

Repeat Chorus:

They shouted
Play that funky music
Play that funky music
Play that funky music
Play that funky music
Play that funky music

Toddler Madness, Music and Poetry

Monday evening and, after consuming nearly a pot of coffee, managed to help with homework, get dinner on and off the table, do dishes and laundry and drag the garbage to the curb. Work today heinous as I had to do an emergency fill in in the toddler room. Dear god, seven babies toddling, biting, shoving each other over and smearing themselves and everything else with ravioli, bananas, ice cream, etc. Not to mention the diapers. I am not cut out for toddler care...they can't be reasoned with and they aren't adoreably immobile like infants. I can't face another day in there. I barely survived my own as toddlers. The higher ups tell me any day now I will begin the administrative work they hired me for. Uh huh.


In other news, my friend Russ Giffen has emailed me to see if I want to collaborate on a project with him. Russ is a musician who creates ambient music and he wants to write some music to go with my poems which would then be recorded by a singer friend of his. I am excited about this and as he is Joyce's ex-husband and still grieving her death (as am I) I wonder if maybe some of my 9/11 stuff would work for us both in this project. A cathartic, healing endeavor. Russ has got a three record deal, and is finishing up the second album now. We would work together on the third record. I am going to see a horror movie with him this Saturday in NYC and assume we'll discuss it further then.

Missing

I miss you like a sister,
Like an arm
Cut off in a freak accident,
Like an amethyst bracelet
Left on the F train,
Or October in the middle of August.
Like the rise of a tower
That used to sit near the river,
Like joy,
Sister, I miss you.


M.J. Tenerelli



Joyce and I, circa 1967