Connection Reflection

       The other day, I posted a piece called A One In A Sea of Twos, Threes, and Fours about experiencing a lack of community in my life at present. Upon rereading the piece and undergoing some reflection about its topic, some things became clear to me that I would like to share.
       There are inherent perils of laying it out there, of expressing what’s really going on inside me, and of being vulnerable. One of them is the possibility that I’m going to hurt somebody else’s feelings. The more I express, the more risk I take, and thus the more potential for reward and the more potential for loss. More risk means bigger upside and bigger downside. Which is one reason why people play it so safe with self expression. We all want the rewards. But if given the choice, who the hell wants the fallout? No one. Not even me. But it just doesn’t work that way.
       Which leads to another dilemmatic element of blogging about yourself; it can feel, for me and for my readers, that there is a high level of self absorption going on. And yet, the only experience I can write about with any amount of certainty is my own. If I’m expressing feelings and insights and experiences, I have to keep it about me. Only by doing that can I hope to keep it real, and through that authenticity, maybe connect to you. It’s an “I've got to go through me to get to you” type thing. In my attempt to be real with myself, I open myself up to a much broader world of experience, perspective, wisdom, and insight. And at that point, it won’t come from me, but from you. But it begins with me.
       It occurred to me that in my exposing my lack of community, that some of my friends, and I have many wonderful ones, may be hurt by that sentiment because it’s a reflection upon them. Indeed, if I look back over the past two weeks, I have been to two parties, attended the gig of a kid I love to death, attended the birthday bash at the the house of a friend who feels like family, had some deep and meaningful conversations, shared some very intimate moments, and connected with quite a few people whom I care a great deal about. People who I know care a great deal about me, and who have opened up their lives and their homes to me with unbounded hospitality and a lot of love. I am grateful for all of that. And for all of them.
       My lack of community and connection is an inside job. I feel a lack of connection to myself at present. I’m experiencing an inner loneliness at a level I have never felt before. Whatever is happening on the outside is just going to mirror that, no matter what the hell is going on there.
       That’s not anybody’s responsibility to shift but mine. But I’ll take all the help I can get. Because we don’t do this life alone. Which is another reason why I lay it out there, every chance I get.


©2013 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.

A One In A Sea of Twos, Threes, and Fours

       Currently missing from my life is a strong sense of community; a sense of belonging. Sometimes I feel like an afterthought in my own plans.
       Having never been married or had children, unlike many of my friends and relatives, I don’t have a family nucleus.
       Even though I’m starting my own business, and have a team of people working with me to make that happen, it’s still a highly solitary pursuit. Not having a particular work place to go to every day further disconnects me from the communal element of a traditional job. And I love to write, but writing is again something I do alone.
       Although I have reconciled with my family of origin, and we are all getting along well, I do not always feel a strong sense of community with them. I love them all, and I enjoy our time together. But there is a certain distance that I still need from keep. Maybe someday that will change. But right now, I need space from them.
       Only over the last several years have I come to wanting a deep and highly intimate relationship with a single life partner and commit to only her. That hasn’t happened yet. It will, and I’m not forlorn about it. But I don’t yet have someone to share my life with.
       I have lived alone for my entire adult life,; never had roommates, and never lived with a woman. The condominium I currently inhabit is mine, but it doesn’t feel like home anymore. It’s a transitional abode. I used to live in a house, and that was home. But that hasn’t been the case for a few years now.
       On every front, there is a sense of oneness, of aloneness, of existing in and of myself. I have created that, consciously and unconsciously, because that is the reality. So there is a part of me that wants that, or has wanted that. And that part is in conflict with the piece of me that craves community, and being part of something bigger than myself, and everything that goes with it.
       I realize that everybody has elements of community and solitariness in their lives. It gives a sense of balance. I guess what I’m acutely aware of is how out of balance I feel right now around this. And because I’ve done it this way for so long, I’m not really sure I know how to get in balance with it.
       I’ll figure it out; I’ll ask for help; I’ll shift and grow and make the changes I need to. I’m moving towards it. But right now, in this moment, it’s scary.


©2013 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.     

The Skunk House

       The Skunk House. That’s where I lived my last two years of college. Like all iconic residences, this one had a name, a lot of character, and a lot of characters in it. Seven guys. Five bedrooms. Three floors. One bathroom. It was glorious.
       Our abode got its name because it housed four of the six members of my band, The Albino Skunks, a fifties band, who’s repertoire also included some early sixties hits. The band was my brain child, from conception, to image, to costume design, to naming the band. My twin brother Mike and I played in it together. A shit load of fun. I’ll write a post someday about that band. But today, I’ll tell you about the house where most of us lived (not Mike, he lived across town). The Skunk House was, in the little world of Villanova, as infamous as the band itself.
       Not everybody was thrilled when we found the house in the spring of my Sophomore year. In the words of my father, “Johnny”.....(my dad rarely called me Clint) “that place is a God Damn Shit Hole!”. These words were said in front of some of the guys who eventually inhabited the place. They have become a part of folklore amongst many of my Villanova comrades, and the phrase is often repeated whenever we get together, complete with my dad’s Boston accent.
       Dad was right. It was a shit hole. All my housemates knew it. But we didn’t care. Because the only thing that mattered to the seven of us was that we lived together. It didn’t matter where. As long as we were in it as a tribe, all was right with the world.
       I remember getting into debates, even arguments, with my father about living there. He was of the opinion that we would all end up hating each other, because the place was such a dive and much too small for seven young men. Dad meant well, trying to protect his son and the relationships he knew meant a lot to him. My father had the tendency to be over-protective, and thought that he always knew best. God bless him. He meant well, and I knew it was coming from a place of deep love.
       But he was all wet about this one, and I told him so. I was adamant about living with all of these guys, in this house, for the rest of my college days. And I did. Around graduation, my dad admitted that I made the right call, and that I had assessed the situation soundly. The house actually brought us all closer.
       I knew it would, because I knew how we all felt about each other. There was a tremendous sense of camaraderie between us. We were like a gang. We hung out together. We had each other’s backs. We respected each other. We were all very different and yet very similar.
       Bottom line, we loved each other. I knew that. I felt that. Even at the tender age of twenty, I was keenly aware of how deeply I felt about these guys. And I experienced a wonderful sense of acceptance and affectation from them. They loved my spirit, my uniqueness, my unconventional approach to, well, everything. They loved me for who I was. And I felt the exact same way about them. Intense male bonding, before the term gained mass popularity.
       Okay. I’ve set the stage. In part two, I’ll give you the play. In beautiful, gory detail.


©2013 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.

Fuck

       Fuck.
       I love that word. For so many reasons.
       In this moment, I love it because it made me smile and inspired me to write, and I haven’t written much in a while. So I’m going with whatever moves me at a time when I’m feeling like a ton of dead weight. I’ll play with fire, because I need the light right now.
       Fuck is a powerful word. So powerful, in fact, that its overuse actually diminishes its effectiveness. Used sparingly, peppering your vocabulary with it, is much more effective than littering your speech with the word. Like a bold spice, a little on your food does a lot for the flavor, while too much and you have to spit it out.
       That said, there are cases when the purposeful overuse of the word is very effective, if just for the sake of humor. “Fuck you, you Fuckin’ Fuck” is the phrase that comes to mind.
       To some, the word is unacceptable, no matter what the context. To others, it’s okay in speech, but not in writing. Others will not write the word, but strongly infer it by throwing in an asterisk where the “u” would be, or abbreviate it by using “f’ing”. To each his, or her, own.
       The fact that the word fuck can be used as nearly any form of speech, from personal pronoun to dangling participle, is a a big part of its appeal to those of us who use the word freely. Fuck is fuckin’ versatile.
       It’s not lost on me that, in its original form, the word refers to the rather beautiful act of sex. And thus, like virtually all things in this and many other cultures that refer to sex, there is a stigma, and lots of hang ups, attached to it. For me, The word “kill” is much more repulsive than the word “fuck”, but the word “kill” is perfectly acceptable in any and all contexts. I’m not suggesting that we be as free as using the word “fuck” as we are with the word “kill”, because, as I said, fuck is better used as a spice rather than a main course. I’m just illustrating the point that the connotation or suggestion of violence is much more acceptable to us than the connotation or suggestion of sex.
       The sound of the word fuck is aggressive, because it’s one syllable, and ends with the “K” sound. That aggression is part of the word’s appeal, and part of its problem. It’s almost impossible to use the word and sound tender and soft. Even if you whisper into your lover’s ear, as you're nibbling on it, while you gently make love to her, “I fuckin’ love the way you taste, baby”, there’s going to be just a hint of aggression there. That’s not a bad thing. There are times when you want to be completely tender and gentle, and there are times when you want to be tender and gentle with just a smidgen of an edge in there. The word fuck, placed properly in the structure of your phrasing, and not emphasized, but just said matter of factly, can achieve that. Again, a versatile word.
       So here’s to a wonderful word; a word that I will continue to use and appreciate, in all its expressive glory. A word that gets a bad rap. A word that helped me, this morning, do something I love to do, but that I sometimes have trouble getting out of my own way to do. And that’s to write. And to express.
       A word that gave me life over fifty years ago, and gave me life again this morning.
       Fuck. Where would I be without you?


©2013 Cint Piatelli, MuscleHeart, and Red F Publishing. All fuckin’ rights reserved.

Declare Your Affections

       Someone close to me bought me a very cool book called How To Be Interesting. It’s one of those caring, yet tongue in cheek gifts. Because, although the book contains many pages of insightful, witty, truthful, and poignant writing, she points out to me that I’m already “Super Interesting”. Well thank you. That’s a great compliment.
       One of the pages says “Declare Your Affections. It takes a very brave person to be emotionally vulnerable. It takes a strong spirit to go weak in the knees.”
      Amen to that. Nice to know I’m not alone in those very powerful sentiments.

©2013 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart, and Red F Publihig. All rights reserved.