Mental Necrophilia

       I spent the better part of yesterday afternoon mind-fucking something to death. Mental Necrophilia. And I can’t even say what it’s about, because that wouldn’t be fair to certain people. So forgive my vagueness.
       Ultimately, obsessive thinking is about me, not about whatever or whoever I’m obsessively thinking about. As always, the lesson in this situation is mine.
       If what I suspect is happening is actually happening, and I have strong circumstantial evidence that it is, then I’m hurt. And paradoxically, I’m also pleased. But if this certain something isn’t happening, I’m still hurt. And also somewhat relieved.
       So either way, yes or no, there’s a world of hurt attached to this. What that means is there’s still a world of hurt inside of me that I haven’t released yet. And therein lies my lesson.
       Mind screwing this thing sends me down a road I’ve traveled often. A road of self flagellation, fear, doubt, pain, and intense self hatred. My mind beats myself to a pulp because it, the mind, is obsessing. That’s like being with an alcoholic who drinks and then blames me for her drinking. It’s insane. But it’s where I go sometimes.
       It’s because I’m back in my head. It’s because my mind is a tool that sometimes uses me. When it comes to affairs of the heart, my mind is a terrible leader. When I hurt, or love, or feel, coming from my head leads to one result. Pain. But my heart leads me to my truth, every time. I have to be able to to quiet my mind and come from my heart. For the longest time, I couldn’t do that. I can now. I just sometimes forget, and I slip into an old bad habit.
       The integration of my mind, body, heart, and soul is my key to making decisions that serve me best. If those elements can communicate and integrate, then they serve me. Instead of me serving them. My whole self is thus the fluid and harmonious integration of what I feel, what I think, what I know, and what inspiration and intuition are telling me. Heart. Mind. Body. Soul.
       In this recent bout of mental necrophilia, my mind is not helping me. Because my mind is telling me how weak and foolish and worthless I am for feeling something. For wanting something.
       My heart knows that no matter what the truth is in this situation, the only solution is love. Self love first. Love for another second.
       When I lead with my heart, I quiet my mind. I stop mind-fucking, and my head can get back to constructive, not destructive, pursuits. Instead of telling me how bad I am, my mind can focus on how to get published. I need my mind for that. Strategic planning, research, analyzation - all things I’m very good at. All things I like to do. All functions where my mind takes the lead and guides me. So I put it to work where it’s needed. I focus it on what it’s good at. I keep it out of the emotional cookie jar, where it tells me that to feel is absurd. Where it tells me that following my heart is foolhardy.
       The first draft of this post was written freehand in a Barnes & Noble bookstore. On my way back to Cape Cod from Boston, I felt so compelled to write that I had to stop and set up shop there. On the shelf next to me is a mug that says:
              Dance as though no one is watching
              Sing as though no one is listening
              Love as though you’ve never been hurt
              Live as though heaven is on earth
       In the middle of reading it, I have to choke back the tears, so poignant are these words. Especially at this moment. People much wiser than I have said that there are no coincidences.
       I think about the words for a moment, and I break it down line by line.
       Dance as though no one is watching. I can honestly say that when I dance, I do it as though no one is watching. And I can dance. So when I let go, people end up watching. What a great paradox.
       Sing as though no one is listening. I sing all the time. In fact, I’m singing right now. “Sweet Baby James” by James Taylor. It’s on the P.A. system here, and I know the words, I love the song, and I’m singing it. Audibly. I sing in the car. I sing at home. I sing in line at the store. I even sing in the gym. I know people are sometimes listening, but I sing as if nobody is. I just love to sing. So I do. You should hear me at a rock concert.
       Love as though you’ve never been hurt. For the first time in my life, I’m loving as though I’ve never been hurt. For twenty-five years, I loved with the memory of pain. I know what that feels like. Now I’m loving somebody who isn’t with me, says she doesn’t want me, and has hurt me worse than anybody ever has. And I still love her. I’ve thrown my heart on the table for her, more than once. I’ve written about her here, on numerous occasions. I share whatever is in my heart with anybody who reads my blog. I do it because it’s how I feel. I do it because it’s my truth. I do it because, regardless of how she feels about me, I love her. That’s loving like I’ve never been hurt.
       The last phrase on the mug, Live as though heaven is on earth, is the perpetually tricky one. But three out of four isn’t bad.
       When my mind gets in the way, when it tries to lead when it should follow, I can’t do any of what it says on the mug. I can’t dance, or sing, or love, or live, the way I want to. The way I need to.
       Obviously, I need my mind to write. But my mind takes direction from my heart. I write from my heart. My head simply assists. My mind and my body are tools that my heart and soul use to express themselves. This is the type of integration and communication I alluded to earlier. The type where my whole self participates in the creation of my life. This is one reason writing is so special to me.
       When my mind was causing me pain and turmoil, I followed my heart into this bookstore. I followed my heart to write this piece. I have followed my heart on this journey that began when it got broken. Shattered beyond my recognition. And following my broken heart, that from all “reasonable” accounts wasn’t working very well, has allowed me to create this blog and finally share all of myself. Following my broken heart has allowed me to get in touch with a life time of pain, and allowed me to finally start to release it. Following my broken heart has opened up my life in ways that my mind never could. Following my broken heart has allowed me to know, on a level previously foreign to me, that self love is the key to my being. Following my broken heart has, ironically, allowed me to love like I’ve never been hurt.
       My heart continues to lead me. For sure, that is a road less traveled. Especially for a man. But that is my path. Looking back, though, I’m not surprised. Because on virtually every level, at virtually every turn, I’ve taken a path less worn. Listened to a different drummer. However you want to put it.
       Sometimes, it takes painful, frustrating situations like these to remind me to follow my heart and not my head. Someday, I hope to know that so deep within me that I don’t have to go to that dreadfully painful place in order to get back to where I need to be. When that happens, I will be living as though heaven is here on earth. And then I will truly be free...

©2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a head full of Wrongs) Reserved.

Self Actualized Christmas Tree

       The Christmas Tree. Nature with a twist of humankind. Part tree. Part machine. The cyborg of flora. One of the most beautiful creations on earth.
       With the creation of The Christmas Tree, humankind has added to, not taken from, the grandeur of the natural world. We actually improved on one of our planet’s most perfect specimens. How about that.
       We did this by bestowing one of nature’s greatest gifts with one of our greatest gifts: self expression. The Christmas Tree represents a divinely inspired combination of natural perfection and human creativity. An embellishment of our highest purpose upon that which does not need our embellishment, but welcomes it if our intent is the pursuit of beauty.
        Yeah, I know it’s just a Christmas tree. And yeah, I really feel it’s all of that.
        As you can imagine, I put lots of effort into my Christmas Tree. Once it’s up, lit, and trimmed, I make a habit of falling asleep in front of it. I lye on my couch and stare at it, sometimes for hours. I’m mesmerized by all the bright, shiny lights and iridescent garland. I see a self-contained world of magic, existing in it’s own space and time, right in the middle of my living room. And I listen. Because each one of my ornaments tells a story.
        Some of my ornaments were given to me by my parents. I remember when they hung on our tree when I was a kid. Many of them conjure up very specific memories. Like the little green shiny gift box that says “Harrods” on it that my folks brought back from London. Or the glass balls covered in orange silk that I’ve never seen on any other tree, ever.
        My Tree makes me think of my dad. He loved lighting and trimming our Christmas tree and decorating the house. I miss helping him light the huge holly tree in our back yard, and the two gorgeous cherry trees out front. I miss chopping down a fresh tree each year for him and my mom, and then delivering it to them with the truck I borrowed from his company. My dad and I would get the tree in the base, and then he would light it with more pink lights than I knew existed.
        My own collection of ornaments is fairly impressive. And like a woman who knows exactly where she got and what she paid for every piece of clothing she owns, I can recall similar information about every one of my Christmas ornaments. I can usually recall the store I bought them in, who I was with, how excited I was, and my general frame of mind, for every one. The data stays with me because that ornament is going to become an integral part of one of my great creations: My Christmas Tree.
        My Christmas Tree is a splendid example of maximized self expression. A nearly perfect extension of self. Of self fully realized. When I am fully me, I embody all the spectacular attributes of my Christmas Tree.
        My tree is real. It’s full. It’s unique and expressive. It makes a statement. People are drawn to it. It shines brightly, and it has a presence. It’s a beautiful work of art that uplifts people. It’s creative. Imaginative. Bold. Evocative. One of a kind. A many faceted jewel with a beautiful story to tell. Inspired by love, it gives off energy. It moves people. It’s wonderful just to be around. And man does it smell good.
        When any of us live at our full potential, we are just like the Christmas Tree. We become an ideal made real. A living work of art. The Christmas Tree represents what we can be when we completely show up for life, dare to be ourselves, and invite people to experience us.
        Every Christmas tree is like a fully self-actualized human being.
        No wonder they’re so damn beautiful.

©2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a self-actualized amount of Wrongs) Reserved.

Click on the picture above to see more photos of The Cyborg of Flora.

My Purple Heart

       I received three priceless gifts yesterday.
       First thing in the morning, I got a call from my sister Cheryl. She told me that my piece “Jordan Kelley” had inspired a father to write a letter to his estranged son. The fact that something I wrote could impact someone in that way still hasn’t hit me. But it will. When it does, you’ll hear about it. Because I’ll hear about it. From within.
       I suspect that what’s blocking my emotional response to such a beautiful piece of news is my inability to fully honor my own writing. “It can’t be that moving”, I hear myself say, even though there’s plenty of information to the contrary. But I’m still having trouble absorbing the positive feedback, the support, and the wonderful little stories like these about what I’m doing. I need to get better at taking that in. Another inside job that needs some attention.
       Second thing in the morning, I saw that it was snowing out. What a perfect day to light and trim my freshly cut tree. So I spent the next ten hours lighting, trimming, holidayz-ing the house, watching football, and blasting Christmas music. All at once. Had loads of fun.
       The third priceless gift happened as I was unloading one of several massive containers full of Christmas goodies. I came across a very plain cardboard box. Thinking it contained one of my many special and carefully wrapped ornaments, I opened it up and found something even more magical. I found one of last year’s Christmas gifts from my principessa.
       There were two items in the box. One was a posable plastic action figure of a knight and his steed. On a Sunday afternoon last December, we spent a beautiful day shopping together in the center of her town. We went into a toy store, where I got excited over these little knights and horses. She remembered that and went back to get one. Maybe she even bought it there and then while I was gawking at something else.
       Either way, I loved the gift. Because it showed that she was paying attention. To me. To what I liked. To what moved me. Even if it was a silly little action figure. It didn’t have to make sense to her. She gave it because it mattered to me. And that endears me to people I love. Possibly more than anything else.
       The second thing in the box was a small black velvet bag. As I looked at the bag, I couldn’t remember what was in it. In the back of my mind, however, I wondered if it could be....no. It can’t be that. I threw that away when she broke up with me six months ago, didn’t I? During my three week tirade of anger? I’ve come so far since then, that that brief period of my life really is a little blurry. The way I felt, or didn’t feel, the thoughts I had. So much is different now.
       So I’m staring at this black velvet bag and I pour it’s contents into my hand. And there it is. A purple sparkly stone in the shape of a heart. I didn’t throw it away. No. I put it away. To be opened again at some point in time when I could completely receive it’s message. It’s message of tenderness. And caring. And warmth. And love.
       I then realized something else significant. At least significant to me and how I operate. Not only did I save the gifts, but I saved the box the gifts came in. I saved the paper it was wrapped in too. I only save the box and the paper under two circumstances. One, I love the box and paper and want to look at it again later. Or two, the gift means something incredibly special to me.
       Well the box and the paper were nothing to write home about.
       My heart always knew how much I loved her. While my head was working overtime to build walls around my heart, trying to protect it, inside those walls, my heart was tripping over itself.
       All the time I was with her, my heart was talking to me. I just wasn’t listening very well. But a part of me was listening. Because that part allowed itself to be guided by what I was feeling. So I was able act on that, and not on what my head was telling me. That part of me knew enough to put the precious gift away until I could fully receive it. That part was aware of how much the gift meant to me. Of how much she meant to me.  That part saved the box. That part saved the paper. And found it again. When I was ready.

©2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (plus Three More Priceless Rights) Reserved.

Mall Mayhem Day

       Tomorrow, Friday, December 5, is a very special day. For twenty years, a few friends and I have honored the first Friday of December as faithfully and festively as the pagans honored the winter solstice. Indeed, part of the definition of “pagans” reads as follows: “ones who delight in sensual pleasures and material goods; hedonistic”. And that’s a rather apt description of how we’ll behave.
        Tomorrow, we’ll descend upon countless retail shops to sample, enjoy, and purchase their wares, feeding the material beast. We’ll clandestinely indulge in the mind bending consumption of alcohol. We’ll carry on and frolic about in a suburban holiday fantasy play land. Tomorrow, the first Friday of December, is Mall Mayhem Day.
        Since the late 1980’s, virtually every major mall in Eastern Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Rhode Island has been sacked by our merry band of holiday revelers. Fueled by deep friendship, holiday spirit, and a water bottle full of Sambuca, we immerse ourselves into the land of Christmas make believe. And we shop. Inevitably, we end up buying as much for ourselves as we do for anybody else. But that’s part of the fun. Picking out things for yourself with friends around makes the gift...more festive. More communal. More memorable. Virtually every gift I have ever purchased on Mall Mayhem Day comes with a story. And with a memory of who I was with when I bought it. That makes the gift very special to me. Because while the gift may be the physical manifestation of the experience, the experience itself is worth infinitely more to me than whatever I bought.
        Mall Mayhem Day is not a foray into what some would describe as a decayed suburban wasteland. It’s a chance to get together, for a WHOLE DAY, with people I love and who’s company I feel blessed by. It’s a day of festivity and fun, as we create new experiences and new memories. It’s an opportunity to totally immerse oneself in the holiday spirit. With over the top decorations, Christmas music, bright lights, shiny things, and yes, Santa Claus. It’s one of the few days of the year that I would ever dream of having a belt by 11 AM. And I end up with some new stuff as well. What’s not to love?
        This year, we’re returning to the Natick Mall, in Natick, Massachusetts. The new part of the mall, the part that houses stores like Needless Markup and Sex Fifth Avenue, is called the Natick Collection. I suppose they felt as though they had to differentiate the stores that charge $400 for a shirt from the stores that sell the same shirt for $39.95. If your store is part of the “Collection”, and not the “mall”, the cache justifies the absurd price differential. It doesn’t matter, though, because we have fun no matter what store we’re in. Or what store we get kicked out of.
        Shopping with friends on Mall Mayhem Day is a luxury that I am fortunate to enjoy, especially these days. As much fun as it is (and man, is it fun), it is also a day in which I experience profound gratitude. I’m grateful that I have such wonderful friends to spend time with. Grateful that I have the flexibility to take that day and do exactly what I please. Grateful that I enjoy this time of year, when so many do not. Mall Mayhem Day is one of those days that honestly reminds me of how blessed I really am. Another reason I love it.
        Now dude, please pass the "water". I thirst.

©2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a mall full of Wrongs) Reserved.

Round Mountain

       When I was a kid, I had this recurring dream. This recurring nightmare. There stood in front of me a rock. Actually, it was a boulder. No, it was more like a mountain. A round mountain. I was expected to push this round mountain, to move it. All by myself. Nobody in the dream told me I had to move it. But I knew I had to just the same.
        I also knew that I would spend the rest of my life trying, alone, in vain, to move that round mountain. I knew that I would never get any help, and that it would never budge. Not one millionth of an inch. Every moment of my entire life was henceforth going to consist of trying to move this round mountain and never making any progress.
        Staring at this round mountain and contemplating the rest of my existence, I experienced downright suicidal hopelessness and despair. When I woke up, always in a cold sweat and breathing heavily, my relief that it was just a dream knew no bounds. I was grateful beyond measure.
        That dream recurred from the time I was about seven until late in my teens. Up until a few years ago, I had never told anybody about that dream. Not my parents, or my siblings, or my friends, or my teachers, or even my stuffed animals. It was too horrible to contemplate. So like almost everything else I felt then, I kept it inside, and tried to forget about it.
        That nightmare literally scared the life out of me.
        I’ve often thought since then what a sublime and subtly horrific dream that was for a child to have. What I’ve understood since then, is that although I was just a kid, I had already developed adult sized fears. I skipped right over the G-Rated phobias and went right to the R-Rated ones.
        What I didn’t realize as a child was that my waking life resembled that dream. An overall sense of hopelessness, despair, frustration, and melancholy pervaded me as a kid. The dream just reflected that, on the subconscious stage of my sleep.
        I don’t have that dream anymore. But I still remember how it felt, and sometimes I can go there while I’m awake. Sometimes, I still feel that nightmarish level of despair and hopelessness. And, just like it did then, it scares the life out of me.
        I’m good at procrastinating. I’m a pro at letting certain things build to a point where it’s no longer just a deed to be done or a problem to solve. Now, it’s a project. A huge, messy project. If I do that with enough things in my life, I can get that awful feeling again. What I call the “round mountain syndrome”.
        Not again, I tell myself. Not after all the work I’ve done. How the hell do I periodically keep coming back to this shit? Despite all my progress and growth. Despite the profound breakthroughs and awakenings and shifts I’ve experienced over the past six months. Despite all that, this fuckin’ waking dream will not go away.
        It comes up for a reason. It comes up because I still need to work on it. I know that, but that doesn’t help me when it shoves itself into my life. When that happens, I feel crushed by that round mountain. It takes up the whole sky. It takes up all my space, both inside and out. It looms omnipresent. It is both the immovable object and the irresistible force. Like the song by the band Boston, this is more than a feeling. It’s a pervasive, underlying attitude and perspective that still occasionally rears it’s butt ugly head. And I hate it. It goes against my natural enthusiasm and passion and energy. It feels like a cancer that I just want to cut out of me and be done with.
        But I always move through it. I take much better care of myself now, especially when I'm in trouble. I’ll work out more, and let the endorphins kick into hyperdrive. I’ll pray more, and meditate more, and do some yoga, even though I’m as tight as a piano wire. I’ll get in a few extra al-anon meetings, and talk to people about where I’m at instead of keeping it inside. I’ll write about it now too, and share it here. It all helps. And I move out of it much quicker than I used to. I don’t stay there long anymore. That alone is reason to be hopeful and buoyant.
        Maybe someday this feeling will go away and never come back. And then again, maybe I’ll have to deal with it for the rest of my life.
        If it does keep coming back, though, I’ll tell you something I’m actually looking forward to. And that’s being in bed some night with a woman I love and telling her about this dream. Sharing, for the first time in my life with my lover, this positively awful nightmare and that positively awful place that I can still sometimes go. Because I’m no longer afraid to be so vulnerable. I’m no longer ashamed to admit that some nights, I need to just crawl into her soft embrace and absolutely melt into her warm, loving body. Letting myself completely go. Breaking down if I have to. Crying if I need to. While she holds me, listens, and loves me back to the present. Back to a time and place where I can share the nightmare of the round mountain with the woman I love. Back to a time and place where I don’t have to go through this alone, and I can finally ask somebody for help.

©2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a Round Mountain full of Wrongs) Reserved.