Mind Crisis

        Bringing down the recyclables this morning, two women walked by me and said hello. I said hello back, and one of them slowed down. Maybe the screaming florescent lime green sweat pants I was wearing emboldened her to ask “Do you live in this purple house?”. “Sure do” I replied. By this time her friend had stopped as well and smiled at me. I smiled back. There was a friendly, immediate sense of ease between the three of us, the kind you often get when you see people just after sunrise. That feeling that the whole world belongs to you at that early hour of the day fosters an instant, impermanent bond. The first woman then said “Can I ask you a question?”. I replied “You already have, but you can ask another one”. All three of us laughed. She continued, “Were you in an eighties hair band or something?”.
        The rumor that has persisted around my little town is that I was a drummer in an eighties hair band, went a little crazy, bought this house, and painted it purple. Well who the hell am I to get in the way of a good rumor? I don’t go around propagating this nonsense, but I’ve never actively dissuaded it either. And I wasn’t going to start now. It’s a great story, a harmless bit of misinformation, and lots of fun to play with.
        So I said to the women “Yes, I was. I was in a band called Mind Crisis.” Sometimes I’ll say that I was a member of “Whitesnake” if I’m approached by people who look like they know something about heavy metal. This is because Whitesnake is a real band, and they’ve had lots of drummers. And very few people know who those drummers were. I do, and now you will too: Ian Paice, Cozy Powell, Ansley Dunbar, Tommy Aldridge, and Denny Carmassi. All incredible players. My only twinge of guilt when I bullshit about this is that I am absolutely not worthy of being mentioned in the same sentence as those monsters. But if I ever met one of them, I think they would find the whole story amusing and forgive my indiscretion.
        I’m aware that this may all appear hypocritical. After all, I’m pontificating about the values of being yourself, and here I am pretty much lying about who I am. That’s one way to look at it, and not necessarily wrong. But I make this distinction: sometimes being myself means playing a part, just for a little while, just for fun. I’m not kidding myself, and all I’m gaining is a good story. I would never manipulate somebody into believing this tripe in order to get something. And if I got to know these women at all, I would ‘fess up to this little charade as soon the joke had run it’s course.
        Anyway, I went with “Mind Crisis” because that’s a fictitious band that sounds like a hair band from the eighties. The woman nodded and said “Oh wow.” Probably because we had developed a rapport, she blurted out “Why did you paint your house purple?”. I get this a lot, and my response is always the same. Without skipping a beat I said “For the only reason that matters when it comes to what color to paint your house. Because I wanted to.” No jesting there. That’s as authentic as it gets. She looked at me, wearing these florescent lime green sweat pants, standing in front of a purple house, laughed, and said with no malice in her voice whatsoever “That’s not what we heard!” I replied, smiling from ear to ear, “I know what you heard.” She laughed even harder.
        Sometimes my life is a lot of fun.

 © 2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and Wrongs) Reserved

Musex

Today is the second anniversary of my dad's death. Although I've written much about him, I decided that today's post would be a celebration of love and music. If he were still alive, my dad would be horrified to see me post something so graphic, sexual, and revealing as this. And he would have told me so. But secretly, he would would have smiled and said "Jesus Christ, John" (my dad called me John, not Clint. And he loved taking the lord's name in vain). Dad was a huge fan of music. And of love.

      Don’t try this at home. Actually, absolutely try this at home.
      One night, she creates a play list of songs. The next night, he does. For the next two evenings, this will be the music you play while you’re having sex. Here’s the twist: As you make love to all these various pieces of music, consciously notice how the music impacts you and your experience.
       The difference here is that you’re paying attention to what song is playing. It’s not just background music. You’re aware of what the song is, what it brings up, and how it makes you feel. It’s not distracting you. It’s guiding you. It’s shaping the event, enhancing it, right along with the two of you. Specific music becomes another active element, like scent, that co-creates the experience.
       Give the atmosphere a chance to develop. Choose songs that evokes similar emotions, setting a particular overall mood. To that end, you wouldn’t mix “Vicarious” by Tool with “Wild Horses” by The Stones. Unless you want some crazy, psychotically charged sex. Which is perfectly cool.
        Think about choosing the song “Love Gun” by Kiss. It’s a raunchy, sexist, absurdly macho, testosterone dripping, aggressive piece of music. Chances are, that’s what the sex will be like. Be aware of what the song is bringing up in you while it’s happening. Now put on “Something In The Way She Moves” by James Taylor. Soft, beautiful, tender, loving. An absolute musical temple for the woman.
        No matter what you choose, become actively aware of what the music is saying to you, doing to you, and evoking in you. Call it conspicuously conscious sex. If you like to talk while you’re making love, jackpot. Tell your lover what you’re experiencing as each song brings up different nuances and sensations and feelings. While keeping the motor running, of course.
        Sometimes, I've taken it a step further. I sing to my lover while we’re having sex. It’s more of a whisper type of singing, but it’s still melodic, and I get all the words right. More importantly, I really get into it. More more importantly, she really gets into it. Now, I don’t have a trained voice, but it doesn’t matter. Anybody can sing in this situation and sound just dandy. And when a woman sings to me, forget it. I died and went to heaven. And that’s before my orgasm. The absolute apex is to sing to your lover while you’re looking into each other’s eyes. One word for that: Magic.
        Singing to someone while beholding their glassy gaze, however, does takes some chutzpah. Remember the last time you played DJ at a party and nobody liked your choice of music? Musical rejection can hurt. You’re out on a limb a bit with this one. But it is so worth it.
        No matter what music you choose, make sure there’s nothing but love behind it. It can be a tender, soft, gentle kind of love. It can be a madly passionate, lustful kind of love. It can be a controlling kind of love. As in “Honey, where are the handcuffs?”. That’s fine. Actually that’s more than fine. That’s fantastic. Anyway, maybe it’ll help you work through something. With her. With him. Maybe without even talking about it. Most guys like that last part.
        Music can be the third in a beautiful menage a trois. And unlike the real thing, there’s never any radioactive emotional fallout. I’ve sung entire CD’s to woman just during foreplay. Then again, I have a tremendous capacity for remembering lyrics. And for foreplay.

© 2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and oh so many Wrongs) Reserved.

Cycle Chant

       Recently, I took up chanting. Whilst riding my bike. Whenever I pass a fellow exerciser, even though I’m chanting, I smile and wave. This induces a bewildered look from most people. The audio-visual dynamic of a man chanting while cycling as he waves at you is probably a little strange. Maybe people aren't used to a guy on a bike being friendly. Or chanting. Or both.
        For some reason, cyclist, the kind who dress like they’re doing the Tour de France through your neighborhood, can come off as the unfriendliest exercisers ever to break a sweat. “Unfriendly Cyclist Syndrome”, or U.C.S., afflicts thousands of people around the country, especially in affluent areas like mine. Cyclists with U.C.S. rarely acknowledge any sort of greeting. They don’t even grunt at you. Why the attitude? Is this because they’re in “The Zone” and can’t come out of it? Are they resentful of people who drive and take that out on everybody, even pedestrians? This is not a rhetorical question. Any avid cyclists out there who can help me with this, please respond. I want to understand.
        Cyclist rarely smile at me when I’m riding because they probably think I’m completely bastardizing the sport by combining chanting with bike riding. Or maybe it’s because I never wear a helmet. Ever. I hate the damn things. Yes, a helmet could save my life if I fell. Yes, it’s foolish not to wear one. So I’m a fool. A dangerous fool. I’m okay with that.
        Chanting as I cycle gets me my cardio while I practice a spiritual pursuit. Eventually, I want the chanting to help me quiet my mind, which is one of it’s benefits. I haven’t gotten there yet.
        Maybe when I do, I’ll become one of those Unfriendly Cyclist because I’ll be in a place where I don’t know there’s anybody else on the planet, never mind somebody coming the other way waving at me. If that’s the case, I’d better get a helmet as well. Because if I’m that out of it, my chances of being hit by a car increase from unlikely to unavoidable.
        No. I can’t accept that. I trust that, when I get to the point where the chanting quiets my mind while I’m biking, I’ll still be aware enough to be friendly and appropriately alert. That has to be way. Because I’m always going to smile and wave. And I’m not wearing a helmet.

© 2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a cataclysmic amount of Wrongs) Reserved

Abandonment Part 1

The following is the first in a series of blogs on abandonment. I strongly encourage you to respond with comments, questions, or ideas in the comments section. Abandonment is such a huge issue for so many people, that any dialogue, discussion, or sharing about it could be extremely beneficial for anyone in the blogging community who struggles with it.

        The word “abandonment” is a positively terrifying word for those who are petrified of being left. Which is to say, most of us. Or that population of most of us who are in touch with that piece of ourselves.
        Rejection, loneliness, insecurity, inadequacy, worthlessness, shame, hopelessness, and despair can all be triggered by the “A” word. That’s one reason it can feel so impossibly painful. Because abandonment ignites virtually every other smoldering hurt we have. And it sets ablaze anything else that is already up for us. We can be burning alive. And if we’re in denial about the pain, or if we’re depressed and therefore numb, we don’t even know that we’re on fire.
        Abandonment is not content with attacking us by itself. As if it were not overwhelming enough, it recruits all of our other great pains too. Soon, it’s as though we’re drowning in a toxic stew of our greatest sufferings and our most frightening nightmares.
        Abandonment takes no prisoners. It can feel like it’s trying to kill you. Maybe it is. Because the pain is so great, we sometimes believe that death might feel better. Maybe abandonment is doing us a favor by trying to kill us so that we don’t have to suffer anymore.
        If our abandonment issue goes deep enough, it feels like it’s who we are. There is nothing deeper. It is us. Everything else on top is just frosting over this dark, tortured self. That means we will never be rid of it. We will never be over it. It will always be with us, and it will run us whenever we face it.
        Our abandonment pain comes from somewhere back in childhood. If it goes back far enough, we don’t consciously remember the incidents or memories that created the original wounds.
        In my case, it goes back as far back as it possibly can. Birth.
        Right out of the womb that I shared with my twin brother, I got shipped off into an incubator for three weeks. Alone. No mom. No dad. No twin. No hanging out in the hospital room with the family for a few days. Nobody at all, except a nurse who fed me a few times a day. I don’t even know how much, if at all, she touched me when she fed me. Judging by how affectionate I am, and by my desire and love of physical contact, I’d guess that I probably wasn’t touched much at all my first three weeks of life.
        Being left alone at birth like that is similar to what an orphan experiences. I’m not comparing my entire childhood to that of an orphan’s childhood. But I am drawing a parallel to my original wound and the original wound of an orphan. Or with anyone else who can’t consciously remember the pain of their original abandonment.
        This emotional and physical orphaning leaves very deep, very big, very painful scars. The issue can loom large in our lives. Especially in our intimate relationships. That’s where the rubber meets the road. Because it was an initial love relationship with a parent, or parents, that created the original wound. We carry that with us into every intimate relationship from then on. Only when we become aware of it and choose to face it can we be set free. Like the worst monster we can imagine, unresolved abandonment can keep us prisoner our entire lives.
        To me, that monster looked so enormous, so invincible, that the only solution seemed to be to never face it. For it will eat me alive and still be hungry. The only way to beat abandonment was to not risk being abandoned. To not be completely vulnerable. I avoided putting myself so far out there emotionally that there’s no turning back. I didn’t let myself love anyone with absolutely everything, EVERYTHING, I had. It was measured love. Restricted giving of self. Safety.
        I’ve been there most of my life. Maybe you have, too. But I'm not there anymore. Because I’m tired of loving that way. I’m tired of living that way. And I’ve found a way out. It can be slow. It is painful. And it works.

© 2008 Clint Piatelli. All Right (and Wrongs) Reserved

Battlefield Tea Party

       “What the hell happened to me?”
        That question is usually asked under less than optimal circumstances. Like waking up the morning after an all nighter and not knowing where you are or how you got there. Even worse, waking up one morning in the middle of your life and not recognizing it. Or yourself. That’s much scarier than the first scenario. And more common. Has it happened to you? It has to me. More than once.
        My particular circumstances may have been different than yours, but the feelings probably weren’t. I wasn’t in a job that I didn’t like. My finances were okay. I owned several pieces of property. I was a bachelor who enjoyed good health. I had a beautiful girlfriend. From the outside, everything looked great. That’s the point. On the outside, everything was great. But I wasn’t. I was in constant pain. Because inside, it was war. And I was losing.
        The battle raged on between the real me and the me I had created to survive. The war analogy works here, but in complete reverse. In the middle of the two me’s, there’s the “battlefield”. That’s actually the okay part. Because that’s where the real me and the other me are engaging. Where they meet. It’s really more like a tea party than a fight. The problem lies in the two opposing camps. That’s where the real mayhem is.
        The two sides take up different amounts of internal space. This is a battle of territory. And the self is the landscape. The “real me” needs more room. The “survivor me” has got most of it, and he doesn’t want to give it up. When the two engage, they’re actually able to work things out. That’s the battlefield tea party. That’s who the world sees when I engage in life. When I feel safe and can be myself. It’s the person that my friends know and love. It’s the me that plays drums in a band, or throws killer parties, or goes to California and makes films about the trip. It’s the me that connects easily with people, and finds life infinitely fascinating and wondrous.
        This battlefield tea party was me at my best. It’s the me I was about twenty percent of the time. Unfortunately, the tea party didn't last very long, and it wasn’t big enough. Eventually, the survivor me took charge and ended the soiree. The landscape got altered, and therefore so did I. When the party’s over, I am too. The real me goes back to its camp, doesn’t engage, and waits for the next chance to shine.
        That was the way I used to be.
        The real me is finally winning the war. No longer in constant conflict, the person I created to survive now takes up much less internal real estate. More troops have joined the tea party, which now goes on for days at a time. The real me, all of him, is showing up, a lot more often. And he’s staying around longer too. This blog, this website, is living proof of that.
        “What the hell happened to me?” was that I got in touch with how I felt. All the way down to the bottom. When I did that, when I opened my heart, I started winning. I started winning myself back.
        Getting in touch with your heart is what gets you yourself back. And there is no greater prize on the planet.

© 2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and Wrongs) Reserved