Gone In Sixty Seconds

       There’s this fear I have. It’s one of those ridiculously unreal fears, the kind that are completely irrational; like the adult equivalent of the Boogie Man. Unlike, say a fear of flying, where the possibility of death may be very remote but statistically possible, my phobia is not based on anything except some deep seeded dysfunctional neural programming.
       I work hard at keeping myself fit. Lots of sacrifice and discipline involved. Hours of exercise. Constant vigilance regarding diet and nutrition. In other words, it doesn’t happen overnight. Yet my fear is that, if I miss just a few days, or if I’m not constantly on top of it, one morning, I am going to wake up, and, literally, it’s all gonna be gone. Overnight, my body will have morphed into something soft and unhealthy and unrecognizable.
       Now, I’m aware of the reality that, if I had an accident, in one moment, my body could be permanently transformed. I’m not talking about that kind of fear. I’m not talking about the fear of having something instantaneous and horrific happen to me so that I would be mutilated or paralyzed. I’m talking about the kind of completely impossible notion that I’m going to have a lapse of proper eating or of working out, and, all of sudden, I’m going to look like Fred Flintstone because of it.
       My rational brain knows this is not remotely possible. But this fear does not reside in my rational brain. It resides in that part of me that has been traumatized and not completely let go of the trauma. We all have areas in ourselves like that. Some of us, more so than others, and more intensely. But we’ve all got that shit floating around within.
       Because I’ve gone inside and gotten to know myself better, even the parts that are sort of fucked up, less than stellar, flawed, and completely insane, I know what this particular fear says about me, and I know where it comes from. I know that this kind of fear points to something bigger and deeper. They always do. That’s the nature of really bizarre fears like this. They’re signposts to parts of ourselves that are still holding onto trauma and pain and constantly reliving it. It’s where these certain parts of ourselves hang out. The question becomes how often do we hang out there with them. And what do we do about that when we do, because spending too much time there can really interfere with our lives.
       This particular fear of mine has to do with a kind of emotional volatility that I grew up with, and with abandonment; shit that I experienced as a kid, in enough doses and/or with enough intensity, that they left marks. They left scars. As I’ve said, we all have scars. Both inside and out. But do I let my scars define me? If, for example, I had a big scar on my body, would I let it define my physical appearance? Would I experience myself as a scar with a body around it, or would I experience myself as a body with a scar on it?
       It’s the same thing with internal scars. There are times when I over-identify with those scars. When I do, I’m coming from fear. I’m coming from inadequacy. I’m coming from pain. From a place where I’m not operating on all cylinders. How quickly do I catch myself when I’m there, and how do I get out of it? Sometimes I’m very good at that. Sometimes I'm not.
       Support networks are very important. If we have people in our lives who know these dark places in us, we can look to them to help dig us out of those trenches. One of the worst aspects of being in a place like that is the loneliness and isolation we feel. We feel like, not only are we the only fucked up person on the planet, but that we are the most fucked up person on the planet. At least that’s where I go when it’s really bad. And let me tell you, it's a shitty place to be.
       But I have people in my life I can turn to when I’m there. But I don’t always do that. I don’t always reach out. Sometimes I keep it all inside, mind fuck it to death, and make it worse. Why the fuck would I do something like that? Part of it is shame. I’ve attached a lot of shame to feeling like that, so the last thing I want to do is cop to it, even to somebody I love, somebody who I know isn’t going to judge me. I have to be on top of that. Keeping all that shit inside is an old habit, and a bad one.
       Writing about it, and posting it for anybody on the planet to see, really helps me though. It doesn’t feel so bad, or so heavy, when I share it. Posting is one way I share. Talking to people close to me is another way. I encourage you to find your ways. There’s a saying that goes “Your mind can be like a bad neighborhood. Don’t go there alone.”.
       Right On.


©2015 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved. 

Letting Go

       For me, letting go of people remains challenging. Just saying the words “letting go” aloud as I write them hurts. Like drawing the water from a very deep well, the words bring up a seemingly bottomless sense of sadness and sorrow. I hate letting go. I hate saying the words. I hate writing the words. I hate the whole fuckin’ concept.
       I wish I could say that I understand and accept that letting go is necessary, and part of life, and all that shit. But in this moment, I don’t. It’s totally unrealistic, very juvenile and naive, but I would rather not have to let go of anybody. No matter what they did. No matter what I did. I would rather be able to love my way through it. With them. I know life doesn’t work that way. But my heart wishes it did.
       When I was a kid, I would sometimes sleep with all of my stuffed animals. And I had a shit load of them. They would be stuck in every corner of the bed under the covers. I wouldn’t be able to move around at all, and because the little critters were made of synthetic fibers, it was like being in a sleeping bag in a place that was already at room temperature. Sleeping with almost 20 stuffed animals was hot and uncomfortable. But some nights, it’s what I chose. Because there was something so painful about not having all of them around me that I would put up with whatever I had to so I could be with all of them.
       That way of living is untenable and not healthy. I get that. But where my heart goes is to be able to wave a magic wand and make it right. My heart has difficulty dealing with the reality of letting go, of the reality that some people are not good for me. My heart wants to make them good for me, to make me good for them. That way I don’t have to let go. And neither do they. Crazy, but true.
       Letting go of people I love has created a collective sadness in me that is always there, even when I am full of joy. Like scars that don’t go away. I’m often not aware of them. Most of the time, my emotional body is effectively dealing with it; most of the time, the wounds feel healed; just like the physical body learns to adapt to and heal the physical scars. But then, there are times when, like looking at that raised pink ridge on my back when I had surgery, I remember how much it all hurt. And then I suddenly become aware of every other scar on my body; I suddenly become aware of every person I’ve let go of. And collectively, I feel them all like one giant loss. And I feel how much that can still hurt.
       Somebody asked me what my least favorite words were. That was easy. It’s “Good bye”.

©2015 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.

What's Beautiful

       Are you aware when another person is checking you out? When the eyes of another are fixed firmly on good old you, do you engage in the experience? And if so, then how?
       This phenomenon can be quite different for a man than it is for a woman. For the sake of this writing, I’m referring to the cases when, for both sexes, the experience doesn’t feel invasive or creepy or lecherous. I’m not talking about a potential stalker scenario. I’m talking about when you like the look of someone, and decide to look at them a little longer, a little harder, and a little more thoroughly. The whole experience may take only a few seconds.
       We are visual creatures, us whacky humans. By design, we get a vast majority of our information visually. I’m not one to buck that inherent design scheme. That doesn’t mean I neglect the other senses, but it does mean that I actively cultivate my sense of visual beauty. I am very aware of what visually rocks my world, sets my heart thumping, stirs my insides, lights my fire.
       If we are designed to receive so much input in the visual realm, it serves us to nurture and develop our own personal visual aesthetic of beauty. Because when we do, we cultivate our sense of awe, we feed that “Wow!” factor; the one that often gets drummed out of us as we get older. By fully embracing our own sense of beauty, we strengthen the connection between our eyes and our heart. When we cultivate this sense of awareness, this inherently powerful neurological relationship, we increase our chances of being awed.
       When is the last time the sight of the autumn foliage took your breath away? When is the last time you looked at your lover with so much appreciation and wonder and passion and fire that you felt overwhelmed? When is the last time you looked at anything in this world and were so moved that you wanted to cry? That is what I’m talking about. And that is a flame that gets squelched by the passage of time and by the constant bombardment of the relatively meaningless visual input we get from our modern society. But it’s easy to rekindle that fire. You just have to commit to it. And you have to open yourself up to being wowed again. You have to let down your guard and open up your heart. And your eyes.
       What does this have to do with being checked out by another? Because the energy is the same. The vibration of the appreciation of beauty is what I’m connecting to. Whether it’s the Grand Canyon or the girl in the sun dress walking through the park, I look at them both as an opportunity to be awed, inspired, moved, wowed. I’m not comparing the two, but I am looking at each of them as an opportunity to be touched. I’m allowing myself to feel something just by looking. I’m developing that connection between my eyes and my heart. I’m cultivating my sense of beauty, my own sense of beauty, in all it’s endless forms.
       I’ve noticed that when women look me over, and I’m referring to the cases when they have a view of my entire form, not just my face, it rarely starts with my eyes. Maybe because a woman making eye contact with a man has more potentially dangerous consequences than the other way around. It’s safer not to look a man in the eyes, at least not initially. Women tend to go right for the middle, meaning the midsection. Maybe it’s a primal thing, wired into our DNA, because a man who keeps himself trim around the waist is usually in better condition than a man who doesn’t, and that means he’s well suited for procreation and other mating duties. It could also be that, because I do keep myself fit, the eyes get drawn there naturally because of the visual aesthetics of a tapered body. Maybe some of it is that she's subliminally checking out my junk. Maybe all of the above. Anyway, I’ve noticed it usually starts in the middle. Then her eyes move up.
       Within a second or two, her eyes may or may not meet mine. And if they do, I’m looking right at her, because I’m watching her eyes to see what they’re doing. I’m usually smiling at her by this point. Sometimes there’s a smile back. Sometimes there’s that coy look of semi-embarrassment, you know, the kind that says, sheepishly but adorably, “I’m bagged”. Sometimes they never make it to my eyes, because they can feel my eyes on them, and they would rather not acknowledge their actions.
       Doesn’t matter. It’s all good. I saw you honey, and I’m flattered, whether you liked what you saw or not.


©2015 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.

Last Year......

Last Year……

I

Drove across the country and back

Touched others
Was Touched by others

Spent my whole winter skiing in Colorado

Strove to be more generous and giving

Played and played and played in the snow

Spent time with loved ones in California I haven’t seen in many years

Did some of the best writing of my life

Visited my sister in Phoenix

Spent my summer
At magical places
Omega
Kripalu
Cape Cod

Met some of the most amazing people of my life

Flew on the trapeze

Went deep into my own heart and soul

Asked myself some tough questions
Some of which I’m still answering

Reconnected with the love of my life
That was not to be

Finished the first draft of my book

Moved into a new beautiful space

Joined a new band

Made a Christmas CD

Created
Created
Created

Fucked up a lot
Learned a lot

Had some of my highest highs
Had some of my lowest lows

Tried to be the best man I could be
Wasn’t always
Keep trying

Searched
Found…..
Kept searching

Dreamt some dreams I’ve never dreamt
Felt some things I’ve never felt
Saw some things I’ve never seen
Did some things I’ve never done

Stayed fit and healthy

Pushed my own envelope
And understand I need to keep pushing it even more

Know I have lots of work to do
And always will

Let the world see more of my heart
More of me

Took lots of risks

Know My Best Is Yet To Come


                          -Clint Piatelli
                            December 31, 2014

She Was My Music

        Music ignites some mystical, sacred flame inside of me; something that nothing else could spark. More like a force of nature, music has been able to access an energy within me that other wise could not be liberated.
       For most of my life, the right song touches a place in me that nothing else could touch. Music reaches me at a depth of being that is completely mysterious, completely unknowable, and yet, as familiar to me as my own face.
       Only music could do all of that for me.
       Until I met a woman who could do all of that for me, too.
       Since I hit my mid-thirties, I had been unconsciously seeking a woman who could reach that sacred part of me previously available only to music. I didn’t know it, but what I was looking for was a woman who could create the same feeling in me as my most beloved songs. I was looking for a woman who’s Song was as beautiful and magical and evocative to me as my favorite music; a woman who’s own song stirred my very soul. I wanted a woman who could somehow release all of that divine passion, love, awe, sense of beauty, and magic, that until then could only be accessed by the songs I most cherished.
       And what do you know. I found that woman. Without even looking. Without even knowing I was looking.
       So you can imagine how hard it was for me to have to let her go.
       It doesn’t really feel like I’m letting go of a person. It’s almost like letting go of the most powerful, beautiful, emotionally evocative song of my life. It’s almost like letting go of music itself. Which seems unfathomable.
       What I found in this woman was my favorite song, in human form; in sweet, delicious, tactile, human form. I had found my human incarnation of music. I had found the female manifestation of music itself. And I never saw it coming.
       And, just like the music that touches me so deeply, some of how she moved me I can explain, and some of it I can’t. Some of it is simply beyond the realm of understanding or logic. Some of it is just the beautiful unknown, the sublime divine, the province of some realm beyond. Some of it is just magic. Some of it just is. True Love.  
       It wasn’t anything specific she did. It wasn’t anything about her in particular. It was just her. Something about her. Anymore than I can explain exactly what it is about a song that brings me to a different place inside, I can't tell you exactly what it was about her that did the same thing. Just being with her was like having one of my favorite songs playing in my head, in my heart, in my whole body, all the time.    
       Ironic. A few months ago, I wrote a poem called “She’s Your Favorite Song”.
       Well. She was mine. 



©2014 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.