The Spirit Of My Perverse

       All these years, after reading Edgar Allen Poe’s short story, The Imp of The Perverse as a junior in high school, I’ve incorrectly referred to it as The Spirit of The Perverse. But this makes perfect sense. Because as perverse as Poe may have been, for him perhaps the perverse was just an imp. For me, I can definitely say that it’s a spirit. A monstrous yet playful, spirit; at once frightening and benign; both scary and alluring. An immovable object and an irresistible force.
       In countless interactions and situations throughout my life, at some point, my internal dialogue will go something like this: “Right now, what is the the most absolutely horrific, inappropriate, traumatizing, unforgivable thing I could do that would completely fuck up this moment and instantly ostracize me from the entire human race?”. Sometimes, it’s just a passing thought, let go of as soon as it enters my mind. Other times, it sticks around, and I start playing with it, riffing on it. I fantasize about how it would actually look and feel, and how people might react. I jam on the unspeakable act like a musician jams on his instrument, letting the music, or in this case, the madness, guide him.
       At a wedding, for example, the church full of people gathered to witness the sacred union of two people, I will think about running up to the alter during the ceremony. Then, embracing the bride, her and I start fucking, right on the alter in front of a stunned audience. The real fun begins when I start asking myself a bunch of very relevant questions. Like, how long would it take before we were stopped? What kind of fallout would there be afterwards? Would they be able to continue the ceremony that day, or even ever again? Would the groom still want her after this rather public indiscretion? Would I go to jail? Would I become a tabloid celebrity? Assuming it was consensual, is fucking in church a crime? And if so, what’s the actual charge?
       How about this stroke of demented genius: taking an eight ball of cocaine, a bottle of Percocets, and a fifth of Jack Daniels into Kripalu (one of the country’s most prestigious centers for yoga, meditation, and higher learning), and spending a week there, floating around the halls in a haze of chemically induced euphoria. I wonder, would anyone catch on? Would the highly attuned and conscious beings there see through my charade? Or could I hide it well enough that nobody would notice? If I got bagged, what would be the consequences?
       Funerals are incredibly fertile ground for my perverse spirit. In fact, Spirit Of My Perverse: Rule One is: “the more intense or serious the occasion, the more powerful the spirit, and the more insane and horrific the scenarios imagined become”. Going over to a corpse and trying to get him to dance with me in front of the receiving line would be a winner. As would preparing a speech beforehand and, in the middle of the church services, running up to the podium, uninvited of course, and telling the mourners about the dead’s true hatred for his mother (who’s still alive and in the front row, mind you).
       More times than I could count, I’ve wanted to run up in the middle of a beautiful, heart warming, full-of-adoring-praise eulogy and yell “Bullshit!”, over and over again. Then, the stage mine, I would launch into a diatribe about all the fault’s of the deceased, maybe reminding people that “These character flaws that I’m ranting about make the dead more human, thus endearing him to our hearts even more. So I’m actually doing us all a valuable, albeit unconventional, service. My ramblings actually help us keep his spirit alive all the more. Certainly more than that sappy amalgamation of sentimental and highly embellished word drool coming out of the official eulogizer.”
       For now at least, these perverse thoughts remain in the confines of my mind, and here, for the first time, on the page. Owning and embracing My Spirit of The Perverse, in all its glorious perverseness, has subtly and perhaps paradoxically allowed for a greater capacity for self acceptance. In fact, it’s subtly shifted my relationship with my very own life experience. Maybe all of that will form the basis of a follow up post, entitled “The Spirit Of My Perverse, Part Two:Under The Hood. Welcome To My Hysterical Nightmare”.
       Imagine. All of this from wanting to jump the bride’s bones on the alter…….


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

Writing The Inner Beast

    I wrote the following piece a few weeks ago as an exercise during a writing workshop up here at The Omega Institute. The prompt was: “I don’t want to upset you, but…..”. We had fifteen minutes to write something that somehow incorporated that phrase.
    The great thing about the exercise is that you don’t have time to mind-screw your writing. You just roll with what comes out of you; you tap into your flow, and your unique voice comes through loud and clear. You write from a different place than just your head.
    When I read this piece aloud to the class, I really got into it, and became very animated. There was a lot of laughter. But one woman said that I scared her, in a good sort of way, with my fervor and intensity. That’s great news. It’s important that my writing impacts people, that it evokes an emotional response. It’s not up to me what that response is.
    For months, it’s been crystalizing ever more clearly for me that the performer in me aches to read my stuff aloud; to perform it for people. It’s apparent that writing alone will not quell my creative beast of story. The writing must be there as the backbone, but the rest of animal is growing hungry and must be fed. I need to broaden my output media. And I am.     

       One of the linguistic conumdrums of modern communication is when somebody prefaces a conversation with “I don’t want to upset you, but….” . Are you fuckin’ serious? Why on earth would anybody start a sentence like that? They’re asking to be found guilty before they even commit the crime. Our school system should teach you this in third grade English class. Just come out and say it. Let me ask you: Would you rather get stabbed and slowly bleed to death? Or would you rather just get a quick kill shot to head? Exactly.
       I question the motive of somebody who begins a sentence with “I don’t want to upset you, but...”, because it’s such an obviously moronic and inflammatory thing to say. I would wager that upsetting you is in fact precisely what they want to do when they open up with that. But they’re disguising that nefarious intent by proclaiming the exact opposite. It’s linguistic passive-aggressiveness at its best. Then, after they’ve given you the devastating news, and you’re having a nervous breakdown in front of them, they can cling to “I told you I didn’t want to upset you! Don’t do this to me!” That’s beautiful. You’re headed to the psyche ward at Bellvue, and they’re laying a guilt trip on you.
       Or, another trick is to use that phrase to set you up for something that really sucks, but doesn’t suck quite as bad as whatever your mind is going to make up in the four seconds it takes them to spit it out. They fake high and go low. But a shot to the groin, at least for a guy, can be just as nasty, or worse, than a shot to the head. At least with a shot to the head, you might get a cool battle scar out of it that you brandish proudly to the world. A testament to your toughness. To your manhood. A scar on the face may even get you laid, a consolation prize to the devastation your life suffered after hearing “I don’t want to upset you, but…..”. That’s still better, however, than a punch in the nuts, which could actually severely inhibit your ability to get some tail.
       Getting hit in the face is also preferable to getting a shot to the balls because a strike to your face is likely to create blood. And, I don’t know about you gentlemen, but when I see and taste my own blood, it’s like adding nitro to jet fuel. I get jacked up. I get pumped. I get juiced. The primal “Kill Or Be Killed” instinct takes over, and it’s possible I won’t even feel a shot to the face. Not until much later, anyway, when I’m sitting at the bar, downing shots of Jack Daniels, surrounded by adoring females who are admiring my facial gash and cooing me like the warrior I am. I’ll take that scenario over laying in bed alone with a bag of ice on my balls any day, and twice on Sundays.

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

The Other Side of Fever

       A few nights ago, I broke a fever several hours after going to bed with a sore throat, body aches, and a stuffy nose. The night was cool for late July, edging towards cold, as I started getting the chills just before climbing under the covers.
       In the middle of the night, I woke up freezing. Grabbing the remaining blanket and putting on a long sleeve jersey over my tee shirt, I literally crawled back into bed and started shaking. Popping my last few ibuprofens, I didn’t so much drift off to sleep as crash. Well, I tried anyway. I’m not sure how long I lay awake, shuddering with the chills.
       These were my last few days and nights at The Omega Institute. Being here for a magical month, I wanted to go out with a bang, but it was looking and feeling more like it would be a whimper. My mind was now aching as much as, if not more than, my body. What if I feel this shitty the rest of the week? What if I have to spend my last few precious days here holed up in bed? Jesus, that would suck ass. I started obsessing about that very possibility, which certainly wasn’t helping me fall asleep. Before I had a chance to completely turn over to the dark side, however, I mercifully fell to sleep.
       Waking up a few hours later, in damp clothes and damp sheets, with the last remnants of sweat still glistening off my forehead, I could tell I had come to the other side of something. But what? This physical manifestation of fever, soreness, and chills signified the welling up and letting go of something inside of me besides some sort of bug. I was, after all, in a truly magical place; Omega is a vortex of higher consciousness and personal transformation. I had been here for over three weeks and had completely immersed myself in the process.
       I’m often looking for some sort of physical “proof” that something inside of me has shifted, and the body can serve as the ultimate proof being in the pudding. It’s all connected: body, mind, heart, and spirit. If it shows up in one place, it somehow, someway, shows up in all the others. Sometimes subtly, and sometimes like a sledgehammer. Well, this constituted a sledgehammer.
       Exactly what has moved through me will make itself clearer in the upcoming days, weeks, or months. I’ve been gradually letting go of some old baggage for months now; for years if I dig even deeper. I’ve also been opening myself up to how my already blessed and beautiful life could be even bigger, better, more fulfilling, more meaningful, and more enriching. One question that I’m asking and answering piece by piece is “What do I have to give that can truly make a difference in people’s lives?”
       This month at Omega has been another big step down my path. A path that twists and turns and never ceases to amaze me, to wow me. I’m not looking behind so much anymore as I am saturating myself in the moment, as best I can (though that still proves challenging). I’m gazing at a future that’s opening up to vistas I’m only starting to embrace as truly possible.
       More importantly, I see and feel the path I’m on more clearly, more viscerally, than ever before. I have more support, both internally and externally, than at any other time in my life.


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

Call Me SuperFly (part 2)

If possible, please read the part 1 of this post, Call Me The SuperFly

Insights on my experience with The Flying Trapeze...

       For the time I’m up there on the trapeze, I’m giving it all I have. And "all I had" became a progression of degrees. The first few times I flew, there was some trepidation in my take off and in my commitment to the the moves I was instructed to perform. I was doing the best I could, this being the first time in my entire life I was ever on a trapeze. But I noticed, as the weekend progressed, my conscious ratcheting up of my commitment, my engagement, my level of zest and zeal, for each flight. Towards the end, I was jumping higher off the platform with less hesitation; throwing myself with more vim and vigor over the bar to complete a move; outstretching my arms and opening myself up more when hanging upside down. I was amping up my own movements, and my own internal commitment. Both my inner and outer game got more of me. Way more of me.
       It was a very zen process. Was I more committed mentally because I was more committed physically? Or was it the other way around? My highly analytical mind actually doesn’t give a shit. It’s not important how. It’s just important that I made it happen. My body and my mind were both working together, in harmony, not fighting each other. And it felt like heaven.
       When my mind got in the way, and it did on one or two occasions for a few brief seconds up there, it wasn’t fear of falling that took me out. It was fear of failure. It was fear of screwing up and not doing the move right. On the ground, I am very familiar with this fear, and it followed me into the air. That tells me just how deeply rooted this fear is. Fear of failure is deeply rooted in most of us, in some form or another; we often only feel okay if we “succeed”, however we define success.
       On one flight, I was attempting a new, rather difficult beginner move called the phalange. I attempted it four times, succeeding twice. Completing the move successfully filled me with boundless joy and elation, and I would not trade those moments for anything. But the times I failed were when I got my greatest lessons. Because in my failures I saw not only the process which contributed to my failure, but my response to that failure. In this unique environment, it was easy to slow things down afterwards and clearly see myself and how my actions, both inner and outer, translated into results.
       When in those micro-moments my mind was over occupied with not failing, rather than being in the flow of the activity; when I could hear that voice in me telling me that “I am strong, and I’m a man, and I better get this right”, well, guess what? I didn’t. And afterwards, I was angry at myself for failing. But that anger didn't last long. Maybe a minute or two. Because my mind quickly left that space as I looked forward to my next full engagment in flight.
       Worrying about failing, and then beating myself for failing, is a way of being I know well, that most of us know well. It will sometimes even stop us from attempting something at all. I got to see myself like that just a few times during my trapeze experience, and it was highly enlightening. For it was so starkly juxtaposed with the way I was most of the time: fully engaged, not worrying about failure, and then the exhilrating high afterwards, wether I succeeded or not (although success definitely had a more pleasant and joyous flavor to it). It’s no fun living in fear of failure. And it’s ultimately not productive in a full being way. For some, the fear of failure is what drives them to succeed. I’m not judging that. I’m saying for me, it doesn’t work.
       Being in the moment is something that most of us struggle with. The trapeze showed me just how beautiful being fully in the moment - being invested body, mind, heart, and spirit - can feel. And I can take that into my life on terra firma. I can fly on the ground.

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

Call Me The SuperFly

       In college, my buddies gave me the nickname “SuperFly”, after my favorite professional wrestler, Jimmy "SuperFly" Snuka. His patented move, “The SuperFly”, was a flying leap off the top ropes, smashing down onto a prostrate opponent. I was known for doing my own version of the move, careening off of couches, chairs, cars, diving boards, you name it. Especially when alcohol was involved.       
       One of the workshops I took here at The Omega Institute was called The Flying Trapeze. It involved literally getting up on a real trapeze and doing shit thirty feet off the ground over a net. Here, I earned the nickname “SuperFly” all over again. And let me tell you. It was one wild ride.  
       The scariest moments were always between the time I started climbing the ladder and the time I actually took off. By the time I’m waiting on the platform chalking up, my heart and mind were racing like a Formula One car. Grabbing the bar as I leaned out over nothing but air and waiting for my cue to take that leap of faith, I felt like everything inside of me was about to explode outwards in a violent mess of brains, blood, and thoughts. But once I jumped into the void, I wasn’t frightened at all.
       It’s not as simple, however, as “I didn’t have time to be scared”. That is a part of it. Things are indeed happening fast once you start flying. Real fast. But remember, the mind only needs a second to go from serene to clamorous . Granted, when things are happening that fast, my mind has no time to idle, which is when it gets me in the most trouble. Climbing the ladder and waiting for the bar do not take a lot of concentration, so my mind fills itself with all the things that could go wrong up there, and all the other completely irrational fears that one experiences climbing thirty feet in the air preparing to swing off of a bar into mid air.
       Once I take off, though, an entirely new paradigm takes over. It’s as though the way I lived my life just a moment ago, The Operating System For Clint In Life, has been usurped by something all together different. I am suddenly fully and completely engaged in flying. I’m totally focused, paying attention, and bringing all I have to this endeavor. It’s like there is no room for anything else. The situation forces me to fill myself up with what I’m doing. I’m moving trough the air (maybe not with the greatest of ease, as the song goes, but I’m moving). I’m not directly attached to Mother Earth. My only tether to terra firma is a metal bar attached to a couple of nylon lines, attached to a massive apparatus of poles, stakes, and ropes. It doesn’t feel like I’m on earth anymore. And that changes everything.
       Flying through the air, not experiencing any attachment to the ground, well, it’s something I’m sort of used to. Mentally, emotionally, and spiritually, I have much more trouble being grounded than I do soaring through the metaphysical stratosphere of my own mind, of my own heart, of my own spirit. But this is different. Way different. This is physical soaring. Not just mental. Not just emotional. Not just spiritual. This isn’t just a mind thing. It’s a body thing. It’s a whole being thing.
       And while the body soars, my mind stays grounded, focused, engaged, and present. It’s almost a complete role reversal. Usually it’s my body that’s physically grounded, and my mind that’s soaring someplace else. Now it’s my body that’s no longer touching anything but air, and my mind that’s rooting me to the moment.
      It’s a mind/body role reversal, but on a different level, on a new playing field, a whole new continuum. Life is happening and I’m in it, one-hundred-fucking-percent. For those precious fifteen seconds, I’m free. Free of the mental chatter that sometimes derails me. Free of the ground that sometimes makes me feel trapped. I’m grounded, but it’s got nothing to do with the ground. I’m grounded in what I’m doing. My full engagement in life at that moment is what’s responsible. Paradoxically, my total commitment to flying is actually what grounds me.
       Fly with me into Part Two on Monday.


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