Scar Tissue

        Sometimes, I’m reluctant to write about something because I’m afraid of where I’ll go. Uncovering old wounds that have scarred over can create a great deal of pain. But those wounds need the air and the light of day that writing provides. So eventually, I push through my fear and put it to the page.
        Scar tissue, around a physical or emotional injury, is our last ditch effort to protect the place that got traumatized. It’s a wondrous system that lets us keep going. But the scar remains. Physically, and emotionally, the scar reminds us of what happened.
        I have some scars on my body. And I wouldn’t want them removed for anything. I’m a very physical person, and like a lot of men, I wear my scars proudly as badges of honor. Each one represents a battle, of one form or another, that I survived. It’s a guy thing.
        The most significant scars are the two on my lower back They remind me that in 1998, when I was thirty-five, I had back surgery. My post operative recovery was a horror show, and it was almost a year before I felt like myself again. Like I said. Survivor of a battle.
        When I see myself today, ten years later, in the best shape of my life, never looking or feeling better, the scars are a beautiful reminder of how much my body has healed. The scars tell me that that my body used to be somewhere else. That I used to be somewhere else. They reiterate the fact that I’ve clawed my way back to health. That I’ve driven myself well past where I used to be, and onto where I am today. The scars tell a story of my past, and in doing so provide a context for my present and for my future. So I thank those scars for what they give me.
        Emotional scars are a little different. Maybe there’s a gender aspect to it. Most women I know don’t dig physical scars on their body the way guys do. But many women see their emotional scars as signs of strength and toughness and perseverance. Kind of how a guy looks at the ones on his body. Most men probably look at their emotional scars as defects, or weakness’s, just as a woman may see her physical scars as flaws.
        Which brings me to another reason that I sometimes have trouble writing about something: I’m afraid that showing these emotional scars is a sign of weakness. That, unlike my physical scars, these emotional ones make me less of a man; just as many women feel that physical scars make them less attractive. Less feminine.
        I can be guilty of having a double standard for myself, as many of us do. Whereas I see the emotional scars of others as tender, beautiful places that need love and attention and healing, I often have trouble seeing my own emotional scars with the same compassion. I all too often see them as flaws. The big, deep ones, I can see as horrible defects that render me unlovable.
        If I fall into that trap, however, I’m being run by my ego. I’m not walking the walk of self love. To view my own scars as tragic defects is to succumb to the very thinking that’s kept me prisoner. By not embracing all of who I am, even the parts that are still in pain, I’m effectively betraying my self.
        And every emotional scar, like every wound, contains a gift. Even if I can’t always see that or believe it. My wounds help tell my story. They are unique to me and thus differentiate my story from anyone else’s, and at the same time connect me to everyone on the planet. My scars remind me that I still have work to do. And through that work, I grow and change and recover my authentic self. They show me my path. Where I need to go to heal.
        I’m proud to say that I’ve shared some of my most personal joys and pains through this website. I’ll continue to do so.
        I thus bare to you some scars that have not completely healed, even though the knife that created them was wielded some thirty-five years ago. I’ve been working on these scars for years, and I’m making progress. But I’ve never shared some of them through my writing. They go deep. As deep as they can. They cut all the way into me, which is why I’m still working on them.
       

©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a scarring amount of Wrongs) Reserved.

Love. Laugh. Live.

Note: This qualifies as a very short post and as a photo of the moment, so I’m double dipping here. Because I can. Peace.

         In March of 2006, my good friend Jason took another close buddy and I up in his plane. We flew to Nantucket, had dinner, and flew home. It was a fantastic trip. It would have been a fantastic trip even if we had just sat in a car for five hours and gone nowhere. We enjoy each other’s company so much that it wouldn’t have mattered what we did. Taking a jaunt in a plane to an island, however, certainly made the evening special.
         All three of us have the gift of gab, and I don’t think there was more than three seconds of dead air the entire time we were together. Think of three rapid fire machine guns all shooting one after the other for an entire evening.
         The amazing thing was, while one gun was firing, the other two weren’t reloading. They were listening. So what you got was a fluid hyper-kinetic three way dialogue. Like musician’s jamming, this only happens if everyone is paying attention to each other. “Speaking” as much as they’re “listening”. Giving as much as they’re taking. I remember laughing so much that night that my face hurt.
         One of us took this photograph over Martha’s Vineyard. It visualizes the joy, beauty, fun, and wonder of that night. It captures a brief moment in a short life, yet speaks to me of ageless wisdom: Love. Laugh. Live.

F&M

Note: Last week, I did a post called “Bleach vs. Battery Acid” where I posed a question. The responses I received inspired me to write this piece. Moucho thanx to Brenda, Asven, M, Margaret, and Erika for their feedback. Now if I can just get some dudes to open up like the ladies have...

        Redefining masculinity isn’t going to be easy. Like any script that gets re-written, there’s going to be resistance from the old guard. Those who hold the original dear, even if it’s outdated and obviously needs some work, will fight to keep it the way it used to be. Change of any sort is difficult. Try moving the wastebasket in your kitchen to a new location. Then notice how long you keep going to where it used to be when you want to throw something away. And that’s just your garbage container. Never mind revamping a cultural archetype.
        The parameters of manhood are certainly vast enough to encompass countless behaviors, preferences, attitudes, thoughts, and feelings, depending on the context. The limitations we place serve as guidelines, not rigid boundaries.
        My own experience is that the more I feel, the more masculine I am. Not because feelings are masculine or feminine, but because the more I feel, the more connected I am to my whole self. And my whole self is the most masculine I can be. And the most feminine.
        If I’m concerned about not doing something that is truly me because I’m afraid that it will emasculate me in the eyes of society, then I’m not being true to myself. And not being true to myself is far more emasculating than paying attention to what other people think. Betraying my true self because I’m afraid of how I’ll be perceived is truly castrating. More so than even physically hacking off my family jewels.
        Accepting all of myself is about the most powerful thing I can do. And if I feel powerful, then I encompass all of masculinity. And all of femininity. The feminine power is different than the masculine power, but it’s still a force. I need both to be a whole person. I want both.
        I’m just as comfortable getting together with a bunch of women and talking about how I feel as I am hooking up with a bunch of buddies to watch a nice long day of smash mouth football or UFC fights. I just as readily relish spilling my own blood through intense physical activity, as I do comforting a friend who needs me. Does that make me masculine or feminine? Neither. And both. It makes me a more whole person.
        To take that even further, I’d be just as cool talking with a bunch of dudes about how I felt as I would be watching two guys bash their brains in with a group of girls. I’ve just come across less people who could populate these later scenarios.
        I’m not saying that if you don’t feel it, or don't like it, that you should. I’m saying that whatever your true music is, if it's really you, then let it out. Being yourself fully at any moment is the zenith of both masculine and feminine energies. They work together to create a fully actualized person. To hell with what others think. It’s you. All of you. At that moment.
        Let’s take something we can all relate to. Sex. I don’t mean to alienate any gay or lesbian readers, but, for the rest of this post, I have to place sex in the context of male/female, because that’s all I’ve ever known (except in the cases of male/female/female, which I won’t get into).
        In the bedroom, the precious gems that are man and woman create the complex, multi-faceted reflections of masculinity and femininity. These dazzling reflections shimmer and sparkle and dance together in a rapturous, harmonic splendor. It is because these reflections are fluid and somewhat ethereal, not rigid, that they create magic. Just like on any other stage, the blending and melding and convergence of these energies creates the light show. The fireworks. The lift off.
        When sex is really happening, we’re able to be both masculine and feminine, each moment. We’re dancing, between them and with them, the whole time, moment to moment. Yin and Yang, each of us, not getting hung up on which is which or who is who or what is what. I’m embracing all of my masculinity and all of my femininity at once, and at the same time, I’m embracing all of hers, while she does the same for herself and for me. It sounds complicated, but it’s not. It’s totally natural and beautiful and free.
        And that can happen even if I’m super identified with my masculinity. I’ll call that being macho. There’s nothing wrong with that. Sometimes, it’s just what the doctor ordered. It’s fun, natural, and a real turn on for lots of us, both male and female.
        And just so nobody misinterprets what I’m about to say next, I’ll add this disclaimer: At all times, I am referring to two mutually consenting adults.
        Let’s say I’m feeling really macho, and I decide I want sex. Right now. So I grab her and start kissing her passionately, telling her that I’m going to rip her clothes off and take her, right then and there. Whether she feels like “resisting”, or just surrenders to my advances, it’s sauce for the goose. Whatever she’s into at the moment, we’ll roll with (or “role” with, if you catch my drift).
        Even though I’m being hyper masculine, I’m paying attention to what she wants, to what drives her crazy, to what she’s into at the moment. In other words, I’m nurturing her while I’m taking charge. And she’s doing the same. She’s nurturing me while she’s taking control of her own sexuality.
        In my hyper masculine state, I’m still embracing my feminine energy. The masculine may be more apparent and more easily identified, but that’s only from a certain perspective, say that of an outside observer (don’t we wish...sometimes). Between the two of us, she’s aware that even though I’m throwing her down, I’m right there for her. She’s safe. She’s cared for. Even though it may superficially seem to both of us that I don’t care what she wants. That this about what I want. And that can be a huge turn on for both of us. But on another level, we both know that this is all about the two of us. This is about the “we”. Even if it’s never said or acted on. It’s understood.
        It’s because of that understanding that we’re able to go to these extremely polarized places. On the surface, it’s one thing. But deep down, it’s something else entirely. When all that’s happening at the same time, you’ve got body-shaking, vision-distorting, mind-numbing, scream-inducing, cataclysmically explosive sex. Yowza.
        The masculine and the feminine. Both alive and well, on some level, within each of us, every moment.
        Now excuse me while I go take a cold shower.

©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a master bedroom full of Wrongs) Reserved.

I've Decided To Go To Prison

        I’ve decided to go to prison. Call it a career move.
        I don’t know how I’ll get there. It can’t be for a violent crime. As much fun as armed robbery might be to commit, I couldn’t live with the consequences. Plus, I’d probably end up at some hell-hole maximum security state penitentiary, like Folsom, instead of a Club Fed, which is infinitely more pleasant. I may be out of my fuckin’ mind, but I’m not stupid.
        Getting into prison may be harder than I think. I’ve got no priors, and I can afford a great lawyer. And I would use a great lawyer, because he or she would be my best chance at cutting a deal to get me into my prison of choice. Knowing which prison I’d want to go to is something I haven’t done any research on, either. One more thing to add to my to-do List.
        I’ve always thought “fraud” had a nice ring to it. And I love the word “embezzlement”. Okay. Now it’s starting to come together.
        How much fun would it be to create a fictitious person from scratch? Then become that person? I’ve done a little acting. Let me tell you. It would be a blast. Think “Tootsie” on a massive dose of steroids, without the gender bending.
        I could just pretend it was Halloween. For a year. I’d come up with a name, and fabricate an entire past. Where was this guy from, and what was his childhood like? What schools did he go to? Would he be the shy type, who, incredibly, has never been laid? Or would he go the other way, and say that he’s slept with everything that had a pulse? So may choices.
        The fraud part would lead to the embezzlement. After I falsified records, forged documents, and manufactured bogus....everything, I could get credit cards under my new alias, then run up exorbitant bills, with no intention of paying. But I’d have to take it a step further. I’d have to steal lots of money from the company I work for. Well I’m creative, and I’ve got an M.B.A. and a finance degree. I’m sure I could figure something out.
        The more I think of it, the more fun this sounds. And really, it’s as victimless a crime as there can be. I’d return all of the money I embezzled. I’d give back everything I bought. Well, almost everything. It would be pretty hard to give back a first class trip to Australia. And the Ferrari F430 Spider would be worthless after I totaled it from driving too fast while under the influence.
        Hey. I’m going to prison. Let me live it up a little.
        When I got out, I could write about how I pulled this caper off, and what it was like to be in prison. I’d go on talk shows, and do interviews on Today and Good Morning America. I’d get psychoanalyzed by Dr. Phil and Oprah. I’ll bet The View would positively love me. And I’d definitely get to cop a cheap feel off of Kelly Ripa. That wouldn’t suck.
        This prison talk reminds me of one of my favorite principessa stories. The first time she drove to my new apartment for the weekend, I was showing her around. She saw a notebook lying on a counter. The notebook’s cover had a picture of me, dressed up on Halloween as a rock star. I had on a wig, make-up, spandex pants, chains, and no shirt. Actually, maybe it wasn’t Halloween. Maybe it was just a typical Tuesday in June. Anyway, the picture got her pretty head spinning.
        We were sitting around and got into a conversation about what I was really like. That somehow lead to a discussion about deviant behavior. That lead her to pop the question.
        “Have you ever been in prison?”, she asked. When she said it, she smiled and raised her eyebrows, as if a response from me in the affirmative would be a bonus point. I laughed, and replied incredulously “No!”. She tried to back pedal, and said “I meant jail, not prison, like, overnight in the drunk tank or something!”. I saw right through that and replied “No you didn’t, doll. You said ‘prison’ and you meant prison. It’s okay. I’m laughing aren’t I?” She quickly copped to it. But I digress.
        My plan to enter prison is similar to the plight of Rubert Pupkin in The King Of Comedy. I'll do something so ridiculous that I'll either become famous or get committed for it. Probably both. So I’m off to the big house. I’m not sure when, but I’ll let you know how it’s going from my cell. And I don’t mean as in “phone”.
        They do let you have internet access from prison, don’t they?


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a prison full of Wrongs) Reserved.

Mistress Music (part 1)

        Driving home from Boston on New Year’s day, I gave my latest musical purchase it’s first listen. Southbound on I-93, Metallica’s Death Magnetic performed it’s merciless virgin assault on my unsuspecting senses.
        A musician for over thirty years, music has had a deep, profound impact on my life. Before I ever picked up a pair of drumsticks, music was listened to, played, and enjoyed in the house I grew up in. My older brother turned my twin brother Mike and I onto The Beatles, CCR, The Rolling Stones, The Lovin’ Spoonful, and The Monkees well before we hit double digits. I remember sitting on his bedroom floor, Mike and I digging through albums for hours, marveling at all the amazing images that exploded off of the seemingly gigantic one-square-foot canvas. More than some vague ethereal entity, music became a life partner. A lover who would never leave me.
        Partially because of that connection that goes back to childhood, and partially because of wonderfully mysterious reasons, music has always been a whole-being experience for me. I don’t just hear it. I feel it. I see it. I taste it. I smell it. And, invoking that mysterious sixth sense, I metaphysically experience it on a whole different level. Listening to music takes me far beyond my senses.
        The right music can therefore be nothing short of a spiritual experience. No different than say when a devout Christian hears the word of Christ, or sees Christ’s image. And because it transcends the parameters of language, as vast as those parameters might be, a spiritual experience can’t be fully explained or described.
        This transcendent element is what makes music one of the most powerful and moving forces of my life. It’s also what sometimes drives me nuts about it. Because I desperately want to accurately describe my experience to people. I badly want to talk or write about it so vividly and articulately that you get it. You get it just like I did. I want to share it with you because I know that in that sharing, a profound connection can be created.
        So when I can’t describe or explain it to the point where you can get it too, the experience remains somewhat solitary. It stays between me and my music. And as wonderful as that is, something in me is always yearning to include someone else.
        So these experiences I have with music can be, in a way, bittersweet. They are so profound and intense that I feel a deep connection to life. And they are so personal and indescribable and unique that I feel somewhat alone.
        On Death Magnetic, track four “The Day That Never Comes”, and track seven, “The Unforgiven III” are two of those songs that put me completely over the edge. And by the way, whenever possible, I have to play such songs at maximum volume. That’s important. I want to physically feel the music in my chest. And in my crotch as well, truth be told. Because on some level, all music that moves me has a sexual element. Partly because all music that deeply touches me makes me feel sexy. And partly because sex is what creates life. Well so does music. Music literally gives me life.
        The right music gives me life by creating vast energy within. This energy literally transforms my reality. It transforms my experience of life, and therefore my life itself. The right music stirs my blood to a boil. It ignites a limitless passion. It gives me a sense of immense power. It connects me to the moment. It produces the most incredibly intense emotions. And it moves me so profoundly that I travel to a different place.
        As far as I’m concerned, that’s on par with the actual physical creation of life.
        And it’s completely non-cognitive. The right music bypasses my mind and touches something else inside of me that nothing else can access. Only music has this magic key that unlocks this exclusive sacred space within me. The right music liberates so much energy and emotion from inside of me that I must release it, somehow, right there.
        If I’m in a situation where it’s inappropriate to act this out, I go inside, get quiet, and experience the song in an introverted manor. People have seen me do this. I will stop talking, my gaze fixated between my own eyes, looking in, and I will leave the physical experience and enter the music. Then lose myself in it.
        Sometimes I can stop this from happening and remain part of the collective human race. But sometimes I can’t. Or I just plain don’t want to, because I love the song so much. If that’s the case, I’ve been known to excuse myself from the conversation and say “Excuse me, but I’m really into this song. I’ll be right back as soon as it’s over.”
        That’s why it’s sometimes hard for me to “casually” listen to music that I love. Because there’s nothing casual about it. It’s bloody intense.
        This can be a bane. Especially in a social situation where I’m surrounded by people. I get torn, because I want to talk and connect and communicate. But I also feel the magnetic pull of the music, calling to me like The Sirens of Greek mythology. And, like Odysseus, I have to be tied down to resist (but that’s a whole different story). Sometimes I simply can’t refuse the call.
        It’s a peculiar “problem” to have. But I’m sure many other musicians, or other intense music freaks, can relate. And I’m curious as to how they deal with this.
        I know at least one reason music can do this to me. Because I let it. Many years ago, I let music in. All the way in. No walls or defenses. Music was safe. Music wasn’t going to hurt me the way people had. Music could make me feel just as much as any person could. And she would never leave me. She would love me, no matter what. As an adolescent with an abandonment complex and little self worth, I can’t say I honestly knew that about anybody, or anything, else in my life. So I trusted music and let her all the way inside of me. And she’s been there ever since.
        In a way, my experience with music has given me a model for an intense, bona fide intimate relationship with a woman. I’m finally ready to trust the right woman enough to let her see all of me. I’m finally ready to let her all the way inside. Just like I’ve done with music. I’m ready to allow her to touch me in the most profound of ways. I’ve had a taste of it. Now I want the whole thing.
        In that sharing of self, I will finally experience, with another person, the kind of spiritual intimacy that I’ve had with music. I’ll have that most sacred connection to another person. Without having to explain it or describe it. Without worrying about the limited parameters of language. Because she’ll be there with me. Just like the music is. Finally, I’ll have let somebody all the way inside of me. Just like I did with music. Someday, a certain someone will occupy that sacred space with me too.
        Most of my life, music has been my true love. But there’s plenty of me to go around. There’s more than enough me to share with another. To give to another. Completely. And for the first time in my life, I’m really looking forward to that.
        Truly. A Happy. New. Years.

©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and an New Year’s full of Wrongs) Reserved.

To hear samples of the songs mentioned, click on the orange titles of the songs themselves, or go here.