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 Those who hold the original dear, even if it’s outdated and obviously needs some work, will fight to keep it the way it used to be.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.

Bleach vs. Battery Acid

       I’m told, by many women, that they like a man who’s confident. They also tell me that they like a man who’s connected to what he feels; that he’s honest with himself about his true feelings. And virtually every woman I’ve talked to says that what’s even more attractive is when a man shares what he truly feels with her. Because that promotes true intimacy.
       But what happens when a man’s confidence is at odds with what he feels? What happens during those moments, or hours or days, or longer, when a man doesn’t feel so confident, and he’s in touch with that. And instead of bullshitting his way through that with his significant other, he shares it.
       Does he become less attractive because he’s not so confident? Or does he become more attractive because he’s sharing this with the woman he loves? Or do the two cancel each other out, like battery acid and bleach, to produce a neutral emotional pH?
       Ladies and Gentlemen, step up to the plate on this and share your thoughts, feelings, and experiences.
       This post is all about what YOU have to say. Let's hear it. Post a Comment.

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

Heart Body

       A few days ago, somebody reminded me of how resilient the heart is. How it can be broken, sometimes repeatedly, and still come back to love again. I have recently learned how true that is. My heart exercised it’s resiliency when I finally allowed it to be torn apart.
        This is counter intuitive. And for myself, being a personal trainer and long time exercise fiend, it’s double-secret-probation counter intuitive. I’ve lived according to the axiom that you make something stronger and better by building it up. When it came to my heart, I interpreted that as fortification. Make it harder and tougher, at least on the outside. To build a strong heart, one that could deal with heartache, I had to fortify it so that it could withstand the blows of life. Or the sharp deadly arrows of another.
        Looking at that philosophy now, it’s clear to me how flawed my strategy was. Because I wasn’t building a stronger heart. I was building a stronger wall around a heart that I thought was weak. The way a garrison would build a fort around a town full of children.
        And my heart was, and still is, like a child. Or should I say, like a happy, well adjusted child. Playful and open, ready for the next...whatever. Excitable and wild. Spontaneous and sincere. Passionate, and absolutely gushing with what it can do. Wanting so much to give and receive love.
        My heart was always that way, but the fort I had built around it didn’t allow that light to shine through enough. Like a child who isn’t allowed to come and play, my heart yearned, but was denied it’s sustenance because my walls were keeping too much out. And too much in. It’s what walls do. And they did their job. But the child of my heart was still inside, suffocating. Starving. Lonely.
        My whole life, I thought the way to a strong heart was to protect it by building a a fort around it. But I was wrong. The way to a strong heart is to open it up and let it do what it was created to do. Put it out there and let it run and create and feel. Let it go unfettered and see what it can do. Use it. Let it exercise. Let it love.
        Like a twist on the old “child for the path” metaphor. Don’t prepare the journey for the heart. Prepare the heart for the journey. By letting it out.
        So, actually, my exercise analogy is totally applicable. Because instead of protecting my heart with walls, or with a suit of armor, I let let it run free. I let it dance and play. I let it go and see where it takes me, as anyone regularly reading this blog can attest. Wild at heart. And just as children get stronger and healthier and happier by doing that, so does my heart. And therefore so do I.
        I’ve worked out for thirty years, since I was fifteen. Up until very recently, I subconsciously related to my body as a veritable suit of armor. A encasement that would protect a very tender place deep inside of me. Now, I still work hard at building a strong, healthy body. But my relationship to the process, and to what I’m building, is radically different. No longer a suit of iron, I look at my body as well conditioned vehicle that’s carrying very precious cargo. That shift, not only in my thinking but in how I relate to myself, has allowed me to build stronger, healthier, freer, dare I say more beautiful, body. Certainly a body better suited for my life.
        No longer used to protect. Or defend. My body now serves the purpose of being a vessel through which I carry all of myself into the world. A spaciously limited but metaphysically vast movable home that brings it’s practically limitless contents with it, wherever it goes. Nothing else on earth can do that. Nothing that humans have ever created. No inanimate object in the universe. Only the body. How fuckin’ exquisite.

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

Click on the photo abpove to see more portrait shots of yours truly done by a great photographer named Jernnifer Devlin. Click HERE to go to her website.

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.

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.