A Break In The Action

This is an update. My next post wil be on Monday, July 6.

I had the opportunity to travel to Philadelphia for a big 3rd of July pool party and hook up with a few friends I haven't seen in almost twenty-five years. As if that wasn't enough, a good friend of mine is having her annual Fourth of July party in the Boston area. So I'm flying to Phily, then back to Boston, to to be with people I dig and celebrate life. I feel like a rock star. I am grateful to be blessed with a bounty of wonderful people in my life. Happy Fourth of July.

It Wasn't My Time

        Last Saturday, I was biking back from Falmouth. It was a nice ride, pleasant and uneventful, save for one thing. I got hit by a truck.
        Most of my trek was on the fabulous new bike path extension that runs practically to my front door, give or take a few miles. But some of my travel was on open road. When this is the case, I bike on the sidewalk if at all possible, making sure to give pedestrians the room they need to get by. This usually means hopping off the sidewalk and onto the road for a few moments while they pass. So as the two walkers approached me this day, I made my plan to give them room. I was going against the traffic, on what was my left side of the street.
        Checking to make sure there were no oncoming cars, and biking over the sidewalk curb and onto the road, I hit a puddle. Apparently, a pretty wet one. I go through puddles all the time, without ever having a problem. This time, however, because of the angle I hit the puddle at, the extreme wetness of the water, and the phase of the moon in Gemini, I started to skid.
        As I turned to control the bike, I knew if I jerked too hard to the left, I’d hit the bulky curb of the sidewalk and go flying. So I turned right, aware that there were no cars coming towards me. But as I rapidly shifted my weight and turned the handlebars, I skidded once more, most likely because of, once again, the water being far wetter than normal (and possibly because Saturn was in Virgo). This skid was more precarious, however, because I skidded across the road and into the other lane, where a landscaping truck, coming from behind, was headed straight towards me.
        He had already started slowing down and pulling as far over to his right as he could to avoid me. The guy wasn’t speeding, and he was paying attention to the road, which was very fortunate for me. If he had been driving too fast or asleep at the wheel, I would have been toast.
        All of a sudden, I’m in danger of being hit by a truck. What I remember most vividly is that, despite suddenly faced with potential disaster, I was amazingly calm. I didn’t yell. I didn’t panic. And if I was afraid, I certainly didn’t consciously feel it. My mind was incredibly clear and focused. My survival instinct kicked in and determined my best shot for staying alive was not to lose it. I figured out what I needed to do and did it, instantaneously, before I knew I was doing it.
        I instinctively knew my best shot was to avoid hitting the truck broadside, or else I’d suffer the same fate a small boat does when it hits a massive wave facing sideways. So I steered left as hard as I could while still keeping control of the bike and tried to ride alongside the truck. At the same time, I extended my right arm as the truck approached. I wanted to stave off the truck hitting my bike for as long as possible, because every second, his speed decreased. And I knew once my bike got hit, as opposed to my arm or even my shoulder, I would be thrown off the bike, and that was where I could suffer the most damage. The longer I stayed vertical, the better my chances of avoiding serious injury.
        I figured all of this out within a few seconds, and my body was able to execute exactly what I needed to do, instantly. I don’t believe that my brain or my body normally work quite that fast. Or that precisely. But then again, this situation was far from normal. Something else had kicked into gear.
        The first thing that hit the truck was my hand at the end of my outstretched right arm. I pushed off once, then a few more times, as my bike stayed out of the line of fire and I kept my balance, now on a tangent course with the truck. Finally, part if his cab hit my bike, and I was thrown off. This was the moment of truth.
        As I fell, I turned and tucked in my arms, again, instinctively, so that I wouldn’t brace my fall with my hands. What had saved me a moment ago would have resulted in a broken bone now, so in came my arms. As I headed towards the ground, my head came up so it wouldn’t hit the pavement, and I turned and rolled my shoulder, knowing that the most heavily muscled part of my torso, my upper back and shoulder area, was best equipped to deal with the fall. As I hit the ground, I rolled with the blow, further dissipating the impact.
I got up off the ground with nothing but a few scratches on my right upper back. No blood. I wasn’t even shook up. As soon as I got up, I came over to the dude driving the truck and said “I’m fine. Completely. And it was my fault. Don’t worry about it.” He looked more upset than I probably did, even though I was the one who got knocked to the ground. I reassured him several more times that I was completely okay and that the accident was my fault, shook hands with the guy, and biked off.
        The last time I felt my life threatened, I was seventeen. Skiing down Wildcat mountain, I wiped out at high speed and went careening, completely out of control, into a ravine full of trees. I instinctively covered my head, some part of me knowing that if I ever hit my noggin against a tree at this velocity, it would be lights out. Permanently. I also yelled, knowing somewhere in me that if I needed help, yelling sooner rather than later may prove crucial. I didn’t yell when I went skidding into the truck, because yelling at that point wouldn’t do any good. I knew the guy already saw me, and using my voice at all would just redirect energy that I desperately needed elsewhere.
        In my skiing accident, I ended up sideways, slamming against a pine tree, knocking the wind out of me and breaking a rib. My brother and my first cousin, who I was skiing with, wanted to call the ski patrol, but there was no way I was going down the mountain in a stretcher unless I could not physically stand up. Only pussies go down a mountain in a ski patrol stretcher (oh the idiocy of teenage machismo). So I climbed out of the ravine, snow up to my waist, using my skis like hiking sticks, and skied down the rest of the mountain, bent to one side and trying not to wince too noticeably.
        Fear remains a perverse phenomenon. It can save our lives, and it can ruin them as well. The fear of getting hit by a truck is what triggered my survival instinct, or whatever you want to call the physical, emotional, and psychological zone that I was in for those few seconds that I needed focus, strength, coordination, and inner peace to stay alive. But my fear of abandonment, or rejection, can take me out of my life completely.
        Actually, it’s my response to fear that determines how my life gets lived. Or not lived. My response to fear in the face of a true life threatening situation was to focus my mind and body in order to increase my chances of survival. This was an automatic, mostly unconscious response. But then again, so is my reaction to fear of abandonment. It’s mostly unconscious. My growth comes when I make that unconscious fear and automatic emotional reaction conscious, so I can look at it and employ tools to change it. The fear is still there, and may always be. But my response is what I can alter with awareness, acceptance, and action.

Please join me again for part two.

©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and an instinctual number of Wrongs) Reserved.

Confessions Of A Topless Jackass

        The other day, I was biking to the beach. It was a sunny day, not particularly hot, probably in the low seventies. Less than a mile from the beach, a truck passed me, and as it did, the passenger stuck his head out of the window. A skinny teenager yelled “Put your fuckin’ shirt on you $@#*%!!”. I knew it was an insult, but I couldn’t make out the last phrase. Being a teenager, his articulation was less than stellar.
        I reacted instinctively by smiling broadly and flipping him the finger. It was a knee jerk reaction, because I was in a great mood, and I could have just as easily ignored him. On another day, at another time, maybe I would have. But that day, in that moment, I didn’t.
        There was a part of me that hoped the truck would stop and the kid would get out. Then I would pull a James Bond move on him by leaping off my bike and taking him down to the ground. Where I would make him eat my bicycle chain.
        The part of me that wanted to throttle the kid is not a very evolved or enlightened part of me, but he does exist. His metaphysical body is fueled by whatever unreleased anger is still inside of me. Some of it going back to when I was a little kid. This part of me is the garbage container for all the shit I’ve ever eaten and haven’t let go of. He’s an eye for an eye kind of guy, and sometimes his voice is loud and he has lots to say. That day, he flared up for a moment and then went away.
        What this incident brought up for me was how, occasionally, when I do something unconventional, express myself, or just simply be me, people have reactions that are less than positive. I’m not unusual or unique in that regards by any means. That happens to everybody. For those of us who are different, it happens more frequently. It goes with the territory.
        Making peace with that reality is a process that I sometimes struggle with. The primitive, neanderthal part of me that wants to settle everything mano a mano, and the inner garbage can of unreleased anger, want to scream at the other person; “What the fuck is wrong with you?! Do you have to actually insult me? Attack my character? Demean my actions? I’m not affecting you in the least. My not wearing a shirt doesn’t impact your life at all. So shut the fuck up.” These parts would love to do that. Or just bash their face in.
        Of course, those parts of me don’t get that, by not wearing a shirt, I am impacting those people who choose to insult me. If I wasn’t, they wouldn’t react like that. But what it’s affecting is something on their insides, not their outsides. And if those being affected don’t know that they are being triggered, if they aren’t self aware or introspective or somewhat enlightened to that process, then they lash out. They make it about me. It’s easy to do that. Much easier than going inside and trying to figure out what the hell is going on in there.
        The not wearing a shirt thing is just one example, but it’s a good one because I don’t like to wear a shirt in the summer. I mean not when I don’t have to. Obviously, for work and when I’m in buildings where going topless would be against policy or simply inappropriate, I wear a shirt. But in my home, or driving around, or whenever I’m outside, the chances are that I will be shirtless. So there’s plenty of opportunity for getting flack. I actually don’t get much. At least not that I know of. But who knows? Maybe more people inaudibly call me a topless jackass than I could possibly fathom.
        I do ask the question why I like to go topless. I’ve gone within, and keep going back, to discover more about myself. This is a good one to look at too. Because going shirtless is something I do frequently, something I like to do, something that some people don’t get but makes perfect sense to me, and it has to do directly with my body, which means it is intimately connected to my heart and mind. So I gain insights into what I think and what I feel by going through my body.
        Part of it is unbridled vanity. No question about that. I only go shirtless if I look the way I want to. If I think I’m too heavy, the shirt stays on. That’s telling me something. And I like how I look without a shirt. There is a part of me that is into looking good and attracting attention to myself. Going shirtless and exposing a lean, muscular torso is one way of doing that.
        But it’s certainly more complicated than that. I work very hard on my body, and it’s not all vanity. I feel so much different about myself, and about my life, when I’m really fit. Like I’m experiencing my life through a different lens. There’s definitely a je ne sais quoi to that part that I haven't figured out.
        When I work out religiously, the endorphins are really cranking every day, which definitely effects my mood. Looking the way I want means that I’ve set a goal and achieved it. Automatically, that sets me up for another goal, an ongoing one, of maintaining what I’ve achieved. That gives me satisfaction the same way the achievement of any goal does. And at the end of each day, if I’ve exercised and eaten right, I feel good about that. If I’ve had an otherwise difficult day, maybe a day where I didn’t get much done, or a day where I beat the shit out of myself, I can go to bed at least feeling that I did something good and positive for myself. And that helps me have better days ahead.
        I’m proud of the body I’ve been able to build, the same way you would be if you built a beautiful house, maybe with your own hands. I try not to be too proud, because I understand the pitfalls of pride. I work just as hard at keeping myself in check as I do keeping myself fit.
        If you designed and actually made your own line of clothing, and it fit you really well, made you look good, and you put lots of work into making it, wouldn’t you wear it all the time? Well that’s how I think about my body. If you wear your own line of kick ass clothing, nobody would fault you for it. I suppose going shirtless is my equivalent of that.
        Maybe because of all of the shame we attach to our bodies, not wearing a shirt just brings up so much stuff for people. I understand that. I used to be a chubby kid. I didn’t like how I looked, and I got lots of teasing from other kids. I know what it’s like to have a very poor self image. Which I’m sure is a major reason why I’m such a fanatic about it today. The scars go deep, and now that I have the ability to control, to a degree, certain aspects of how I look, I’m very driven to do so. It’s helped me heal. We’re not encouraged to love our bodies. Working out is one way of showing love for my body.
        But I’ll admit, it’s not unconditional love. That’s where I stumble. I don’t love my body no matter what. But I also know that there’s a center in me that doesn’t care how I look. My soul doesn’t care what my waistline is. The more I develop that center, the more in touch I get with my own soul, the more unconditionally I’ll be able to love my body. And if I always have this part of me that wants to look good and is willing to drive me to do so, that’s not a bad thing. That will help keep me fit. If I can keep that part in check, it can help me raise my quality of life. Getting and staying physically fit to me is just as important as getting and staying emotionally and mentally fit.
        David Lee Roth once said that every minute you’re up on stage, you’re flipping off everybody who ever tried to stomp on your dream, or told you that you’d never make it, or otherwise attempted to thwart your hopes of success. And let’s face it, there are plenty of people out there like that. People who are unconscious and hurtful and want to see you go down in flames so that they can feel better about themselves. They may be the same type of individual who would find perverse pleasure in insulting somebody or attacking their character because of what they were wearing. Or not wearing.
        Maybe going shirtless is one way of flipping off anybody who ever called me fat, or beat me up because I didn’t look right, or insulted me because I was different, or otherwise shamed me for being myself. Not the most mature attitude, but I'm aware of that. And I think we all need a little “Fuck You” in us. And not wearing a shirt is a pretty harmless way of saying that.

©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a no shirt of Wrongs) Reserved.

Hello Cleveland

        In the middle of Buzzard’s Bay, on Cape Cod, there sits the last commissioned light house in New England. Built in 1943, Cleveland Ledge Lighthouse was part of a plan to guide major shipping traffic through the Cape Cod Canal, which opened in 1914.
        The lighthouse houses a very bright rotating white light and a very loud fog horn. Years ago, both these features were necessities if ships were going to navigate the relatively narrow, shallow bay that was often shrouded in fog.
        With the advent of global positioning systems, and changes in maritime technologies and politics, Cleveland Ledge Light House went from being a manned dwelling to an automated one in 1978. Now decommissioned, the light house stands abandoned, like a lonely sentinel. It’s fog horn now rarely heard, as ships count on GPS and other sophisticated technology to navigate their way through the bay.
        But to those of us who grew up on and around Buzzard’s Bay, especially in the North and West Falmouth area, where the light house sits only three miles offshore, and is easily visible from land, Cleveland Ledge Light House represents a part of our history, our heritage, and indeed our folklore.
        As a kid, the ominous foghorn sounded often. It’s low, distinctive wail both scary and comforting. Even though it could only be heard vaguely and softly from land, it’s unmistakable drone was somehow omnipresent. Nothing else sounded remotely like it, and it’s consistency and persistence made it clear that it was not created by a human or an animal. It therefore sounded otherworldly, a constant reminder on dark, foggy nights that something was out there. Something huge and loud. Something in the middle of the ocean, that made this eerie sound, audible for miles away, all by itself. It was the raw material of nightmares.
        I remember what it was like being a boy and approaching the structure by boat; as you got closer, its daunting, looming presence began taking up more and more of not only your physical space, but your psychic space as well. When you you were within a few hundred feet, it’s all you could think about. Almost like it grabbed your mind and took control of it. It was positively mesmerizing. To a kid, this giant monolith in the middle of the ocean seemed somehow alive, like a motionless monster that may just decide to move if you got too close. It’s chipped paint, rusting round lower section, and semi-dilapidated appearance suggested that it could easily be haunted by the ghosts of mariners who long ago perished in these waters before the light house was there to aid them. Seeing it’s hulking mass rise out of the middle of the water, seemingly from nowhere, gave it an ethereal, supernatural aura. Did people actually build this thing, or did it just one day appear mysteriously from the depths? You could never be quite sure. In a word, it was spooky.
        Even today, when I jet ski out to Cleveland Ledge Light House, I can feel the hair on the back of my neck rise and my goose bumps flair. I approach it with the reverence of one worshiping a temple, making sure to never take my eyes off of it. When I’m that close to it, I remember what it felt like to be simultaneously terrified and gleefully awe struck as a boy. The light house is like a piece of giant frozen childhood. It ignites a unique atmospheric sensation that I first experienced when I was a kid. Like a living entity, like a childhood friend, the light house can trigger something inside me that nothing else can. Only when I'm physically close to it, and still somewhat creeped out as an adult, can I bring myself back to that place I left when I grew up.
        I hold Cleveland Ledge Light House as a sort of temple to my childhood. When I’m next to it now, I forgo the logic and reason of adulthood, and instead embrace the wonder, awe, fright, imagination, and mystery of boyhood. I can achieve this state only if I let go, allow the power of the light house to once again overwhelm me, and just go along for the ride.


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a massive, monolithic light house full of Wrongs) Reserved

A Little Bit Biff, A Little Bit Larry

        Biff is a buff, athletic, gym rat. He’s there every day for at least two hours. From across the room, he spots a guy he doesn’t know, but sees there all the time. He doesn’t say anything to the guy, ever, but the monologue in his head about him goes like this:

        Repulsive. Absolutely re-fuckin-pulsive. Fat droops everywhere, draping over you like an enormous, saggy, flesh cape. The very ground seems to grunt trying to support your mass. People practically scurry out of your way, probably afraid that they’ll be unable to avoid your girth and brush up against you. That can’t be pleasant. Even the air avoids you, appearing to rush away as you move, as though it were escaping from a balloon. Your movement looks unnatural, your very bones moving in ways unintended by God. I refuse to call that a body, and obese is too kind a word. Inhuman is more accurate.
        No self-control. No discipline. No life. You spend your nights gorging yourself on pizza and ice cream while watching Star Trek reruns. Then you call whatever few pathetic friends you have and argue with them over who’s better, Kirk or Piccard. Why bother coming to the gym? Save your money fatso. Spend it on ring dings. At least you’ll enjoy them. You can’t possibly like being here. And you have no idea what you’re doing. I watch you go through your half-assed excuse of a routine, barely breaking a sweat, not using proper technique or form. I hope you live close by. Any more than a twenty minute round trip commute would officially qualify your experience here as a colossal waste of time.
        And I can’t understand your expression. A peaceful smile plastered on your face, from the moment you get here to the moment you leave. Even while you’re working out, if you could call what you do here that. I don’t get it. Where’s the struggle? Where’s the pain and sacrifice? You talk too much while you’re here, saying hello, striking up conversations with the person next to you on the treadmill. You mock this sacred ground, where people come to work and change their bodies.

        Larry is a large, heavy, reluctant exerciser. He doesn’t like being in the gym, but he comes anyway, because he knows it’s good for him. From across the room, he sees a man he doesn’t know. He never talks to this man, ever, but the monologue in his head about him goes like this:

       Stop staring at me with contempt. I feel your eyes boring through me, struggling to get through all this fat and reach the other side of judgment. You probably hate me. You don’t even know me. But I know you. A thousand times. God smiled on you, blessed you with genetics and motivation, and physical fortune. Be grateful.
        My outsides appear hideous to you, but how I look is not who I am. I know that. But you don’t. So while the world is at your feet, you kneel before a false god.
        I did not choose this body. It chose me. My will power. My desire. My pain. None of it has been enough to free me from this biological prison. My prayers remain unanswered. But I still pray. For the act of prayer soothes my soul. I learned how to leave this body a long time ago. I learned to go away to a safe place where the words and the stares and the stones would not hurt so much. I still leave, but now I leave for a different reason. When I meditate. When I pray. I travel to a safe place within myself not to hide but to heal. And now I choose to go, instead of just suddenly finding myself someplace else without even realizing I’ve left.
        You move so stiffly my friend, as though your own body resists itself. Every movement seems strained and calculated. Every action reeks of pretense. Posing as a maverick, as a man who is beautiful and free, I see through the façade. I know your prison: unbridled vanity.
        I recognize your pain. I grasp your story. Because your story is my story, just turned on its head. An upside down quarter is still a quarter. I know that, but you don’t. Ego clouds your vision, and truth remains a hidden treasure.
        I will pray for you. I will pray that you see yourself, and free yourself. Then maybe you will see me.

       We're all a little bit Biff. We're all a little bit Larry.

©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a Biff & Larry amount of Wrongs) Reserved.