Day Before Thanksgiving Day

       I love the island I’m on. Martha’s Vineyard, off the coast of Cape Cod. I love the little town around me. Edgartown, as quaint and picturesque as any place I’ve ever been. I love the hotel I’m in. The Harborview. I’ve spent over fifteen Thanksgivings here. I love my room. The one I’ve come to request and feel so at home in. Room four-twelve, tucked away on the top floor, decked out with Christmas lights, an aromatic candle that smells like a balsam fir, and a view of the ocean
        From my room to the chunk of earth I’m on to the very time and space that I inhabit, I am literally surrounded by what I love.
        And that’s causing me some anxiety.
        The kind of anxiety I’m talking about here is akin to the proverbial kid in a candy store. There is so much I want to do here. And I can’t do it all, nor will I have time to do enough of any of it. So I end up feeling overwhelmed by excitement, joy, and anticipation. All this good energy leaves me over-stimulated, like a little boy running around trying to play with every single toy in the store. I can pressure myself into wanting to experience it all, all at once, all of the time, and end up missing the moments as they pass me by while I’m whirling around in this over-zealous stupor.
        Sometimes I refer to myself as an “experience junkie” (making sure to leave off the “d” at the end of “experience”). Meaning that I want to have all these different experiences, spend plenty of time reveling in each one, and not have to choose which one’s I can’t do.
        Like the movie “Groundhog Day”, except I’m on Martha’s Vineyard, at The Harborview Hotel, the day before Thanksgiving. This movie could be called “Day Before Thanksgiving Day”. A pretty lame title, but you get the point. In it, I’m a character who loves where I am and when I am. I use each repeating day to do one thing I really love. That would be a slice of heaven. A month of the day before Thanksgiving. Ripe with all of the anticipation, unique ambience, good vibes, magic, love, joy, and peace.
        My day(s) would look something like this.
        I would make the twenty mile pilgrimage to Aquinnah, where the cliffs explode in vibrant colored clay. I’d meditate on the cliffs and talk to my friend Ron. I’d remember when him and I, along with a few other close friends, came here to bathe in the clay pits, swim in the pristine ocean, paint our naked bodies like crazed warriors with the colored clay, get stoned, and ogle all the naked women.
        I would ride my bike all over this quiet, peaceful island, getting in an entire day of cardiovascular exercise and sightseeing.
        The hotel I’m in is so beautiful, and the staff are so friendly, I would walk around it all day and just talk to people. Soaking in, and giving out, the positive holiday vibes. The next “day”, I’d sit in the lobby, in front of the fireplace, sip coffee, and read. And write. And read. And write. Repeat.
        I would go to South Beach and walk along the surf, having a conversation with my dad. He loved being on the Vineyard at Thanksgiving. Sometimes the memories of him here are so thick, I can feel him on my skin. His touch is beautiful, but it hurts. Because I miss him so much.
        My inspiration is so high, I would sit at my computer and write from sunrise to sunset.
        I would visit each and every little shop and boutique on the island, getting to know whoever worked there. I would ask them about their Thanksgiving plans, and make dozens of these precious little connections. I’d do lots of my Christmas shopping in these exclusive, unique stores, buying special one of a kind gifts for each of the special one of kind people in my life.
        My room is festive and cozy, so I would love to lie in bed all day and relax, watching every pre-Thanksgiving special on television. If I was with the woman I loved, we would order room service and fool around. A lot.
        Alas, I don’t have the ability to repeat this day ad infinitum. So I have to choose a small fraction of what I want to do, and only do it for a small fraction of the time I’d like to do it.
        Want, want, want. Love, love, love. Do, do, do.
        Maybe I need to just be.
        I hear that all the time, but I usually don’t know what the hell it means. I can try to just be, but I can’t try too hard, because then I’m not “being”. Then I’m “trying”. It gets very confusing.
        This scenario of wanting to do it all, and spend as much time as I want doing it, plays itself out whenever I’m assaulted with massive amounts of excitement, joy, and anticipation. For example, when I throw a party and want to spend every minute of the event with every person there. It happens on Christmas Eve. It happens on Christmas Day. It happens on...hell, there’s quite a few days like these.
        The ability to properly channel this delirious enthusiasm is something I still need help with. So I open up to it. I pray for it. I meditate around it. I talk about it. I write about. I share it. And I need to do all that. Because that’s how I want to move through life. That’s how I want to live.
        I have faith that I will get better at this just “being” thing without losing my maniacal, lovable, boyish enthusiasm. That I will learn how to relax into the moments of my life without losing my unique zest and personality. That I’ll learn to let go of the pressure I feel to do it all, all of the time, and surrender my resistance. I have faith that I will get better at living my life from the place I want to live it from. As I grow. As I practice spending less time in my head. As I learn to touch my soul. As I develop a more conscious contact to my higher power. And as I keep opening my positively over-flowing heart.

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

Note: To see the pictures related to this entry, go here.

The Sobchak Channel

       This is just a quick observation, because I want to post something today, but I haven’t had time to edit any of the two dozen pieces that need it before being published.
        I saw a show in the History Channel last night called “The Brain”. I like the History Channel, but there’s a big problem with it. Their programs always seems to find a way to relate to war. They should just call it “The War Channel”. Their message seems to say that history and war are synonymous.
        They find a military angle to everything. I think I remember watching a show about fall foliage in New England, and they found a way to reference the battle of the bulge. Sometimes watching the History Channel is like listening to Walter Sobchak in The Big Lebowski. On second thought, maybe they should call it “The Sobchak Channel”.

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

Mind Crisis

        Bringing down the recyclables this morning, two women walked by me and said hello. I said hello back, and one of them slowed down. Maybe the screaming florescent lime green sweat pants I was wearing emboldened her to ask “Do you live in this purple house?”. “Sure do” I replied. By this time her friend had stopped as well and smiled at me. I smiled back. There was a friendly, immediate sense of ease between the three of us, the kind you often get when you see people just after sunrise. That feeling that the whole world belongs to you at that early hour of the day fosters an instant, impermanent bond. The first woman then said “Can I ask you a question?”. I replied “You already have, but you can ask another one”. All three of us laughed. She continued, “Were you in an eighties hair band or something?”.
        The rumor that has persisted around my little town is that I was a drummer in an eighties hair band, went a little crazy, bought this house, and painted it purple. Well who the hell am I to get in the way of a good rumor? I don’t go around propagating this nonsense, but I’ve never actively dissuaded it either. And I wasn’t going to start now. It’s a great story, a harmless bit of misinformation, and lots of fun to play with.
        So I said to the women “Yes, I was. I was in a band called Mind Crisis.” Sometimes I’ll say that I was a member of “Whitesnake” if I’m approached by people who look like they know something about heavy metal. This is because Whitesnake is a real band, and they’ve had lots of drummers. And very few people know who those drummers were. I do, and now you will too: Ian Paice, Cozy Powell, Ansley Dunbar, Tommy Aldridge, and Denny Carmassi. All incredible players. My only twinge of guilt when I bullshit about this is that I am absolutely not worthy of being mentioned in the same sentence as those monsters. But if I ever met one of them, I think they would find the whole story amusing and forgive my indiscretion.
        I’m aware that this may all appear hypocritical. After all, I’m pontificating about the values of being yourself, and here I am pretty much lying about who I am. That’s one way to look at it, and not necessarily wrong. But I make this distinction: sometimes being myself means playing a part, just for a little while, just for fun. I’m not kidding myself, and all I’m gaining is a good story. I would never manipulate somebody into believing this tripe in order to get something. And if I got to know these women at all, I would ‘fess up to this little charade as soon the joke had run it’s course.
        Anyway, I went with “Mind Crisis” because that’s a fictitious band that sounds like a hair band from the eighties. The woman nodded and said “Oh wow.” Probably because we had developed a rapport, she blurted out “Why did you paint your house purple?”. I get this a lot, and my response is always the same. Without skipping a beat I said “For the only reason that matters when it comes to what color to paint your house. Because I wanted to.” No jesting there. That’s as authentic as it gets. She looked at me, wearing these florescent lime green sweat pants, standing in front of a purple house, laughed, and said with no malice in her voice whatsoever “That’s not what we heard!” I replied, smiling from ear to ear, “I know what you heard.” She laughed even harder.
        Sometimes my life is a lot of fun.

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

Cycle Chant

       Recently, I took up chanting. Whilst riding my bike. Whenever I pass a fellow exerciser, even though I’m chanting, I smile and wave. This induces a bewildered look from most people. The audio-visual dynamic of a man chanting while cycling as he waves at you is probably a little strange. Maybe people aren't used to a guy on a bike being friendly. Or chanting. Or both.
        For some reason, cyclist, the kind who dress like they’re doing the Tour de France through your neighborhood, can come off as the unfriendliest exercisers ever to break a sweat. “Unfriendly Cyclist Syndrome”, or U.C.S., afflicts thousands of people around the country, especially in affluent areas like mine. Cyclists with U.C.S. rarely acknowledge any sort of greeting. They don’t even grunt at you. Why the attitude? Is this because they’re in “The Zone” and can’t come out of it? Are they resentful of people who drive and take that out on everybody, even pedestrians? This is not a rhetorical question. Any avid cyclists out there who can help me with this, please respond. I want to understand.
        Cyclist rarely smile at me when I’m riding because they probably think I’m completely bastardizing the sport by combining chanting with bike riding. Or maybe it’s because I never wear a helmet. Ever. I hate the damn things. Yes, a helmet could save my life if I fell. Yes, it’s foolish not to wear one. So I’m a fool. A dangerous fool. I’m okay with that.
        Chanting as I cycle gets me my cardio while I practice a spiritual pursuit. Eventually, I want the chanting to help me quiet my mind, which is one of it’s benefits. I haven’t gotten there yet.
        Maybe when I do, I’ll become one of those Unfriendly Cyclist because I’ll be in a place where I don’t know there’s anybody else on the planet, never mind somebody coming the other way waving at me. If that’s the case, I’d better get a helmet as well. Because if I’m that out of it, my chances of being hit by a car increase from unlikely to unavoidable.
        No. I can’t accept that. I trust that, when I get to the point where the chanting quiets my mind while I’m biking, I’ll still be aware enough to be friendly and appropriately alert. That has to be way. Because I’m always going to smile and wave. And I’m not wearing a helmet.

© 2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a cataclysmic amount of Wrongs) Reserved