Run Silent, Run Deep

       I have started and stopped about a half dozen different pieces this morning. On top of that, I’ve gone back to another half a dozen writings that are a work in process and tried to finish them. So far, goose egg. So I’m writing about how I’m striking out on the page, which, ironically, is providing me with exactly what I need; something I can write about that I can finish.
       My lack of ability to complete something to post is not because there’s nothing going on for me to write about. It’s not because nothing is coming to me, or that I feel I have nothing to say. On the contrary, there’s a ton of stuff bubbling up inside of me. But, like a cake that isn’t ready yet, it’s still baking.
       I’m experiencing an inward gestation, a time of very personal germination. It’s a time for me to go within, not put something out. Most of the time, both are happening at once; inward journeys accompanied by outward expressions. At present, though, it’s mostly all happening on the inside. So I’m paying attention to that and purposely not sharing, not expressing. Which is hard for me. But something is telling me it’s what I need to do right now.
       There is a strong sense, however, that when I’m ready to share again, it will be an explosion of sorts. I’m turning it all down right now because I’m going to be turning it all up, very loud, pretty soon. But I want my sound to be clear, not distorted. That takes some crafting, some care, some focus. Any rock band can be loud; Spinal Tap proved that. It’s just a matter of turning up the volume to eleven. But the best rock bands are loud because their music sounds better cranked up. The power and passion and message of the music dictates its volume, not the other way around. That’s what I’m shooting for.
       The need to be quiet, as difficult as that is, grounds me. It builds a stronger inner platform. I don’t believe I’ve ever really gotten that until recently.
       If I’m going to jump off a cliff, in order to soar, in order to fly, I first need the bedrock of the cliff under me from which to jump.



©2013 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.

Destroyer

       I remember the first time I saw the album cover of Destroyer by Kiss. It was at Camp Becket, during a dance with Chimney Corners, our sister camp just up the road. Music was provided by a band, made up of camp staff members, and a DJ. Milk crates full of records sat right next to the stage, and I took to flipping through them when I wasn’t dancing. Which was often, because back then, I didn’t dance much.
       So I’m flipping through the albums, and I come to Destroyer, which I had never seen before. Holy Fuck. Instant “Deer In The Headlights”. It’s one of those moments where not only the image, but the entire totality of the experience, becomes permanently etched inside of you; I call it Experiential Permafrost. My mind, my body, my heart, my very spirit, were suddenly assaulted with something that was so overwhelming that I literally, absolutely, froze solid. I could do nothing but stare.  
       Suddenly, everything that I was, indeed everything that I had ever been, became completely absorbed in that album cover. In those moments, I ceased to exist; I was beautifully lost in that all consuming image. The rest of existence became nothing more than white noise. My entire universe was that painting. It was the first time in my life that I was acutely aware that I was experiencing something much bigger than myself. It was a spiritual experience. No fuckin’ question about it.
       The spiritual essence came from my identification of something inside of me that was in perfect harmony with, completely connected to, something outside of me that felt bigger than life itself. Some people get that experience in church. I get it in lots of places. This was my first memory of it. Looking at an album cover. At camp. Who would have thunk.  
       That cover invaded my very being, and took me out. Out of space, out of time, out of myself, and then back into myself, all at the same time; like a loop that repeats itself faster than you can think. I could not get enough. Unconsciously, it was the birth of an awareness in me that I could not yet identify. The awareness was that, unlike most teen agers, I didn’t want to escape: I wanted to Metamorphosize. I wanted to Transform. I wanted to Transcend.
       Even in the emotionally turbulent and totally mayhemic world of early teen agers, I was different. Much like the band Kiss, who, even in the positively insane world of rock music, were different. I was, like them, a misfit amongst misfits. Not in the way I dressed though. My unique fashion senseless would develop a little later. Somehow, I knew that, in the words of my writing coach, Anika Nailah, I “shopped in a different isle”.
       Transcending, Transforming, and Metamorphosizing the conventional, or what’s considered “normal”, is something I do naturally, constantly, simply as a function of who I am. I do it on the inside, in the way I think and feel and experience. I do it on the outside, in what I say and in what I do. I’m engaged in the process of assisting others who are interested to do the same. To expand their concepts, and beliefs, and ways of thinking, and attitudes, and feelings, and behaviors. To open them up to the idea that maybe, at least on some scale, in some contexts, there’s a different way to do things, a different way to live. To embrace whatever it is that makes them different, whatever it is that makes them unique, whatever it is that makes them who they truly are, and bring more of that into the world.
       Destroyer remains a talisman for me, even to this day. Whenever I want to remind myself that it’s okay to be different, I stare at that painting for a while. And I just feel better.


©2013 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.

   

Connection Reflection

       The other day, I posted a piece called A One In A Sea of Twos, Threes, and Fours about experiencing a lack of community in my life at present. Upon rereading the piece and undergoing some reflection about its topic, some things became clear to me that I would like to share.
       There are inherent perils of laying it out there, of expressing what’s really going on inside me, and of being vulnerable. One of them is the possibility that I’m going to hurt somebody else’s feelings. The more I express, the more risk I take, and thus the more potential for reward and the more potential for loss. More risk means bigger upside and bigger downside. Which is one reason why people play it so safe with self expression. We all want the rewards. But if given the choice, who the hell wants the fallout? No one. Not even me. But it just doesn’t work that way.
       Which leads to another dilemmatic element of blogging about yourself; it can feel, for me and for my readers, that there is a high level of self absorption going on. And yet, the only experience I can write about with any amount of certainty is my own. If I’m expressing feelings and insights and experiences, I have to keep it about me. Only by doing that can I hope to keep it real, and through that authenticity, maybe connect to you. It’s an “I've got to go through me to get to you” type thing. In my attempt to be real with myself, I open myself up to a much broader world of experience, perspective, wisdom, and insight. And at that point, it won’t come from me, but from you. But it begins with me.
       It occurred to me that in my exposing my lack of community, that some of my friends, and I have many wonderful ones, may be hurt by that sentiment because it’s a reflection upon them. Indeed, if I look back over the past two weeks, I have been to two parties, attended the gig of a kid I love to death, attended the birthday bash at the the house of a friend who feels like family, had some deep and meaningful conversations, shared some very intimate moments, and connected with quite a few people whom I care a great deal about. People who I know care a great deal about me, and who have opened up their lives and their homes to me with unbounded hospitality and a lot of love. I am grateful for all of that. And for all of them.
       My lack of community and connection is an inside job. I feel a lack of connection to myself at present. I’m experiencing an inner loneliness at a level I have never felt before. Whatever is happening on the outside is just going to mirror that, no matter what the hell is going on there.
       That’s not anybody’s responsibility to shift but mine. But I’ll take all the help I can get. Because we don’t do this life alone. Which is another reason why I lay it out there, every chance I get.


©2013 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.

A One In A Sea of Twos, Threes, and Fours

       Currently missing from my life is a strong sense of community; a sense of belonging. Sometimes I feel like an afterthought in my own plans.
       Having never been married or had children, unlike many of my friends and relatives, I don’t have a family nucleus.
       Even though I’m starting my own business, and have a team of people working with me to make that happen, it’s still a highly solitary pursuit. Not having a particular work place to go to every day further disconnects me from the communal element of a traditional job. And I love to write, but writing is again something I do alone.
       Although I have reconciled with my family of origin, and we are all getting along well, I do not always feel a strong sense of community with them. I love them all, and I enjoy our time together. But there is a certain distance that I still need from keep. Maybe someday that will change. But right now, I need space from them.
       Only over the last several years have I come to wanting a deep and highly intimate relationship with a single life partner and commit to only her. That hasn’t happened yet. It will, and I’m not forlorn about it. But I don’t yet have someone to share my life with.
       I have lived alone for my entire adult life,; never had roommates, and never lived with a woman. The condominium I currently inhabit is mine, but it doesn’t feel like home anymore. It’s a transitional abode. I used to live in a house, and that was home. But that hasn’t been the case for a few years now.
       On every front, there is a sense of oneness, of aloneness, of existing in and of myself. I have created that, consciously and unconsciously, because that is the reality. So there is a part of me that wants that, or has wanted that. And that part is in conflict with the piece of me that craves community, and being part of something bigger than myself, and everything that goes with it.
       I realize that everybody has elements of community and solitariness in their lives. It gives a sense of balance. I guess what I’m acutely aware of is how out of balance I feel right now around this. And because I’ve done it this way for so long, I’m not really sure I know how to get in balance with it.
       I’ll figure it out; I’ll ask for help; I’ll shift and grow and make the changes I need to. I’m moving towards it. But right now, in this moment, it’s scary.


©2013 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.     

The Skunk House

       The Skunk House. That’s where I lived my last two years of college. Like all iconic residences, this one had a name, a lot of character, and a lot of characters in it. Seven guys. Five bedrooms. Three floors. One bathroom. It was glorious.
       Our abode got its name because it housed four of the six members of my band, The Albino Skunks, a fifties band, who’s repertoire also included some early sixties hits. The band was my brain child, from conception, to image, to costume design, to naming the band. My twin brother Mike and I played in it together. A shit load of fun. I’ll write a post someday about that band. But today, I’ll tell you about the house where most of us lived (not Mike, he lived across town). The Skunk House was, in the little world of Villanova, as infamous as the band itself.
       Not everybody was thrilled when we found the house in the spring of my Sophomore year. In the words of my father, “Johnny”.....(my dad rarely called me Clint) “that place is a God Damn Shit Hole!”. These words were said in front of some of the guys who eventually inhabited the place. They have become a part of folklore amongst many of my Villanova comrades, and the phrase is often repeated whenever we get together, complete with my dad’s Boston accent.
       Dad was right. It was a shit hole. All my housemates knew it. But we didn’t care. Because the only thing that mattered to the seven of us was that we lived together. It didn’t matter where. As long as we were in it as a tribe, all was right with the world.
       I remember getting into debates, even arguments, with my father about living there. He was of the opinion that we would all end up hating each other, because the place was such a dive and much too small for seven young men. Dad meant well, trying to protect his son and the relationships he knew meant a lot to him. My father had the tendency to be over-protective, and thought that he always knew best. God bless him. He meant well, and I knew it was coming from a place of deep love.
       But he was all wet about this one, and I told him so. I was adamant about living with all of these guys, in this house, for the rest of my college days. And I did. Around graduation, my dad admitted that I made the right call, and that I had assessed the situation soundly. The house actually brought us all closer.
       I knew it would, because I knew how we all felt about each other. There was a tremendous sense of camaraderie between us. We were like a gang. We hung out together. We had each other’s backs. We respected each other. We were all very different and yet very similar.
       Bottom line, we loved each other. I knew that. I felt that. Even at the tender age of twenty, I was keenly aware of how deeply I felt about these guys. And I experienced a wonderful sense of acceptance and affectation from them. They loved my spirit, my uniqueness, my unconventional approach to, well, everything. They loved me for who I was. And I felt the exact same way about them. Intense male bonding, before the term gained mass popularity.
       Okay. I’ve set the stage. In part two, I’ll give you the play. In beautiful, gory detail.


©2013 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.