The Answering Machine

        Leaving a phone message for somebody who doesn’t answer your call is a common and ubiquitous reality of modern life. These days, it’s usually done through a messaging service that you get through your phone company, but it wasn’t always done this way. “Answering machines”, actual physical devices, often separate from the phone itself, used to be what people used. Because that’s all that was available.
        For Christmas one year, I believe it was 1986, I got my first answering machine. It was a black and grey Panasonic, about the size of what a mini laptop would be today. It had two cassette tapes inside it, and hence two cassette machines; one to record and playback your outgoing message, and another to record and playback your incoming messages.
        I remember being quite excited when I got it, because I immediately understood what I was holding in my hands. This little machine was not a practical tool that could save time; it was not a piece of technology that performed a useful function; it was not a modern convenience. No. This little machine was an audio easel. And I was now a loud, gigantic box of paint brushes and colors.
        From the very beginning, I didn’t look at the answering machine as a way for people to leave me messages when I wasn’t around. I looked at it as thirty seconds of self expression. If you called and got my machine, you rarely ever heard me say the phrase “Leave a message”. That was implied. You were, after all, calling me. Why waste time stating the obvious? Besides, it gave me an extra second to be creative. And every little bit counts.
        My outgoing messages were like little audio productions that I spent time and energy on. I would often script them, rehearse them, and have to do more than one take until I was satisfied. I loved it. I would often cue up music on my stereo and use it during my production, sometimes having to stop and start a CD or cassette tape several times. It was a mini performance piece that was recorded live, without the option of editing anything later. Now days, I could do it all on Garageband, and cut, paste, and tweak till my hearts content, but that software wasn’t available then. Sort of like live television, it was all done on the fly. I've saved many of those outgoing messages onto a cassette tape, and every time I listen to it, I smile. Broadly.
        What motivated me to spend any more than a few seconds on my outgoing message was the deep desire to express myself. To be myself. To be me, all of the time, in big situations and in tiny ones. I wanted to use every available opportunity to express who I was. I still do. Life as an art project. Life lived as an ongoing performance piece, where the objective is to be yourself, never anything else, every moment of every day.
        Through that process, I carve a path that’s mine. To be myself, I have to know myself, so this path is as much a journey inward as it is outward. Constantly discovering myself. Constantly re-defining myself as I go deeper and deeper and get more to the center of who I am and of who I want to be.
        If I can apply the attitude I take to the answering machine to everything, what a daring adventure my life will be. In the simplest of moments, I can be myself and add something unique to my experience here on the planet. And in the process, I enrich the lives of those around me by just being me, all of me, as best I can, all the time. And when those around me do the same, my life is infused with something I can not give myself: connection to other people. I can connect to myself. I can love myself. In fact, if I’m going to be happy, I have to. But that is not enough. I have to take that love outward. Self love truly manifests itself when I love others; when I connect to other people. I take that love that I have learned to give myself and give it to others. And then it becomes a circle of positive energy that feeds us both. We need each other for that. And that’s a beautiful thing.
        I encourage us all to use whatever life gives us to express ourselves. To be ourselves. We don’t need a big stage or a lot of lights or a huge audience to do that. Anybody can do it, in big moments and in small, if we get to know ourselves and can dare to live it. That is the path I am committed to. Just ask my answering machine.


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and please leave a message at the tone of Wrongs) Reserved.

Last Footage of My Father

On October 5, 2006, my sister Cheryl and I visited my dad, my mom, and my nephew at the house I grew up in. I wanted to show them pictures of my trip to California, having returned just a few weeks before. I had my computer with me, because that's where all my pictures were. I showed my dad how I could take video, and immediately play it back, with my computer. He got a kick out of that. He was a civil engineer, and technology of this sort fascinated him. It befuddled him as well, because for years, I would get weekly calls asking me, one more time, how to program a VCR, duplicate a tape, or just turn a damn piece of equipment on.

The day after this video was taken, my dad broke his hip. He was gone sixteen days later. These are therefore the last images ever taken of my father.

I am grateful that I got to spend part of this day with him. How fortunate I was to capture this video of him and I only hours before he began a slow fade from this life. I miss him more than I can say. And I will always love him. In death as I did in life. He isn't physically here anymore, but that doesn't mean he's not still with me. I feel him today, as I do everyday. If I just go inside. And listen.

Lie To Win

        Pathological lying is a sickness of the soul. As dangerous to human relationships as hatred, and just as powerful. As insidious as cancer, and often even harder to cure. As potentially destructive to another person’s well being as domestic abuse, but who’s signs are much harder to detect.
        Yet you won’t see much coverage of pathological lying in the media. Maybe lying in general is so accepted in our society that taking it to the pathological state just seems like an an extreme extension of something most people do anyway. Why get your shorts in a knot? Similar in that respect to alcoholism. Most people drink. Some drink too much and too often. So what?
        It’s helpful to differentiate between a pathological liar and a compulsive liar:

“A pathological liar is usually defined as someone who lies incessantly to get their way and does so with little concern for others. Pathological lying is often viewed as a coping mechanism developed in early childhood. A pathological liar is often goal-oriented (i.e., lying is focused - it is done to get one's way). Pathological liars have little regard or respect for the rights and feelings of others. A pathological liar often comes across as being manipulative, cunning and self-centered.” (definition courtesy of www.truthaboutdeception.com)

“A compulsive liar is defined as someone who lies out of habit. Lying is their normal and reflexive way of responding to questions. Compulsive liars bend the truth about everything, large and small. For a compulsive liar, telling the truth is very awkward and uncomfortable while lying feels right. Compulsive lying is usually thought to develop in early childhood, due to being placed in an environment where lying was necessary. For the most part, compulsive liars are not overly manipulative and cunning (see, Pathological Liar), rather they simply lie out of habit - an automatic response which is hard to break and one that takes its toll on a relationship. The terms Habitual Liar and Chronic Liar are often used to refer to a Compulsive Liar.” (definition courtesy of www.truthaboutdeception.com)

        Having grown up in a family where we have both pathological and compulsive liars, I’ve been surrounded by both kinds my whole life. I can occasionally slip into the habit of telling a little compulsive lie during the course of a conversation. Rarely about anything important, and usually done to make myself look better, like when I’m feeling shame about something I did or didn’t do, I nevertheless always feel bad about it afterward. I did it more when I was younger, when I was more insecure. I didn’t like that about myself, so I set out to change it. Rarely a problem for me now, but, like alcohol for an alcoholic, it’s always around. I have to stay on top of myself, because truth and honesty are important to me, and even a small, seemingly harmless compulsive lie compromises that value for me.
        Statistically, the chances are good that you know at least one pathological liar, and probably more. I believe both pathological lying and substance abuse are far more prevalent in our society than most people realize. In fact, they’re Emotional/Spiritual Epidemics.
        Dealing with a pathological liar or a person with a substance abuse problem regularly can lead us to madness. If we aren’t aware of, and educated about, these ailments, our serenity and sanity eventually end up compromised. The good news is that that often drives us to help ourselves because we end up in so much pain. This leads us down our own path of growth and transformation.
        Eight years ago, I started going to Al-anon because I needed validation that I wasn’t losing my mind. Things were happening around me that I found incredibly disturbing, painful, and unacceptable. Yet they were being fluffed off, denied, rationalized, excused, or completely minimized by just about everyone else involved. So I started to question my own responses, my own thoughts and feelings, my own attitudes, my own sanity. I knew I wasn’t perfect. I knew I was human and wrong about plenty. I knew I had plenty of character flaws. I wanted to own my stuff. But I could no longer be part of what was happening. It was literally driving me out of my mind. So either I was crazy, or the situation I was involved in was. Either way, I needed help.
        I continue to get help, because I’ll always need it. I can’t do this life alone, as much as a part of me wishes it could. But that’s a lonely part of me that just hasn’t seen enough light yet. As I grow, I open, and thus expose and illuminate more of myself.
        Ultimately, this comes down to me. How I deal with a pathological liar is my opportunity to learn and grow. That said, minimizing my contact with them is usually a good idea. They are good at what they do. Far better than I am. I can’t win their game, or even play it. The way I win is not to play their game at all. The way I win is to be myself in the midst of a shit storm. To go inside and get to know me better. As always, the journey leads me back inward.

©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and thousands, no...millions, no...billions, no...all of the Wrongs on earth, ‘cuz they are ALL MINE!) Reserved.

Helpful Links:

http://wiki.answers.com/Q/How_can_you_tell_if_someone_is_a_pathological_liar

http://www.youmeworks.com/sociopaths.html

http://www.truthaboutdeception.com/confront_a_liar/public/pathological-compulsive.html

http://www.healthmad.com/Mental-Health/How-to-Spot-a-Pathological-Liar.

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.

Three Pairs of Shoes

        One night out, I noticed three women sitting at a table next to me. They all had on great looking shoes. The specificities escape me, but all three pairs were different from each other, and very stylish. I walked over to their table and said, with a smile on my face, “Excuse me. I wanted to tell you ladies that you’ve all got on killer shoes.”
        It was a sincere compliment, with the potential to be an ice breaker. But even if these were three women who were obviously unavailable, I would have said something to them about their shoes. They were flat out cool, the shoes I mean, and I compliment people I don’t know often.
        After the compliment, there was silence. The woman directly across from me looked at me and, after a few seconds, uttered the most sarcastic and insincere “thanks” I had ever heard that hadn’t come from a member of my family. The one to her left just looked at me without saying anything, and the other woman, who’s back was more or less to me, didn’t even bother to turn around. I said “Your welcome” and left.
        There were a few people with me back at my table, and when I returned, they asked me what happened. I told them, we all laughed about it, and went back to watching the Bruins game.
        The internal roadblocks that we construct to do something as simple as an honest compliment to someone we don’t know can be very formidable. Taking the risk to say something genuinely kind and positive to a stranger means pushing past very entrenched, partially unconscious fears of rejection, shame, and judgement, to name a few.
        The receiver of your kindness has their own shit going on, and getting past that to respond with genuine appreciation, say with a sincere “thank you” or a smile, posses its challenges as well. Most of us walk around fairly guarded unless we’re surrounded by people we know. Lowering that guard to allow a compliment in can be tricky. Hearing somebody say “That’s a great color on you!” is one thing. Truly receiving that compliment is another.
        Immediately, we often believe that the person dolling out the compliment has an agenda, so we’re suspicious. We figure they want something from us, so they’re only saying something nice as a means to an end. They don’t really mean it. Many of us have experienced this to be true often enough so that we have reason not to trust kindness from strangers, or sometimes even from people we know. After all, everybody has had experiences where somebody we know, and possibly loved, told us something nice just to get something from us. And that hurts. Sometimes very much and very deeply. Those scars can stay with us our whole lives unless we actively try to heal them.
       My own phobia with compliments hasn’t got to do with thinking that the other person wants something from me, but that they’re fucking with me. That they’re being sarcastic, snickering behind my back, complimenting me on one hand and throwing me under a bus with the other. If I go nuts with this line of mis-reasoning, I imagine that the person’s friends are watching from afar, laughing their ass off while their buddy “compliments” me.
        I know where this comes from and what it’s about. A sarcastic compliment is just a lie. It’s a lie designed to set me up on a precarious pedestal so that I’ll have farther to fall, and thus hurt myself more, when I realize that I’ve been duped. It’s cruel, designed to have a joke at my expense, designed to cause me pain. It happened to me enough as a kid for me to be suspicious of any kind word from anybody. Even today, unless I’m mindful and present, my immediate internal knee jerk to a compliment from a stranger is “They are fucking with me. They are bullshitting me so that they can make me look bad.”
        That’s a very old tape, and one that I’ve worked hard to turn the volume down on. It’s a constant challenge, but it’s getting easier to do the more I learn to love myself and the longer I stay open instead of closed. Today, that old tape still plays immediately, but the volume on my internal stereo for this particular song is much softer than it used to be. I hear other tapes now that are louder. Tapes of gratitude and appreciation. A steely guarded cautious suspicion for the person has been largely replaced by feelings of warmth and connection.
        And if they are fucking with me, which sometimes still happens, I can actually see that much more easily now. We think that hyper-vigilance is our best defense against whatever we’re trying to protect ourselves from, but actually, it’s the worst mindset we can have. Because we’re always assuming it, we’re actually drawing it to us, not repelling it. And because we’re always on the lookout for it, we lose the ability to discern when it’s really happening. It’s counterintuitive, but it’s true. The more open I am, the easier it is to gauge intent.
        So if the intent is to fuck with me, because I’m open to all experience, I can smell that easier. And I can tell if it’s really meant to hurt me, or just good humored ribbing, or simple praise, or anywhere on that continuum. More importantly, because I’m more in touch with how I feel and because I’m happier with who I am, I can choose a response that’s appropriate for me.
        Recently, I was at a Boston Red Sox game, sporting a very blonde quasi-mohawk hairdo, and wearing a tank top and a pair of board shorts. This guy was standing with his girlfriend, and he said to me, completely out of the blue, “Hey, where’s your surfboard?”. Because I’m so much more in touch with the real me these days, I was able to respond, quickly and without much thought, in a way that reflected more of who I am. I’m more joyful, much less angry. I’m more loving, and not so guarded. I’m more out there, willing to take more risks. I’m more conscious and more heart centered. I’m more myself. So my response matched where I was at, not where he was coming from.
        “My surfboard is at home. Where’s yours?” I said. He responded “I don’t have one.” So I looked at him up and down quickly and said “Yeah. I can tell.” We both laughed. For a brief moment, me and this other guy connected and shared a moment together.
        I encourage you to get in touch with that place inside you that loves to connect to people. We all have it in there, and it’s more powerful than many of us know. It’s part of our life force that drives us to interact with one another and to love. Just getting in touch with that place and trying to come from there can make simple encounters with everybody and anybody not only pleasurable, but inspiring and life affirming. We can walk away from an interaction feeling more alive and uplifted, even if it’s just for a few minutes. We can build on those and string them together throughout the course of our days and suddenly we’re a little more ourselves and a little more open to connecting to one another. Maybe then life doesn’t seem so hostile. And neither does the person who compliments you on your shoes.


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