Ron Rays

Note: I posted this story and photograph as today’s “Photo Of The Moment” as well.

        Today, my last day on Martha's Vineyard, I made the twenty mile pilgrimage to Aquinnah at the tip of the island. Aquinnah. Land of colored clay cliffs, nude women, and the stoned, naked revelry of bygone days. Bygone days that used to include my best friend Ron. He died in a motorcycle accident on August 30, 2001.
        I went there to be with him today.
        And he showed up.
        I spent a total of five minutes at Aquinnah today, because it's very remote, and I had a ferry to catch. When I arrived, a hole in the foreboding sky was just starting to open up. As I stood there, thinking of my friend, the sky kept opening. The few people around me weren't paying any attention to what was happening above. They were looking at the beautifully colored cliffs. But I kept watching the sky.
        Within a few moments, light began streaking through the hole and illuminating the water below. As soon as that happened, I felt it.
        Nobody else on the beach was looking up. Nobody else saw what I saw. Or knew what I knew.
        My body started shaking, and I started crying.
        My old friend was communicating to me. In a way that only the two of us understood.
        Ron said to me several times that when he died, he wanted his ashes spread over Gay Head, now known as Aquinnah. We didn't end up cremating him, but his words have always stayed with me. He loved it so much there. We loved it so much there.
        And now, after all this time, here we were again. This time, just the two of us.
        But instead of me spreading Ron all over Gay Head, while I was at Gay Head, Ron spread himself all over me.
        The moment I had to leave, the hole in the sky closed up. And he was gone.
        But he left me another priceless gift. A gift that he gave to me thousands of times when he was alive. He gave me a memory. He gave me a piece of himself. Forever. And no matter what, those are gifts that can never be taken away. Ever.
        Once again, thank you Ron. I love you. I always have. And I always will.

©2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights Reserved.

New Turkey

       My last two Thanksgivings were...less than stellar.
       This year it’s different. Partly because I’m where I want to be. Martha’s Vineyard. And mostly because I’m where I want to be. Inside. Or at least closer than I ever have been.
        Two years ago, my father died a month before Thanksgiving. On the way up from cape cod to have dinner with the rest of my family, most of whom I didn’t want to be with, I had an anxiety attack and ended up at Jordan’s Hospital. Overnight. Alone. Pretty much a mess. As I said, less than stellar.
        Last year, I wasn’t with the one person I wanted to be with. I can’t get into particulars, but what’s important is how I dealt with what happened. Compared to where I’m at inside this year, it’s a great before and after picture, a very revealing then and now vignette.
        Last Thanksgiving, I was mad at principessa. I took it out on her by shutting down even more than I already was. I became removed, distant, and even cold. I punished her, and not in the fun way that sometimes happens in the bedroom.
        It was only after I had my awakening this summer that I realized what should have been obvious at the time. I was mad at her because she hurt me.
        That’s how I reacted to pain then. Any kind of pain was another reason to get mad. At her. At myself. At the world. And that’s what I did.
        I was a walking anger machine that needed very little raw material to produce the finished product. I didn’t waste any time thinking if I needed to be angry at this or that. I didn’t waste much emotional energy trying to get to what was really going on deep inside of me. I was very efficient.
        Rarely did I explode, however, and I was never violent towards anybody. Except myself. All the violence got turned inward, against me, as I mercilessly beat myself up twenty-four-seven-threee-sixty-five. I was like a smoldering, white hot, glowing coals type of fire that occasionally flared into a big flame. When I did let off heat, though, it was scary.
        Thanksgiving was the first time that principessa really hurt me. It was worse than hurt. I was crushed. Devastated. Consciously, and on the surface, I responded with anger. Unconsciously, and inside, I realized that I was in love with her and that...oh fuck...she...could...hurt...me. She could hurt me very badly.
        I couldn’t deal with that. Not then. In the past year, I had lost my dad, my previous girlfriend of four years, whatever connection was left with the rest of my family, my relationship with my twin brother, my band, and I had moved out of my home. There was no fuckin’ way I was going to risk losing my heart as well. Even though I had plenty of other tools, suddenly anger was the only one I knew how to use. Like a guy who learned how to build a house but could swing a hammer since birth, I defaulted to an old stand by.
       That was then. I’m not there anymore.
       This year, I’m still not with the one special person I want to be with. But I’m in one of my favorite places on earth, at one of my most favorite times of the year, and I’ll be joined by some people I love very much. Most importantly, I like myself so much better these days, and I’ll be spending lots of time with him. This year, I’m in touch with how I feel. I don’t shut out love, or joy, or sadness, or pain, or anything else. I’m open.
        There’s a wonderful freedom that comes with this openness that’s still new to me. As though I’m an explorer who can fly. Across this infinite continent of self. Across the unfathomably vast landscape of life. Fully realizing the limitlessness of experience. Discovering my own endless possibilities.
        And it's much simpler than all that too. I'm happy right now. For the first time in three years, I'm happy at Thanksgiving. It is from this newly discovered place of happiness, wonder, gratitude, passion, joy, and love, that I wish the entire planet...a Happy Thanksgiving.

©2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a 24 pound turkey full of Wrongs) Reserved.

My Way

       I don’t do karaoke very often. Even less frequent is my appearance as guest lead singer for a band. When I do either, however, I usually sing the song “My Way”.
       It brings the house down.
       Not because I have a good voice. But because when I sing “My Way”, I do it “my way”. In front of an audience of strangers, I show up for life as myself, just the way I want to. I completely embrace the song’s message by bringing all of myself to it. I quite literally talk the talk and walk the walk.
        Here’s a smidgen of what that looks like.
        My voice is powerful and dynamic, but untrained and sometimes flat. I can’t hit all the notes, no matter what key they put the song in.
        I sing it anyway.
        I use the fact that I miss notes to my advantage by lampooning myself while it’s happening. And I’ll editorialize the lyrics too, adding quick comments or short quips here and there.
        Using lots of over-dramatic movements and poses, I breath my own life into the already poignant, prophetic words. Remember when Elvis would go down on one knee, raise a clenched fist to the sky, and hold it for effect? That’s one of my favorite moves.
        I make lots of what Eddie Murphy calls “fuck faces”: very expressive, exaggerated, evocative, facial contortions.
        By bringing as much of “Clint” into the performance as possible, I connect to the song’s vision. I engage in what I call "precise reckless abandonment". That is, throwing myself completely into the moment, with precious little regard for pretense or outcome, and by doing that, simultaneously communicating a message and making a connection with others. It’s what happens when musicians are in their zone. Actually, it’s usually what happens when anybody is in their zone. It’s a beautiful place to be. It’s where I want to live most of my life.
        Which brings me to a particular passage in “My Way”:

        For what is a man? What has he got?
        If not himself, then he has not
        To say the things he truly feels
        And not the words of one who kneels

        Saying what I truly feel is the essence of MuscleHeart. For many years, just knowing what I felt was a struggle, because I had constructed so many road blocks to my own heart. Getting to what I truly feel is still sometimes a challenge. But now I’m aware that it’s because somewhere inside of me, I’m judging and criticizing what I’m feeling.
       Connecting to my own heart has been the most painful process of my adult life. It’s also been the most absolutely wondrous.
        Part of this connection to my heart is owning the fact that I love a woman who doesn’t love me. This is, without question, the hardest truth I have ever had to accept. It is the nightmare that I’ve avoided since I was a teenager. But I know that whatever pain I’m in carries with it the lessons that I most need to learn. I hate that reality, but I know it’s the truth. Fuck.
        If I examine the aforementioned phrase from “My Way”, it occurs to me that some may interpret my admission of unrequited love as “the words of one who kneels”. To them, this admission is a sign of weakness. I used to believe the same thing. Sometimes, I still do.
        But I more often embrace the idea that, if it’s how I truly feel, no matter what that is, then to own it takes strength. To own it takes courage. And to express it takes even more.
        Because owning how I feel, and letting others know that, through words and actions, is very risky. When I expose my feelings like that, I risk much. I risk rejection. I risk acceptance. I risk shame, and the possible withdrawal of love. When I risk expressing how I feel, I risk my most precious gift: myself. Because who I am is intrinsically bound to how I feel.
        “The words of one who kneels”, therefore, are not the deep, sometimes painful truths that I own and express. “The words of one who kneels” are the lies I tell myself. They are the words of denial. Of how I feel. And therefore, of who I am.
        “To say the things I truly feel” is how I stay connected to my heart. As long as I do that, I have the unique gift of self. That I can give to everyone I love. That I can give to one special woman. That I can give to the rest of humankind.

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