Pushing The Shimmering Shirt Envelope

        In Burlington Vermont, I came across a clothing store that contained the best selection of explosively colorful shirts I had ever seen. For men. This excited me, because when it comes to fashion, let’s face it, women have it all over guys. They can wear virtually anything, even a tie, and not get looked at like they’re from another planet. The range of colors, patterns, designs, and styles that women can wear give them vastly more choices.
        This seems somewhat unfair. Men are up against very entrenched and long standing tradition if they want to expand their fashion horizons and dress unconventionally. I’m not suggesting that guys start wearing skirts or anything. But I challenge the accepted parameters because they make no sense at all to me.
        The way I dress occasionally startles people. Especially if they have relatively narrow minds when it comes to men’s fashion. In extreme cases, what I wear can even provoke hostility, usually of the passive aggressive nature. My choice of clothing can disturb extremely critical and judgmental people who don’t see the value and beauty of diversity. And it can sometimes even confuse extremely conservative people about my sexual preference. But such are the risks you run when you dress the way you want and don’t pay attention to conformity, established norms, convention, or what other’s find fashionable. Or acceptable.
        Maybe it’s shocking to see a man wearing a sparkly purple shirt. But to me, what’s far more shocking is for anyone to assume that, because of the shirt I wear, I prefer having a guy’s dick in my mouth instead of a warm, succulent boob. As far as I’m concerned, the jump from conventional oxford to unconventional purple satin is nothing compared to the quantum leap one must make in assuming that I prefer “love-stick” over “love-cave” based solely on my clothing. Society’s arcane and prosaic limitations on masculinity and sexuality are what’s absurd. Not the damn shirt.
        As a musician, dressing differently often comes with the territory. Although I know plenty of musicians with a rather conservative fashion sense, I know plenty, like myself, who push the envelope. Those of us on the fringe don’t make a distinction between what we would wear on stage and what we would wear almost anywhere else. Maybe to us, all the world really is a stage.
        I know I have a different way of looking at things. But is it so crazy to expand one’s horizon regarding what a man can wear? An ex-girlfriend paid me the greatest of compliments when she said, “It’s not that Clint thinks outside the box. Clint doesn’t know there is a box.”. I couldn’t have said it better myself.
        If you’re honestly not into colorful and expressive clothing, then you’re not into it. There’s certainly no foul there. But have you ever asked yourself why? Is it because it’s just not your bag? Or do you actually like flashy clothing, and don’t wear it because you’re afraid of what people would think? Is it because colorful clothing would attract too much attention to yourself, and that makes you uncomfortable?
        And if that is you, all I’m saying is try to break free of those self-imposed limitations. Express yourself more fully through what you wear. Clothing is such an easy and functional way to exercise your uniqueness. Take advantage of it. Dressing exactly the way you want is loads of fun. And it’s a simple yet effective way of helping you own yourself. It’s a step in the process of fully being you.
        It’s astounding to me how much attention I receive whenever I wear one of my favorite shirts. Does a part of me wear it to get attention? Sure. But it’s much bigger than that. If I didn’t love what I was wearing, and did it only to turn heads, then I wouldn’t be comfortable in it. And I wouldn’t be able to pull it off. But I love what I have on, and it shows. I’m not just comfortable in flamboyant attire. I’m energized by it. I become as electric as the shirt I’m wearing. Or, closer to the truth, the shirt I’m wearing becomes an outward manifestation of how I feel.
        But c’mon, man. It’s just a shirt. I search myself, and for the life of me, I honestly can’t see what the big deal is. Apparently, I’m in the minority. Which is fine. Perplexing, but fine.
        When all is said and done, I am my own fashion statement. And that’s how I’d like everyone to be. Maybe that’s my unconventional convention.

©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a closet full of Wrong Shirts) Reserved.

"In a word, Clint. Poetry."

        I’m trying like hell to decide what to post. I’m stuck in a place right now where the juices aren’t flowing very well. There’s plenty inside of me, but none of it’s coming out the way I want it to; like a big, juicy mango of thoughts and feelings with all the succulent nectar trapped inside.
        In times like these, I’ve found it best not to force anything. But I want to keep adding fresh content as often as possible, because I know that’s a key ingredient to a good blog. So what do I do?
        Suddenly, it hits me. Long forgotten words spoken by my sophomore English teacher at Villanova, Mr. Mitchell. I’ve long forgotten my question, but I’ll never forget his answer. “In a word, Clint. Poetry.” Of course. Poetry.
        Through the years, I’ve written lots of poetry. Most of it, nobody’s ever read. It represents some of my most passionate writing, but it also shows me at my most vulnerable. So I’ve resisted sharing it.
        But if I’m not so concerned about being vulnerable anymore, then the only thing stopping me is fear. Fear that nobody will like it. Fear that I’ll look like a sissy. Fear of...whatever. Well fuck the fear. Just like pain, the only way out is through.


THINGS SHE NEVER KNEW...

I used to watch her sleep
And I envied how peaceful she looked
I wanted to wake her and say "I see you"
But didn't want to disturb the place she found so soft

When she would snuggle next to me
And place her beautiful warm body into mine
I would sink into a peace that I could not hold onto
Unless she was lying next to me
A peace that I could feel
But could not touch
Unless I was touching her

Whenever she left, I would run upstairs and watch her car leave my driveway
My heart would sink as I watched her drive away
And then I would do anything not to feel that pain

I wanted to run towards love
I wanted to run towards her
But I just stayed where I was
Yearning for more
But unable to risk asking

So many things she wanted
And needed
I wanted
I needed
But I could not bring myself to tell her
Because I was afraid to feel what I already knew
I was in love with her
And that was something I could not be

Because being in love with her meant pain
And heartache
And that I could not bare
I had already suffered more heartache and pain than I knew possible
To love her meant to lose her
I could not lose her
For I had already lost more than I knew I had
So I could not be in love with her
But I already was...

©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a poetry book of Wrongs) reserved.

Fat Grief

        Grief is like fat. If I store too much of it, it will weigh me down, compromise my ability to live, and create all sorts of problems. And grief can kill me. Just like fat can. Hold onto enough of either, and I look different, feel different, act different. I have to adjust to all of the excess that I’m carrying. In the process, I lose my vitality, my joy, my self.
         I know how to get rid of fat. I’m less adept at getting rid of grief. Most of us struggle with one or the other. Many of us with both.
         Throughout my life, I have, like all of us, suffered many losses. Little ones. Big ones. Ones you forget ten minutes after they happen. Others you never forget.
         But I never learned how to grieve. Anything. I never knew what to do with the pain. Every significant loss I’ve ever had, every deep pain I have ever felt, therefore has the potential to stay alive inside of me and wreak havoc until I let it go.
         I feel losses very deeply, but I rarely acknowledge that and then grieve. We all experience loss differently. For me, it’s as though a piece of me gets ripped out and leaves a hole. The hole can be filled, but only if I allow myself to feel, to grieve, and to let go of the pain. If I don’t, the hole remains. So after half a life of losses, I feel like swiss cheese.
         Only recently have I began to come to terms with how the losses of my life have shaped me. How a pervasive loneliness and sorrow resides deep within me, an amalgamation of all the losses I’ve never let myself fully feel. In certain circles, it’s called grief work. And right now, I’m working overtime.
         I know this is the way out, because the only way out is through. Through the pain. For years, like most people, I tried to go around the pain. I tried to get past it without actually feeling it. I employed all sorts of creative methods to handle the pain without having to go through it. And like a heroin addict trying to kick without going to some form of rehab, it just doesn’t work.
         There’s a saying that goes “If you’ve spent your whole life walking into a forest, it will take more than just a few weeks to walk out of it.”. I need to remember that when I’m frustrated with my progress, as I am at the moment. I’ve spent my entire life stuffing pain. I’m not going to be able to let go of it all in a few short months. Although I’ve been doing inner growth work for many years, I really just started doing grief work. Even though I experienced a profound opening last summer, I still have much to do.
         And for me, grief work is where the rubber meets the road. It’s taken me this long to come to the point where I can start to really feel and thus release all that stored hurt that has buried itself all the way into my subconscious. As much as I just want to be done with it, it doesn’t work like that. It’s a process who’s time table I have to honor. As long as I show up and do the work, the process does it’s job. How long it takes isn’t completely under my control.
         Years ago, I shared the following poem with a friend who was going through a rough time. He said it helped him. So it’s time I share it with myself again and with whoever reads my blog. Because these are words I need to hear. And if I need to hear them, it’s a good bet that somebody else does too.

Keep Always

Keep looking. Keep finding. Keep looking.
Keep asking. Keep answering. Keep asking.
Keep crying. Keep laughing. Keep feeling.
Keep succeeding. Keep failing. Keep learning.
Keep loving. Keep living. Keep growing.
Always.


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All rights (and a forest full of Wrongs) Reserved.