Managing The Rock Bands in My Mind

        Meditating is a big challenge for me. Like many of us, there’s a lot of noise inside my head. Some people refer to it as static, chatter, or babble, but those quaint terms are completely inadequate. I would describe a typical moment inside my mind like this: Imagine being surrounded by a dozen stages. On each stage is a rock band. A loud rock band, like Deep Purple or Van Halen. Each band is packing it’s full P.A. and amplification system, they’ve cranked it up to eleven, and they’re all playing, balls to the wall. At once. THAT’S the cacophony of mayhem that’s going on inside of me all too often. And my twelve rock band analogy is probably an apt description for a lot of us.
         I meditate every day. On some days, there are actually moments of peace and quiet. On others, the bands in my head add an extra guitar or two and jam my brains out. Today, however, I had a wonderful new experience.
         A few minutes into my meditation, I was aware of the peace and quiet within me. The lack of noise brought my attention to my body. I felt something happening. My body was rocking itself. Involuntarily. I was not consciously sending signals from my brain to my body to move the muscles necessary to rock me back and forth. My body was doing it all by itself. I opened my eyes, just to make sure that I wasn’t hallucinating, and looked at my hands on top of my legs. They were moving, ever so slightly, back and forth. Rocking. Along with the rest of me.
         I don’t know if this has happened before and I just never noticed it. I don’t know if the force of my heart beat and the expansion and contraction of my lungs was causing the motion. All I knew was that my body was rocking itself. And it felt great.
         It’s well documented that the motion of rocking is a soothing and tranquil experience for most people. It’s one of those primal human motions that mothers instinctively do to calm babies. We have a memory of that motion in our DNA, so we come out of the womb loving to be rocked.
         When I would snuggle with my ex-girlfriend, with one arm under her head and the other wrapped around her beautiful, warm body, I would softly grab her shoulder and rock her gently back and forth. She would let out a quiet moan that always warmed my heart. If you haven’t done this in bed with the person you love, try it. It’s an intimate, loving experience for both of you. And it’s so simple.
         However it happened, my body was taking care of me by providing a soothing motion. To help me relax. To give me peace. My body was, on it’s own, without guidance form my rock band infested mind, doing what it could to bring me calmness and serenity, which I need more of in my life. Meditation and prayer are but two ways that I’m using to bring me more of that. Actually, it’s not so much bring me more of it as it is stripping away all the madness and remembering how to give something to myself that I’ve always known how to do. My body certainly does, if I just let it.
         I haven’t been meditating long, and I’m curious if any of you veterans have ever experienced this involuntary body rocking, or something similar. If you have, I would love to hear about it. Please tell me in the “Comments” section of this post.
         The irony that the term “Rocking” describes the madness in my mind, the soothing calm of a peaceful motion, and my behavior when I’m listening to a song I love, is not lost on me. Music, particularly rock ‘n’ roll, has given me more than I could have ever imagined. Maybe the twelve rock bands in my mind, all playing at once and at maximum volume, can learn to play one at a time. One rock band, playing with all it’s intensity and volume and focus and passion, is just what I need sometimes. Other times, when I need some peace but not quiet, I could switch acts and listen to James Taylor, instead of Motley Crue. And other times, I could just turn them all off and have complete silence.
         Managing the rock bands of my mind. That’s a job I could get into.


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a sold out arena full of Wrongs) reserved.

Not Enough Ache

        There is inside of me a constant ache. Maybe it’s in you too. It’s been there for as long as I can remember. It was there all through my childhood. It was there the first time I fell in love. It was there when I graduated high school, college, and graduate school. It is with me every moment. Even when I am at my most joyous, my happiest, my freest, I am aware that, deep within me, there is a pain that has not gone away.
        No matter what I do on the outside, this pain will be there. Because healing this wound is an inside job. Relieving this ache is up to nobody but me. Nothing on the outside can make it better or worse. Only I can. I’m really good at making it worse. I’m slowly learning how to make it better.
        Called by many names, such as inner demon or pain body, this ache appears complicated, a labyrinth of mental and emotional vines all twisted into one giant, gnarled tree. But despite it’s complex appearance in my mind’s eye, it boils down to a simple phrase: “I am not enough”.
        When I am in the throes of self-flagellation, if I stop and reflect for a moment, it’s easy to see that at the root of this destructive activity is the belief that “I’m not good enough”. What’s more difficult, however, is discovering the “I’m not good enough” that lies at the bottom of virtually every other pain. For example, if I’ve been hurt by something my lover said or did, there is what I’ll call a “genuine” pain, born out of the experience that somebody I love hurt me with words or deeds. But if I dig deeper, I will discover that underneath that, something else has been triggered: the “I’m not good enough” gun, which is always cocked and loaded.
        Taken together, the genuine pain and the “I’m not good enough” pain can feel daunting. But it’s the latter hurt that is by far the most problematic. A sincere “I’m sorry”, big, fat hug, and maybe some make-up sex can help remedy the genuine pain. But the “I’m not good enough” pain is different. It’s shame based. It’s deeper. It’s highly toxic. And now it’s running through my body and mind like radioactive blood.
        If I’m not aware that my shame of inadequacy has been set off, in other words, if I’m emotionally unconscious at the moment, then I will launch into my defense mode. And that’s when the trouble really starts. This is when I shut down, which is my default defense mechanism. But there are many others, and we all have our own favorites. We attack. We withdraw. We become passive aggressive. We punish. We undermine. We criticize. We withhold love or sex or attention. We intellectualize instead of feel. All very destructive and very painful. And all because we’re not aware that we don’t feel good enough. That we feel less than. A very old wound has been reopened yet again.
        So this ache I feel inside of me all the time can be triggered whenever I’m hurt, which can send me into defense mode, which can escalate the situation. At the same time, the person who hurt me can be triggered by my defense mechanism, and now they’re in their shameful place. Maybe they were there already. Maybe I was too. Like a giant powder keg of stored pain, ready to explode at the hint of a spark, “I’m not good enough”, also known as plain old insecurity, will blow things up very nicely. And often does.
        As much of an inside job as healing this old pain is, what can be a wonderful experience is if a couple is aware of this dynamic and wants to work on it together. One of my favorite sayings is “Being in an intimate relationship is like putting Miracle Grow on all of your character flaws”. Well there is no deeper, more daunting character flaw than the shame of “I’m not good enough”. A couple who can tackle this together, as long as they’ve done enough work on their own, can accelerate the healing of this wound and at the same time bring themselves closer to each other. That is the basis for a truly spiritual connection to a partner. Opening up this deepest of cuts to each other, being completely vulnerable, completely trusting oneself and one’s partner, committing to working at it together...probably scares the hell out of many of us. It does me. But it also excites me, because it’s what I want. I’ve never been ready for that. Until now.
        Until then, until I’m with the woman who will do this with me, I’m on my own. Not completely, because I can choose to operate in this open, vulnerable way with certain people in my life that I’m close to and trust. That will deepen the relationship and help us both grow. But always, the work is mine. The journey is mine. The ache I feel has to be healed by me.

©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a good enough trunk of Wrongs) Reserved.

I've Just Seen A Face

        Today is my birthday. It’s also the birthday of my brother, Mike. He was born in the same year as I was. That makes us twins. Duh.
        Staying with the twin theme, I present two photographs of myself that were taken this past weekend. On the right is a photo of me dressed to attend a fetish fashion show. I’ve got on a pair of snug fitting vinyl pants, mock alligator skin boots, and a beautifully explosive shirt. Standing in front of my drums, I’m ready to go out. Socialize. Engage with people. Have fun. Be myself out in the world and connect to life. I think I convey all of that pretty well in the photo.
         On the left is a photo taken few days later. While the photo on the right communicates something rather overtly through dress, expression, and scenery, the one on the left is just my face, with neutral expression, dress, and background. So I had this question for myself: What was my face communicating? Just my face, all on it’s own. What did one see when they looked at me? I strove for general neutrality so that whatever was being expressed had to be inferred not by what my face was doing, but what my face was saying.
         Now here’s the fun part. I’m asking YOU: What do you see? Can you see a story on my face? Can you see emotion even though I’m attempting to be emotionless? What am I communicating to you through nothing but my face? Are the eyes truly the window to the soul? If you choose to participate, try and go beyond just saying “You look (blank).” If you can, don’t just tell me what you see looking back at you. Tell me who you see.
         Later in the week, after I’ve read and responded to any comments, I’ll tell you what I see. I’ll tell you who I see.
         And remember that when you look at me, when you look at anybody, you’re looking into a mirror. It’s not a perfect mirror, but one that has it’s own image in it as well as your own reflection. The wonder of it is trying to discern what part of the image coming back to you is yours and what part is theirs. What is your own reflection, and what is being communicated by what you're looking at? And is it all really the same thing?
         By the way, happy birthday Mike. I love you....

©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a twin mirror image of Wrongs) Reserved.

Update on Tuesday, February 17, 2009 at 6:41PM by Clint Piatelli

FOLLOW UP TO THIS POST: Now I remember why I don't usually post something the same day I write it: because it doesn't give me sufficient opportunity to mold and edit the piece. I wrote "I've Just Seen A Face" this morning and posted it immediately because I wanted to post something on my birthday. But it's clear to me now that this was not the best decision, because what I wanted to communicate did not get....communicated.

My attempt was to solicit a response from you, using my face as a mirror, that would say something about you. I wanted you to share what you saw and then see it as a reflection of yourself. Not as an analysis of my mug. Re-reading the piece eight hours later,  I realize that I didn't communicate that very well. I alluded to it in the second to last paragraph, but I was trying to be subtle. I should know better.

Scratch this whole post. I won't remove it, because it stands as a stark rerminder for me to look before I leap. Or at least wait, edit, ponder, tweak, ponder some more, and then leap. It's my least favorite post yet. And it happened on my birthday. Oh well, fuck it.

Boobs

        Boobs. Not a bad slang for that wonderful part of the female anatomy. Easy to say. Usually Inoffensive. A cute word who’s dainty demeanor does nothing to hint at our culture’s obsession. A mild mannered linguistic symbol that belies men’s reverence and women’s societal driven self-consciousness.
        Thumbing through fitness magazine’s at the gym, each week I come across hundreds of shots of beautiful women in fantastic shape. I’m not talking about the hard core bodybuilder women. The one’s that ingest massive amounts of steroids to make their physiques resemble a man’s. The one’s with the “roid jaw” that develops from taking high levels of artificial testosterone. You know, the women who have chins like Dudley Do-Right. That whole look is attractive to some people. I’m just not one of them.
        The women I’m referring to in the magazine’s are the “fitness model” types. Models, who are just really....fit. They have pretty faces, lithe, shapely, muscular bodies, and are usually wearing nothing but a bikini. Sometimes with high heels, which I always find amusing. Only because it’s a sight never seen anywhere on earth except at photo shoots. Like seeing a guy wearing nothing but a ski jacket and a thong. I know they put the women in heels because it supposedly makes their legs more shapely, but something about it always strikes me as absurd. If they want the woman’s legs to look “better”, have them flex their feet and stand on their toes. But I digress.
        The women look great, except for...the boobs. Because they’re usually fake. Which I’m in no way against. But they go house with them. They throw in a pair of D’s, when a C, or even a B, would be just dandy. Unusually large boobs on the type of frames these women have throw off the proportions completely.  I lament when I see such an attractive, fit women with a pair of breasts that look like they don’t belong to her own body. They look out of place and unnatural. The whole effect just doesn’t work for me.
        I realize that this is completely subjective, and that I’m not claiming to be “right” about this. I’m not chastising the women for wanting larger breasts either. It’s their body, and they should be free to do whatever they please with it, or to it. The point I’m making is that it appears as though our cultural aesthetic is just way the hell out of whack. Bigger is not always better. Not from these eyes.
        Our cultural obsession with boob size is the real culprit. Yes, they are wonderful, beautiful, parts of the body. But they don’t need to be big. Whatever happened to balance? We’ve drop kicked that right out the window in our plastic surgery society.
        It saddens me that many women think they need larger breasts to be attractive. That’s the part I don’t like. It’s a troublesome sign that so many women are that concerned about their breast size. All you have to do is check on the stats for implants to know how out of control it is. The pressure on women to have bigger boobs is not healthy. I guess I’m at odds with our cultural demands on women’s breast size. I think a healthier aesthetic would be to go for balance. Even if it’s a balance augmented by implants.
        Here’s an attitude I wish more men had towards their girlfriends or wives who want boob jobs: “Sure, get the boob job baby, if you want. It’s your body. But don’t do it to please me or the male population at large. Do it for you. Only you. Do me a favor and first go inside and ask yourself what this is really about. When you can honestly answer that, you’ll be in a better position to make the decision that’s right for you. Know that I love you just the way you are. And if you do decide to go for it, don’t get caught up in the size. B’s are beautiful too. In fact, so are A’s. Especially if they’re on you.”
        Maybe more guys feel that way then I think. But you wouldn’t know it.

 ©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a double-D amount of Wrongs) Reserved.