Coffee Insult

This incident happened to me a couple of years ago and got lost in my writing shuffle. Just found it. It made me chuckle. I may have even guffawed.

       At my local coffee shop, The Daily Brew in North Falmouth, I ran into somebody. When I say “ran”, I mean that literally. Not physically, but metaphysically. Who I Am ran smack dab into Who He Is. And sparks flew.
       I had biked from my house a few miles away. My attire was not unusual for an early morning bike ride in mid October. Spandex pants. Skin tight Under Armor top. A couple of ear rings. The ear rings might have been what threw him. Or the colors I was brandishing: bright. Maybe it was that I went to the counter and jokingly ordered a vodka martini and he was in a hurry. I don’t know what exactly irked him. I didn’t ask.
       I ordered my large hazelnut. He ordered his large, maximum density, pitch black ultra dark roast. I added cream, sugar, nutmeg, and cinnamon to mine. He added nothing. Maybe that’s what did it.
       At the fixins table, as I’m concocting my cup, he’s grabbing a lid and looks aver at me. He scoffs. I didn’t interpret his action as a scoff at first, so, being friendly I just said “How are you?”. He said “What kind of cup of coffee is THAT!”. Although perplexed by the rhetorical question, I didn’t miss a beat and responded “It’s MY kind of cup of coffee. What else would it be?” He chose not to respond to my question and instead continued with his agenda. “It’s lame”, he said, half under his breath.
       Insults tend to raise adrenaline and testosterone levels. The first thing that crossed my primitive reptilian brain was “The gloves are off.” Obviously, I curtailed this primitive knee jerk reaction. I didn’t say or do anything. The Macho Male Ego part of me wanted to punch him. He was to my left, and my right hand was free. That meant that if I had hooked him with my right, I could have telegraphed it and he still never would have seen it coming. He might have been a real tough guy, I don’t know, but I’ve boxed before and I know how to throw a punch. And this one would have been a haymaker. I’m not proud that I momentarily fantasized sucker punching this guy. And these are not the kinds of thoughts that usually roll around my head in the morning.
       My pause was well rewarded, because my next action didn't come from my amygdala. My response to his “It’s lame” comment was “So am I”, and with that I walked away, sporting a fake but very convincing limp.
       I’m not in the habit of pretending that I’m physically challenged. But something in me had to continue this joke. Who the hell insults someone’s coffee? At 7:30 AM no less? I smiled at him as I limped off, dragging my right foot behind me as though my entire leg was completely inert.
       As I turned away, I could tell he was looking at me. I could also tell that his jaw was a little closer to the floor than it was just a moment before. He didn’t say anything, but I’m sure he wanted to. His pride probably got in the way. I sat down, went to work on my computer, and didn’t pay much attention to him as he practically ran out of the coffee shop.
       The rest of my day was almost as much fun.


©2013 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart, and Red F Publishing. All Rights Reserved.

Sensual Longing

There is a longing in me to connect with those I love on a level that I can feel but not always touch. The process of getting there is the most beautiful of all adventures. Both parties must be committed to it, for as indescribably beautiful as the path is, it can be very challenging, stressing the relationship.

If I err on this journey, it is usually from pushing too hard, from wanting it too much, from not allowing others to come with me in their own time and in their own way. Sometimes the passion of my appetite for this connection blinds me to delicacy of our mutual exploration. I will learn patience, temperance, acceptance, and many other lessons, whilst keeping the intense fire, the burning desire, alive. The growth and depth of intimacy between me and a loved one is strongly connected to the expansion of our consciousness. My consciousness. Your consciuosness. And the consciousness of our unique and precious relationship.

 - Clint Piatelli

Power Tool Poetry

       Writing poetry is sometimes like calligraphy; a sensitive and expressive instrument gently flowing over a piece of soft, textured paper. And sometimes, writing poetry is like wielding a power tool; aggressively using a big, heavy, loud, mayhem machine to get the job done, no matter what. My best poetry writing is often a bit of both.
       When I write my best poetry, I’m passionately and emotively using a custom made, highly sensitive, deceptively delicate chainsaw to powerfully carve my feelings into a slab of concrete. Preserving, for all time, how I felt in that moment.
       Over the past six months or so, I’ve written some beautiful poetry. A lot of it about a woman I was madly in love with. I’ve been reluctant to post those poems, because I wanted to give them to her, in some grand fashion, when the time was right, if we ever reconciled. Well, that’s not going to happen. So now there’s no reason not to share them. There's no reason not to expose the concrete slab of emotion that I created.....

Risk your desire
My beloved
And throw yourself into this fire

If we go together
We can not get burned
For the flames will not consume us
But fuel the engine of our appetite

Our tender flesh will not be scorched
But glow
Our hearts ignite
When we touch
Our souls tremble

Do not be afraid
I am in this fire with you
And I will never let you go
No matter what

If you ever cry out in pain
I will absorb your agony
And let you breathe again

If you should shudder in fear
I will embrace you
And steady your discontent

If you recoil from the heat
I will not hide
But open myself to you even more
I will spread my arms
Bathe in the warmth
And hold a space
So that you may move towards me again

And when you laugh from the boundless joy of our union
I will laugh with you
And amplify our sound so loudly
That we become deaf to everything
Except the music of you and I

Together in this fire
My beloved
We Crackle and Dance and Burn Brightly
To a colorful symphony of our own creation

                                          - Clint Piatelli

©2013 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart, and Red F Publishing. All Rights Reserved.

Love So Much It Hurts

“Do you know what it’s like to love a piece of music, or a band, so much that it hurts?”
                                   - paraphrased from Almost Famous

“I do. And if you don’t, you’re really missing out.”
                                   - not paraphrased at all, Clint Piatelli


       I have longed to express, in a single sentence, the totality of my intense connection to music. Probably too tall of an order, given the vast scope and cavernous depth of that connection. But if my reach exceeds my grasp, so be it.
       If you don’t have a torrid love affair with music, loving it so much it hurts may be something you’ll have trouble understanding. And my follow up quote confounds things further. How the hell, you may ask, can you be missing out by not hurting? A contradiction? Only, as I said in my post Contrasting The Contrast, if you don’t know what’s behind the door.
       Well I’m here to tell you what’s behind the door. At least what’s behind my door. Through that, maybe you’ll understand me, and all intensely passionate music lovers, a little more. And if you are one of those intensely passionate music lovers yourself, maybe you’ll glean something about what’s behind your own door.
       Before I begin my internal expose, it’s worth noting that my objective in this post perfectly reflects why I write in the first place. Namely, by sharing what’s deep within me, I desire to create connections. Between you and me; between you and someone else; between you and you.
       Maybe you’ll even share your personal experience of music with me, in a comment or an email. I would love that. Because ultimately what I’m looking for with my audience is a dialogue. Not a monologue.
       Loving music, or anything else, so much that it hurts, means giving into its rapture and passion so completely that you surrender to its power and give up control. Not control of yourself, but control over what it does to you; over how much it means to you. You give up control, at least for a while, over how that something touches you. You don’t try to limit its impact on you. You’re not afraid to let it reach all the way into you and work its magic. Even if that magic makes you cry, or saddens you, or creates an unfathomable longing. Even if that magic rips out your heart.
       There is indeed magic in the music. And that magic feeds us, enriches us, adds to our lives in immeasurable ways. Magic is mysterious and ethereal, but it’s real just the same. Hardcore scientists, hear this loud and clear: just because we don’t understand magic doesn’t mean it’s not as real as the stuff we do understand. And let’s face it, as Thomas Edison, one of the most brilliant minds in history said, “We don’t know one-millionth of once percent about anything”.
       Becoming vulnerable to music is just like becoming vulnerable to anything; nature, paintings, the written word, another person. It means letting down your guard, and saying; “Okay. Move me”. Maybe it will and maybe it won’t. But, either way, you have to have your armor off. The less armor you’re wearing, the more vulnerable you become, the more you create the possibility for deep and powerful impact. Ultimately, to let it all the way in, you have to stand naked before it. At least figuratively. Although I’m certainly not going to tell you what to wear, if anything, whilst you to listen to music or read a book.
       This nakedness, this vulnerability, is what makes it possible for us to experience true love, with anything, or with anybody. You have to be willing to be hurt, to your core, or you will never experience the full power of love; love of music, love of life, love of another human being. The elation of that love can send you soaring. The pain can hurt so bad it’s almost unbearable. That’s the risk we take when we love with everything we have, with everything we are, with everything we want to be.


©2013 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart, and Red F Publishing. All Rights Reserved.