1. living in a state of nature; not tamed or domesticated
2. growing or produced without cultivation or the care of civilization
3. uncivilized or barbarous
4. unrestrained, untrammeled, or unbridled (as in by reason or prudence)
5. (informal) intensely eager or enthusiastic
pronoia is all about making the oxymoron an intimate beloved. the art of pronoia is about a lot of things, the basic idea being the universe is conspiring to shower you with blessings. that the universe is wildly and innocently in love with you. that an infinite number of secret helpers are working right now to help you become the phenominal masterpiece you are destined to become.
i work with exhilarating beauty, crazy wisdom, outrageous goodness and generous freedom. my secret allies are benevolent pranksters, lyrical logicians, chivalrous rock stars, macho feminists, lunatic saints and mystical scientists. and we all work with insurrectionary love to overturn the world rightside up so "love one another shall be the whole of the law" shall Be What Is.
sacred janitors, wild humility, joyful solemnity, bohemian revolutionary freedom fighter. it's all oxymoron and a totally crazywhacked, funked-out mindjob.
and it works.
a few weeks ago i resolved to resort to exotic measures to rip me out of a rut. one of the things i promised to do was make a collage of all the neuroses and negativity i've had the un-pleasure to sample over the years and on midsummer have myself a merry little bonfire. and i did. i wrote a list and printed it out, then cut up the phrases and placed them in a box. i then wrapped and decorated that box with big, fat black letters:
then i bunched up a whole freaking wad of newspaper --the irony not lost upon me-- and set it on fire in my hands. only when the flames grew dangerous did i drop the entire thing into the fire pit. and on top of that, i cast my Old-Delena-in-a-Box upon the flames and watched it burn, baby, burn.
burn to a fucking char! ashes, ashes, we all fall ecstatically in blinding love!
i let it smoulder.
i let it cool.
then the lid was removed and i let the wind carry the ashes far and away from me.
and actually, it didn't even take that long. as it was burning, the box filled with the old me bubbling and blistering and turning black and illegible, i could feel its last feeble grip on me lose its hold and slip away. there was no thunderous breaking of chains, no sudden burst of freedom. it was like spider silk softly coming apart, like the last trace of fog fading beneath the strength of the morning sun, like the whisper of a door opening as you let someone in.
i breathed deep, and sighed, and smiled. "feel better, hon?" said *mj*.
i laughed to myself. "i do, actually. i do."
this afternoon i finally wrote that Funky Love Letter to those loose ends i promised i was tying up this coming week. i wrote it in wild and euphoric gratitude. i gave heartfelt apologies for soul-ache or heart-sickness i may have imparted, without explanation or expectation. i sent it without ego, but with everlasting thanks and joyful, pronoiac gratitude. i love them more than i love them. their harsh lessons and ostracism was exactly what i needed, exactly when i needed it.
for the first time in my life i truly understand what humility really means. "without ego," as in with no trace of delena pride, and i found a fucking wealth of treasure just waiting to be discovered. through love --ecstatic, wildcrazy, Funky LOVE-- i am freer and truly wild.
lady godiva on her horse galloping through coventry, her loose hair flowing behind her.
aphrodisiacal and pardisiacal.
Funkywild, crazywhacked, fiercely tender, ironically sincere, magically Funkalicious Me.