"Metanoia"

Madman in the Attic had become too too tongue-in-cheek for me; a bit on the nose, a bit unhelpful, a bit of a joke that didn't work anymore. I just discovered a new word, Metanoia. It's Jung, so its actual psychological significance or reality can be taken with a side of salt: a moment of re-thinking the world, of re-structuring the universe around a realisation, an epiphany: it is the category to which both 'psychotic breakdown' and 'healing' belong. That ambiguity is beautiful. It is "a spontaneous attempt of the psyche to heal itself of unbearable conflict by melting down and then being reborn in a more adaptive form", cf. Wikipedia. Been there, done that. And what a lovely spin, too: a more adaptive form.

Yes. There is something I agree with there. I do feel stronger, better. Recovered, but not like bones that recover more frail. More like steel, reinforced with steel, molten steel poured over, hardened into some enormous obelisk; the original thoughts, the original feelings, the original loves and losses are someone else's. They belonged to the old particles of steel, which dripped off as I was growing, becoming, strengthening. My self-image reduced to coal, the chipping forces made me crack; more pressure, and heat, and agony, and on the other side I changed, into diamond. As if coal I had had been my chrysalis; I had span it around me with negative thinking, poor decisions, and antidepressants had been the steroid, and my carbon-and-sulfur silk-web spilling too fast to catch; time was all it took for the Adult to emerge.

Metanoia, n.

It contains 'annoy'; that's cheeky, I feel, the right amount of on the nose. It contains 'meta', and look, look at the absurdity of a blog discussing why I chose the name for a blog only I read (properly), half-aware to Watch What I Say while Saying What I Feel. (The same time knowing it's slightly ironic, because I'm fudging this exposition to fit a very loose definition of 'meta', because I feel I have to. ) And it has these other fitting meanings, too: it is the retorical device of retracting what you just said and saying it again in a better way. What I mean by this is, it is the style of self-correction, that lends itself freely to streams-of-conscious, blog-blank-type, etc. What I mean by this is, it is my style. What I mean by this is... [joke not funny anymore]. In theology, 'metanoia' is repentance.

My blog has, stylistically, always been dependent on epiphanic elevated journals, taking real things and lifting them into the pure abstract, heightening things into pure fiction. Now it is named for being so. And it has always been a (more carefully constructed than it might appear) intentionally long-winded, winding, self-correcting and confusing style at once meant to seem instantaneously written but encoding more interesting truths all the same. Like the "Birds" poem (blog down), which is all about renewal and a desperate attempt to find happiness (pre- or mid-SSRI detox), which was a false start perhaps, this blog signals a positive-outlook way forwards. For one thing, depressing blogs don't get you second dates, and they seem to over-worry College.

I am torn whether to quote from Kanye's "Stronger" or Wordsworth's "Prelude", so I'll quote neither. Onwards!

Oooooh, something to [blog] about. -- A Happy Blog.

Yeah, lame About a Boy / Badly Drawn Boy reference.
But I guess, it is about one.
Then again isn't it always?

Coming back from holidays, to Oxford, my mood has been soaring continually higher and higher. Here's an episode from Brighton, to illustrate how heart-wrenchingly awful it all is.

Scene: Ext. club. Dark, dingey, hazy with cigarette smoke, lit with purple, loud with muffled music.
Me: [spewing out months-old confession] I love you.
Them: I love you too.
Me: Really?
Classical music rises, lighting warms, camera pulls in for closeup.
Them: Yes!
[they kiss]
Music suddenly stops.
Old man drug dealer: Hey.
[other two kiss, and grope]
Black and white.

Anyway. All is well. All is good. Mock exams went smoothly, I think. Real exams are set to go well enough. I am seeing myself positively more often. I haven't actually been sad in a while.

Naturally, when I am writing (not for blogs, but for possibly commercial end) the entire tone is inflected with a sort of wistfulness, which I'm fond of.

I feel like on the horizon of this beautiful lake I'm sailing on, there is something that I really want to happen. Which is set to happen. Which has the possibility to be magnificent. I'm not like, raving about this in person to people, but I feel like everything is about to Go Right For Me.

So, why am I waiting?

Brand New Day

I'm not going to mention Babylove last night too much. I had fun dancing for the first part of the night, but there weren't enough hot people there so I weighed the odds and just decided to leave.

I'm over my daytime drinking/spiritual crisis/Death-Cab-for-Cutie-on-iPod-on-repeat fetishes now and am feeling pretty darn fine. A conversation with the Devil Himself sorted me out (figuratively).

Party coming up, so that should be good. Tonight is LGBT Film Night so I think I'ma show 'Transamerica', which promises to be a hit; I might buy popcorn. I realised that I looked really good last night which is good, because it was really important that I did. I bought some new clothes and wearing them also picks up my mood. I met this really attractive girl yesterday, and I plan to find her again and ask her if she's going out that night (Kukui, Bridge, Lava/Ignite?). I realise that all the dead weights I have clung to in the past are just that: lifeless, soulless, not quite monstrous or detestable but certainly not worthy of any profound affection. I have a massive Virginia Woolf essay approaching, but I love her so it should be vaguely enjoyable. OH, and I got an email from Spilt Ink this morning and my poem "Silent Love Song" (which debuted on this very blog) got accepted for the anthology of the best poetry at Oxford University, which I'm happy about.

Life will be good. I make it so.

Mistletoe; reflections of every sort

Oh, merry Christmas, merry Christmas, merry Christmas.

But do they know it's Christmas time at all? They starve, we eat. We throw it all away. 25, 000 people will starve. Twenty-five thousand.

Oh, merry Christmas, merry Christmas, merry Christmas.

How the boys search for love and pair up not a moment too soon. Because feigned Christmas cheer is better than none at all? I wish them happiness.

Oh, merry Christmas, merry Christmas, merry Christmas.

How I start to wonder how many hearts I've broken this Christmas. And the count is higher than last year, no doubt. But I chastise myself for doing this, and for feeling so happy about Christmas.

Oh, merry Christmas, merry Christmas, merry Christmas.

Because this Christmas, despite being alone, I am in a good place. I'm at Oxford, I'm more aware now than before what I am and what I am capable of, and I'm starting to come into my own a bit. To discover what power I may have over others that I never knew I had.

Oh, merry Christmas, merry Christmas, merry Christmas.

And because Christmas love is in another place, unformed and indelicate, like unformed clay or batter. Like cookie dough. Batter which can form in the new year, if I cook it at the right pace. But a watched pot never boils, so perhaps I should care less?

Oh, merry Christmas, merry Christmas, merry Christmas.

I wonder how many of my friends will cry this Christmas. Cry for lost loves, cry for joy, cry for disappointment, cry for tragedy or Eastenders. I wonder how many will find that first kiss with that person. I wonder how many will come to conclusions they had held at bay too long, under the auspices of the greatest moment of the year. "Do I really love him?", "Can I fight it another year?", "It could have been magical."

Oh, merry Christmas, merry Christmas, merry Christmas.

Ho, ho, whore. Could she afford presents this year? Does she sob at night, under the weight of expectation, under fear of her pimp, or for fear her oldest daughter must know what she does for money?

Oh, merry Christmas, merry Christmas, merry Christmas.

Smash, crash, bash. Deck her halls. Have a punch, dear. Merry Christmas. // Families reunited by the holiday, and friendships re-established.

Oh, merry Christmas, merry Christmas, merry Christmas.

One day, for one thing that never mattered, for so many people and places and years, can cause one to reflect on so much. Which is a shame, because I should be wrapping presents, or rushing out to buy last-minute gravy and Yorkshire puddings.

Oh, merry Christmas, merry Christmas, merry Christmas.

Only I don't want to.

Silent Love Song

The beach beneath your feet, the sand betwixt your toes,
Soft-caressing air against your arm, its chill against your nose,
A hand beneath your chin, sunlight beam bent from sky
Across the dunes and to your face, to set your smile alight.
The tide longs to be near you, and trickles through the rocks.
Winter may change the trees, but ours knows not the clock.
The hand of time so cruel, and callous we not know
As with every moment near you, I feel sun and sand and grass and snow.

But for this moment do I wonder,
What became then of the past,
And so she asks if someone blundered
and I know not beyond the last.
That last time I did see your smile,
and a moment I claimed mine...
I disregard all these rules,
and send out unseen this untamed rhyme.

Currently listening to:

Alone: The Home Recordings of Rivers Cuomo by Rivers Cuomo