Not only did I learn that mortar sucks carbon monoxide from the air around it (after it dries—or so says Anna—as a rule I ONLY work off hearsay), I also learned that anarchy is not only a theory. We were all friends, volunteering, for a common cause: lay cement for a foundation to a house that will eventually have a soil ceiling that insulates and provides growing space for rosemary. A system of volunteers without a central government. Although, as Bernat says: Anna is the boss. Yet I still say: yay Kropotkin.
I find this amazing. Being part of a community that doesn’t obligate you to do anything. We have no prophecy. Not even a common vision. In fact, a lot of our mothers probably wouldn’t get along. But what we have in common counts. We like fresh air, sunshine, and things that grow from the earth. This includes ourselves.
But this project transcends individual wants, individual loves. When I hiked to the mount, the wind told me this (I know what you’re thinking: oh, here comes some hippy bullshit about mother earth and patchouli and séances). The thing about WIND is that there’s no language. No politeness. No etiquette. I took my shirt off and saw the searing sun above and I screamed: I am one of your beasts! Would you not like to hear me roar!? Boodaville makes us take down the shield, reveal ourselves, actually be honest. We are these smelly creatures and nothing more. Fuck the civilized contrivances. Our pretty towers and metallic shiny watches only blind us to a surprising fact: we are highly dynamic animals.
When I got back into the city, the cars honking at the semaphores, the neon signs and McDonald’s insignia singing like sick angels in a purgatory meant for Ipad hearts . . . well, I thought about that mount and my yell, and I remember that I talked to myself and said much more. And it makes me feel that I have nothing but synthetic lungs breathing this city life for me, makes me think that this Culture needs an upgrade, makes me proud to be the fatalistic nutbag I like to see myself as. And my doubts and insecurities—these were for the mount. Not for some shrink that charges me 50€ an hour to tell some far-off tale about how the suburbs created a restless traveler. And all that bubbling, percolated self-revelation came about just because I disconnected for awhile, because I could hear jack shit. Just pressure systems moving air about. Before Boodaville, I’d been keeping myself from myself in a nice precise package; Barcelona had been keeping it incubating. And this primordial psychological pain-in-the-ass had slowly been growing moldy and perverse. And I hadn’t even noticed. Because to live in the city, we have to get a bit moldy inside our boxed lives and cubicles (my bank account, my dinner, my concerns, my brand, my schedule, my deadlines, my significant other, my goals, my parents, my soup bowl, etc). The common is taken away to another region. Common sense becomes a random release in the countryside, from the pressure of rent payments and a crisis that some fuck in NeverEverDerivativeLand was kind enough to think up. Common sense becomes socializing with a group of people that have a different idea about how the world should work. Maybe we should have a roof that grows things on top. Wow. I think I just had a moment.
I’m tired of the shit. The trends and the marketing. Some jack-off trying to sell you something that you probably don’t need anyways. Well, Boodaville redirected that river of incestuous consumerism that vibrates around me, if not for only a short while.
Well, Anna, I wanted to rip your socks off with 2000 words, but dammit, I’m tired and should probably shower because my roommates keep thinking I’m just gassy, when actually . . . that’s really not the case. Regards, Curly Lobo