Why I'm yearning for our post-collapse future
Why I'm yearning for our post-collapse future
Featured Post #4
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Today’s Featured Post is by
, author of Disenchantments & Discoveries with JD, and was selected by SmallStack volunteer . LC writes:I chose this post because it is wonderfully descriptive and heartfelt, and the message of it resonates deeply with me. That message can be summarized by this quote: “Fear helps fascism thrive, so we must hold onto hopeful visions for our future to counter it while actively taking what steps we can to get there.”
A SmallStack Featured Post
Why I'm yearning for our post-collapse future
By
The past few days have been unusually rough ones for many people around the world, from Kenya to France to the United States. I could rattle off a long list of countries in turmoil right now and the ways their struggles are interconnected that paints a bleak picture of humanity’s future, but that’s not what I’m here to do. I’m here to tell you a story of hope.
For some of you, recent events may have been the first to penetrate the protective bubbles you’ve surrounded yourselves in, knowingly or not. I know how jarring it is when your worldview gets shook at its foundation. It started to happen to me a few years ago, and you should know that much like stages of grief, there’s a psychological process to how we deal with collapse. Whether you are just beginning to see the reality of our world or whether you’ve been aware of it for awhile now, it can be difficult to maintain hope for the future. It’s easy to imagine worst-case scenarios and sink into crippling despair, and it doesn’t help that so much of popular culture has been dystopian in nature. We recognize parallels to these fictional dystopias in the actual dystopia that’s unfolding all around us, and that’s scary! There are comparatively few stories told of a future to look forward to. Thankfully, there are creatives out there making an effort to correct this imbalance, and I encourage you to seek those out. Fear helps fascism thrive, so we must hold onto hopeful visions for our future to counter it while actively taking what steps we can to get there.
I had an experience this weekend that filled me with hope. It made me look forward to the future in a way I haven’t felt for a long time. I’ve decided to share it with you in a narrative format that is somewhat new to me. I hope it inspires you, and reminds you that on the other side of all this tumultuous change, a better world can emerge. I will also include some bonus video content at the end for an extra large dose of inspiration. I hope you will watch it.
All dressed up with somewhere to go
We had checked and double checked the map and messaged our friend before heading out just to be sure the address that appeared to be in the middle of nowhere was, in fact, where we were supposed to meet them. The Bolt driver made it as far as he could go towards getting us to our destination, a mystery place that was just beyond the edge of “civilization.” We understood enough of the Portuguese he spoke to know that we’d need to walk the rest of the way.
What kind of venue is this? I wondered to myself as I began to have doubts about the outfit I’d chosen to wear, a vintage-style black and white polka dot sun dress with a bright red cardigan. I rarely have any occasion to play dress-up and do the “girly” thing, but this had seemed a worthy opportunity. In her short black dress with a sheer neckline topped by a pointed collar, my partner Eryn complemented the theme I had unconsciously selected, the cute goth girl to my Rockabilly pin-up.
Our friend had shared the digital event poster for Festa do Moinho (Mill Festival) with us a few days ago. It had a cartoonish drawing of a charming house with the event details overlaid in Portuguese. They had made sure to translate one of the key phrases on the poster for us, which was an instruction that the event details were not to be shared on social media. Whatever this was, it was a word-of-mouth, friend-of-a-friend kind of affair.
As we made our way up the hill and turned right at the end of the narrow road, the only direction to go from here, the cobblestone path gave way to dirt. We weren’t certain we were headed in the correct direction, but as it was the only direction to go, we kept going. A person walked past us going the opposite way, towards where we had just come from, and something about the way the person was dressed told me we were not only about to reach our destination, but that I was definitely not wearing what I would have, had I known where we were going.
Thank goodness I never wear high heels anymore, I thought to myself, glad for my black canvas knock-off Chucks, even though the soles were so thin I could feel every branch and rock underfoot. My feet were already aching from the 6 km Pride march we’d joined earlier in the day. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t commit to doing much of anything after a day of slow-walking in the sun alongside thousands of other queer folx with all the drumming, chanting, singing, and cheering that are to be expected at such a gathering, but I was making an exception for this, because our friend was going to be performing tonight, and it’s meaningful to me to support them.
The dirt path gave way to forest floor right around the same time I began to hear promising sounds ahead. We didn’t have to venture far into the densely wooded area before we saw the clearing where people were milling about. We were quickly greeted by four familiar faces, and as we exchanged the typical European cheek kisses and embraces, I took in our surroundings.
There was no venue to speak of. There were what I can only describe loosely as structures of varying levels of permanence. We had found our friends perched on a stack of sturdy wooden pallets partially covered with a rough blanket. There was an odd-looking construction that was reminiscent of Baba Yaga’s hut if it’d had chicken feet, a slatted wooden house of sorts atop tall, sturdy stilts. I found out it is what is known in Northern Portugal as hórreros—ventilated, elevated granaries found throughout the northwest Iberian peninsula, which have been used for centuries to keep water and rodents out of the food stored within.
Another nearby structure was where most of the event attendees were gathered, and rightfully so, as it was a sort of outdoor kitchen. “Inside” this building, which had only three walls and a roof, there were four volunteers coordinating in the effort to make enough wood-fired vegan pizzas and vegetable soup to make Jesus with his loaves and fishes blush. Wine, sangria, and genuine craft beer, which I was told was brewed on-site, were on offer. For a mere €3.50, attendees gained access to the beverage of their choice and as much pizza as one could eat. The soup was available for donation, with no one refused for lack of ability to pay. The only expectation was that when you were done, you would wash your own bowl and spoon and put it back for the next person. (No one who is hungry is turned away for lack of funds seems to be a commonly shared value I see expressed here in Portugal, with some restaurants having signs that state outright that soup is always available free of charge to those in need.)
There were children running about, babies in arms, and a couple of super chill dogs looking for head scritches and dropped food. A woman who seemed very much in her element in this woodsy setting stopped me in passing just to strike up a conversation about how good I smelled. After a deep inhaltation with her nose pressed to my forearm, we somehow managed to make conversation for several minutes on the topic of my scent, which was a testament to just how sociable she was, because I found myself reaching into the recesses of my mind for how to respond to such an interaction. Nothing in my southern belle finishing school had prepared me for what etiquette such a situation calls for! Fortunately, I found her very trustworthy, even alluring, and her fae-like antics would become a recurring theme over the night.
We all made our way down a path to what I would describe as “the grove,” a clearing in the woods, with a dense, leafy canopy overhead. In the last remaining moments of daylight as the sun slipped under the earth, a duo enchanted us amidst a dim red glow with the low, pensive skirl of the gaitas-de-fole (Iberian bagpipes) and bombo (a traditional Portuguese bass drum). A child danced free from self-consciousness before the spectating crowd. This set the mood for what came next.
The Ritual
We were, all of us, called upon to follow a procession down another path, led by someone playing a small gong. It might have been the fae-creature who had been drawn to me by my scent, but the light was dim and I was feeling the relaxing haze of the joint I’d shared with friends while enjoying the musical warmup. It was fully night now, and with the waning crescent moon and stars partially obscured by clouds, I picked my way carefully along the path, aided by Eryn’s hand in mine.
Another clearing, this one bathed in a soft blue glow, opened before us in a semicircle. A wooden pyre was mounted in the center, dry and gnarled palm tree branches reaching to the sky awaiting its sacrifice. Before it was a candlelit table with pencils and strips of torn paper. Translating the Portuguese, our friend instructed that we were to write our fears on the strips of paper and proceed to tuck them into the knobby folds of the trunk.
Some experiences transcend language, and this was one of them. Though I could only make out some of what was said by those leading this ceremony, I understood it. Overcome with emotion, I turned my teary face to Eryn and saw that she understood it, too. We proceeded to the table when it was our time, and made our fears known to the universe within.
A man holding a baby was before me in the queue to the tree. The woman with the gong, which she had been chiming gently as people filed into the semicircle to lay their fears on the pyre, handed the mallet to the baby, which clutched it as naturally as babies do when something is placed into their chubby fingers, and held the gong before it. The baby swung and the gong rang. The man, babe in arms, stepped up to the tree and cast his fears upon it.
I went next. I won’t tell you what fears I wrote on my strip of paper and folded into the trunk. Much like the taboo against announcing what you wish for before blowing out candles on a birthday cake, it feels unlucky. But my fears are the same kinds of fundamental fears so many of us are facing right now, all around the world.
(My reverance for this ceremony likewise kept me from taking any photos or pictures. It felt too sacred a rite to profane it for the voyeuristic and algorithmic false gods. Perhaps even telling you about it may seem gauche or even sacriligious to some, but I think it’s important to share about the experience for reasons that will become clear.)
I was one of the final participants to place my paper offering. I turned away from the light surrounding the pyre, blinded as I searched the darkness for my place back in the crowd. Eryn leaned in to the semicircle, found my hand, and guided me back to her side.
More words were said, which I understood without understanding. One of the ritualists touched the dry tree trunk with flame, and it was rapidly engulfed. The gong chimed softly somewhere in the darkness. Someone was spinning fire poi in the background of the semicircle. We stood with our faces to the sky, watching the sparks pop and curl into the blackness of night, each spark a fear, extinguished without a sound. Someone began to howl. Then we were all howling, purging our anguish from our bodies, united in this moment and imbued with the courage to keep going.
“Whatever religion this is, I want in,” I whispered to Eryn, wiping tears from my cheeks. I don’t think any kind of organized religion was behind any of this though. It felt very pagan and organic. “It’s kind of like Faerieworlds back in Oregon, but the real deal without the commercialization of spirituality,” I mused later.
I remember feeling like I had been transported to another time, where these people would all be familiar faces to me, people I had grown up alongside, and this was one of many ceremonial bonding experiences we’d have shared over the years, and at the end of the celebration, we’d make our way to our communal housing and sleep in the comfort of our mingled body heat. This, I imagined, is how humans survived for thousands and thousands of years. This, I smiled to myself, is how we could survive for thousands more to come.
Where entertainment and spiritual experience meet
Someone with a wheelbarrow and shovel scooped up the smoldering remains of the sacrificial tree, and led the procession back to the beginning. We warmed ourselves over the wheelbarrow fire while the next performer prepared to enjoin us in her comedic act. She spoke and sang in Portuguese, but the humor was a very physical type, so it was still amusing to me.
It had started to rain, a light, misting kind of drizzle. Eryn was shivering. I tried to keep her warm with my own body heat, but neither of us were dressed for being outside on a chilly, damp night. This was a boots and flannel shirt affair. I pulled her chilly fingers into my cardigan, covering them with my own. We returned to the fire several more times, periodically feeding it more branches to keep it going.
The next performer up was our friend, but the continuing drizzle necessitated a move to a more protected location. Several people, seemingly intoxicated to varying degrees on various substances, stepped up to carry the sound equipment and lighting down yet another path that led to a clearing where a triangular tarp was mounted overhead, providing some shelter.
While everything was being set in place, the fae-woman emerged again and enlisted me to help prepare the crowd. Enthralled, I could not resist her call. She began to make vocal sounds, and gestured to me to make my own sounds with her. And then the people nearby joined us, each of us blending in with our own unique ullulations. Random, shifting, yet working together, we were building an organic and harmonious song, wordless, but full of power, like we were manifesting the next act.
The stage was set, and with lights dancing on the canopy above, our friend gave a commanding performance, rhapsodic in their element among the trees, chthonic, ethereal, and bursting with energetic emotion. You had to be there though. No camera could capture the true essence of their show. It was transcendent.*
The fine mist collecting in our hair and seeping into our clothes was turning to proper heavy droplets, and we had dogs at home who needed us. Time to go. A lively rock band took the stage, and from what little I heard as we prepared to depart, they were amazing, too. Within an hour or so, we were home and carried by blissful exhaustion into deep slumber.
*That was a pun and if you check out my podcast episode A stream of our own, you’ll be in on it. Our friend I’ve been referring to is Pussy LeBouton.
Epilogue
I can’t help but continue to reflect on the evening, the entire day really, about the power of community working together for the common good, from the colorful legion of queers filling the city streets with messages of love, hope, solidarity, and pride to the organizers working together in a forest to nourish, in both body and mind, all who gathered. We came together from many lands—Portugal, Brazil, Poland, Romania, Ukraine, the United States, and probably many others. We were all welcomed with open arms, and together, we generated a palpable, joyful energy that ripples outward.
This can be our collective future. A future in which we take care of each other and no one gets left out. I’m not one to promote toxic positivity, but we absolutely must have something to look forward to and sieze upon moments of joy and kinship when and where we can, because otherwise, what’s the point?!
When it feels like darkness will swallow the world and all of us in it, pull a group of friends together, write down your fears, and light shit on fire (you can decide how you want to define shit hahah). Howl at the fucking moon together! Fascism fuels and feeds on our fear, so fighting the fear is fighting fascism. So get together and dance, sing, have great sex, do crafty stuff, plan a picnic, whatever it takes to fight the fear with each other.
As promised, I have some bonus video content for you that I hope will warm your heart. I captured this spectacular moment at the Pride march that happened this weekend in Porto. Please also be sure to watch the Instagram video linked below which has a better view than I captured (it’s in Portuguese, but she’s basically explaining what an iconic moment this was). For context, this man stepped out of his door holding the Portuguese national flag and people weren’t sure what his intentions were at first. But it turned out, he wanted to exchange his flag for one of the pride flags, and one of the marchers happily obliged. Hugs, gestures of support, and a ton of cheering ensued. This was a truly beautiful and touching moment to bear witness to in person. I’m tearing up again just explaining it.
If you watched closely, you might have noticed that at the start of the video clip, the man has the Portuguese flag draped over his shoulder, and then I (not realizing yet what was happening) panned away to capture the crowd and when he comes back into the shot his flag is gone and he’s holding a Philadelphia pride flag. Magical! Videos have gone viral (seriously, check this one out!) and the exchange has even inspired fan art of the man at the heart of the clip (below). (I hope someone shows him this stuff because I think he’d be so tickled to see it!)
Update: sharing another video posted by lily.ctrlv on Instagram, the person who gave their flag to the man, explaining in more detail what happened in this memorable and meaningful moment.
Até à próxima!
JD in Portugal
About the author
could use this limited space to describe themself using Establishment-approved concepts and language to convince you they are worth paying attention to because they were once kind of a big deal and Know Things™, but they would rather you just consume some of their content, get to know them, and form your own opinion. JD thinks you should know they are an intensely serious and unserious person. They escaped the United States Asylum to Portugal, where they now dwell beyond the shadow of imperial enslavement and are thriving with their strange and peculiar family, furbabies, and assorted mates. Through sometimes polemical, often humorous, always empathetic essays, podcasts, and videos, Disenchantments & Discoveries with JD examines our understanding of the human experience to inspire a re-enchanted view of the world and our place within it by challenging the social constructs, institutions, and systems that no longer serve our Being well.
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Optimism is the natural response to living. We get up and live our lives not because of orders from some higher or coercive power. We do so because we think it will be a good day. Fear is exhausting, optimism is energizing. We gave tiny worry dolls to our daughter when she was very young. She could whisper to them, place the doll under her pillow and the doll would take the worry away. What a great event, nice to see an adult version in action. Doing something tangible has power.
This is wonderful -- we so need hope, less cynicism and more humanity.