I wanted to get involved. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted my actions to become more than just futile gestures and unfulfilled wishes. So it was that I found myself wandering. I found myself searching. I found myself... on Pearl Street again.

But this time, I had a destination. A far left activist group, rumored to be on the Pentagon's terrorist watch list, would be meeting here. (But as Howard Dean once said, they keep that list a secret, so nobody except those in high government offices truly knows who is on it.) Broadway and Canyon. The bandshell.

I decided beforehand that I would approach this very gingerly. I had attempted to send an email to the publicly listed contact address a couple of weeks earlier, thinking it might be a good idea to ask ahead of time, see if there was anything I could bring to help, or... something. In the culture from which I come, one rarely simply "shows up" anywhere without at least some degree of planning and coordinating. I needed a pretext. So I thought.

My message had bounced. Obviously, the address had been a fake. A joke, in fact. Maybe the whole thing was nothing but a myth. Or perhaps the local chapter had died out years ago, and nobody bothered to update the site.

Well, here I was. The bandshell. There was certainly something happening. Things were warming up for a reggae festival of some sort. Recorded music was pumping out of the speakers. People were scattered around the area, talking and hanging out. Behind the amphitheater benches, a uniformed officer of the law stood and kept watch.

The sky was completely overcast. A light, misty rain permeated the air. I had not really bothered to think about the weather this morning when I got dressed. I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. It wasn't so cold as to cause discomfort, but I would have worn something warmer if the day were reset.

I meandered around, observing the scene. On the other side of the block, the last of the farmer's market vendors were wrapping up their operations. Meanwhile, commercial activity around the bandshell itself was just getting going. Even the shouting hot dog man was there. Except he wasn't shouting today. Perhaps he realized that in the context of this venue, anyone who was interested would see his presence, and hollering would just annoy people.

Other booths and stands were out hawking their wares as well. Next to the stage, there was a place for people to buy raffle tickets. In an area gated off from the rest, people could buy and drink bear, as long as they kept it inside the fence.

I wondered if this event would mean the thing I was looking for might not be happening this week. If it ever happened at all. Oh well. I decided to just hang for a while, and see what transpired. This reggae thing might be interesting too.

I circled the area a few times. Some of the punk kids from Pearl Street were congregating at the picnic table in the park. There was a big bright red inflated thing where parents could send their children to jump for $2. And, of course, the milieu of random people wandering through. I became part of the mileau, and eventually sat down on the ground beneath a tree. Inconspicuous (I hoped), but I had a good vantage of it all.

I kept especially close watch on the picnic table where the punks hung out. My intuition told me there was more here than what I was seeing with my eyes.

Minutes passed. More vendors started setting up shop along the sidewalk.

Back at the punk picnic table, something was happening. A few other people were bringing items in and setting them down. Large kettles, pots, and crates. The pack of punks quickly dispersed, and let the newcomers set out the food. The original punks made a quick exit off in the direction of Pearl Street, but it was obvious that they had been holding the table for the others to arrive.

Now it was just two or three people, arranging their picnic lunch, but before the girl scribbling in marker on a piece of old newspaper had even finished her sign, I knew what this was.

Despite this, I held my position, and continued to observe. A few people took some tupperwares and plates out of the crates, served themselves beans, lettuce, mashed potatoes, and other items, stood a few meters back from the picnic table, and began to eat while they stood. A few minutes later, one or two others wandered up and did the same. Some walked around the park and ampitheater while eating their food, but always, one or two would keep watch near the table.

Whenever the gathering grew to more than a three or four standing around the table, the ones who had already been present backed away and disappeared. Thus, even though the huge pots contained enough food to feed a massive crowd, it never took the form of a typical "homeless soup kitchen" line. Everyone served themselves, and ate.

One of them passed nearby me, and whatever they had smelled damn good. Was I going to sit here the whole afternoon, or was I going to do something? I stayed and just watched a little longer. Seize the day. It was time for me to become an active participant.

When two of the people were stood back by the table -- those who had been around in and out since the food had arrived -- I walked up and approached. "Hi, this is Food Not Bombs, right?" (The hand made sign confirmed it.) "Is there anything I can do to help? I want to get involved with you guys."

The girl responded. "Yes, would you like some food to eat?"

"Sure." It felt a little strange for me, a person who is easily capable of buying his own food, to be accepting it here. But as I already knew, this is the Food Not Bombs way. They offer food to anyone. They do not ask whether you are homeless, or what your income is. All are welcome.

She pointed me to the plates and silverware, and I was free to get whatever I wanted. I pulled out one of the old tupperwares, and began filling it with various items from the table. The food actually tasted very good. Hot food outside on a cold (for summer) day.

My curiosity got the better of me, and I started asking questions. Where does the food get cooked? How long had Food Not Bombs been operating here? How long have you been participating?

The girl hesitated for a moment, and then told me a little more. The food had been cooked in a house where "a bunch of us live; a commune." She wasn't sure how long it had been happening in Boulder, but guessed that Food Not Bombs had probably been holding regular meals here since "a couple of years ago." She told me that she herself had been involved with it for only "the last couple of weeks".

I wanted to know if there was anything I could do to help in the future. She hesitated briefly, and then told me where I could find "The Circle A House." (I got the reference.) They have "open mike" nights every Thursday, so she suggested that I try coming then. I intend to do so.

While I was eating, I got into a conversation with one of the other guys, who I had concluded was also "a helper" based only on the fact that I had seen him carrying some of the food when it first arrived, and I had heard him talking about U.S. imperialism earlier. I then made the mistake of asking him how long he had been involved with this operation.

Though he didn't expressly say so, he made obvious by his tone that this was not a wise question to be going around asking of people. The response was hilariously cryptic. "This is Food Not Bombs. I just came down here from the north this week. I'm a librarian." He grinned, and I might have missed a wink. "We hold workshops and study groups. Food Not Bombs exists to promote the idea that food is not a privilege."

He then suggested what I had already surmised -- that if I wanted to help out, I should talk to the girl who had been there earlier. He mentioned her name, which was the first time I had heard it. But she had disappeared. By the table now, it was just me, him, and another person who had started to serve himself some food.

I said that she had already told me about Thursday nights. He nodded, smiled, and repeated the address of the house. We did fun little chatting; he uttered what I'm sure were some more code words, whose meaning I could only half-guess, but I acknowledged knowingly. Language can become an interesting thing when used by those who cannot afford to say directly what they are really saying. If you know what I mean. You should, because I don't.

I finished my food, put my tupperware in the pile of dirty ones, said, "Excellent food, thank you." To which he did not respond.

(Implication I took: I should not be thanking him for the food, nor any other specific individual. In Food Not Bombs, there are no celebrities. There are no leaders. There are no merit points. There are no membership lists. No central headquarters. We are all just people, eating a good meal in the company of others.)

I left the area on a full stomach, and contemplated what had just transpired.

I had found a group that was simultaniously very guarded, yet also very open and welcoming. Such are the contradictions necessitated for those who fight for a world in which fighting itself becomes obsolete. Being hounded by authorities who cannot stand the thought that their imposed version of "order" might slip right out from under them in the blink of an eye, Food Not Bombs must assume some of the same characteristics as a terrorist organization.

Off the books, off the record, bucking the bureaucracy, all while telling the world -- in a very practical and direct manner -- that no one deserves to go hungry, especially in a world whose technology is more than capable of producing enough for everyone.

Despite the clearly drawn "Free Food" sign, most of the passing pedestrians went on to provide plenty of business to the nearby vendor stalls. It was like a meatspace version of Windows! Heavily advertised, more prominently visible, and prepackaged in a familiar manner, the free food table posed no threat to them. Besides, in order to use free food, you had to deal with quirky command line tupperwares, manually configure the plates, and deal with the image of all those freaky (K)GNU hippies surrounding it. Not very user friendly at all.

But once you leave Windows, you never want to go back.

Take me to the next level of anti-reality. I am ready. To ascend or descend, whatever the case may be. Done here. Over and out.