In defense of boredom

The beloved and ever-generous Jordi Basté, in this segment—a radio classic that goes far beyond what it might seem—which consists of asking "who will choke on their dog this morning," let his listeners know that it would be those who went to the Castañada at my house who would choke. He was referring to the article I was writing yesterday, In this journal, about my desire for chestnut-eating boredom. Boredom is, for me, now an intellectual necessity. I enjoy going in search of boredom.

We are a land of contrasts. Sanity and passion, sea and mountains. We have the most fun festival on the planet and the most boring. The most fun, of course, is the Tió festival, which has everything: gratuitous violence, torture of a defenseless log (it's forced to defecate with blows from a stick, but not herrings, for sodium reasons) and, above all, poop. The most boring, of course, is yesterday's festival either. La Castañada. There's no music, no formal attire, and the food served is healthy. The wine-based drink we make to wash down the chestnuts, which is a world-renowned marvel, has a name that makes the obvious ones want to flee: rancid.

But that's the beauty of the Castañada. Absolute boredom. Making it happen by the fire, or by a candle. No special programming on TV, not much artificial light, all the young people away, looking for some zombie to interact with. The revolution lies in being able to be bored, in wanting to be. Being bored a little, without any stimulation. There's another word, in many Romance languages, including ours, that means what we did yesterday: going into seclusion.