When you peel away the exclamation point of boing! and inquire to the depths of its artistic measure, you find more than a simple punk house of anarchists living in Salt Lake City, Utah.

You find the cracked paint, painted over and over to meet the temperament of a house decided upon by multiple voices of self empowerment.

You walk through where a garden once felt growth, now hoping for the next ambitious boingster to take up trowel to tend to its needs.

You run fingers across couches hidden, worn, torn speak next to a wall of travellers tales of coming goings and some things written unknown, but still mystifying and curiosity stricken.

You see every worn plank of wood on the floor, walked over, pawed over and pronounced purposeful to the gathering of meetings, music and marvellous rejoicing of being.

Into the rooms you find each place crafted to meet the needs of those who have gone before and come now. Bed lofts rise above, underneath the stairs gives way to a place of security and intrigue.

Graffiti finds its way, in a colorful display of curves and detours, dotted and lined with photos, stairs ascending to more wonder above.

Books, always a book to be read about a radical idea or notion to be, secrets are filled within the shelves of the Boing Infoshop! in a world unto its own.

Beyond the main floor and down below, wonders exist of archaeological passages dug out a freshly cleaned out basement.

On the outside tracing the wall, shadows dart and fall in the most imaginative of ways.

Always a project to be found, Boing was a good place to be lost and found.

Raccoons wonder, wander, away.


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