This text is not an introduction, or at least not in the sense that a book might expect of one. This publication refuses sequence: it circulates, drifts, returns, disappears, and reappears. What follows is a story about the people who brought it into being.
We (as the 2025 School of Commons cohort) wanted to write a manifesto, a strong, direct text communicating our beliefs and interests to the world. We imagined the process as a possible means to bring us closer. A manifesto is something that makes you feel as though you are part of something, but what are we part of exactly? Another idea emerged: a toolkit for resilience that might be more useful. What unfolded (slowly, awkwardly, collectively) is neither and both. Something generated through the friction, confusion, and humour of trying to communicate with one another and to create a single voice out of many. A manifesto is a declaration meant to give direct directions, but a metafesto would help find that direction.
It comes as no surprise to anyone that collective writing is a difficult task. Over the course of several (online) meetings about how exactly to write together, and how to talk about the group’s desires along with the frustrations that come from the ways things work out: some oddly and others not at all. One metaphor has stayed with us: a boat in the sky. The general mood, somewhat lost, strange, unreachable. This was a peculiar boat, a boat that maybe could not be seen from the ground, a boat that exists only because we insist on imagining it, and a boat we can board only if we learn how to access it together.
In this sense, the metafesto is not a declaration but a gesture of closeness. It is an orientation device for navigating uncertainty together. It tries to accompany artists and collectives, offering not instructions but invitations to reimagine, to reorganise, to remember that collective imagination can be a form of anchoring. It is a tool insofar as it allows others to replicate a metaphor that was useful for us. While thinking about a boat or groups of boats, the word ‘flotilla’ crossed our exchanges. This was initially floated as a name for this gathering of sky-boats, but we are mindful of its militaristic roots. Language itself can reproduce systems we aim to soften or transform. The discussion occurred in parallel with the Global Sumud Flotilla, a diverse assembly of people coming together in a collective mission, highlighting how ‘flotilla’ can also signify collective action, solidarity, and shared courage outside military contexts. At a moment marked by devastating violence, including the ongoing Palestinian genocide, disarming our vocabulary is part of disarming our thinking. This publication leans toward regenerative language, toward imagining the boat not as a war-formation but as a pilgrimage, a village, or a gift-giver.
For now, this metafesto holds our attempt to travel toward difference with curiosity, towards each other with generosity, towards the unknown with collective imagination. The boat in the sky also circulates, drifts, returns, disappears, and reappears when you need it.
There is no first page, by design. The moment you decide to step onto the boat in the sky you are part of the crew.
Here you will find instructions to guide you in making your own metafesto. On the left are the prompts, and on the right is how we (as the 2025 cohort) answered them.
There is not a concrete way of doing it, and no right or wrong. These prompts are meant to spark reflection, dialogue, and experimentation, whether with yourself or collectively. Tweak them, build them up, or skip them as you please.
