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Moving to a new city is difficult. Some might even make the case that living in a large city where you’re surrounded by millions of square feet of humans stacked on top of one another in skyscrapers is actually more lonely than living in a small town, where familiarity is prevalent. There are apps, events, and groups that encourage the making of new friends that one can utilize when they find themselves in a foreign city that doesn’t take kindly to blindly approaching someone at the market.
But there’s a community in Williamsburg, Brooklyn that’s taking things too far. Way too far. In a recent piece run in The Atlantic, a community – “Pure House,” as they call it – is described as a place for Brooklyn millennials to live in an effort to avoid “ennui,” which is a word I had never heard before. Apparently, it means “a feeling of listlessness and dissatisfaction arising from a lack of occupation or excitement,” which I always just called The Sunday Scaries.
Every single bit of this idea screams “commune” to me. Because in all reality, that’s pretty much what it is. But Ryan Fix, the community’s founder and leader, begs to differ.
“It’s not a commune,” Fix explains, but rather a culmination of his life’s journey. He worked on Wall Street but left as he felt his soul corroding, to find a life that would prioritize human connection. Fix keeps his head shaved, and he was barefoot in a tunic when we met. The serenity he exudes is intense, if somewhere below guru-level.
And while, sure, Ryan sounds like he just wanted a change of pace after realizing Wall Street was sucking him of his soul, it sounds like he probably took his time at Burning Man too seriously or had a really life-altering experience in Peru during his 2014 ayahuasca ceremony. But don’t worry, things get weirder.
As it turns out, a room in this Williamsburg space costs anywhere between $1,500 and $1,800 per month, which is actually more than a normal rental in the area where it’s situated. Another “minimal loft” similar to that of The Pure House would cost these people somewhere around $1,000 per person. So why live at The Pure House?
Known as Pure House and situated in a former doll factory, the company is about bringing together a diverse group of similar-but-not-too-similar people to live in a tightly knit community—but one that is not cut off from the rest of the world. (This is also important in distinguishing the place from a “cult.”)
You see, everyone knows that if you have the opportunity to live in an old doll factory and pay $800 more per month in rent than you normally would, you take that opportunity every single time. Typically, you’d expect reduced prices when living with sixteen other people, but nah, not here. The Pure House prioritizes togetherness over the value of cold hard cash, which I’m sure Ryan Fix (you know, money-savvy ex-Wall Streeter) probably hasn’t thought about at all.
These hippies want to live here because they crave “social connection” and “deliberate intention in adulthood,” which is pretty much every Kinfolk-loving lifestyle blogger’s description on their Instagram page. Of course, they’re getting their money’s worth, though. They have yoga sessions, group massages, and a monthly dinner called “This Is Not A Dinner About Sex.” Unsurprisingly, the dinner is about sex. It’s just ironically called that because, you know, Brooklyn.
Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder around an enormous table strewn width quinoa and various greens, one occupant enthused over how much she loves giving blowjobs without any expectation of reciprocity. Some others nodded in agreement or gave the house-designated “me too” hand signal, or a finger to the nose to say that the speaker is hitting it on the nose, adding that they tend to be afraid to say it because, is it anti-feminist? No?
So if you’re looking to live with sixteen other people when you move to a new city while paying exorbitant rent prices that fund sex dinners and group massages, Pure House is the place for you. Just don’t eat any purple-colored apple sauce they might hand out before bedtime one night. We all know how that’ll end. .
[via The Atlantic]