The writer thought good and hard every single time he took a shit. So much so that now—as he speculates over a decent topic for his forthcoming column A Cabana of the Mind—he can’t help but wonder over the merits of laying waste to weekly detritus and its impact on the creative process. Anton Lavey—if he remembers correctly—mentions this in The Devil’s Notebook. Anthony Burgess was such a fan of thoughts reached whilst making turd that Enderby, a character prevalent in four of his novels, writes his earth-shattering poetry only while straddling the commode.
It matters. It matters so much that Bukowski once weighed the merits of shitting against that of making love, stating essentially (I’ll paraphrase, so as not to give off the impression of caring too much) that a man (or woman) can survive for months, even years at a time without getting laid, but go one week without dropping mummies™ down the hatch of the porcelain pyramid and you’re assed out—literally, and figuratively.
Now granted, there are certain sociological considerations to be made as well. Ladies will find it harder to express satisfaction post-dump than fellas, as a general rule, but things are changing everyday. I myself am of the belief that there’s a two-pronged effect when discussion of excrement is made in any arena. Firstly, nobody likes a smelly bathroom. Before EVERYTHING, you’ve got to clean up where you left off. Wipe, spray, take a shower if you have to, but be sure and remove the remnants of your recently departed guts, otherwise you’ve got nothing to brag about at all. The second aspect is basically a reincarnation of the first, in that you can only truly relish in the post-dump reverie when you’ve done a good job to not inflict any of the smells on the world around you.
Based on those simple criteria, however, I see no reason that ladies, gentlemen, children and the elderly should be excluded from the very satisfactory experience of proclaiming your achievements in there to several close friends.
And therein lies an even deeper consideration. What is the achievement? Is it merely a chemical/biological occurrence? Does the human will have nothing to boast of when leaving the stall?
It is my humble belief that something so primordial takes place in the bathroom that nothing else in life can touch it. An easy comparison would be a libidinous evening of sex, but it isn’t quite the same. With shitting, you’re at once accepting your humanity so completely, while indulging in an act connecting you with the entire animal kingdom; all of which is done to a degree far transcending the mere act of copulation. With shitting, you’re admitting your faults; admitting you’re not perfect. You’re breathing heavily and relinquishing a bit of your control and neuroses to the infinite and hence accessing some deeper part of yourself. You’re thinking honestly, without abandon, preferably without distraction (though reading whilst shitting can many times outweigh reading in any other environment) and as a result thinking deeper thoughts than were previously possible.
Perhaps. It’s all one big fantastical bathroom-fanned perhaps, and I’ll be the first to admit it.
And what of the author! Telling us first of his odd fascination with the toilet, then going on in great detail to document the merits of defecation with no sources listed; with no warning before changing tenses and accordingly indulging a literary defection atop the English language! How can we possibly be expected to trust such a haphazard individual?
I’m asking you, seriously, how the fuck can Grant Maierhofer be trusted? How can shitting be compared with making love? Where the fuck do/does I/he get off?
I couldn’t tell you. Again, I’m just a guy on a toilet listening to Lorn’s newest unreleased shit trying to gain some perspective. It’s up to you guys to critique my maladies and give me some insight into myself. I didn’t set out to write columns that solve things like Carrie Bradshaw (with turds!), I set out to think a little bit and let you wizards know what you might be missing from time to time.
That is all, turds reign.
Beat City-The Flowerpot Men
IN OTHER OTHER NEWS after a long awaited stint of rumors, leaks, shit, hell, fire, shit, repeated to no end, LORN’s new album
ASK THE DUST was made available today via Ninja Tune. As a few week’s ago I mentioned the shitty news that a copy had been leaked, I feel it necessary now to express my acclaim for this mother fucker and I guess put the matter to rest, on a personal level at least. I won’t write an album review, because people don’t really read album reviews unless they write album reviews themselves and even then it’s just a perusal in case some hints can be gleaned from the endless void that is Pitchfork so I won’t do that. I just want to say that–even though the Delphian umbrella covers him, Dolor, Sleetwalker, Omega Clash, and adoptahighway–I find what Lorn’s doing to be genuinely compelling and off the charts when weighed against the onslaught of shit coming from electronic music these days. I personally am lucky to be a fan of every artist on the Delphian roster, but even if I weren’t, if I were out on some ice floe in the middle of the ocean, I’d still value the creation of art on the level with all these lunatics. I suggest picking up a copy of the new record, I suggest picking up a copy of all their records, I cannot express how completely psyched I am at this release and I have not a mite of doubt that the world will soon experience a tectonic shift at the true unveiling of this work of art.
Sorry, I tend to become grandiose when the shift is made from discussing the healing powers of TAKING DUMPS into the high/low/dunnobrow world of discussing new music, and let it be known that all these opinions–especially the turd savvy ones–are mine and mine alone.
GET SOME SUN
GOODNIGHT ULYSSES (HAPPY BELATED BLOOMSDAY TO ALL!)