in which i discuss pooing and Buddhism with one breath
I just used my hands and a teaspoon to dig a hole in someone’s yard so i could take a dump, like some humanoid-cat-dog hybrid. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I am also sun-drying mushrooms on Massive’s back rack because they began to attract ants and sweat inside their stupid-plastic container. They were already reduced for quick sale. Should i eat them? I don’t know. Dodgy mushrooms have a bad reputation. I was going to make mushroom dhal.
deceptive lead image
This experience (the pooing one) is something that i’m proud of when, according to society’s standards of respectability, i should feel ashamed.
I feel proud because a vague reason i’m doing this Berri to Somewhere cycle tour is i knew it would force me to be more resourceful than i generally am. Also, one of my main men, Milan Kundera, convinced me long ago that we need to start talking about poo if we can ever hope to escape a life of kitsch.
I wonder what it says about me that i should feel proud for shitting in someone’s backyard because it makes me feel resourceful. It is a vague consolation for me that part of this experience is also about exploring the idea of “respectability”, which is (sort of, i think) one of the Eight Worldly Concerns described in the Dhammapada and expounded upon at length by Osho.
I heard this song in the bike shop the other day and wondered why i had such an aneurasm about it, just another pop song with a boom-clap drop. Turns out it’s from The Fault in Our Stars, a decent movie from the brilliant YA novelist, John Green. A good reminder to live while you’re young, and not just because you’re not dying of cancer.
In the thick of a days-long muse attack, i see now that i am drafting a memoir essay about, among other things, the neurosis behind impotency: stay tuned to miss out on the gory details when i bail out and publish under a pseudonym or in some dark corner of the internet under the guise of an immersive-text experiment that no one will care to find.
Sometimes people ask me where i live, and i don’t really know what to say—not because i’m travelling, because i don’t really feel like i’m doing that anymore. I mean i’m moving around a lot, but it’s not like a holiday or something, it’s my way of life now—i travel, therefore i am.
So i don’t know what to say because it seems sarcastic to say i live in the world, but that’s how i feel.
If i wanted to get really sarcastic i could say, Right now i’m living at Sunay’s breakfast place—later i’ll be living on the ferry to Kadikoy.
But actually this is less sarcastic and more truthful than anything i could say about the places where i sleep at night from day to day, because what’s important is not where you live (what building, what city), but how you live—that you live, and that you live wherever you go.