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.
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.
I saw two boys on the footpath today, sitting on the sidelines of a street-soccer game. One was crying, and the other had his arm around him. The boy who was crying had one of those faces that you can imagine won’t change much as he ages—one of those faces that when it’s fifty you will still be able to see the little boy inside. He looked so old and wise: there was not a skerrick of shame in those tears as he looked into himself through the middle-distance, probably not wondering, as i was, if he would recall this moment with his friend in twenty-five years.