There were better things to do than to feel upset over something I couldn’t control. I needed to regain my composure. I also needed to find better things to do. There was no way I could have predicted the morning sun to take a hot dump on me. Then, very calmly, I went to the bathroom to smoke a cigarette as I took a serious, sunny shit of my own.
There was no point in complaining. If we had been aboard an airline flight, then maybe. But we couldn’t to be upgraded into a better seat in life. There were the people like me: certain never to get out of coach. Bullshit is unsavory and ubiquitous -this is a fact- and it is and will be delivered fresh evermore. Even to first class. The shapes and smells were all from the same variety. A better seat on your flight furthest from any form of feces could never exist. Wrong flight if you believed otherwise. The turd’s transcendental tyranny threw the truth to those that were still alive: as long as their worlds’ continued ticking alongside their dreams, it’d still be full of the shit that riled us into kicking alongside our screams -construction of all worlds were erected on amorphous foundations of perpetuating poops. Your shit fueled life. ‘shit is all around me, it’s everywhere I go! if you’re really shittin’ me, come on and let it show!’ It’s foolish to be angry at the steaming glory of it. Someone who despised defecation confused me as much as a someone who loathed love. There was as much love as there was shit all over the world. passion’s a funny thing! best not to question it!
In the past, I would try frantically to avoid bullshit. I’d be lathered in feces quite often. Caked in crap. A tiered wedding cake of crap I couldn’t pop out of. I didn’t think I deserved anymore, naturally. Tried everything I could think of to avoid shit because it made me abhor living. Shit and life were one in the same. Both were mandatory. And both always tracked me down. It was the world bequeathed to me. This fact followed me everyday and everywhere. Bullshit and I were practically best buddies and it kept me too busy to make any real ones. Then, a strange epiphany came to me during one of our outings. A burning bag of a blessing, even. -I happened upon the sight of some old guy trying stomp out a flaming bag of poo.
There was a genuine fondness I had for the witnessing of clichés in real life. I remembered feeling as though nothing could have been more gratifying than watching the old guy’s shitty struggle.
stomps with such passion! kicking at it too! kicked the turd too far..? mail is thrown at it for recovery! good save! coupon catalogs! and a lingerie one too..? got a ton o’ mail! ..tons o’ shit to throw! at the shit! ain’t as easy as it looks! it takes skill! he spits at it! here and there! outta ammo…? boom! hot coffee comin’ through! beatin’ the bag with a shoe! his own! finally he brings out the trump card! the welcome mat! smoking turd, flattened! crap ain’t welcome! evicted!
It made me think of Benny Hill. I was still standing there watching him with my buddy. The old guy pulled out a cigarette, lit it, turned to me and gestured with his head as if to say, ‘what’s up, kid?’ I was trying to hold myself back from laughing. I didn’t think he’d have been too keen had my laughter escaped. Then he spoke,
“The best thing to do is to leave it alone, unless it came in a bigger bag. It just burns itself out, otherwise,” he said exhaling the smoke. I stood frozen from the shock that he had said anything to me at all, then continued, “it was funnier for me to fight the shit… right? …I saw you watching, kid. It’s alright to laugh.” I stood there aghast with my own idiocy. Then something strange happened; a smile slowly erected on my miserable mug of a chubby face as one grew on the old guy’s. Then he began a contagious chuckle immediately infecting me and we both laughed. The old guy finished the rest of his cigarette back in the house, his porch still covered with shit. It was alright to laugh. Then I realized it was never a matter of whether or not bullshit was deserved.
It never singled me out. Shit is sporadic, shit’s spontaneous, shit’s feeble, shit’s fucked up; and it could happen to anyone. Everyone and everywhere. I learned to laugh at the sight of it. It’s everywhere. stink lines steaming from the scattered poo! From my humility, I salute the hilarity of nature. I salute the person who takes a dump in a paper bag. for those about to shit, I salute you!
The natural order had never once made a promise to anything. Never planned on it. no passion toward futile indulgences! The hopes and promises we’ve convinced ourselves to have, seemed no more significant than a flaming bag of poop. There weren’t any better seats than the one you’ve already had. By the poo. Best seat in the house. I giggled gleefully as an arresting aloofness floated to me like a helium balloon as I witnessed and realized the solitary certainty that morning. Good things can happen, bad things can happen, but something happens because nothing never happened, and you can always laugh, learn and or move on. This fecalosophy was smeared all along existence.
The odds rationally were never in your favor should you attempt to act on your repulsion to the spicy poo you were going to step in. Nor for the steamy poo you’d already stepped in. The poos weren’t leaving. Ever. They’re by the best seats and also by the shitty seats. Flaming bags of poos were essences in life, rewards -a life without poo had no flame. A flight without a first class. A game show without a prize. A joke that didn’t get a laugh. hour and a fucking half late! …ha! you sunny rascal! you and your sunny balls! It truly was alright to laugh.
Walking through the busy main street made me feel like a ghost. A ghoul that haunted the pavements watching everyone walk hurriedly in all directions, worriedly checking their watches. Time terrifies us though it is a terminal disease of which we’ve all been blessed. We make the most of each ticking moment, and never remember to treat it as if they were our last. Postponing the possibility of our last moments by stretching our yesterdays through a quick pace by constantly checking the clock. Learning from history was never a skill mankind could crochet into it’s web of life. We were crocheted to repeat ourselves.
I walked into the vintage store I’d recently begun to frequent. Something about old worn clothing seemed to have collections of bits of soul threaded into every button. There were brand name items on the racks every now and then, but I couldn’t care less about those. My generation was a collection of nic-nacs left over from preceding generations. Some of us knew that. Of who were the ones collectively conscious of their birth into the wrong decade. What little soul there was left in this salvaged new world, could be unearthed among the tattered trinkets from the days of old. This belief, silly or not, this was evident: this world didn’t need anymore shit to ignore.
[p.13-15. The Alexandrian Condor, book in progress.]