Today eggs. Two. Maybe three, who knows. Have no energy to cook greens or anything else other than eggs, nor the will to do so. My own eggs are preparing to break apart. It’s getting dark outside and everywhere else. I wish I didn’t have to write this. I wish eggs didn’t exist. I wish I was someone else somewhere else and there were no eggs anywhere in the world. An eggless world.
Once someone told me they run out of wood and didn’t want to face the world so started burning chairs, tables and everything else that was burnable. Then when that was all finished they tried tights. They don’t burn though, apparently. I have plenty of wood and coal and a few more eggs. And I could let myself sink here between the eggs and coal and wood until spring. There would be no more eggs by then. An eggless world. That’s what I wish now. An eggless world.
A ray of sunshine on a bag of shit does not change the essence of what is inside the bag. The bag remains a bag full of shit. It may make a better picture, look prettier next to the birds, inspire a sense of hope. But no, it remains a bag of shit. And that’s a bit the sense of today. Bye.
Today I took two poos – a smallish one in the usual bag and a similar one at this lovely pub in Maida Vale where toilets are called lavatories, a pint of Estrella is £5.70 and people don’t just order chips. As you can see, the barman is looking beyond the snob screens at my poo, and he’s not impressed.
Do you know what snob screens are? I didn’t until my friend, who suggested I pay a visit to this pub, told me about it. Snob screens are glass panes on wooden frames dividing the pub in compartments. They were intended to ‘allow middle class drinkers to see working class drinkers in an adjacent bar, but not to be seen by them and to be undisturbed by the bar staff’, says Wikipedia. In this pub, in order to access all the different compartments you have to go through a series of very low doors, as if you were Alice in Wonderland but without being on pills. It’s really cool.
I went there on my own after work because I wasn’t ready to come back to the glacial truth awaiting me on the boat just yet. I sat by one of these snob screens and looked at the people around, who could see me too – because we were in the same compartment. There was this ginger man, alone. He looked like a banker, but he could have been employed at any other office / managerial job really. I wanted to have a chat with someone, but was too scared to initiate conversation. The only chance I had to talk with ginger I think I blowed it by giving him one of my serious looks. The rest of the people were either couples or small groups of wealthy-looking elderly-ish people with quilted jackets. There was this couple, quite young and very blond who were clearly very much into each other. The man kept stroking the woman’s shoulder and her back in a repetitive, robotic motion while they looked at some pictures of a tropical summer beach. They were one of these matching couples, as my friend calls them. Same sort of fashion, same looks, same moves. I imagine their parents would be pleased with their respective choices. Which made me think: how would I introduce myself to the hypothetical parents of some hypothetical boyfriend? Hi, I’m an artist and I shit in bags. Yes. Then I take pictures of it. Yes, really. It’s art. I’m an artist. A shit artist, maybe, OK.
Mine is full of condensation because it’s cold. Very cold. You can still see the reflection of today’s bag, but it’s not ‘exact’, as Sylvia Plath would say. She has a poem called Mirror, not the most upbeat poem, as you may expect.
I am not cruel, only truthful
I don’t look myself in the mirror much these days. Partly because the mirror is often full of condensation and when it’s not, it’s in a dark spot anyway. There’s another one in the bathroom, but I don’t have a proper light so I can’t see fuck all there either. But at work there’s a massive wall mirror so even if I don’t want to look at myself, I do. And I have noticed that my 3 white hair have grown very strong and wild in recent months, as so have those 15 beard hairs which no-matter how much laser and electrolisis I put them through, they keep coming back. I know I shouldn’t feel bad about my body hair. It’s the patriarchy which has instilled the idea it’s ugly. I still don’t like it though – at least not on my chin. And anyway, enough about hair, debating too much about whether or not to shave it is just not important anymore, at least not here in the West, me thinks. If you want to grow it, you grow it, if you don’t you don’t. End of the story.
I bought the wrong bags. They are very big and make my poo look very small. But they are the perfect length for being lowered into the water without me risking to fall in the canal. I could have just let the bag go with the stream. I didn’t. But imagine: little Poo Bag floating at a leisurely pace, all on its own, on a beautiful Sunday morning, whistling its favourite song. And as it coasts the respectable boats of Little Venice where people are just rubbing their sleepy eyes, it gets noticed by a fellow boater having their coffee on the deck. Fellow Boater is enjoying the silence and solitude when Poo Bag approaches. They look at it with curiosity and since it’s so close to their boat, Fellow Boater reaches for Poo Bag, grabs it by its hair and, lifting it quickly from the water, lays it on the deck. Poo Bag is now scared and silent as it awaits to see what Fellow Boater will do with it. Fellow Boater handles Poo Bag with curiosity while sipping on their warm coffee and since they’re quite unsure of what this thing is, they give Poo Bag a good squeeze. But Poo Bag is a fragile little thing and it breaks, pouring over Fellow Boater’s coarse fingers and leaking onto their sleeve and forearm. Fellow Boater suddenly realise that Poo Bag is a poo bag and spit a mouthful of coffee back in the cup while shaking their hand furiously into the air. The guts of Poo Bag splatter in all directions, hitting Fellow Boater’s Friend in their face as they come out on the deck and a group of Cheerful Italian Tourists walking on the footpath. What started as an innocuous adventure quickly turns into tragedy and still to this day, no one knows exactly why.
Sometimes I feel like that about text messages. They are so prone to being misunderstood. You may not mean to be especially nasty, or especially nice, with your message, but the person at the other end takes it the wrong way because, say, they are pissed off since they just burnt the last garlic clove or they’re in a good, relaxed post-masturbation mood. And so things start unfolding in their own, independent way and end up going to shits without anyone understanding exactly why. If you can look someone in their eyes it’s easier to avoid misunderstandings. But of course you’re still absolutely free to throw them – or generously gift them – a bag of shit, if that’s what you meant all the way.
Due to unprecedented demand, I’ve refrained from pooing in a plastic bag this morning and waited until I reached the workplace. You will be pleased to know it was a rather big one.
All my lefties friends always ask me how it is to work for the enemy and expect some horror stories, but I always disappoint them because I don’t have any. At least none that I have directly experienced on my skin. I can tell you about the toilets though. They are OK toilets. This one is my favourite one, although it’s no different from the other ones. I’m sorry I’m really tired and struggling to make jokes or write some sense. After a day of work it’s sometimes difficult to switch registers, from the financial to the creative – although one may argue that much of the way financial news is written is really quite creative (as in otherworldly). Stuff like ‘the economy was given a boost’. My dear, Greek ex colleague always used to tell me: who the hell talks like that in real life? I am guilty of writing shit like that sometimes though, I must admit. Because it’s easy. Because it’s a common template which you absorb whether you want it or not. But I know my Greek colleague would excuse me. I miss my Greek colleague. If you’re reading, hello my immigrant friend. I miss you. I miss sitting with you in the area reserved for guests just to see if they would come to tell us off. They never did. What a disappointment. Petty activism. It was just for lolz. You see, love is possible at the Daily Mail, even if you didn’t think it was.
I was caught by surprise by the beauty of this door while taking a delayed evening poo at an east London pub. All these women taking shits and then carving the name of their loved one with a key. Or their names together inside a heart with the hope that that thing between them will last in eternity. Or maybe just in the hope that it will actually happen. So much hope on this toilet door. Johnny is a donut.
The news has spread. People are no longer afraid or ashamed of their poo. Poo is the new black. Even the BBC got there now.
Two friends sent me this article today, entitled ‘Super poo’ donors wanted. It’s the story of Claudia Campanella (note the resemblance – most likely Italian and also a CC…i wonder if she uses a bag too) who every morning takes her poo to the hospital so that it can be transplanted into the bowel of people who are sick. Claudia is a poo donor, says the BBC. And she’s not ashamed. She doesn’t care what her friends say. And that’s great because apparently you can save lives by donating your stool. And make money too in the meantime. In the US they pay you $40 per poo. In the U.K. I’m not sure. The hospital which does this kind of poo transplant is in Hertfordshire. Its website does not say how much they pay you. But it says yo can donate to hospitals within 15 miles. They are on the lookout for ‘super poos’ full of bacteria from better-off people. Yes, because they have money to buy good food. So even their shit is better. That’s a bit depressing isn’t it.
Here it’s what the website says: ‘We screen for occupation and social status as we don’t want anybody doing this just for the money. If they are able to feed themselves thoughtfully and without budget restrictions, they are more likely to respond to improvement suggestions for their diet. We look for well-balanced, socially aware individuals who genuinely want to help others.’
Would I qualify to be a poo donor? I do have ‘budget restrictions’ but I eat quite well, don’t you think. Maybe I can send them a link to this blog as a proof. But that maybe won’t make me qualify as a ‘well balanced individual’. I’ll let you know how it goes.
PS: it was my friend’s birthday today so I made her a cake with candle. I didn’t use the same candle I used for the poo though, don’t worry.
Sometimes shit happens. Or sometimes you see some bad shit, or sometimes someone tells you about their bad shit either with words, their eyes, or their body. And then you can’t stop thinking about it. You can’t wash it off. The world is very beautiful, but also very ugly and unfair. People can be very nice but also little, insignificant bullies. When you can’t throw bags of shit to the little bastards, it stays inside. And that’s not good. Some people cope better than others. I know some people who just allow shit to wash over them. They emerge unscathed. Or at least that’s what it looks from the outside.
Today I washed my clothes, finally. It was quite expensive. But the man at the laundrette was very nice. But I couldn’t quite wash shit off.
That’s right. And that’s because now it’s snowing.
I got woken up by rain in the middle of the night and remembered I had not covered the deck where the engine is. So I was filled with dread at the idea that the engine room was gathering all that rain, because if there’s one thing that the boat owner’s has told me about 73 times is that I SHOULD MAKE SURE THE ENGINE ROOM IS DRY. He’s left me a pile of towels he stole from the gym and a pack of nappies. Yes, nappies. You throw them down there and let them do the job. Then once they’ve absorbed the sky’s pee, you CAREFULLY lift them up. CAREFULLY. Because they can break and then all that gelatine which is inside will get scattered all over the place. It’s genius. I’ve nearly run out of nappies though, so tomorrow I’ll have to go to the local Sainsbury’s and buy some because the engine room is very wet and apparently that’s not a good thing. Since I’m going to have to do that, I may as well pretend I have a small child. Maybe I will start telling the store assistant that my little one shits so much, you know, I will say, they shit so much when they’re just born – in fact that’s all they do, don’t you think? Eat and shit, shit and eat and sleep. Ha! Do you have children yourself? I wouldn’t know what more to say though because I don’t have children, as you must have figured out by now. But that line on eating-shitting-sleeping is a safe thing to say because I always hear people with children say that. It’s one of those conversations starters if you have a small child. Exactly like ‘it can’t rain forever’. Those public truths that everyone likes to agree on. I think I hate the phrase ‘it can’t rain forever’. Yeah of course practically it can’t. But sometimes it fucking rains for a fucking long time. It rains for weeks, months, years. Metaphorically speaking, yes? And when you’re there under the rain you can’t really think ‘oh yeah, that’s true, it can’t rain for ever, that’s what people say’. No you can’t because you’re under the rain and that reality is difficult to weather. Therapists tell you to remember that these are just emotions and they will pass. Yeah, right. Sometimes also, it does rain forever and then you die.
Enough. What about those nappies, would you want me to shit in a nappy instead of a plastic bag, just for LOLS? I accept suggestions.