Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Toilet Bowl Kingdom

Even on the toilet, I am a hyperlink. I am a reference. I am a Resident Evil ball cap. I am a pair of Adidas shorts. I am a pair of Armani eyeglasses. I am the book that is in my hands. I flip back to the beginning to remember where my eyes have come from. It, like me, suffers from nightmares. I no longer have to make the same inquiry: Muss es sein? Smelling the shit below me, I know: Es muss sein!

I flush the toilet and my greasy, black rot descends into the subterranean tunnels of our forgotten DNA. We are obsessed with space—physical not outer—this is not science-fiction. However, our obsession for outer space derives from our obsession with physical space. Nothing more than an obsession with being. With Form. To be. To am. I? Architecture is the true poetry. The true universal language. That’s why even our shit has temples. Daedalian mazes of ceramic, copper, cement—complicated city-wide networks reserved for the mythological journey.

The first step is the call to adventure, which originates in my bowels. I feel it. It aches. It desires release, freedom, journey. I refuse the call. I need to type this sentence, or read this page. I ignore the primal rumbling within. Then I drink more coffee. Its magic aids the journey. The java juice has sent its spell into the intestinal tract. I cannot avoid the call any longer. I leave my desk. Travelling through the comfortable space of my house, I finally arrive to its threshold. I leave the known world and enter the dark, unruly animal reality. There is nothing humane in this space.

Sitting upon the porcelain throne, the belly of the whale is summoned. It is ordered to release the traveler from its flesh prison. The whale obeys. The shit has finally entered the stage of initiation and embarks upon the road of trials. In the end, it too must return to the source. It becomes one with the flow of life, one with the water that irrigates us all. Only now the water is filthy, broken and old. It is age.

Finally, it arrives at the treatment center where new, but good chemicals are introduced into the water. Like the phoenix, it reduces to proverbial ash. It is reborn. It is clean. It is ready to begin the journey once more. Over and over again, our tentacles extend and root through space. In every direction. We are a mass. A billion eye-balled ton of arms and legs and hairs like cilia and flagella and radiating, golden streams of piss sometimes red like a blood rainbow and gopher-like burrowing, shit tentacles. Forget neither the billions of tadpole children that men launch into space nor the dripping microcosmic eggs of women that when combined explode into space and time like a billion big bangs. We are flesh webs. We are form. We are space. We are obsessed.

Only the architects understand. Or, sometimes, the photographer—but only the ones who truly understand the idea of negative space as well as its marriage to form. The butter and the knife. The cleaving of potential. The blossoming and withering of being. Occasionally, but less likely, stands the poet. However, writers are too obsessed with crafting. They do not understand the purpose of nothing—of silence. They try too hard to construct. To define. They rarely linger in ambiguity. They may encircle from a distance, but how many write to unwind? To unthread? To free. No. They…
hide 1


and space. 2

Save a few, 3

Izzy Darlow knew. 5

Even the lyricist poet 8

knew. In lateral movements—obsessed with the dance through 13

space, he found Fibbonacci’s great 8

orchestra of room. 5

He found the 3

spiral 2

Out 1

to 1
…the end—everything reaching out in every direction—swirling through time and the eternal—swirling like the shit below me spinning to its maze of pipe and water—swirling through space—becoming, again. All is one. And it stinks like a mother fucker.
Do you hear the cries of my city? Do you hear my screaming the nothing of me, am?

I return to my coffee as if nothing has ever happened, but that shit was monumental. As a child, I could have never experienced such profundity from such barbarism, but the geometry has invaded me. Layers and layers of lines invaded the circulatory electricity of my brain—pattern shadowing pattern. Neural pathways mocking the bloodlines that delivered them life, which they repaid with understanding. All this time online, I am becoming the net I surf. I am finally emerging through the animal cocoon of modernity. I am becoming the pattern itself. The evolution has begun. Mergers and connections. Space, repeating, reaching out. Plumbing, streets, blueprints, brains, networks, and deltas. I am the hyperlink. I am

space itself.