The Purest Shit

My wife is blown up like a balloon. A small girl rests inside her. This girl is our daughter. I have read that the first shits my daughter will take are not shits at all. Instead of the philosopher's substance, a black, tarry excreta will be coming out of her ass for the first couple days. This sort of shit has been given a name, meconium. This name is derived from the Greek mekonion, meaning opium-like. Aristotle believed that meconium induces sleep in the fetus. The philosopher king realized that feces is the root of all natural phenomenon. In sleep, the neonate is in union. This union is only manifest through the presence of meconium, the purest concentration of shit that man has observed. Sure, meconium may be described away as a collection of intestinal epithelial cells, lanugo, mucus, amniotic fluid, bile and water, but the question begging to be answered about the substance is somewhat rhetorical in nature; what is inside the anus when man is closest to god? The answer, meconium.

I will study this substance. It is supposedly odorless, but this I seriously doubt. The purest of shit. The eponymous shit. The alpha and omega of shits. Perhaps the odor of our shits is synonymous with the decay of our connection to the almighty. Actually, it seems quite natural that this original shit has no odor. Odor belongs to the physical realm. It's shape is also amorphous, suggesting that even gravity, the equalizer of all things, holds no power over the meconium. Our adult shits are well formed heavenly objects, often solid and bound by the rules of symmetry. Meconium is a galaxy, a chaotic and perfect collection of singularities. I wish to capture this meconium, to relish its purity. Perhaps my daughter will allow for such a study. I must respect her wishes, though. The meconium is a part of her, and I will not force her to part with it. She must make this decision of her own reckoning. With a tear in my eye, I will congratulate her on this first step. The decision to pass such a pure substance is in direct violation of our eternal nature. To walk into this ephemeral world takes courage. The deposit of this black shit, then, is no more than a rebellious act against god, against our perfection, and against eternity. It may be the first and greatest statement that a human ever makes.

Originalis

The blastopore is the first rift, the first great hole in the developing fetus of all beasts. It is the first differentiation, the first step towards complexity. In our case, the blastopore develops into the anus, distinguishing us from protostomes, mostly aliens like spiders, nematodes, squid and molluscs. Our mouth develops in relation to our anus. Thus, it is always one step behind. The anus is the blastopore, it is the source, the life-spring. It is the first cleavage, the first assault on the geometric perfection of the archenteron. The mouth is a mere afterthought, a necessary byproduct. Through the anus we can peer into the great center of all things. We can witness the ministry of genesis.

Why do we sit on our anus? I have witnessed some 30 springs, yet have never dared to approach this deceptively simple question. Why did our senses develop around the mouth? Our brains, ears, eyes, and nose all develop around this stupid copy-cat mouth. They are all tainted by it. Only the anus and it's protective butt cheeks are pure. The anus so simple, surrounded only by fatty tissue. The mouth surrounds itself with the most sophisticated architecture, and to what end? I am certainly not taken in by this ruse! All smoke and mirrors these elaborate and useless things. What good are the talents of smelling, hearing, and seeing but in the service of the great hole?

So then I must consider, what does it mean to smell flatulence? To witness the visual splendor of a solid, well formed shit? To take in the full anal symphony of a precious fart held captive for over 6 hours? These actions are all just the anus enjoying itself, nothing more. We are all just bundles of complexity layered atop the anus, all in service of the anus. When we enjoy the spice of our farts, we are really just one giant anus reveling in this truth. When we snap photos of those shits that are all to perfect, we are just watching ourselves smiling (our primeval selves, our anuses).

I write these words as a celebration of these truths. My mouth performs this duty in eternal subordination to its anal progenitor. I keep a record of these things not to shock, disgust or entertain, but to witness clearly and unabashedly the heart of all things. We are most ashamed of our anus because it likes it that way. It yearns not for the spotlight, it is far too wise. But I am tired of this shame, and I seek to disturb the anus from its holy seat for no other reason than to better know Him. I am not afraid. I know not what I may discover, but I am certain that few have taken this road before. Anus, I kneel before you as I kneel before my creator and my self. You are all things, and I am you. Carry on.

Of Shits Past

A day of meager sups. A day of licit slumber and troubled shits. I read Patton Oswald's book. I read some of Atlas Shrugged. I shit. I called my wife numerous times. I wondered about the possibilities passing me by. I thought of running around the track, running along the river, running above the city, running through the forest. I thought of the solid shits that follow exercise, about peaceful thoughts and simple foods. I thought of my dick, lying dormant between my legs and responding lethargically to differences in temperature. I cleaned the fish tank. I crushed the parasitic snails clinging to the glass. I ate 15 dumplings. I traced their journey into my stinking bowels. I did not chew them thoroughly. The smell in there must be horrid. I visited the small convenience store downstairs and talked with the proprietor about her bowel movements. I did not offer my own advice, opinions, or knowledge about feces. It would overwhelm her. I visited the security guard in his booth and asked him about hemorrhoids. He supplanted my existing store of knowledge on the subject. I imagined his constant post upon that hard stool would make a man learn much about his poor anus. I counted my pubic hairs. I watched videos of strangers fucking. I shit again into the cold, uncaring porcelain. I encountered that too familiar sensation of alienation while cringing at the odor of my feces and considering my position as receiving manager. I thought of all that refuse my leaders tell me about being a leader. I thought of them shitting, kneeling on the bowl ass puckered just like mine, just like all of us. What were my intentions in this life? What happened to the time when my actions had purpose and resonated deep in my chest, creating pleasant sensations throughout my entire body? What did it feel like to shit then?

Like a rock

Solid. Today is a bright day. Tomorrow too holds promise. Once bleak, my anal future now looks better. My shits are solid. Ate mcshizzles for breakfast. 2 hash browns and a side of solid ass! Last week I ate mostly breakfast. My schedule did not permit for much else. Anal confusion. Late night shits and dawn breaking bergs in the receiving toilet. The toilet has been cleaned professionally, meeting all the standards. Last night ate a lunch box of pork fat and delicious vegetables. The rice tasted so strong, pungent kernels each one destined for rectal glory. The fecal whole is greater than the sum of its parts! Tea and coffee and a complete absence of roids. This is the good life. Ample sleep, exercise and the love of my wife. These are the staples of anal health. Last week's drinking had no effect on my stools, at least none that I am willing to recognize. After the milt, I continued to drink for 2 nights. I drank whiskey and beers, many beers. I was not victim to beer shits. I drank into the late night, through the rain and the darkness. I drank while an old lady asked me about my rectal health. How did she know!? I professed all while surrounded by the lush backdrop of one of the finest parks in the city. I was not victimized by the police, those brutal fucks jealous of my pristine anus. I rode away on my bicycle, the seat moist and firm, my o-ring unaware of itself. Glory.

Milt

Last night 1800 hours visited a small Japanese eatery downtown. All of us managers were invited by our boss. We slaved around the table and waited for the presentation. The head chef reprimanded his assistant publicly. Sake and other rice distillates, scotch whiskey, red wine and plum wine flowed around the long table. Dishes started to appear rapidly. Pickled cabbages and radishes from the steppes of some mountain in eastern China. Assorted fillets of fish, red and white and slippery. A bowl of wet sea weeds with ginger in the center. A pile of corrugated milt, the spent seminal fluids of some unfortunate fish. Halved legs of a king grab. Grilled fishes of various composition and quality. I ate them all, greedily. I ate and drank and listened to all the laughter and mildly disguised insults. I watched the head chef perform magic tricks. The crowd was drunk. I felt the promise of a respite coming. A shit was rising. I sneaked away to the carefully decorated bathroom and loosed all over the toilet. I painted the bowl with my ass. I reveled in my privacy and in my explosive act. I wiped and got on with it, returning to the table with a new comfort in my stride.

The hemorrhoid has retreated. Its brief appearance will be noted, but I am feeling that the musings of last week were partially melodramatic. My anus is firm and in excellent condition now. I no longer need to think of it every moment, visit it in the receiving bathroom every hour to ensure that it is on the path to healing. It is healed. I release responsibility back to the cipher. Let this anus of mine do its work. I have other things of concern to address. My right nipple still has a small pocket or pustule protruding from the nipple crest. It is the result of a certain shirt with a poorly designed pocket seam. The seam irritated my nipple for an entire day. Returning home from work that day I examined the nipple with care and noticed the pustule. I will let it be. Like the anus, i assume the nipple can care for itself. Is it foolish to assume the nipple might be as talented as the anus? Perhaps.

This morning I woke at 0700 hours to take my wife to work. I stopped at the breakfast stand that offers reasonable fare at the cost of waiting nearly 20 minutes for its preparation. I devoured a fried chicken breast sandwich, and a pork cutlet wrapped in an egg and a sort of tortilla. I drank a cup of iced coffee. I had already produced 1 shit at around 0720 so I knew that today's feces had been greatly affected by last night's meal. The post-breakfast shit confirmed my suspicions that today's produce would be confined primarily to diarrhea and mossy, sulfurous odor. I am the only one in the house. I am not ashamed.

Middle Age

Zero. The great cipher, the great ring. The anus, the great nought of our corpus, how strangely it resembles the zero in both appearance and properties. I am 30 now. It has been years, many years since I allowed myself the pleasure of thinking about that which binds us all. My freedoms have all but disappeared. My joy has dwindled. Toil has became my daily sup. But one thing remains, one remarkable thing. Every morning, and most every night, I shit. For each of these 30 years I have shit regularly, almost daily. Sometimes I shit more than once a day. But as long as I am breathing, I am shitting. For most of these glorious expulsions, I have had the pleasure and responsibility of cleanup. Paper, that glorious invention that allowed so many men jobs, has made this event mostly painless. Some might even consider the use of paper in cleaning the anus opulent. To me, it is a chance not only to clean the filthy shit off the walls of my butt seal, but also a much needed reminder to vigilantly inspect these walls for any signs of tampering, degradation or foreign objects. For 30 unbroken years I have had the satisfaction of confirming after every shit that my anus was in perfect shape. It terminus always taught and puckered, the paper always void of any sign of blood or other strange substances.

In my 30th year, this chain of perfection ended. 3 nights ago I discovered a small hemorrhoid on the lower, right wall of my rectum. As I encountered it during the first wipe, I knew immediately. It was tender and ripe, pregnant with the knowledge that it was the first invader. Like the brave men that first reached the moon, it faced all odds and squarely made a stand against all my vigilance and experience. It won. In that moment I sat there probing the small growth, fearful and outraged, concerned mostly with the utilitarian problem of how I was to completely clean my anus while avoiding this painful bulge. Soon after these tertiary emotions, something struck me violently. An unmistakable sense of longing. The appearance of this hemorrhoid is a symbol that can be appreciated universally. I confirmed this by asking a number of delivery drivers at work the next day.

The arrival of this hemorrhoid signals the end of the beginning. Like so many other things that have occurred since my return to this country, this hemorrhoid reminds me that I no longer have any choice but to become a man. It admonishes me to face responsibility, regardless of deciding whether or not to accept or deny it. This hemorrhoid shows me that my 26 or more years of wiping and the occasional use of my father's Japanese washlet, are not nearly enough to guarantee rectal health. In fact, it shows me that nothing, nothing at all, can stand between my anus and the march of time. And it is this display that makes me long so much for the freedom of yesterday. The freedom that seemed to stretch on endlessly, to assert itself not so much in presence, but in the mystery of its hazy absence. Even now, 3 days after the discovery, I can still sense that deep longing for the lazy and carefree attitude that has been dwindling every day for the past months. This roid, this blister, this mar tells me precisely, violently, absolutely that I am free no more. I have passed into the shackles of this world. Not of society, not of one group or another, not of my family, but distinctly those shackles that bind all of us mere mortals, with our skin and our bones and our buttholes. Yes, I am speaking of the certainty of death. This explicit farce that has played out on the lower right wall of my anus has shown me, I now see, that I too must die. It shows me many other unfortunate things too, but mostly this.

I can still remember when I first plunged my finger into my asshole, some 4 years ago. It seemed like the last frontier, the last great mystery I faced about my own body. Now it seems like some platitude concocted to mask my own guilt at having waited so long to encounter the great void beneath my crude meniscus. It was a dull moment, compared to this ridiculous beast, this fucking hemorrhoid. At once it is my salvation and the devil himself. The devil in my ass, come to remind me of my mortality. How dare he! At once I must dash him away with exercise and correct diet. I must consume fiber and fruits and vegetables and go running and do things that promote anal health. Ha, it laughs at me from below. It knows the futility of it all. This barnacle on my ass is the first of many signs that will progressively appear in the coming years. My load has been shot, and now I come sailing down slowly and peacefully. The expectations of our age have grown, but I don't believe for a moment that the velocity at which our children fire out of their mother's pussy has changed. Our vectors are predetermined, only the quality of the parachutes has increased. All this the hemorrhoid tells me, grudgingly. And I believe it, every dirty word.

America

I have since returned to America. Those days of elocution about my stools have passed by once again. My mouth has taken over, or rather my mind. Or rather my anus has taken over, and the faculties I once had command of are now centered mostly in my anus. Maybe I am taking the best shits of my life, maybe I will never know it. I haven’t written for months. I have been shitting, though, that is certain. I have been eating out, eating various dishes of manifold composition. Let us take this particular evening for example. I drank a sidecar, some ice water and was served a green salad with bleu cheese dressing. I then ate a lamb chop with potatoes. I also sampled the Chilean sea-bass. For desert I had a pecan pie, and throughout the dinner I drank a dry white whine from southern France. This is all well and good if one fails to consider the other victuals that are presently coursing around me. 4 cups of coffee with my milk and cereal in the morning, a chicken salad sandwich on a croissant with pepper jack cheese, onions, olives, pickles and mustard, 6 baked chicken taquitos, one home made brownie and a bag of sour cream flavored baked lays potato chips. I am about to produce a stool in the next 5 minutes, I will be sure to observe its every facet, its scents, its sounds and the visual clues that might give cause for alarm.

I believe this is the first entry made while actually producing. This is a breakthrough. The stool is cresting, it has fallen, breaking into two distinct pieces. I forecast a slight residue. Oh Jesus, I forgot that my lamb chop was served with a side of potatoes and asparagus and that has given an accent to the shit that I could never have foreseen. While the shit must have had a pointy end, as on entrance it made little splash and hardly any sound, I could tell that it was of a somewhat soft composition by the amount of resistance my anal walls faced. Presently I feel uncomfortable, and a little embarrassed, as there is another shit in me reticent to exit. I have now recoiled my rectal walls twice in anticipation, something that is surely unhealthy and unnecessary. I am quite nervous, a third time, to be writing while performing. It is something I have never done before, after all. There are assorted intestinal sounds that are accompanying this period of waiting… oh, it is cresting, it is peaking, oh it was precluded by a small pellet, something quite common after a rectal pinch (this from the previous log), and out of fear I recoiled again. Cresting… it has appeared and it is thin and stringy. My face feels hot and I have just recoiled again. Perhaps I should put down this instrument and allow the shit to run its course, surely this experiment has proven something.

I am presently forcing gas out of my anus, waiting for the completion of this shit. Though the logs were split into various sections, I do remind myself that it is all one great shit, one continuous shit, that is punctuated only by the tension in my rectum and by the availability of nutrients. In this way, my shits are somewhat like an electrical current, if only somewhat.

While wiping I could feel the tension in my anus. I attribute this to the fear associated with performance, but how could I ever know why my anus acts in one way or another? Regardless, the paper was barely used as the feces, though stringy, left little residues on my anus. This may be a result of the expulsion of much gas in between bouts. It was mostly an unsatisfying shit, I will choose wisely before taking this computer into the gauntlet with me again.

The Great Return

Years have passed since I last wrote of my feces. I have found it unnecessary, but at this moment I ask myself “why not?” Shit has taken a back seat to my other thoughts. I have grown distanced from this wondrous substance. 3 days prior I wrote this to a friend, but only at his suggestion:

Shit is often referred to as a waste product. but what other products exit the body directly, through means of some sphincter? Lo, it is my fervent belief that shit is the product of the body, the only product of the body. Though it stinks, yes, though it is what our innards have rejected, yes, why should we reject it? Are we just our innards? Are we no more than a collection of hot, pussing skin-flaps? I saw a gorilla marveling at his shit one day at the zoo. How moved I was! He was leafing through it as a blind man leafs through the lost pages of some divine book. Then, he found one pearly nugget of undigested food inside and indulged himself, again. Waste product? perhaps. But one man's waste is another man's treasure. Similarly so, the waste of one intestine could very well be the glory of another’s soul.

I witnessed the result of this kind of thinking while visiting Pomona university. A man or woman had taken their shit, and perhaps the shit of others, and thrown it in a great wash all over a brick wall. The stench was powerful and earthy. I wanted to rub against that wall, but spared myself as shit is a waste product and nobody wants to roll in waste. People only want to roll in fortuity, in soft mosses and luscious breasts. But moss is simply the waste of the soil, breasts the waste of a flesh. Shit, the only product of a human. This is true beauty. A solid cylinder of shit, sometimes lumpy, sometimes smooth, veiled in such delicious garments of scent. I would love to bite into that dirty sushi, but many have told me it could be harmful. one person named Divine did such a thing, and she is a very successful actress. Shit, I love you.

Only a half hour after eating some peanuts, my flatulence is a surprising distillation of boiled sulfur and the perfect essence of those peanuts. Today’s second wipe is oily and a rich, glorious dark yellow. It is velvety and wet. The logs are diffuse and weightless. My new bowl is quite dark; my girlfriend had the foresight to install a small blue disk that hides both the sight and odor of the shit. I know she only wants to help, but Jesus, I thought that she knew me. One of the logs looks like a shrimp, the other resembles the hind of a frog. I am sorry my friends, you know what I must do…and they are gone. The odor in this bathroom is like a sweet, ripe cantaloupe! What glorious combinations are possible, and only moments ago so putrid and completely anathema to olfaction! I have seen the movie “Perfume” and find the behavior of the main character supremely odd. Why go to so much trouble to capture the scent of women, when one can easily make a shit and enjoy far more impossible symphonies, without the trouble of murdering people and acting like a royal prick.

Failure

They are just not right. Nothing is coming out of me correctly. The pain in my stomach intensifies.

The Shit-Self

An extremely interesting shit this morning. While performing, it came to me that I had not shit for 2 days. This explained the unusual volume of the load, and also its mealy texture and solid constitution. As it slid out of me, I worried that the residuals might be troublesome to clean up, but there were none! A most curious shit it certainly was. I’ve not had one like this for years perhaps, and what struck me was the possibility that somebody else, maybe even Chris, might take a shit like that nearly every day. It is certain that the exact composition and nature of my shit is as manifold as my personality or the presentation of myself, but it is also certain that my shit cannot exist reflexively. So, I wonder, could it be that my shit is a record of me that is completely unaffected? I think to become more involved in my shit might be equivalent to becoming more involved with my disarticulated self.

Other Stools

Going in: For breakfast I had a shit-load of mushrooms in butter with some noodles and Guava juice on the side. Then a rice taco and for dinner macaroni and cheese gourmet style. I at the whole thing, perhaps too quickly, and fell into a stupor while trying to work on corsair. I shit earlier and it was of little consequence. The shit paper bin is overflowing, and I can see that Chris’ stools are of very low quality.

Dreams Denied

A rich, peaty brown, nearly black, with fibrous cilia. The wipe was surprisingly wet. I believe the only dump of the day has earned the much sought after moniker introduced by Hiroko in later spring 2004：“モイスチャダンプ”or “moisture dump. The wipe transferred at one moment to the ribbed surface of my pointer finger, saturating the pad with an off-green aqueous solution. I hastened to the nearest sink after the excursion proved to be complete and washed myself with “yes clean oil.” The sink area struck me as preternaturally festive. I made a note to myself as follows: “the impressive range of grooming products available at this moment in time rivals the archaic diversity present in many submarine seamounts.” I thought to write this down, but knew the image would remain in my mind. Divergent colors and shapes, pimpled containers and smooth aluminum shafts hermetically sealed to protect the spongy humors inside. Before leaving the bathroom I considered giving each a pump or a squirt or a dollop, but worried that the combination of so many disparate solvents might irritate my sensitive skin even further than the fecal remnants kidding in the cracks of my fingerprint. I left the bathroom slightly disappointed, the dream of swimming in a tub of hair gel with coconut oil coursing between my relaxed butt cheeks and heavenly ointments lubricating my flanks squashed by that same reasonable faculty that questions all my dreams.

The Spread

I wake up from these thick dreams having to piss like mad. These fucks are here banging away at brick and mortar again! Stupid fucks, they know not of drywall. To fix the pipes they must work for hour after hour removing endless layers of brick and other garbage. All this amounts to one fact. I cannot take a shit. I cannot piss. I have to piss like a wild ape. I am going to piss on these Taiwanese mothers! They speak it with such pride, but it is just another mutt. Sometimes I hear the Japanese and I am both bitter and sad. Take your pride and put it in your ass, especially you ignorant little dumb fuck kids. I just want to take a poop for fucks sake. A shower would be nice too. I am feeling oily. My shit is solid, I can already tell, but it is just a dream at this moment. I will flee to the Mr. Brown and test my luck there!

I am at Mr. Brown coffee, “a taste to remember,” and I will soon know if it is a shit to remember as well. I will take to the innards of this place, where the pipes run thick and dip, and I will squat out a nice shit into the sleek porcelain. I will look at the shit, and I will know that all is well. In Taiwan, shits are not obstructed by toilet paper. This allows for viewing of shit and wipe otherwise impossible. I have come to judge my shits by their remains on the paper, rather than looking at the log or distribution itself. It is like a man who moves to India and learns to eat with his fingers. They grown mouths of their own, they taste the food before it goes into the big mouth. I have learned to judge my shits, and my overall state of anal health, based on the spread.

Humility

My dregs are discharged in a brilliantly defiant act of defecation. What else springs forth from my boundaries so confidently and leaves such a permanent record of its existence? The origin of the word ‘bowel’ is the Latin word botellus, diminutive of botulus. Botulus means sausage. Do you like sausage? The anus is a rebel, and it revolts against the mouth. What is the product of the mouth? That drivel sound. Am I a musician or not? Do I tend towards my anus or my mouth? Should I put my confidence in words and sounds and the pulses of rhythm, or in the production of a load? I fear that these floating waves are too impermanent. I want to see the results of my thoughts and my being manifested in mounds of earth, clay, wood or shit. Ontogenesis. This describes the development of a being from its earliest stage to maturity. Shall I posit my desires, shall I transfer them to this invisible pile of pages? What have my fingers done but tap on plastic? Where is the product? A dog wanders the steppe with a noble air until it comes time to shit. Watch its face very closely as it does and you will find the shame in its eyes as it bows to its own superior creation, its coiled feces steaming on the ground. As it parts from the anus completely, it’s visage will snap back as it was before, a pillar of aloof self-confidence. Seeing this perfect creation burst from its bowels, though; this is enough to humble any creature.

Communist

I just produced an extremely solid shit. It required no wiping. This is what shits are meant to be. Today I ate a communist meal from 7-11, the one with the pictures of the happy proletariat on the front, and drank a carton of Guava juice. For dinner I prepared pasta with butter and garlic.

Plump

Eating rice, fermented soy beans, and the like has served me well. My shits are solid, consistent and pleasantly malodorous. They are lately accompanied by a fair amount of gas, before and after the release of logs. My body grows plump with the winter months. All is well and I remain healthy.

Variable and unacceptable

My schedule of eating has strayed from the once glorious patterns of Missoula. Mostly due to the imposition of Royal, and my brother’s willingness to eat out, the foodstuffs in my house have not been adequately replenished for weeks. My shits are variable, and mostly unacceptable. The days of smoking have slowly disappeared. I am feeling much better and my lungs are slowly gaining a glorious lining of mucous.

Sickness

And the lord came into this world, and there were greats things to eat and drink. And he saw that all was well, and that the shits flowed freely. A great sickness is upon me. The sickness showed itself on Christmas morning and has been upon me since. I cough and eject sputum. I am not well.

Anal Results

Lately I have consumed mostly Japanese foods, and thus my shits have a robust, yet somewhat mealy, Asian composition. Nearly 30 packets of fermented soy beans have been consumed in the last month, and the anal results have been acceptable. I have not endured a searing shit for many weeks, and in general most shits are solid. I often eat tofu, miso, fermented soy beans, various vegetables and rice. This diet was formulated in Missoula and is economical and enjoyable. Occasionally David Dudley will take me to lunch and at these times I consume food that is, in comparison, quite noxious. I see the results in my stool, and in the odor of my farts, almost instantly. I take this as a good sign that the evils are processed quickly by my now-advanced tract.

Rejoice

Rice, refried beans, tea. Ever day for one week now. My anus rejoices! Oh, the pains it once endured all that my greedy, faggotus mouth could meet its quota of absurd authentic cuisine. Fuck authentic cuisine. My shits are light brown and solid. They shoot out of my ass like a dirty space monkey, leaving magnificent proof of their passage all over that stupid porcelain.