THE BOWL AND THE QUILT

The Sadoo wishes in his blog to weave a strange quilt.  Not—it should be obvious—one that records his having omelets for breakfast and his little thoughts about the NFL.  He does not wish to post pictures of the breasts of Supermodels or discuss the relationship between the Canadian psyche and its suburban literature.  No, he has other little threads to weave.  He wishes to keep you suspended over the ultimate design of his comfy canopy.  What is the Vision he dreamt 20 years ago?  How shall it integrate or not with his Group Names and those additions of Others?  Will his Group Names ever be complete or are they, like desire, infinite?

Now that my method is clear (or methodology, as the academics prefer), allow me to foreshadow two of the imminent threads.

One is a meditation on the Tao Te Ching, a book which has fascinated The Sadoo with its natural polarity to the bulk of Christian texts and its this-worldly orientation.  Sadoo has taken to memorizing the DC Lau translation and, after each vignette is racing comfortably around with his blood, he allows it to speak itself through him.

Two is a more comic (or is it?) meditation on one of The Sadoo’s most excellent activities—scatting.  Sadoo has long noticed a distinct lack of adequate homage to the Noble Scat in literature.  Certainly Chaucer and Shakespeare exploited the fart and Bloom's lingering Pprrpffrrppffff in Ulysses does modern justice.  And a not incorrect interpretation of art in its entirety is that it's humanity's flatulence directed toward the heavens.  We wish for a voice to be heard, "Whoa ... my beloved species ... my Divine Nose! ... in whom I am ... phew! ... well pleased" ... it won't happen, of course, but we're genetically predisposed to keep trying.  He has also noticed that the traditional divine pantheons lack an adequate Holy Member to receive our praise and distress for what happens in The Bowl.

Being not just a taxonomist, but a scatologist, The Sadoo conjured with his hapless sadooic colleagues and, in a terribly joyous and volcanic moment, encountered Merdia—goddess of ribald smells and steaming coils.  All beauty is born in the toilet, all art crawls from mud and—as Yeats taught us—love itself has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement.  The Sadoo lives, as he must, in the source and origin of things, laughing at how others despise that source and yet depend on it for life and culture.  The Scat is where all things begin. Merdia must receive her due.

Weaving patterns in ways the loom directs, with a nidus of mothers and Tao and merde, the quilt begins.  I wish it to cover the earth with sleepy exuberant tones and the down of gods.