Of Merdia 34 - 36

34.        The Merdiawards are what we live for.  That annual event in Toilet City, when Merdia herself ascends the plumbing of dreams and through the latest fashions distributes the Golden Plops.  I have always secretly coveted, Most Distinctive Shape, but seem destined to be only a nominee for Most Odiferous, in 1971.  Yet, even so, the joy, the rank anticipation¾yea, nearly akin to the most remembered moments on the golden bowl¾before the package is ripped and the roll read.  The shivery thrill to see Her Herself, even at the great distance I was.  To be invited.

Yet still I dream.  Still I plan what I will wear when I will finally mount the stage and be within a kiss of my goddess’ beneficence.  I plan, I scheme, I diet … one day, I shall win.

35.       The multiplicity of techniques Merdia’s subjects use to contribute to Her exuberant chorus is astounding.  My favourite location for observing these is the end chorus booth, which in the vulgar tongue is called a cubicle.  I sometimes spend days in this privileged position (if I bring food, it is easy to do well and it provides me the tangential benefit of uniting input and output in a distinctly contained way).  I ask:  who are of such composition as to try the door of my chorus booth without first discreetly checking whether it’s inhabited with a singer; who enters a booth situated at the greatest possible distance; who sits next to me despite the availability of more private booths; among those so bold, how many sit themselves in this manner from ignorance, from pride of their particularly bold and raucous song, from aesthetic proclivities of a subtle nature?  Are they a collector of choruses, an afficionado of song?  Are they recording our composition for future research or pleasure?  These questions abound in the chorus booth of my delight; I enter into each moment of exploration and mutuality fully, contributing my humble notes to my anonymous partner's need in the service of art, cooperation and love.

36.        I lie on technological tufts of urban refuse and gaze through thick swabs of atmospheric grease at merde-clouds as delicate as death.  Such moments often move me to reflect on Merdia’s distant transcendence, her aloof glory¾and isn’t all glory aloof!  But then, in the eternal bowels of this reflection, I feel a lack as potent as this glory, which, as I swirl into it, becomes apparent¾Merdia’s immanence is my equal longing.  Oh no¾I am no shameful devotee of my grand goddess, I am no dilettante who only worships Her remotely.  Unhesitatingly, I shed the fashion of my flesh and deposit in that wired jungled circumstance long artifacts of praise.  Turd and cloud.