Of Merdia 39 - 41

39.        Dead orators have given words to democracy’s nobility.  As have a mayhem of thinkers, a motley of confused poets.  Tomes of praise have been erected to its necessity and worth.  Olympian pools of blood have been filled to achieve it.  But I say to you a smaller pool achieves the same ends with much less effort.

Fellow citizens of Merdia’s kind kingdom, ideals aren’t actualized in words, philosophies, blood, books or bile, but only in the bowl of perfect excrement, in which we are all accepted, we all are made one.  The bowl of grace and unity, the golden bowl of proffered love.  We do not need to wait for an impossible time; rather, it is here with us, glorious, now.  We have entered the kingdom of Heaven; here it is, just below our voiding mounds.

40.        Consistency is a constant concern of any of Merdia’s children worthy of their ancestry.  Consistency of timing (who does not want her offerings to be regular and full?); consistency of texture (neither obstinate or stony or too similar to that other lesser yellow stream); consistency of spirit (given freely, in the sweet knowledge of donation).  These three consistencies:  these our desired attitude and product.  Merdia, be near; ah, fruity Merdia, be near.

41.        What peace our goddess gives us.  I think particularly of the moment upon entering her temple, when the preponderance of electronic and communicative noise ceases and I am left alone with Her pure natural sounds.  This peace is an increasingly rare gift:  music is pumped into almost every public space, indeed, even invading our homes; talk occurs everywhere in hallways and offices, bedrooms and boardrooms.  But.  No speakers yet in Merdia’s graceful domain.  No discourse there but the chocolate dumps of dreamy derrieres, the Dasein of our charm and timber.

Of Merdia 38

Cloan Denum gets around.

38.        Surely one of the most superlative joys of cosmopolitan travel is the cross-cultural mingling of the diverse jewels of our souls.  This is why I make it a requirement, when I travel and am blessed to inhabit our days’ great shared transience commonly called the hotel, to stay in guest rooms that lack their own privy, forcing me—although, as you, dearly beloved reader, might know, at least the intelligent and beautiful among you, the verb force might misrepresent the truth—to share the Noble Seat with other bifurcated charms.  I know—the knowledge even now generates vast shudders—that Our Lady’s shrine has been kissed by anxious asses, so willing to please, so fearful of an inability to perform, so ripe with blossoms of Merdia’s precious fruit; not only this, but these hot cracks of egress have originated from every nation, every great metropolis, are connected through immeasurable hidden passages to tongues that are bespoken in every language; every race, belief, color, complexion, texture, have worshipped here.  What wonder! What communion!

This latria exceeds excess when I enter and, there, greeting me so joyously, is a remnant turd, perhaps undigested due to technological complexities inherent in the Flushing System; perhaps, more mystically, left there for me, just for me.  My imagination accelerates.  Is it Romanian?  From New South Wales?  Did it speak, when encapsulated within a human form, a smattering of Gaelic?  Broken Portuguese?  Did it once belong to someone who had failed at football?

Ah, no matter.

Here, the festive fecalities of the swirling world swirl and sing.  Here, they glow and participate in the one and true great discourse.  Great duodenums of our day—this the converse of our true being.  This the reason for our travel.  This global communication and delight.

Of Merdia 37

Ms. Denum, in an extraordinary burst of worship, sings a song to Merdia.  The Committee for Such Things recommends to the appropriately minded to pray this prayer at the right times, in the right ways.

37.        Dear Merdia,

I have not loved Thee as I ought.

I have hoarded my steaming jewels, which are not truly mine, but Thine.

I have not been aesthetic in release, but sentimental, gushing, against all principles of adoration.

I have not sung while dumping, but been distracted; I have thought of mundane things and not concentrated on Your Glory.

I have been quick to perform Your Worship, in and out of Your Fine Temple, with only thoughts of lesser things, and those before me, after.

I have not seen my offering as the Highest Form of human love, but the lowest, shaming me before Your Throne.  Even so, you have not denied me, Graceful Lady of the Void.

I have disdained the offerings of others, whether by sight, sound, smell or texture, sitting in judgment I am not qualified to have.  Forgive me, dear Merdia.  Thine is the beginning and the end, the splash and gurgle, hot hierarchies of heat.

May I rise to your perfection, Sweet Steaming Sibyl.  May I give you my all, in earthy lumps of lower love.

Amen.

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.

Of Merdia 33

Ms. Denum, obviously here of haute cuisine tastes and functioning as an uncannily vatic sommelier, whets the palate whettily.

33.        Merdia, sweet goddess of the other side, holds life in gilded mirror and reveals the golden bowl.  An example of such magic reversal is the rare grand feast¾when thousands of dollars are spent on a culinary extravaganza of nine courses¾succotash of grilled vegtables with polenta gnocchi, duck “ham” and basil in a corn cream; truffled potato perogies with fried cauliflower mushrooms in truffle jus with cabbage sprouts; “margarita” oyster shooters, bison tartare with argon oil and fennel slaw, blue fin tuna tartare with amaranth salad and cilantro pesto, duck proscuitto wrapping grilled cavaillion melon, smoked red river salmon on spun heirloom carrot, onion and fried caper salad, bay of fundy scallop ceviche, served with:  tortilla crisps, pompadom, gyoza and wontons; roast breast of squab with gratinéed bundles of white asparagus that have been wrapped with syrrano ham and topped with béchamel sauce and served with sesame crusted wild mushrooms; sage butter fried chestnuts and lobster mushrooms with chestnut gnocchi in crab apple sauce topped with shaved monarque cheese; roast fillet of carolina black bass on carrot and ginger soup with zucchini salad, cumin vinaigrette, chive cream and sweet onion rings; braised veal cheeks with roast testina on fig vicchy, corn bread croutons and warm frissée salad; langres washed rind cow’s milk cheese from france with arugula purée, fried chick pea and fennel salad verdi di fabrosa goat’s milk blue cheese from italy with penko crusted poached quail egg, marinated zuchinni salad and yuccateecan sauce, bouq’ emmisaire goat’s milk cheese from france on testina with corn soup and mint pesto, idiazabel sheep’s milk cheese from spain with meringue cookie, cassis sorbet, port soaked raisin and diced pomegranate; pear assiette with pear donut on anise chantilly cream and bitter chocolate sauce, caramalized pear atoms on coconut lime sauce, pear mousse with seshwan pepper on apple soup¾with paired wines (Terzetto, Tocai Friulano, Central Coast, California, U.S.A. 2000; Rolly Gassmann, Pinot Auxerrois, Alsace, France 1999; Tawse, Carly’s Block, Semi – Dry Riesling, Vineland, Canada 2002; Te Mata Estate, “Woodthorpe”, Sauvignon Blanc, Hawkes Bay, New Zealand 2004; Whale Haven, Pinot Noir, Eglin, South Africa 1999; Mount Langi Ghiran, Shiraz, Victoria, Australia 2000; Aranzo, Monastrell Reserva, Jumilla, Spain 1996; Chateau Megyer, 3 Puttonyos Tokaji Azsu, Hungary 2000; Pierre Peters, Blanc De Blancs, Brut, Le Mesnil-Sur-Oger, Champagne, France N.V.), consumed over hours, divesting one’s purse and accounts of all available monies and increasing debt to atmospheric turbulence.

Now the average person, those followers of Commonia, Dullic, Tedius, the standard and the like, focuses in past, present and future (time’s halitosis) on the delights of input:  the experience of the upper mouth is all.  But not so for Merdia’s minions; she reserves for them true ends’ delight.  When the finest cuisine, the world’s top grape, the incineration of all fiscal knowledge, are not diffused across confusing hours but compressed into two minutes, a quarter pound of brown, time and space flash perfect purity, the true prince of holes, the lower mouth, sings, Joy, and the world for something like a nano gasps in peace.  What delicate composition.  What streaks of exquisite craftsmanship.

Ah, holy merde.  Oh high haut turd.  How I live and save and debt for thee.

Of Merdia 31 - 32

A little known fact of Cloa Denum's life is that, while travelling with her parents when she was 6 in what is now Algeria, she met the great African scatomancer, Mujbo, an obviously formative influence.

31.        Curious among Merdia's ways are the various degrees with which she instills her love in her subjects.  I have often observed how she configures a particular method of relating to Her in a family.  Not only does blood flow similarly through parents, siblings, cousins, but also merde.  I know that a great deal of attention has been given recently to the industry of psychology and its astounding ability to probe the relations of an individual to its context.  But I say that a more fruitful means of exploration is to ask the patient how its family speaks of Merdia¾and even if they speak of Her.  In what manner?  How frequently?  Is there a household shrine?  Are the best creations spoken of during dinner, and praised?  Is the case displaying them prominent and a suitable amount of expense, proportional of course to family income, engaged, both in terms of capital and operating expenditures?  Do members share stories of successes, struggles and, yes, even moments of humiliation, when Merdia Herself seemed silent and the universe as dark as empty bowels?  Are little prayers offered spontaneously and according to long established rites?  Are there parades and parties?  How many members have a form of Merdia as a given name?  (I know, for example, of a large Spanish family whose 17th son was named Merdo Moses Merdu Jesu Merdi Mohammed Merdai Gonzales.  When the child got older, he instituted the Basque University of Merdia, offering the world's first degrees in Merdia studies.  The Gonzales are to be commended.)  Are members gently encouraged to improve the diligence and frequency of their acts of worship?  Are photos of the most heroic moments kept in family wallets?  Are members fluent in Merde as well as their native tongue?   By pursuing this line of inquiry, the one interested in releasing the other's full humanity will gain far deeper insight than by using traditional methods, and both analyst and analysand will feel relieved, as if a void has taken place in the spiritual realm and a vast unseen turd swirls down a cosmic toilet, mingling with the produce of the gods.

32.         A little tremor goes through my soul when Merdia first knocks and I know I have about five exquisite minutes to find one of Her temples and release fireworks to my subtle Goddess.  At first, Her knocking is deep, silent, loving, gradually building to a nuclear insistence.  Surely a sign of maturity is the knowledge of, response and adaptation to Her standing at the door.  Will you let Her enter?  Ah, you must, you must.

Of Merdia 30

Ms. Denum shows herself to be a citizen of the world.

30.        An understated thrill of traveling in foreign lands is the diversity of receptacles for Merdia's elegant fruit.  Once the traveler has negotiated the many cultural, linguistic, economic and ontological barriers between his portal to Merdia's goodness and the portal to the great conductivity of merde we call in the vulgar tongue, sewers, he finds a plethora of artifacts so vast his only response can be wonder and gratitude for the infinitely grand architecture Merdia has inspired.  One of my particular favorites is la toilette de profondeur, where the distance between the supplicant’s golden yawning cheeks and the sea's eager sheen is a meter or more, and the area of the water's surface so small that the devotee has only the most minuscule margin of error if he wishes to avoid that most gauche of offenses against the Goddess¾a ceramic skid.  In such circumstances, I am given the opportunity to prove my worth to She Who Purifies by depositing my offering in the center of the water's watchful eye.  There is a pause between the exit of my brown perfection and the explosion far below, a pause in which I have always found a mystic significance, for in that delicious moment between exiting and entrance, an eternity of moments sing and all Merdia's children join hands across the ages.

If Merdia is pleased, she rewards me with volcanic splashes¾the water leaps in ecstasy and I leave the establishment, no matter how humble and confined, sharing a secret smile with my Goddess.  I forget about the battles I have had to wage to approach this peculiar altar¾the rudeness of the attendant, the costly entry, the frequent shame of my ignorance with regard to technical operations, the occasional exposure of my aging body to passersby¾and view these only as glory on Merdia's path, petite bricks of tribulation and enlightenment on her brown and squishy way.  I know in those great moments of international travel that my Goddess lives, and she too is cosmopolitan.