The philosophy of the toilet: on my lack of words

Empathetic Reader, see if you can spot the alliteration. I have been reading up on rhetoric.

The Gods of the Blog are punishing me. As I sit here, teary-eyed and, quite frankly, flabbergasted, I feel the welcome rush of deja vu. For you see, lovely reader, I spent the last 2 hours perfecting a 600 word, heartily honed piece of blogginess that would have made you beg for more, only to realise Autosave no longer seems to work, and clicking off in ignorance of the manual save icon is a mistake I am currently paying for…miserably.

Nevertheless, I promised myself I will write, and write I shall. This is, however, a tribute post to the original post. The original was swimming in alliteration though, so consider the ‘spot the alliteration’ part, incidentally the only part that did save because I saved the first line and not the rest of the bloody post…. Anyway, consider it a memorial to what once was.

So recently, in between listening to Older Brother give me some rather late analysis of Dragon Ball Z – he is catching up on lost childhood – and my own desperation in determining some semblance of a salient direction in my professional life (we’re entering paroemion territory here), I have, once again, allowed my self-indulgence to halt progress.

The trouble with being a writer who rarely writes is, simply, that I rarely write. A straightforward problem given a myriad of solutions by generally well-meaning persons that may, indeed, be helpful to me. However, I am currently more partial to cynicism than to acts of humble acceptance of the actuality that I need help. Nevertheless, I know when I am wrong. I just express it in such a way as to further fuel my ego and ignore the altruistic masses.

The memorial mentioned earlier is quite appropriate considering todays theme is one of death. Not real, actual death of course. I tend to stray from thinking upon the meat of such things and focus instead on the essence. It is far easier for me to engage in rhetoric, metaphor and general looseness with such matters, and I shamelessly live in blissful ignorance of the hard reality. This has been tested, but we shall go into that another time.

philosophical toilet
Pictured: Toilet

No, instead we shall talk about the toilet.

Writing is a learnt skill. Story writing is an applied skill requiring both the principles of practice, and the ingenuity of creative thought. The latter is the focus for today as, evidently, I lack focus on the former. However, the latter being a more emotional connection lends way to mourning when things, sometimes inevitably, go wrong. *cough* As we have seen today.

It begins and ends with the toilet.

Now the toilet is known to take pride of place in the home. This isolated corner, beyond its customary crapping and cleansing designs, serves as the philosophical root of the home. This is also not open to dispute. A routine session of relief and rinse tends to lead to an opening of the mind and spirit and herein forms the bubble. And herein lies the untimely demise. Today we mourn my ideas, stories and, most importantly, characters that met this untimely demise within the space of a late night toilet visit.

Upon seating myself on the throne of thought, I feel the buzz moving from the back of my skull, bringing with it the bubble of potential, crossing across my mind like a gentle wave. Unnoticed at first, my subconscious allows it to collide with the conscious. The character comes to claim their story. There is a man? No, woman…girl? No that’s the backstory. Okay woman with dark hair, curly, unruly, maybe unkempt, no its windy, weather is an issue…works on farm, has cat, not works in, studying farm, agricultural scientist?…protests no she …her dad is ill… SANDRA SKYE, YES! I  KNOW you…I know you.. here you are, in my head, I shall create for you a landscape to walk on, a story to live through and happiness and pain and glory and sorrow, Sandra baby we will make life together, LIF- TOILET FLUSH. Hand wash. Towel Pat. Door closed.

Wait, whu-?

No no, it’s still in my head, just got to… get to bed, find pen and write thing. Sandra – scientist – something to do with dad and something – frizzy hair. Got it.

2 minutes later – in bed.

THERE WAS HAIR! AND THE COLOUR GREEN!!! Pen! Why won’t you WRITE? Make me feel again oh please God let me remember!!

And I cry myself to sleep. Reader, words cannot describe the pain. Actually no, they can, but being so out of practice with my craft due to this reliance on the bathroom muse, I lag behind and am unable to express the sheer sense of loss, of emptiness. The feeling of having your soul stolen, a piece of your potential lost to the ether. It’s kind of like not saving your blog post the first time despite working hours on it. (Yep, not over it)

Alas, let us mourn Toilet Philosophy blog #1 and Sandra Skye.*

A pleasant day/night/afternoon to you all.

*Obviously a made up character based on the made up character from the lost blog. A gentle elderly florist who had travelled the world and broken hearts, with a cold secret, and a cruel cat. Her name was Carol Waterman. Mourn her too please.

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