This druid feeling I get in the woods's so thrilling it makes me want to crap, so I dug a hole with a flat stone inside a clump of mitten-leafed shrubs. I pulled down my cacks and squatted. It's ace shitting outside like a caveman. Let go, thud, subtle crinkle on dry leaves. Squatted craps come out smoother than craps in bogs. Crap's peatier and steamier in open air, too. {My one fear is bluebottles flying up my arsehole and laying eggs in my lower intestine. Larvae'd hatch and get to my brain. My cousin Hugo told me it actually happened to an American kid called Akron Ohio.} "Am I normal," I said aloud just to hear my voice, "talking to myself in a wood like this?" A bird so near it might've perched on a curl of my ear musicked a flute in a jar. I quivered to own such an unownable thing. If I could've climbed into that moment, that jar, and never ever left, I would've done. But my squatting calves were aching, so I moved. The unownable bird took fright and vanished down its tunnel of twigs and nows.
( David Mitchell )
[ Black Swan Green ]
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