Home again, home again. A week in the woods is easy to get used to, let me tell you. I've come home to find my period key requires a serious smash to register the character, and for some of these sentences here I've found it easier to copy-and-paste the freaking period. I think there is a piece of potato chip stuck in there.
On my way to my sojourn last week, I stopped to use the restroom in a little shop in Cascade Locks, Oregon. I'm not a big fan of public restrooms, but one advantage of being a guy is that most of the time we don't have to actually touch anything except the paper towels we use to dry our hands when we're done washing up. This particular bathroom was fine—not like some where you feel like you need a full body condom to safely enter. It was unisex, so no urinal. (Ladies, for the record, I am good about lifting the seat.) I stepped up to the toilet to do my business and noticed that someone had scratched "Phish Ruels," into the toilet seat. It was right-reading as I faced the toilet, and appeared the right side of the seat.
Obviously graffiti in public toilets is as common as house sparrows. But something about this particular graffito got my attention. First of all, it was scratched in, not written. People often scratch things onto bathroom stall walls. Maybe they're sitting there when inspiration strikes, as it were, but lack a pen. A key will do in a pinch, or a pocket knife. And thus they add their little bit of wisdom to the universal toilet stall canon. "U r a fag," or "For a good time, call,…" or a variation of "Here I sit all broken hearted..." As a writer, I can appreciate the desire to express oneself, however fleeting a toilet stall may be. I, of course, generally have a pen when need strikes.
But to scratch a message into the surface of the toilet seat itself—right-reading as you face the toilet—requires not only a lack of a pen, but also a willingness to bend down over the toilet, probably with your face hanging right over the bowl. (A lefty would be able to hang to right, but this particular graffito lacked the cant suggesting a left-handed scribe.) Perhaps the person even needed to kneel—scratching into a hard surface may take a bit of leverage after all.
So I thought, how committed must you be to your message to be willing to hang your face inches above a public toilet bowl in order to scribe it? And having done so, what must it feel like to see that after your effort, you mispelled the active declaration in your communiqué? Assuming, of course, you realize your mistake, which is no guarantee among those who succumb to the toilet stall muse. Myself, I'd tend to assume your average Phish phan is at least semi-literate, appreciative of nuance and lacking the hard-coded commitment to misspelling that's essential to internet communications, for example. I can imagine a person stricken with self-reproach upon realizing their error. But then, this was also a person willing to scratch a message into a toilet seat. All bets are probably off.
I think I'll stick with pen, paper, and computer. The computer, at least, has spell-check.
My cabin time went pretty much as I'd hoped. My ostensible goal was 10,000 words, though in my mind the real key was completing two draft chapters in addition to finishing the one which was 90% finished. If that added up to 10,000 words, way cool. If not, well, scenes should never be longer than they need to me, and with me it rarely hurts to make them shorter than I do in my first draft. I came home with about 7,000 first draft words, and probably produced that 10,000 or so to get there. I also filled three 90-minute tapes with thinking out loud comments as I roamed around in the woods. I'm not sure how Thoreau-like I was, however, despite Julia's nickname for me. How many disembowelings did Thoreau reflect upon while he was sitting there at Walden Pond?
One last thought before I face the mountain of stuff that didn't get done while I was off frolicking with the deer and squirrels. Has anyone ever actually called one of those phone numbers written on bathroom walls, and if so, did they have a good time?
13 comments:
Nope, I've never called one of the numbers, so I can't comment on that.
I think I'd stick with pen and paper too. Carving stuff into the toilet? That's a bit bizarre.
Glad you're back!
Doing my own field research in Toronto, I did find one day, all the math, all the proofs to Einstein's E=Mc2. The devil had to go all the way down to the tiles.MV\_--all that!
Did find one interesting bit on the tiles: What're you doing looking down here? Your as*hole is in Ottawa.
Heh, Ivan, that's great. Of course in Toronto. Not many American bathrooms would have the math. I did see what I'm pretty sure was the first chapter of THE CRYING OF LOT 49 in a stall in the Boston subway. It had been a while since I'd read it, but it sure looked like what I remembered.
And Sandra, it's good to be back!
Yeah, it was Innis College, Toronto University, a neo-hippy campus now gone.
Pynchon? Omigod. In 2006?
There may have been W.W. II buzzbombs down there as well!
Certainly amazing reading.
Congrats on your novel coming out.
bill, sounds like you had a nice week! and oregon is beautiful. i stayed at a "cabin" in ... camp sherman i think it was called. near sisters. beautiful area. we backpacked the shit out of that place. :D that was about 4 years ago. i was at least 10 years younger then. :O
beautiful area. i really liked sisters. i was thinking i could see myself living there.
The Sisters area is lovely. It's funny you mention Camp Sherman. At the cabin last week, I drank my coffee from a Camp Sherman Store mug!
I was on the Washington side on the Little White Salmon River, maybe 20 miles north of the Columbia River. But I know Camp Sherman well. I taught my daughter to play poker during a camping trip on the Metolius River--our tents were maybe a mile upstream from Camp Sherman! Beautiful area. We hiked the shit out it too. I was at least ten years younger then too, though it my case it was because it was about ten years ago!
"Camp Sherman Store mug"
hah! i think i remember that place.
Bill, you crack me up. There is always a question about the logic behind toilet-stall scrawlings. Very fun post. But here's my question: if you were alone at the cabin, how did you get the aerial photo of yourself? And gorgeous wood floors, by the way.
Sounds like you had a great (and productive!) week in your cabin in the woods. Glad your back with 7k under your belt. Also, I'd be willing to bet Thoreau fantasized a few times about excoriating some of the political wags of his time...you remember the famous exchange between Thoreau and Emerson, right?
That's right. Thoreau did have a few opinions, didn't he? Maybe he did contemplate disemboweling in addition or excoriation. Or perhaps just exfoliating in addition to excoriating.
P.S. Julia: Go Go Gadget Shutter Timer! Does it look authentic? I thought a little evidence was in order!
Wow, that toliet seat cover must have really made an impact on you if you remembered it a week after being in the woods! I barely remember what happened to me yesterday, but I guess life in the woods slows it all down for you while the real world seems non-stop sometimes.
Congrats on all the good work, that must be very satisfying!
Welcome back, man, a lot of my fave bloggers were on vacation last week! You sure you guys didn't secretly have a huge party that you're not telling me about? I mean, if you were alone in the woods, who took that picture of you writing in the cabin??? Hmmm... somethings fishy here! :)
Glad you had a great week, Bill! Hiking in the woods. *Sigh* Sounds heavenly,
I'm so impressed. Three hours by myself in a cabin would have driven me batty.
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