How to shit in a bucket - Vanlife Series Pt. 1

A spider reaches the liberty of space by means of its own thread – The Bhagavad Gita

But you don’t produce thread, do you?

No. You’re a filthy, shitting, hair and skin shedding ape and a pampered one at that. What you create had a purpose in nature; to spread seeds, parasites and disease, but are we really still a part of nature?

Yes. We squish ants, drown spiders and remorselessly flick mosquitoes because we’re the lords of the land, right? No, we are land. Don't get me wrong we're lords too and a keystone species at that, but our digestive tracts, skin, hair and other tissues are all fertile landscapes grazed by endless generations of mites, worms, bacteria and other lords of the tissue lands. They’re just as much lords of our lands, as we are to theirs. We are just as much parasites to this world as they are to ours.

But not you right?

You chose the van life.

You’re going to create!

You’re going to make your own thread and liberate yourself! Right?

Will it be a blog that validates the narcissism you feel is necessary to reject the oppressive trickle down mortgage payment of rent or the hourly wage that so directly screams at your face that your time on this Earth is worth practically nothing? That’s why you’re in Home Depot looking at a-What did that bored, winey van girl you regularly fantasize about recommend in her blog? Was it Flexi-Seal? Yeah, there it is, Flexi-Seal, that's it, a bucket lid that’s supposed to hide all your bodily nightmare piles. But will it seal all the way? You test it on a red five-gallon. You consider sitting on it in the aisle, but no, you don’t want your behavior to contribute to further any stigmatization of future van dwellers.

Now you’re two months on the road. It’s raining too hard to squat outside. The mud’s too ubiquitous to do a quick jog to the camp restroom and, like the leak in the roof near your pillow you blistered your head trying to duct tape shut, you can’t stop the flow, but you can control where it lands.

The bucket, it’s time. You’ve lined the interior with a garbage bag. You have a vanilla scented, neon green doggie bag and a jug of kitty litter under the bed. The plastic rim is hard, almost piercing, you can see the curved red line of irritation that will circle your asshole like a bullseye.

You want to shit anywhere, but here. You know the next shit will be indoors, well ventilated, air-conditioned. You might even be barefoot reading the label of a friend's shampoo, but you’re holding a bag now thinking There’s no apartment I’m going to. There’s no friend I’m staying with. There will be, down the road, but not now, not consistently, not for the foreseeable future because there’s still too much work to be done.

Then a brick drops, cool air rises from the bag and the sudden ballooning from the thin humidity soaked plastic on the sides of your bare cheeks almost feels playful. No, you’re not going anywhere shitbag. You're double layered. You're prepared, though you forgot to crack a window. It's fine. Your dog will forgive you and your nose will adjust.

Then you remember the fight with the big-assed spider in Zion National Park or the mudfest that encircled a jock-strap in a busy Walmart's men's room or the malignant sense that at anytime someone could come bursting in at the payless shoes employee bathroom with no lock, out of arms reach handle that made you tuck your penis like a hairy lady as if that would save your embarrassment. All of a sudden the hug of your assfat gives in to the pressure of the rim.

This isn’t the worst shit you’ve had.

You know you could have bought the seated top, but it looked flimsy. You know that you chose this rim, this stall, this audience of hard rain, steamed windows and your dog’s look of sincere inquisition. Suddenly, you feel the hard plastic grip on your ass like a lover feels the sting of it’s partners nails piercing into them. The sweat no longer feels like an invasive swampy coating. In fact it lubricates the union. You experience a feeling not unlike the first time a handy man uses a new tool and discovers the joyful reward of its utility, the feeling that the tool has a place in your life and will one day feel familiar, comforting even, when it's placed in your grasp.

Now through fogged windows and thick, shit-fumed air you see another piece of your fantasy turn into its counterpart in reality. You realize that you came here, not to feel comfortable, but to work. The work doesn't bring you comfort so it's partly in the moments like this, simple body pleasures, where you need to find it.

There's poetry in this new way of living, yet it's also true that if you'd had a sinus infection at this very moment there'd be no poetry. Comfort will make a man weak, stupid, and nearly blind, but too much discomfort and the world around him rots through his eyes till he sees nothing worth liking. Then there's no poetry. Then there's no point to this.

Now you see that your shit is thread; that you produced it so you could better understand your situation and adapt.

Congrats you’re one step closer to becoming a spider, the most unanimously hated thing in the first world.

Pat yourself on the back, wipe your ass and lie to all of your friends about how easy it is.