“Sure,” I said. “Usually a
magazine or two, maybe a comic book.”
“What about serious stuff — literature,
philosophy, religion?”
Now the question was high-caliber
loaded. Mine was a tight bathroom, with precious little space for
learned volumes. But I had two or three ungainly reference books I
kept in steady rotation. I didn't think serious-minded readers were
likely to regard any of them as especially serious in content,
however. “No,” I said, “that's not the sort of thing I keep in
the john.”
“Do your people have any sort of
prohibition against that sort of thing? Religious material near a
toilet?”
I squirmed. The truth is I've
encountered no shortage of Evangelical encyclicals parked next to the
crapper — never, I hasten to add, at my parents' place. In their
house the family bathroom was a fastidiously kept place where
occupants got the job done, then courteously tidied and vacated with
all possible dispatch for the next in line.
“I never heard anyone inveigle one
way or the other on the matter. But my parents maintained
literature-free bathrooms. Still do.”
“Well, it's highly taboo with most of
my bunch,” said my friend. “A big no-no. Reading while defecating
you disrespect the content, and it carries down the line from there,
is the thinking.”
"Um...honey, could you call the contractor?" |
I will admit this exchange has
permanently jarred all further personal meditation on the matter.
On the one hand, I come from a long
line of Protestants. The asshole whose movement this was, wasn't just a ruminating-whilst-defecating enthusiast, he was a ruminating-about-defecating enthusiast.
Not that my particular cohort was well-versed in Martin Luther's logorrhea. When they
weren't fleeing for their lives, Mennonites built economies based on
agrarian practice — you kept busy, in other words, or you died, your laziness probably taking a couple of family members with you. The
only moments of sustained reflection occurred in church or in the
out-house. Perhaps a tract or two was just the thing to readjust
one's line of concern from the duties of tending the soil to matters
more heavenly?
On the other hand, the toilet is no
place for sustained reflection. You don't want to spend, say, an hour
there. That's just not healthy.
Social media posts strike me as the
platonic ideal of bathroom reading material — in tone, in content, in
provocation . . .
. . . in quality . . . .
To be clear, that is NOT where I
consult my social-media feeds. I'm not a germaphobe, but I am also not
a complete idiot.
But for those precious readers who have
made it this far, here is my modest proposal-to-self — I wonder
what would change if I devoted no more daily time to social media
than I do to my morning ablutions?
2 comments:
Site tweaks and personal post cleanup under way lately. Yesterday I got back to this for a look, and recalled your post here. Why stop at bathroom reading, eh.
Plenty to be embarrassed about with the (not so very) old posts, oy. Ha.
Hey, Mignola's stuff is perfect for the bathroom -- I'd guess even my Jewish friend might agree with me on that.
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