transcript of the inside page of the zine solitary experiences in toilets

We're all horny for liminal space: lighthouses, piers, beaches at low tide, airport terminals at 3am, empty public buildings, deserted rural trainstations.

These are border places, to blur the boundary between some things, and let others come into sharper focus.

A toilet/bathroom is a liminal space, but an inward looking one--they don't blur the boundary between you and something else*, they blur the boundary between you and yourself.

Other domesticated liminal spaces lie on the periphery of the house--attics and basements--but the toilet lies at the heart.

Although... the sewage connection brings it closer to the basement places of the body, soil and waste and wetness, skittering flashes of carapace. Solid, steaming, dark things. Not the airy, dangerous secrets and expansive skies of attics, although the bathroom might send its vapours up there sometimes.

But always gravity flushes and the queer pull of the subterranean. Toilets and basements: a tang at the back of the throat of the fear of containment, through malice or accident, but with that, safety-- where else may strange things go to lurk? what better cure for a burdened mind than a really good shit? When all doors are opened there's almost always one last one that locks on the inside. Perhaps your body has left you a message on the steamed-up glass.

*(Tradition tells me I should talk about hooking up here, but who have I fucked, so far, in a toilet, besides myself? though that: thoroughly and often) back to *