There’s been a slight scatological edge to the last day or so: Martin Luther’s Toilet found, the consecrated site of Luther’s infamous constipation and, hence, contemplation; reading-intersection with “…the gluttonous, shitting, fucking grotesques of the Renaissance carnival”; seeing Georges Bataille (ye ol’ use-value of Marquis de Sade) cited in an old text on Chinese Foot-Binding; my ears still ringing with perhaps the best critique of my MFA work, last week, from surprise superstar Lisa Cartwright: why is the work so beautiful, so safe, when I am obviously looking over the edge into a scary and oft-times disgusting mental realm?, which really means, ‘where is the shit?’