It does not affect the frequency of my eliminations. I, therefore, feel
compelled to establish no connection between fluids consumed and urine
produced when intellectually engaged. My higher functions offer
splendid regulation of my aqueous economy.
My manner of urinating in plant containers is different to the way I
pee in the gleaming bowls of regular loos. Confined among the tiles, I
discharge meticulously, in a thin and measured trickle, free to
ruminate on theoretical matters or to consider the last woman to have
abandoned me and why she has.
I judge her reasons flimsy.
Out in nature - as reified by shrivelling potted shrubs - I experience
a breakdown in communication with my wand. I find myself cajoling it
both verbally and by straining the muscles of my bladder and my lower
abdomen. I wag it with a mildness that masks suppressed hostility and
pent aggression. I begrudge it the spontaneity and variegation of its
inner and outer lives.
Following a period of obsequious supplication, it acquiesces and
emancipates my floral urine: a stern and furious jet erupts in all
directions, a sprinkler out of control, a hose without a nozzle.
There is the loneliness, of course.
Opposing a flourishing jardini?re, or an ivy covered fire hydrant - I
am alone, the kind of privacy that comes with windswept nudity and
public intimate acts.
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