Something humble, placid even, about inert feet under stall doors. The defecatory posture is an accepting posture, it occurs to him. Head down, elbows on knees, the fingers laced together between the knees. Some hunched timeless millenial type of waiting, almost religious. Luther’s shoes on the floor beneath the chamber pot, placid, possibly made of wood, Luther’s 16th-century shoes, awaiting epiphany.
And so it happened that David Foster Wallace anticipated the advent of our here dearly beloved blog and podcast. What he could not foresee was our ungrateful abandonment of this revelatory namesake, worried as we were about the possible objections that our hitherto unknown audience might express about the name’s base associations. Shameful we now must be for ignoring the robust religiosity and royalty of our inheritance; this sacred tradition of physical purgation and spiritual catharsis; this humble atonement with the body; this prayer of gratitude to the soul.
Alas, are we stuck in our strange projections?
Reading update for December 21, 2015: