When I started working jobs within Wellington’s nightlife, an undeniable obsession with "toilet scripture” eventually haunted me. Living rent-free, even in this economy, in my mind. Every waking hour. Struck with a sudden awareness of every publicly accessible toilet, and the vandalism contained within- I dedicated the rest of my time in New Zealand to seeking out as many as possible. I’m sure that others who found themselves living and working in such a special place would want to see the beach, eat the delicious food and drink the nice wine.
Some people may be into bicycling, scrapbooking, or building Legos, but my new favorite hobby was looking at the writing on the walls. I found myself in places that most people go into with urgency, to simply go to the bathroom and be on their way.
I imagine the target audience for bathrooms is probably saying to themselves as they walk in, “I hope this bathroom is good. I hope it has nice toilet paper, and not 1-ply to wipe with. I hope there is hand soap. I hope the seat is clean. I hope it doesn’t already smell like somebody else's poo in there.”
I am sure that I was not the target audience. I was walking in, saying to myself, “I hope this bathroom is bad-ish. I really hope someone defaced the walls. I hope there is something interesting written somewhere for me to read.”
Walking as my primary mode of transport lent me an amount of freedom. I was able to see a lot of different toilets that I otherwise would not have the luxury of exploring.
Stopping for an afternoon coffee before a work shift meant another café for my viewing pleasure. An evening sidequest... En-route from one shift to the next, meant another two minutes to duck into a new spot. To fix my own fucked up lipstick, and see who left their mark. Swinging by for a pint after work, on my way home meant seeing what was held within another pub.
I was addicted. This was me, starring in my own episode of “My Strange Addiction.” Only reinforced with every opportunity to read more and more anonymous scrawling.
Any surface seemed to be fair game for my beloved toilet vandals. Scribblings in permanent marker aligned with bold and sometimes amusing juxtapositions of stickering. Both stood the test of time. Occasionally, lipstick used as a crayon held secrets that you could only bear witness to in passing. A message, one night only, to be found on the mirrors, authors unknown, in the depths of the club scene.
The analog community message board of my dreams really existed. It was hidden in the fucking toilets, on the ass-end of the world.
I laugh, and imagine myself in an alternate universe, as an airline stewardess. Saying to the passengers “Welcome to The Middle of Middle Earth, please do not forget to view the bathroom’s in the CBD before your departure,“ as we land at the Wellington Airport.
I imagine you, grabbing your carryon baggage from the compartment above, having come all this way only to embark on your own tour. You say to yourself, “Right then, off to see the great works of art and literature living inside of the bathroom stalls!”
I imagine a travel magazine writing an article with a baited-title like “Wellington’s Best Kept Secret.” There you sat, reading it. In a blank, sterile bathroom halfway across the world, and as you shat you yearned for better bathroom reading material. The article inspired you to book this trip, flying first-class on Graffiti Airlines.
In this alternate universe, the graffiti inside bathroom stalls is somehow now culturally significant, elevated to the status of hieroglyphs. Academics, now spending years studying what people write on bathroom walls, to see what can be learned about civilization.
I had opened a proverbial Pandora's Box. All I had to do was be brave enough to glimpse. What could be found inside? It felt like I could find anything. (Although sometimes it was truly unremarkable. Nothing more than pee on the seat, someone leaving only an unflushed piece of poop in their wake.)
At first I was an unsuspecting visitor. I innocently went in to dial #1 or #2. Like everyone else, I was just doing my little daily tasks. Inside, I found underappreciated art and small bits of poetry. I questioned if the bathrooms in the Vatican Archives had writing in them. The Louvre, perhaps. Buckingham Palace.
I later became something like a graffiti voyeur. In a gin-induced haze, I was pouring over nicknames and monikers within messages certainly not intended for me. I wondered why Nancy was a cunt, was she a good cunt, or a bad cunt? There’s a difference.
I was reading all sorts of self-righteous opinions, over topics that simply did not matter at all. They were rarely political, they were never racial. They were amusing opinions on very mundane topics. Maybe in more rural parts of the country it was different, but in the city it seemed to be made in good fun.
Things written were often followed by clapbacks and addendums, post scripts. All from other strangers who frequented a particular toilet. It was as if this humble place to go had turned into a public forum. It was as if we were all taking turns having a town hall meeting for one, in a random bathroom.
The ongoing dialogue was titillating. I sometimes silently laughed. I had more questions than answers. There were proclamations of love amongst funny little drawings. “Ahhh,” I said, “Prolific.” Remarking as if I were attending a fancy gallery opening.
Equally prevalent were rudimentary, nonthreatening expressions of hate. A petty scribble, maybe "punx suck." I couldn't help but wonder. Who was the author? I imagined it was either someone with a legitimate dislike for punks. Was it a regular who didn’t like this sort of clientele? Did a punk puke on their shoe here? Or was it a punk themselves, doing a goof and a gaff. Thoughts of either left me in a fit of hysterics. These were not fighting words, these were so stupid. Silly little stupid funny things. These weren’t even worth writing on the wall, but yet there was humor enough in the fact that they did it anyway. Who was I to judge?
Sometimes there were actual recommendations of what to order at any one establishment. “Try the mince pie!” Okay, sure, why not? Maybe I will, goddamn. This person thought it was so good they had to write it on the damn bathroom wall. At least I didn’t have to sign up for an account on a stupid mobile app to hear if the mince pie here was worth ordering. I saw the review on the door frame.
The truth I sought was seemingly scribbled in sharpie. One time I found a song I listened to as a teenager, lyrics transcribed for all to read. I forgot about that song. Now joyously remembering hearing it for the first time a decade prior.
Another time, the truth was as simple as "I would tell you the truth, but the truth is you're a cunt.” I thought to myself, “Yeah, maybe.” I sat there reading and laughing at the audacity of it all.
The bathroom defacements here were refreshing. Utterly enchanting. Some were simple, others complex. All seemingly light-hearted and in jest. The American bathroom graffiti I was used to trended towards unspeakably rude. The quips and writing, often pure shit. Nobody usually writes anything nice. Nobody usually marks anything funny. There was a zinger once and a while, or a cool bathroom defaced by rare, seemingly wholesome people.
It was often so hateful. Or, indescribably sleazy. Rest stops and small town bar bathrooms back home- they were where people went to dox each other. You could find a phone number to call, to ask if John gave a good blowjob. It was mean-spirited. Even if John gave a good blowjob, I’m sure he doesn’t want to be called on the phone about it every night. He is probably changing his phone number. Actually, John is going into witness protection as we speak.
It's worth noting that penis doodles are seemingly universal throughout all cultures. Maybe that is offensive, maybe it’s not- I guess that depends on how you personally feel about it. I didn’t feel one way or the other.
I did wonder if perhaps it raised a broader question, beyond judgement. Why is society obsessed with phallic imagery...? You sit and could write a haiku- to be published and widely syndicated, right here in this meager bathroom stall. You could tell a joke as if you are headlining a comedy tour, although the laugh track will roll after you have already left.
I assume there is some degree of satisfaction in either of those latter pursuits.
Yet even still, we consistently default to an artistic rendition of the same exact dick that everyone around the world is drawing. You know the one: ball, ball, shaft. Maybe some ball hair or a vein if you are feeling really inspired. A long, rich history of drawing dicks. Even ancient Romans partook in the practice. Drawing a crude penis on something is still a universal rite of passage for mankind.
I felt like maybe the true test of difference between New Zealand’s bathroom graffiti, and America’s bathroom graffiti lies with a question about the artists and writers doing it all.
In theory, I felt I would maybe want to hang out with the kinds of people marking up the bathrooms over there. People I could share with in a sense of whimsy, a mutual appreciation of the lowbrow venues for self expression. There was the sense of community shared among their vandals and the viewers beholden to their works.
Back home, I felt I would probably want to avoid most of the people writing in at least the rural bathroom stalls. Walls left rife with misplaced anger, hateful diatribes and chosen symbols. Writing on the walls there was often a form of revenge, a collective “Fuck you, I’m writing on the wall.” It didn’t often seem humorous. It felt very heavy. It was almost animalistic, like an angry dog barking with a sharpie.
It was a welcome relief to only see something like “Have a great shit.” Sudden feelings of “finally, I can laugh a little!” The mood lightened.
Among my fond memories from my time spent in New Zealand, I consider all of the public art pretty far up on the list. It’s sitting up there with the crown jewels. It was beautiful in the streets, the murals, the tags. It was beautiful where you found a toilet, too.
Some people may read their morning newspaper in the bathroom. Now, I think most people doomscroll through a buffet of memes on their phone. Sitting there, until their legs go numb. Back in my day, we used to grab the nearest thing to read if we forgot our magazine. Shampoo bottles and toilet cleaner cans. Improvised reading materials to pass the time. Sitting there pondering how the hell to pronounce those crazy ingredients listed on the back.
For me, I enjoyed reading the writings on the walls. I liked seeing all of the silly little pictures. I liked wondering who, why, and what they were talking about. I wondered about society, motivations, the conscious and unconscious parts of self-expression.
I never made my own mark on the toilet walls while I was there. I never even drew a silly little picture. At the time, I didn’t really feel I had anything to share or express. I didn’t have anything to add to the collage or conversation. I was happy enough doing this bizarre form of sightseeing.
Beholden to the works. Observing and admiring the Greats. Taking a grand tour. Bearing witness.
You can be anyone you want in the writings of bathroom stalls. It’s a strange analogue message board that has defied technological progression.
It was cool to see people there be decent enough to each other in their own expressions- on something as simple as a wall, a toilet, a doorframe, or a mirror. Even with full impunity, their identity obfuscated, it sometimes felt so much deeper than considering it a type of territorial marking.
It didn’t feel like a form of modern tribalism. I didn’t feel like it was a form of “us vs. them.” It felt like the people of the city wanted to express something positive, and as a captive viewer- I shared in the joy of seeing their silent, unknown voices talking. The markings themselves simultaneously said absolutely nothing and absolutely everything.
They were just sitting in their little moment of privacy, surrounded by porcelain and tile. Just doing their business and scribbling on the wall. The venue, the location- a canvas to gaze upon. A window into a moment of what was important to express to any one individual, at the most primal and basic level in any society.
A call into the night, and an answer back.
Potentially one of the last few fronts of true anonymity to be had in this world- the humble toilet scripture.
