a true story, written in response to the question mentioned in the second line. I ain't a poet and know nothing of the finer points and proper structures, but sometimes one falls out in whatever form it prefers to be in
Poems on a Shithouse Wall
She asked me,
"When's the last time you wrote a poem?"
I said I didn't know
Last summer, maybe
Polished up an old one a few months ago
Surreptitiously stumbled out some stanzas
of silly songs
Just to amuse myself
But maybe I was wrong
Because a couple of weeks beforehand
I built a shithouse from salvaged scraps
of a shipping crate that sat
Abandoned at the brewery throughout the winter
And a glorious shithouse it is
Blood and sweat, bent nails and blue-tongued curses
A week of every spare second I could scrape together
Warped timber, cracked plywood and a handle made of leather
Designing on the fly, forging foward without a plan
to craft a receptacle of relief
For the boys swinging hammer
at the site where my house will sit
For it's need that guides my pen
When I need a poem to ponder
And the need to pinch a penny (and a loaf)
Built that shithouse over yonder
They tell me that the practical is merely craft and not creation
And that only art in abstract holds the key to liberation
But at least to me, that shithouse is a thing that's truly full of art
And at least to me, art without need is the thing that's truly full of shit
Great!
Assume the shithouse has to be emptied.
I started with a composting style bucket system (which needed to be emptied), but build it over a conveniently pre-existing pit. Once the dung beetles started showing up I ditched the bucket and let it drop. I've used the pit (since it stopped being required) to mix the leavings off with charcoal for soil-building, and also as my compost pit - it's convenient in the winter.
I also don't have water when the power's out at my place (pumped from a well at the back of the property), so it's a handy back-up loo in emergencies! We've had a few long power outages (days) this year.
I can't imagine living like you describe, well not for more than a few days anyway. I like my creature comforts too much. Which means I probably am part of the problem producing climate change.