Clean and Elegant

Clean and Elegant

Sunday, 7 January 2018

Dear Vincent, On Thursday, January 4, 2018, I did not end up flying to the edge of Newfoundland and embarking on a long westward frigid and impossible walk across Canada in my boots that tend to become damp and cold within seven to 98 minutes of putting them on for the benefit of everyone’s mental health which feels like an emergency and also chronically neglected and in memory of Simon Girard who jumped off the roof of Sherbrooke Street’s le Tadoussac on Sunday, January 4, 2015.


Dear Vincent,

On Thursday, January 4, 2018, I did not end up flying to the edge of Newfoundland and embarking on a long westward frigid and impossible walk across Canada in my boots that tend to become damp and cold within seven to 98 minutes of putting them on for the benefit of everyone’s mental health which feels like an emergency and also chronically neglected and in memory of Simon Girard who jumped off the roof of Sherbrooke Street’s le Tadoussac on Sunday, January 4, 2015. Instead, I meditated while balancing Women Who Run with the Wolves on my head, worked my one and two-legged squat, and earned $60 cleaning one of my beloved attractive families' attractive home whose attractive Owl Lamp that once needed to be dusted is now nowhere to be found. Then I ate carrots and tahini butter and sugary trail mix for lunch, napped briefly and trudged to a woman’s singing circle that was supposed to help me get in touch with my inner wild woman.

The Wild Woman’s Singing Circle was at a yoga palace. The Yoga Palace had extra special extra dark mahogany floors that are likely a pain in the ass to keep clean though I could not tell because there was not enough light. Inside the Wild Woman’s Singing Circle lay a drum, a shaker, a digeridoo and a rain stick decorated with turquoise tissue paper and medium-sized heart stickers. A woman with bright and exciting tights and a young, ecstatic face welcomed me.

“Thank you for being here,” she said kindly.

She could play the drum the ukulele and had travelled extensively through South America where she felt extra close to the divine, especially when singing in Spanish, or in Portuguese.

My voice felt muted and self-conscious as we warmed up with unstructured chords and syllables.

“Just follow your intuition,” she urged the group. “Sing what sounds beautiful.”

Probably there were five women with soft open faces and spiritual pants seated on the circle’s varied and various cushions. Out of my mouth, nothing sounded beautiful. A few minutes into the spontaneous vowels and chords, three or four more people walked in. One of them was a man wearing a bright yellow t.shirt with the words LOVE written on it in big black letters.

“This is a women’s circle,” said the woman with the exciting bright tights and the ukulele.

“Oh,” said the dude in the bright yellow love t. shirt. “I didn’t realize that meant just for women. But we’re all one. We’re all love. I can bring my feminine energy.” He also offered to leave, but the woman with the exciting bright tights and the ukelele said that since he was already there, he was welcome, as long as nobody objected. Obviously, none of the women objected. You don’t want to be that woman, but I was tightening and repressing what I actually thought and could sense everyone else doing the same. Almost certainly, the Bright Yellow Love T.Shirt Man qualified as a prototypical SNAG. Everyone knows this stands for Sensitive New Age Guy, and that SNAGS are not my favourite. As soon as this SNAG sat down to sing, he sighed loudly, the kind of sigh that invites everyone to look at you and witness how happy and at peace you are. Happy and at peace, and miraculous.

Probably the sigh also says, look, my cells are undulating and dissolving and this makes me extremely special. And we are all one.

Sometimes my cells feel as though they are undulating and dissolving, and this is quite a comfort though it always passes within very little time. Painfully, the group attempted a song in Portuguese. The octaves were far beyond me and I picked up the rain stick covered in tissue paper and red medium sized heart stickers to try and mask the fact that there was no way I could sing. Not next to the Bright Yellow Love T.shirt SNAG, not in Portuguese, not so high. We tried an easier song about standing on top of a mountain, and God's universal, victorious, empowering and all-redeeming love. Bright Yellow Love T. Shirt SNAG kept moaning and sighing and I kept looking outside and thinking about escaping before twilight and sneaking into Simon’s building le Tadoussac and throwing flowers off the rooftop except that the rooftop would be locked and I didn’t feel like forking over money for flowers with the $60 I’d earned that day if the flowers would only dissolve and perish by the time I got to Sherbrooke Street and Simon would most likely not give a shit, one way or another.

Write your fucking book, Simon would surely have said to me some time in the past year or so, if Simon were still alive and the two of us ended up not being estranged which is not particularly likely.

Dead, dead and more dead, I’d say back.

We started singing sounds according to the vowels of each chakra and I decided I needed to play the card, My ex-ex boyfriend jumped off a building three years ago today and I need to get the fuck out of here. Even though I was not exactly irreparably sad. Only vaguely twitchy, and vaguely teary. Vaguely twitchy and vaguely teary, I played the card, and got the fuck out of there.

On the steps of the yoga palace lay a stray and saggy, soggy glove and this made me think of when Simon used to warm his hands and mine with the forgotten gloves that people scattered all over Montreal in the dead of winter. Almost all these gloves were chic and black leather, but sometimes you were stuck wearing two right-hand gloves, or two left ones.

As it turns out, when you say no, you disappoint people, and they won’t like you as much. Still, we are all love and we are all one. It says so on so many t. shirts, bright yellow and otherwise.

It’s healthier not to give a fuck, Simon always said, and I’ve considered writing these words on my wall in smelly markers, though I fear I’d become very sick of the words very quickly.

From Apartment Number 814 of the Tadoussac where Simon lived, I walked to the dreary grey stairwell and climbed. Simon’s apartment number 814 added up to 13, and this could have been unlucky for him. Like most apartment buildings, the Tadoussac skips from the 12th to the 14th floor, and I find this sad and hilarious and strange. The sounds of my boots that tend to become damp within seven to 98 minutes of putting them on echoed and I remembered climbing these stairs with Simon in January of 2011. My knees had become sore since at the time, I’d been so obsessed with yoga that my body was far too flexible, and not exactly strong enough. Simon preferred climbing the stairs as opposed to the mountain to ensure he wouldn’t run into to very many people. At the 23rd floor, I came upon a boy, perhaps four or five years old who descended with his father. They’d just gone swimming and their hair was wet.

Est-ce qu’on devrait compter les escaliers en français et en anglais? asked the boy's father. The little boy didn’t think so and they continued to count  the stairs in French. Un deux trois, etc.  The door to the swimming pool that used to lead to the rooftop was locked.  And anyways, likely they locked the rooftop in the winter to protect the other Simons. I walked down the stairwell back to the eighth floor and took the elevator, exiting through the back of the building where Simon had fallen onto the pavement. I’m not sure exactly where.

My calves have been sore ever since, and it could be from the stairs, or from the one-legged and two-legged squats, or from cleaning and walking somewhat excessively, just about every single day. But my legs are strong and my knees don’t hurt.

Rumi says, “The Light Changes. I need more grace then I thought.”

Elizabeth Gilbert says, “Grace says nothing except that I am splendid.” She says this to Oprah on a Super Soul Sunday. I want to be one of those people with an Important Hero’s Quest. Like Oprah and Elizabeth Gilbert.

We are all love.

I’ve thought of drawing my victim wings on my wall in smelly markers. Around the border of the wings I will write, “Grace says nothing except that you are splendid.”
“Grace says nothing except that you are splendid.”
Every Friday with vinegar and a magical micro fiber cloth, I clean the door of the same stainless steel fridge. On the fridge hangs a butterfly, decorated according to the kindergarten technique where you dabble a bunch of paint on one half of the picture and then fold the paper in half so that the paint spreads to other side, and you have double the colours and double the art. I remember doing the exact same painting routine in Ms. Strotman’s kindergarten class, and then the evening my parents invited Ms. Strotman for dinner I showed off and did the painting routine again. And I folded the paper like an accordion, and clipped it with a clothespin so that my butterfly was 3-dimensional and the wings were nothing but splendid.

The fridge belongs to a lovely family. Attractive, though without an Owl Lamp, they once owned a self-mutilating parrot whose angst had caused him to pluck out all the feathers around his neck. Apparently this is quite common. Now the self-mutilating parrot is flapping his wings in a bird refuge in Oka, north-east of Montreal. There he can fly freely amongst birds with feathered and un-feathered necks and wings that are nothing but splendid. After he went away to Okay, it took about six weeks before I got rid of all the self-mutilating bird shit on the walls and on the floors. The fridge stayed as shiny as ever, at least every Friday.
Selfie, with Vinegar
Outlines of victim wings also look a bit like floppy ears. Floppy ears, a bow tie, and I can’t think of anything else, except perhaps an elephant head, or the shape of certain elbows when someone places their hands squarely on their hips. Or fingerless gloves, their mouths placed side by side.

I like to imagine my victim wings, undulating and then dissolving behind my shoulder blades until they fall to the ground and perish. And I listen for Grace and she says very little, but enough.

Love you always,

Erica.
Send your letters to Vincent and/or Erica to ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com. Vincent may say very little, but Erica will surely say that you are splendid.

Simon Girard 1979-2015
"It's healthier not to give a fuck."


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What a Beautiful Face
Dear Vincent, This is what the Dead Inside Man says about Killing Yourself
Dear Vincent, I was floating on the joy of feeling seen, heard, felt and loved by you last Tuesday, November 21


Professional, Depressed




Monday, 1 January 2018

Dear Vincent, Some things we might just have to deal with for the rest of our lives.


Dear Vincent,

Some things we just might have to deal with for the rest of our lives.

It’s possible I will always be

A relatively terrible cook

Someone who struggles with lunch choices, livelihood, self-confidence,

And the phrase, “This is supposed to be fun.”

And maybe I will forever long for how safe I felt when I was with my first true love, the Boatman.

When I was four years old, I remember crying so hard that I gave myself a headache. The reason for the meltdown had something to do with tobogganing. Only one of my parents was coming and it wasn’t the one I wanted.

“Why does your head hurt?” my sister had asked that evening.

“I was screaming,” I replied, and in that statement, I had the distinct realization that such displays of emotion were not going to be permitted for my entire life. Crying until your head hurt was moderately acceptable when you were four, but eventually you had to grow out of it. And yet, despite my young wisdom, the big tears followed me to grade one, grade eight, first-year university, the first day of many jobs, walking home from therapy, and remembering the wrong memory some moment between two and four o’clock in the morning.  

Maybe you have chronic pain, maybe you struggle with depression, or disordered eating. Some of these things you may have to deal with for the rest of your life.

When I heard this, I was cleaning my friend’s shower. The speaker was Michael Stone and he is now dead. Last summer, he took fentanyl by accident. Once a week for almost six years, I listened to Michael Stone’s podcast about yoga and meditation and how to wake up to your life. All the questions were so enormous and yet the answers were so simple. Intimacy, relationship, taking care of things. Laundry, your body, the cashier at the grocery store. You could become intimate with anything. Even a terrible mood.
Michael Stone
I was in a terrible mood as I cleaned my friend’s shower and considered all the things I’d need to deal with for the rest of my life. My friend and I had met at my roommate’s party. He’d brought his girlfriend who sat on the couch across from us as I blabbered on and on about transcending the side effects of Prozac, and victoriously humping my pink and purple polka dot duvet two times a day all before 9 a.m. When it got close to my bed time, I invited my friend to join me as I flossed. As fate would have it, his relationship was sexless and open, and because I’d so elaborately described my masturbation practice, my friend thought that flossing meant precursors to humping his thigh and/or other body parts.

Months later, although we’d transcended the flossing misunderstanding, I was pissed off because I’d explicitly told my friend that I no longer cleaned with toxic products that dried out my face and inhaled poison. But instead of buying vinegar, my friend had gone to the Dollar Store and spent fifty dollars on Clorox, Vim, and similar items whose odours evoked hospitals and cancer.

One more time, Mood Sports. Some things in life, we will not and do not transcend.

And yet, knowing this is not necessarily bad news.

In fact, no more fighting could be a fucking relief.

This is just me

And I suck at lunch,

Professional boundaries,

Closing cupboard doors,

Lighting matches,

Staying up past 9:30 P.M.

And punctuating bulleted lists.

But I’m really good at

Morning Routines,

Folding laundry,

Walking obscenely long distances,

Mopping, and cleaning up other people’s messes

Taking out the recycling,

Buying toilet paper before it runs out

And

I’m the best pen pal you’ve ever had.
January 1, 2018
(written on the wall in smelly markers)
My goals in life are Creativity
Service
deep love for all of my cells
Buy a new roll of masking tape
A cleared and clear and generous heart
What is a cervical orgasm
Using Clorox only once will not give you cancer.

Some things, we might just have to deal with for the rest of our lives. On Wednesday, the temperature goes up to minus 9, and I get to see you and I can’t wait. Happy New Year, Vincent.

Love, Erica.
Send your letters to me and/or Vincent to ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.
Happy New Year
Love, Erica


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Dear Vincent, This letter is about saving a begonia. Love, Erica.
What does it mean to be home.
Mourning, Wailing, Yearning, Wake up




Thursday, 14 December 2017

Dear Vincent, This is what the Dead Inside Man says about killing yourself.


Dear Vincent,

This is what the Dead Inside Man says about killing yourself. Last fall, along with the Married Man, the Dead Inside Man was one of my texting boyfriends, following five to seven solid fucks and leg humps in Toronto. The Dead Inside Man has been seeing the same therapist one to two times per week for 31 and a half years. One rainy day, I sent him a blubbering text as I blubbered in my red rain coat after a session with you last October or November of 2016. It didn’t like the system I’d come up with for dealing with my organism and with me life could ever be made viable. And whatever it would take to reprogram the system, I certainly did not have. Also I’d awoken that day between three and four o’clock in the morning. For whatever reason.


This is what the Dead Inside Man texted back:

As someone who has stood on a bridge, contemplating suicide more times than I can count, I keep coming to the same conclusion: just keep going a bit longer because why not.

T’es important. Suicide n’est pas une option. That’s what it says on a poster along the hallway that leads to your windowless office. You are important. Suicide is not an option.

“I’m sorry, but it is an option.” That’s what you, Vincent, said on Thursday, January 4, 2015, two years after my ex-ex boyfriend Simon threw himself off his 23-story apartment building and died in a parking lot between Coloniale and de Buillion street, just north of Sherbrooke. “But it leaves a fucking mess for whoever gets left behind.” Blood on the pavement and an excruciating silence. Everyone always says something about this mess, but they forget that the mess is never just one person’s fault.

Dead Inside Man:

You can do whatever you want with your life.

You owe no one anything.

If you want to travel the world you can. If you want to live on the street you can.

If you want to commit suicide, you can.

But not all of it is easy.

The day that you admitted that suicide was an option, I knew that I could trust you. Last Saturday evening, I went to a meditation class and as I sat in the circle, it occurred to me that almost absolutely the teacher to my left had thought about killing themself. Who meditates without thinking about this? The only solution is to pretend that you’re too busy. Build your plastic empire, build your plastic house. Build your plastic house which soon enough will float away to the massive plastic continent somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean where maybe some business savvy rich guy will try to build a condo development.

Dead Inside Man:

Getting better is hard.

Really hard sometimes.

And if you want to give up in a year or two years or five you can.

But it's worth trying to get better. The option is always there to quit.

Life is changing because now when I weep somewhat delicately at the stand-up corner of a popular café and I see the woman behind me has a full box of Kleenex and I ask if I can have one, she says yes and she does not bat an eye. In the new world, strangers offer Kleenex for your grief and they do not bat an eye. The people who weep somewhat delicately at cafes for no apparent reason are not quite aliens. Not anymore.

Dead Inside Man: Think of it like this: you're in a crowded theatre. You start to panic that you're trapped. You look to the exit and just knowing it's there fills you with reassurance.

Doesn't mean you're going to use it. Just means you like to know there's an escape.

Don't kill yourself. But don't beat yourself up for having suicidal thoughts."

For Simon just the exit sign wasn’t quite enough. We can be angry at him for leaving us with the image of him crashing down on the pavement. But the mess was not only his fault. Though he could have had one more good day, or even ten more mediocre to alright years, probably it wouldn’t have been enough. I respect his choice.

Stored on my phone, I keep screenshots of the Dead Inside Man’s texts.

Don’t kill yourself. But don’t beat yourself up for having suicidal thoughts.

In the new world, everyone knows all the options. And they bring Kleenex.

“Do you need one more before I leave?” asks the stranger as she put on her coat.

“Oh, I’m okay. Thank you,” I say. After she leaves, I weep delicately one last time, and then I trudge out. I remain in the income bracket of people who use toilet paper for Kleenex. But life is always changing. I know all my options and I love you. Outside the world looks so sunny and fresh. It is unimaginably cold, and, you’d think that the air would be so clean, but really it is not clean at all. No, in fact it is not clean at all.
I know all my options and I love you.
Erica.  

Send your letters to Vincent to ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.
Happy Face with Onesie.


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Guillaume, Part Two
Dear Vincent, It seems no matter who I'm having sex with, I ugly cry every other time.
Professional, Depressed
The Magical Rock Vagina Cleanse



Thursday, 30 November 2017

Dear Vincent, I was floating on the joy of feeling seen, heard, felt and loved by you last Tuesday, November 21


Dear Vincent,

I was floating on the joy of feeling seen, heard, felt and loved by you last Tuesday, November 21. All the joy lasted for approximately 39 hours and 17 minutes.

So I got this brilliant idea that I’m going to walk across Canada for mental health. My mental health, and everyone else’s. On Monday, the Social Worker said that he’d no doubt I’d pull it off. Apparently I am the most resilient person he has ever met. C’est incroyable de voir comment tu rebondis. Incredible to see how I bounce back.

I bounce back, by Erica J. Schmidt.

Next to the social worker’s desk, there are pamphlets about how to determine if you are experiencing a crystal meth crisis, and what to do about it. The Social Worker has a much more beautiful office than you do, with floor to ceiling windows that look over the Village, the Latin Quarter, and far beyond. His garbage can is disproportionately large for the amount of Kleenex anyone could ever use, even me. It used to be I got to enjoy looking out the window, right above the Social Worker’s head, but now the patient’s chair has its back to the sky, right above Saint-André street. I guess someone got aggressive the other week, and this way the Social Worker is better equipped to make an exit strategy.

Shortly after he marvelled over my miraculous resilience, the Social Worker brought up how I really need to prepare myself for switching therapists and that perhaps I should also consider getting a new job. I respond very poorly to both of these topics. I melted down hard and then left.

On Monday, November 27, all together I walked 14.2 km. If you want to walk across Canada, you have to walk at least 30 km per day, 6 days a week for approximately nine months, though likely more if you want to avoid the highway. The problem with walking across Canada is that just about three to four times per week, I wonder if I might be missing my left hip joint. My very half-assed plan is to leave on January 4, 2019, the four-year anniversary of when my ex-ex boyfriend Simon jumped off a building, meaning that he offed himself. On the way home from the Social Worker’s, the thoughts were dark and I wondered if maybe I should leave sooner, since nothing seems to be clicking these days. Except my left hip.

Precarity turns out to be a real word. I am going to try micro-dosing on mushrooms. Last winter, one of my friends used to wish that the crusty mole on the outside of his left calf muscle was some kind of terminal cancer. The Magic Mushrooms really helped him. I took my first dose on Tuesday, and dreamt of a lovely brown cow. I could only see him from the neck up. The cow’s eyes and face told me that it was okay if I ate a hamburger, something I haven’t done in over twenty years. In fact, the hamburger was excellent. With cheese.
Club 21. I could take these up.
I hope the cow says hi to me again. I am the moodiest person I know. Moodiest and loneliest. Most lonely.
The cow said, it's okay.
Hamburgers, and mushrooms. At this point, I see no other options besides flying to Newfoundland in January and risking the loss of a toe.

Hi, I said when I saw you this morning sprinting down Laurier somewhere between St Urbain and de l’Esplanade.

Hi, you said back. You were making quite some air time. I hope you got where you were going.

I was on my way to see Philippe, another far-away therapist who has fancy gelled back hair and an overworked beard. I made up the term overworked beard in the summer of 2016, and I just love it. Philippe’s office has reasonable windows. He isn’t available to see me long-term or intensively, and this is a relief because I want my sessions with you to last forever because you make me feel seen, heard, felt and loved.

Nearly three hundred people have clicked on my post about some other Vincent coercing me into a blow job. The Russian bots seem really into my blog these days. I wonder if they will like my sentences about the trees in Parc Laurier.

Dear Russian Bots,

Do you like these sentences?

: (Colon)

Sentences trees never feel

My life was not supposed to be like this.

All my limbs are far too large
and far too awkward
and flailing in all the wrong directions.

How lazy of me to rest
and respect my natural seasons
of bearing fruit
harvesting
and silence.

How greedy of those creatures who
help themselves to everything I have to give
only to squander what they take
and then forget.

If only everything were entirely different.

I’m ugly.

I need my own space.

That’s the end of the sentences trees never feel. There were seven sentences trees never feel. I could add seven to the title, sentences trees never feel, and the only vowel in the title would still be e. Love that.

My friend who last winter wished the crusty mole on the outside of his left calf muscle was terminal cancer recommends drawing and writing all over your walls.

So I wrote the sentence, what happens if I write on the wall?
What happens if I write on the wall?
Also:

Mood sports do not contain

A

E

I

Or

U

Or

, / (Comma slash)

Orange.
hash tag equals #alts2wishingcrustymolesRcancer
The hash tag equals #alts2wishingcrustymolesRcancer

I want to draw a pelvis, but it is doomed to be approximate and one-dimensional. How do you draw a baby? I think I would make the hair pink.

I prefer not an overworked beard.

Yours is just perfect.

Love, Erica.


You too can write imaginary emails to Vincent. Or you can send them to me. The secret address is the same in either case, ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.
Much love, Erica.
Some might say I'm not quite overworked. Not like the beards.


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Hippie Threads Holiday Market! December 2!


When I am really upset, I need to be seen, heard, felt and loved by someone whose dick has been inside of me.
Or else you.
Dear Vincent, Are you lonely? Do you have a pain body?
Lizzie










Monday, 20 November 2017

Dear Vincent, Some other Vincent coerced me into a blow job.

Dear Vincent,

Some other Vincent coerced me into a blow job. Tinder's great, except for the high risk of rape. I don't quite feel raped, but you'd think the sentence, "I don't want to take my clothes off," could be interpreted in some way other than, I'll just stick my hands down your pants in as many different angles as I can think of. Hard to say.

"Are you gonna go out with the Fake Vincent again?" my friend asked.
"Are either of them real?" I replied.


I went to the movie, Loving Vincent, and it was pretty good. When I was in grade twelve, I did a project  on Vincent Van Gogh, and called it "Vincent and Me." Or was it, "Me and Vincent?" All I remember is that somehow I compared my angsty, agonizing, excruciating creative process with Vincent Van Gogh's, and I included a picture of a rainbow papier maché dinosaur I'd been inspired to make with a balloon and toilet paper rolls in grade one. The caption under the dinosaur photo read, "It's gorgeous."
Vincent and Me
And I remember the Vincent Van Gogh quote, "Well, what shall I say? Do our inner thoughts ever show themselves outwardly? There may be a great fire in our soul, but no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and the passers-by see only a little bit of smoke coming through the chimney, and pass along their way."
Like Vincent's fire, my fire felt lonely, unvisited, and possibly futile. All of the fire was not yet all over the internet.
Well, what shall I say?
I quit Tinder again, and will have to find the next Vincent elsewhere, if there even is one. Each non-self-soothing day is about as poetic, or non poetic as the last one. Since two Tuesdays ago, there have been three or four and a half non-self-soothing days. At the end of the second non-consecutive non-self-soothing-day, I found a cassette tape on Parc Ave, right on the sidewalk in front of RONA.
The tape was called RELAXATION - SAILING and its tracks were,
Gaze Beyond The Top Of The Mast And Into The Heavens -
Time Will Seem Endless... /
The Ocean Gently Lapping Against The Hull Speaks of Life and Immortality.
Time Will Seem Endless... /

It all sounded very soothing, but I still went home and drank most of a bottle of wine. I have never been an excellent drinker. Terrible, in fact. Thankfully, infrequentIy.
"I want to touch people with my art. I want them to say, 'He feels deeply, he feels tenderly." -Vincent Van Gogh.
On the third non-consecutive, non-self-soothing-day, in the free book box in a park below Van Horne, I found a copy of the Celestine Prophecy, The Tenth Insight, and Curtains: Adventures of an Undertaker-in-Training.

Curtains
I opened each book, and read only each one's first sentence. The author of the undertaker book was trying very hard. His name is Tom and Tom warns against stopping at the drive-thru while transporting a dead body, because this puts doughnut brands at peril. It's a bit like opening a blog post with a blow job. I don't think the undertaker author gets to be as famous as the author of the Celestine Prophecy, and the Tenth Insight, who is the same person. In the Celestine Prophecy, the narrator begins in a car, and in the Tenth Insight, he walks. I decided not to keep any of the books, and put them all back in the free book box, and passed along my way.  Each non-self-soothing-day is approximately as poetic, or non-poetic, as any other. When there is fire in the soul, and no one comes to visit, it does kind of feel like a waste, doesn't it. See you tomorrow.


Love,
Erica.
Send your letters to Vincent or Erica to ericaschmidt85 (at) gmail (dot) com.

p.s. Two Mondays ago, I was interviewed by Nighttime Podcast host, Jordan Bonaparte about my series I wrote on the disappearance of Emma Fillipoff, who vanished into the night in Victoria, B.C. on November 28, 2012. We are coming up on the five-year anniversary of when Emma was last seen. This November 28, families and loved ones lighting candles, and holding vigils in Emma's honour. You can check out Jordan's interview with me, plus a bunch of other fascinating interviews her on the podcast, Emma Fillipoff is Missing. 
Making these chakra cards is quite soothing. And they are for sale. Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
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Dear Vincent, Today I might tell you that I love you, or else I might just ask if you too are a Scorpio,
and if so, is it your birthday
The Best Thing I've Ever Done
Where is Emma Fillipoff (One)