The Bald Baristas are closed on Mondays.
Soon I will need to dis-assemble The Erica Museum. I am quite sad about this. These days, I’ve been rather sad about a number of things. The sources of grief, they are easy to find. An obvious slogan on my Brain’s Brochure: “Her thoughts provide an excellent Source of Grief.”
Besides Sources of Grief, my brain also likes to concoct catchy acronyms. As you might already know, Deep Unyielding Depression equals DUD. Sources Of Grief equals SOG. What’s your brain’s favourite SOG?
SOGs often lead to self-deprecating tornados. Tornados and/or hurricanes. Once you get stuck in a tornado or hurricane, it can be hard to escape. SOG-inflicted natural disasters are powerful, fascinating and convincing. In my brain there is no shortage of such natural disasters. Although I have a talent for beating myself up about all sorts of failures, not writing well and/or enough seems to be one of my psyche’s favourite forms of self-torture. Unfortunately, the relentless and self-inflicted pressure is not original. Nor does it really help my cause.
As smart as Marg. I find it extremely rewarding to write
sentences and phrases that only use one vowel.
She sends tense sentences.
I miss his dick.
Is Dick sick?
Yesterday, I wrote an optimistic poem on Facebook. It came to me as I walked down an alley in my neighbourhood. I was on my way home after hours of fruitless and discouraging apartment hunting.
Clotheslines are super optimistic. So are white t.shirts.
With great optimism, my friend Naomi once gave me a whitish
jacket. On the weekend, during a visit to the Bald Baristas, I somehow managed to get a
bunch of black ink all over it. I’m surprised this hadn’t happen much earlier.
The incident provoked zero hopeless thoughts. In fact, I felt excitement as I
imagined borrowing art supplies and transforming the jacket into something wild
and exuberant. Something to wear or to put in my next museum.
By the way, a total of two people came to visit the Erica
Museum. Admission fees were paid in chocolate chips, seaweed, tempeh and
hazelnut pudding. Also, I am giving away the Threesome Tights. I do not think I
will wear them again. If you think the tights might work for you, please be in touch.
Anyways, all this is meant to introduce my project for this
week: Five Days of Creative Recovery. It is meant as an antidote to the SOGs
and the DUDs. For the next five days, I will do my best to post something
creative. Out of words or whatever I can manage. This blog is often very silly,
and I do not have a million readers. Even so, over the years, the process of
sharing has brought me immense relief and sometimes joy.
Thanks for being there.
Love, Erica.
Soon I will need to dis-assemble The Erica Museum. I am quite sad about this. These days, I’ve been rather sad about a number of things. The sources of grief, they are easy to find. An obvious slogan on my Brain’s Brochure: “Her thoughts provide an excellent Source of Grief.”
Besides Sources of Grief, my brain also likes to concoct catchy acronyms. As you might already know, Deep Unyielding Depression equals DUD. Sources Of Grief equals SOG. What’s your brain’s favourite SOG?
SOGs often lead to self-deprecating tornados. Tornados and/or hurricanes. Once you get stuck in a tornado or hurricane, it can be hard to escape. SOG-inflicted natural disasters are powerful, fascinating and convincing. In my brain there is no shortage of such natural disasters. Although I have a talent for beating myself up about all sorts of failures, not writing well and/or enough seems to be one of my psyche’s favourite forms of self-torture. Unfortunately, the relentless and self-inflicted pressure is not original. Nor does it really help my cause.
Writer’s block is hard to kick. What a drama. And the thing
is, I don’t really even have writer’s block. I write all the time. Constantly.
For my translation gigs, in my journals, for my pen pals, for my lucky texting friends. But
the SOG story says, “You are not making anything official. You are not Margaret Atwood. You suck.”
And well, as we’ve already established, I am not like
Margaret Atwood. Everyone knows why.
There’s a quote about Margaret Atwood in my self-help book,
I Let Go. Once again, I will say, it is rather hilarious that I wrote a book
called “I Let Go” since I find it excruciating to let go of anything. I am
thinking about writing a sequel, “I Don’t Let Go.” In any case, here’s the I Let Go
quote:
“So you didn’t get to
be Margaret Atwood this time around.
Neither did anybody else.
Margaret Atwood is Margaret Atwood.
Perhaps she saved time by not humping her duvet, but she still had to
experience strenuous shits and sinus colds and mediocre sex. Plus she’ll probably die before you
will. If not then you get to beat her at
turning to worm shit.”
 |
| Me and the Hedgeclipper in I Let Go. Excellent Drawing by Sara E. Enquist |
As an additional point, one might pity Margaret for having
to be so coherent. Poor Marg.
Once my Magic Mushrooms Friend told me I was as smart as
Margaret Atwood.  |
| Oh, Marg |
Bob throws socks on John’s hot dog.
Su’s ducks fuck up.She sends tense sentences.
I miss his dick.
Is Dick sick?
The i sentences are the funnest. Is funnest a word?
Apparently not.
“We’re not writing a book. We’re writing our lives.” This is
one of my favourite quotes from Simon, my ex-ex boyfriend who jumped off a
building last January 4th. The good news is, you’re allowed to write your life
however you want. In text messages, postcards, or in exquisite copy for
soothing skin creams.Yesterday, I wrote an optimistic poem on Facebook. It came to me as I walked down an alley in my neighbourhood. I was on my way home after hours of fruitless and discouraging apartment hunting.
“Repress your hopeless thought.
Behold the optimistic clothesline.” |
| the optimistic clothesline |
 |
| behold the white t. shirts. |
 |
| the optimistic jacket |
 |
| Threesome Tights. Available for a Limited Time Only. |
Thanks for being there.
Love, Erica.
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