Clean and Elegant

Clean and Elegant

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.

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

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:

Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica)
Montreal Hippie Threads (@mtlhippiethreads)
Instagram: montrealhippiethreads

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
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?

Mood sports do not contain







, / (Comma slash)

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.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:

Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica)
Montreal Hippie Threads (@mtlhippiethreads)
Instagram: montrealhippiethreads

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?

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.

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.

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
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:

Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt 


Montreal Hippie Threads 
Instagram: montrealhippiethreads

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