Dear Vincent, If Oprah does not invite you to sit in her decadent plushy green chairs in the middle of the Oprah Forest to discuss your beautiful soul's beautiful hero's journey, it's possible this might be a blessing. It's possible you might just be spared. Love, Erica.

Dear Vincent,

If Oprah does not invite you to sit in her decadent plushy green chairs in the middle of the Oprah Forest to discuss your beautiful soul’s beautiful hero’s journey, it’s possible this might be a blessing. It’s possible you might just be spared.

Love, Erica.

Dear Oprah,

My beautiful soul’s beautiful hero’s journey is I broke up with the star of my life’s most beautiful blogging fairy tale and after six months of weeping indelicately in public, I ran away to India and this was fun for approximately five and a half weeks and then I got extensive shits and I got to be an emaciated and hysterical bone rack and when I finally made it back to Canada, I was so washed out that I had to go on Prozac and then I met my therapist who I fell deeply and madly in love with and this really messed me up as did accidentally doubling my Prozac dose in the winter of 2017 and then going off of it and then breaking my roommate’s delicate and precious teapot, and meanwhile, to fulfill my enormous potential and to live my best life, I clean other people’s bathtubs and sometimes I weep over the ledges of these bathtubs, or else the dusty baseboards, or else the refrigerator drawers filled with mouldy vegetable chunks, and approximately 100% of the time, nobody notices.

Love, Erica.

Dear Vincent,
When I call the crisis center they tell me to call back because I am crying too hard.
They should bring back the role of the Village Wailer, and this should be my job.

Erica Schmidt, Mile End Wailer.

On Wednesday, May 30, 2018, as I wailed below the Saint Laurent underpass, two people, asked me if I was okay, and I blubbered ‘I’m fine, this is just me, a walking disaster,’ and then next to the railroad tracks, a woman on her bike who said she worked with addicts insisted on an extended conversation, and she asked me what I liked to do, and said, ‘I can see you like to walk,’ in fact, she was right, and in fact, she was quite kind, and in fact, I sincerely hope our encounter was good for her Mother Teresa complex. 

Addict Mother Teresa Friend said there isn't some magic formula, you just keep trying different things to see what works. I guess this is not terrible advice.
On the way home, underneath the underpass, some dude walked by me and handed me an apple. He had an apple too, and I was too lonely to go home and so I followed him to Clark Park and watched him wash the apple in the water fountain.  

His t. shirt was white and on the right breast corner it said something about the Xavier school of gifted youngsters.

“Were you a gifted youngster?” I asked.

“Oh, this is from X-men,” he said. “And it’s a rare shirt. Kind of my superpower.”

“Oh,” I said. I know very little about x-men, due to being a philistine.

“What about you? What is your superpower?”

I did not want my superpower to be mopping, although I am quite good at this.

The star of my life’s most beautiful blogging fairy tale used to say, my emotions could maybe be a superpower.

The star of my life’s most beautiful blogging fairy tale had never seen anything like my emotions.

“Maybe my emotions could be my superpower. But mostly they just give me a really hard time.”

My emotions, they

are very astonishing.

On Wednesday, May 30, 2018, I found a dead mouse, stuck to a sticky mouse trap under a kitchen sink, and the sink belonged to a family who has an enormous baby, and I always say that the enormous baby’s face is very astonishing.

Every 12 minutes to 36 hours, I feel totally astonished.
The guy with the gifted youngsters t. shirt said, “I bet people give you all kinds of suggestions on what you should do. Meditation, working out, yoga, journals.”
“Yes,” I said. “And I have been doing all of it since I was seven years old.”

He went to drink beer with his friends, and I went home to do the dishes.
The apple was macintosh. It tasted small and generic. Then I fell asleep on the couch.
In the morning, I finished a translation about houseplants. Apparently, there is no reason to resist growing houseplants. None of my houseplants have grown since I got them, and the basil seems doomed. And I have a lovely succulent plant that Dexter brought.
Succulent plants are very trendy.

I am not happy with my Village Wailer performance though some might say it was rather impressive.

Best wishes for an unoppressive and/or invigorating day.
Love,
Erica. 

Dear Vincent,

I can appreciate professional boundaries but just to let you know where I am coming from, last Friday afternoon, I gave my client Linda a free haircut and henna streaks at my house, partly because being a hairdresser is my dream job and partly because on Friday, May 27, 2018 I knocked over Linda’s precious and delicate miniature horse ornament and the front left leg came off and considering how suicidal I became after breaking my roommate’s teapot on Friday, May 26, 2017, and considering how the horse’s leg can probably be glued back on, the incident was not all that traumatic; however, it did instil a self-imposed obligation to buy another horse and to say yes to the next seventeen things Linda asks me for, and this began with the henna streaks and the haircut.

Last night I dreamed about cleaning big chunks behind someone’s stove, and the chunks belonged to my client Genevieve who barely needs a cleaning lady and who is about to move across the country and I’m a bit sad because we get along great and Genevieve signs off all her texts with three emphatic thumbs up, and I sure as hell could use three emphatic thumbs up every other Monday or Wednesday. In my dream, I cleaned up all the chunks behind the stove, and then I went to Genevieve’s wedding, and I was deeply embarrassed by how disgustingly dirty my feet were, and the groom was Tim Ferris, and Genevieve and Tim vowed to manifest the spectacular hell out of their lives, and when they kissed, it was passionate and convincing.

I woke up at 4:14 and all the stoves and the bathtubs and the whole week seem impossible.
I really wish you could save me and that you loved me back but you can't and you don't, not even if I offer to give you a free haircut and even though you probably like some version of my face when I am not sobbing it off, and maybe also my legs and all this, along with at least 37 easily listable details of life leave me feeling breathtakingly disappointed.

The other thing I want to say is, I packed a sandwich for lunch.
Love, Erica. 

Dear Erica,

Where is your nervous system?

Thinking about your nun friends.

Love, Erica.

Dear Oprah and Vincent,

Linda’s haircut went great.

Love, Erica.

Dear Vincent,

On a podcast I learned that to relieve trauma you can lie on the floor and cradle the back of your head and then gaze your eyes from one side of the world to the other. Maybe I will try that the next time I am hysterical.

Love, Erica.

Dear Vincent,

I still love you, and I still love Oprah.

Love, Erica.

*Names and crucial identifying details have been altered due to excellent professional boundaries. Send your letters to me, or to Vincent or to Oprah. The top-secret email address is ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.

p.s. Vincent is my therapist and I have that thing where you love your therapist and I get to see Vincent every other Wednesday.

I still love you, and I still love Oprah.

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Dear Vincent, It used to be that the last time I felt home was in a tiny blue penthouse apartment in Mysore, India on the 10th avenue of the 3rd stage of a neighbourhood called Gokulam in November of 2014.

Dear Vincent, Now you know I have that thing where you love your therapist.

Performative Crying in Alleys

Dear Vincent, In my heart, I feel quite strange and lonely.

Dear Vincent,

In my heart, I feel quite strange and lonely. A strange and lonely thing to do is to attend a Silent Book Club where everyone sits silently and reads whatever book they are reading and we all bask in vague intellectual smugness and the beautiful potential we each possess before we open our mouths. In my youth, I used to impose an extensive reading list upon myself. Everywhere I went, I’d insist on devouring books that were meant to enhance my mind. The Second Sex, or Margaret Atwood, or failed attempts at the Odyssey.  On the metro, walking down the street, through every empty moment, in any empty chair or living room.

 

How joyful was that?

I’m not sure.

These days I do not read as extensively, or, as voraciously. But sometimes I try.

Last night on my way to the Silent Book Club, I dropped off a bag of extraneous clothing in front of a Donation Depot on Bernard Street. I tend to give away all my extraneous possessions nearly pathologically. Further down Bernard Street, I passed an older man and woman who were coming out of Lester’s where apparently they serve the best French fries in Montreal and once I saw my friends consuming enormous slices of yellowish cheese cake.

The older man said, “Well that would take away from the treat for when we get back.” I did not know what the treat was, or where the old couple was going, or if they’d already returned and had just consumed the treat together. But somehow, his words unravelled my strange and lonely heart and I wept reasonably delicately for about seven lonely steps on Bernard Street.

This Book Will Save Your Life by A.M. Homes

In the book I read at the Silent Book Club, the main character’s name is Richard. An enormous hole is taking over Richard’s back yard and is causing a structural catastrophe to his vast and fancy house. And Richard has begun to go to a doughnut shop every morning. The book is called, This Book Will Save Your Life by A.M. Homes. One evening at the grocery store, Richard comes upon a woman who is weeping between the lettuce and the tomatoes. The woman weeps because she is thinking about the salad she prepares her family every night and the salad has two kinds of greens and lovingly selected tomatoes and chick peas and a meticulous salad dressing, and her family does not seem to give a shit. There are so many salads like this out there, and so many strange and lonely tears in cereal aisles, or somewhere between the lettuce and the tomatoes, or in seven lonely steps somewhere on Bernard Street.

Now I am on page 126 of This Book Will Save Your Life.

Doughnuts, from my friend Shayna

I have an aversion to French Fries because in Grade Six French class we learned that 10 frites ont 110 calories and this seemed excessive. And I have an aversion to doughnuts because someone told me they take three days to digest, and they seem far too sugary and hollow.

Love, Erica.  

Send your imaginary and un-imaginary emails to Vincent, or to me. The secret email address is ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com. You can tell us about your favourite doughnuts, or the books that saved your life, or else your strange and lonely heart.

Strange and lonely solace from the Drying Rack
(April 4, 2018)


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Rideshare, Sterilization and Doughnuts
Taes floats your boat
Dear Vincent, Are you lonely? Do you have a pain body?


Exalted

Dear Vincent, This letter is about saving a begonia. Love, Erica.

Dear Vincent,

I moved.

I guess I didn’t need

to pay you 90 dollars to affirm

this decision.

A gifted and influential meditation teacher has died.

Struggling with challenging mind states linked with bipolar disorder, he sought out street drugs. These ended up containing fentanyl, and this killed him.

This is Michael Stone.
You can learn more about his teachings at michaelstoneteaching.com/.
You can support his family here.

His death has made me want to resume our imaginary emails. In fact, I considered sending this to you for real, though instead, I think I will simply post it on the Internet.

 

Opioids have their appeal these days. I don’t know much about them, but I think I can understand.

I get when it feels like you’ve tried everything, and the mind states still feel unmanageable. Extreme, unmanageable, and

in the words of my thoughts, unacceptable.

 

Michael Stone, the teacher who died, meditated every day for more than half of his life.

People can be so unforgiving of meditation. As though it all fails if the results are not entirely impeccable, and serene. I’m not sure I’m amazing at forgiving all the rituals and routines whose results have not turned out to be
unfailingly impeccable and serene.

 

These past few weeks, in preparation for the move, and because I want to erase myself, I’ve been obsessively giving things away. The tie-dyed clothes that no one will buy, old shoes I need to replace, but I never get around to it, sweaters, food, two of the books of my seven book library. Now there are only five books, and two of these are borrowed. How else can I erase myself?

 

Wednesday morning

Post evening of vodka and packing,

And almost three hours of sleep,

I transported all of my belonging from Mile End to Outremont.

About seven blocks.

It took three trips.

Two on foot,

And one $6 taxi ride.

I gave the driver a 100% tip.

I am rich now.

 

On the corner of Bernard and des Querbes, my new street,

a relatively obvious poem

came into my head.

 

There is no way

to erase

that you

existed.

There is no way

to erase that you

are alive

or that you lived.

 

After that, the poem crumbled.

Where I’m living is immense. I am subletting from family who is visiting Denmark for all of August. I’ll stay here until September 1^st. Then I will move again.

The five year old who usually lives here has a whole room for her dollhouse and toy kitchen, a mini artist table and child-sized canopied couch. I keep wandering from one end of the apartment to the other, not remembering where I’m going or what I’m looking for.

Though my pile of belongings is quite tiny, yesterday it seemed far too intrusive and out of place, and nothing seemed to fit.

One of my favourite friends came over to help. 

 

“I want to get you something large and obnoxious so you learn to take up space."

These are all my possessions, minus one large Rubbermaid of winter clothes, and two boxes of memorabilia I keep at my parents' houses.

Then I remembered the hanging begonia. One of my cleaning client’s Airbnb guests had been so thrilled with my communicative Facebook messages that she’d bought me a hanging plant. I’d forgotten to retrieve it from my client’s balcony. One of the nicest things people can do is say thank you, and I’d abandoned the gesture, figuring the plant was too large a possession, and way too much proof of existence.

 

The plant turned out to be far more enormous than I’d imagined. Several of its leaves and peach-coloured blooms had turned brown. It was dried out, but not quite dead.

This is the begonia.

Once I’d left my client’s place, I immediately squatted on the sidewalk of Parc Ave. It seemed so important to pick off all the dead leaves and petals. I think I can save the plant from dying.

Now the plant is hanging on my balcony, above the hammock. In the mornings, I will bring it water, and feed it my eggshells and coffee grounds.

Love, Erica.

 

The End.

 

Vincent was my therapist from October of 2016, and May 2017. After we ran out of subsidized sessions, I began to write him daily imaginary emails. I called the project, "Mondays without Vincent," and it turned out to be quite healing. You too can write imaginary emails to Vincent. In fact, if you'd like, you can send them to me, on any day of the week.

My secret address is: ericaschmidt85(at)gmail.com.

Let me know if you’d like a response. The correspondence can remain between us, or else we can share it here with others and maybe it could be healing for everyone. Love, Erica.

This is me in a movie with the begonia.


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Not Separate From All That Is
Mourning, wailing, yearning, wake up.
Deep Unyielding Depression, Part Two

This was my calling on the corner of Rue Boucher and Rue Drolet just around yesterday's sunset on Friday, March 17th.

This was my calling on the corner
of Rue Boucher and Rue Drolet
just around yesterday’s sunset
on Friday,
March 17th.

“Natasha,”

she yelled,
up to the window
of the fifth or sixth balcony
of a tall building.

“Natasha.”

Tall
for her old age,
the woman was wide,
wearing a long brown coat
and a dark green hat
and glasses.

“Nata-sha.”

Everybody watched,

but nobody did anything.

I looked at the building,

labelled
habitation
and something about
the golden age
of elderly people.

“Natasha.”

To me

it seemed unlikely
that the door
would be locked.

I crossed rue Boucher.

“Ça va?”

I asked the woman
who was looking for
Natasha.

“Pas clef,”

she said.
No key.

I walked her around

to the front of the building,
pulled on the door and it opened.

“C’est ouvert,”

it is open,
I remarked.                                                     

We walked in together.

“Merci,”
said the woman
who was looking for
Natasha.
“Très gentille.”

This was my calling
on the corner
of Rue Boucher and Rue Drolet
just around yesterday’s sunset
on Friday,
March 17th.

Every once in a while
the doors you seek to walk through
are already open.

The End.





This is Simon's building
in the summer.
Natasha does not live here.


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This is just me giving myself grace on the corner of Saint Laurent and Saint Viateur at 3 P.M. on a Tuesday
What does it mean to be well
They smile at the sidewalks even though it's cold as balls and they must remain on leashes.

The Tidying Festival

Cleaning is masturbation for the people on Prozac.

M.D. friends, I am due for a consult.

In the meantime, my apartment looks spectacular. The floors and the windowsills glimmer and beam.

The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, by Marie Kondo.
On Amazon.
tidyingup.com
konmarie.com

Essential reading for eager cleaners is of course, Marie Kondo’s The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. Marie Kondo’s unrivalled passion for keeping immaculate house began at the age of five, when the kindergartner felt compelled to devour housewives magazines. By junior high, she had embarked upon an “earnest” study of tidying, and each afternoon she’d come home from school, infused with enthusiasm and the resolve to tidy a different location. The fifth of every month was “living room day.” Another day would be, “pantry cleaning day.” Or perhaps she would “conquer the cupboards.” This woman has devoted an unimaginable number of hours devoted to creating a magical, clutter-free home. Her zealousness has led to the invention of the KonMari method, the key to abolishing mess and disorder for the rest of your life. Marie Kondo promises that her technique works for everyone, and even her laziest clients who suffered the most extreme cases of hoarding did not experience the dreaded “rebound” back to a disastrous living space. Her steadfast conviction fills me with such hope. As though life can be solved through fancy folding techniques and giving away your extra Mason jars you don’t need.

The heart of the KonMari method lies is determining what you should discard and what you should keep. After gathering all your items from a single category, you must handle each item lovingly, one by one. With careful consideration, you must ask yourself, “Does this spark joy?” According to Marie Kondo, everything you own must spark joy. If it doesn’t spark joy, it doesn’t belong in your home. Good luck with the toilet brush, folks!

For objects that don’t pass the joy sparking test, Marie Kondo recommends expressing gratitude for everything they once brought you. You might also wish them well as they embark on their new journey, to the dumpster or to the Salvation Army.

In my new room, the sparks are a little sparse, not due to a hoarding problem but because I am down to about three and a half suitcases worth of possessions. At the risk of being spark-less, and/or nude, I figured I couldn’t afford to throw out too many objects. I did, however, part with the threesome tights on my last moving day. Strangely enough, I saw some woman wearing them down the street from me. I hope they spark deep joy in her heart. But all this is to say that I did not spend that much time considering the joy-sparking capacities of my few possessions. I feel rather joyful about my new room slash Erica Museum.  That said, as I proceeded with my Tidying Festival, I discovered I had an enormous amount to learn about folding.

Perhaps like the old me, you believe that folding is no fun. To this Marie Kondo insists that “you have not discovered the impact of folding.” Folding must be done with great heart. As we fold, we should thank “our clothes for protecting our bodies. Folding is really a dialogue with our clothing.”

Marie Kondo believes that, “Every piece of clothing has its own ‘sweet spot’ where it feels just right – a folded state that best suits that item.” She maintains that, “There is nothing more satisfying than finding that ‘sweet spot.’ The piece of clothing keeps its shape when stood on edge and feels just right when held in your hand. It’s like a sudden revelation – so this is how you always wanted to be folded! – a special moment in which your mind and the piece of clothing connect.”

In Kondo’s mind, “to go through life without knowing how to fold is a huge loss.” At the same time, I can testify that spending Sunday morning talking to your clothing in attempts to discover how each item would prefer to be folded is somewhat frightening. Even more frightening is trying to master KonMari folding without first watching the Youtube video. I tried this and my clothes ended up spending four days in fat vertical rectangle shapes instead of in the way they always wanted – micro-thin and horizontal. My poor clothes were not grateful. Fortunately, I was able to make it up to them yesterday. The result is impeccable. Each item exudes comfort and appreciation. Having never been a neat freak, this is one of the most unlikely things I have ever done.

My Grateful Clothes

Also unlikely, last Wednesday a lovely pregnant woman hired me to clean her house.  I was really excited because she has a darling big black dog. For new friends and fans who haven’t read the archives, I used to have a Big Black Dog when I lived in Halifax. His name was Eliot and for a solid two years, he was a big star of the blog, and a highlight of my life. 

Eliot, the Old Big Black Dog. 

Although I derive immense delight from dusting and mopping, I expected that the pregnant lady’s adorable big black dog would be the highlight of my day of housework.

As it happened, the day turned out to be quite performative.

One of my friends who is writing a novel wanted to know what it’s like being a cleaning lady. I would say that it is similar to cleaning your own house except you don’t know where anything is. And if you are the sort of person who feels disgusted by your own mess, other people’s dust usually feels less personal.

People always say that children are easier when they’re your own. I’m not sure I believe them. But mess is usually easier when it’s other people’s. Unless you are on Prozac, in which case all forms of cleaning can serve as your new masturbation replacement.

I am on Prozac, and last Wednesday, I was ready to be invigorated via dust eradication. With exuberance and determination, I prepared myself to tackle the dust and the corners and the big black dog hair. My serotonin leapt at the kitchen counter’s newfound luminosity. Windex in hand, at around 11 o’clock, I went outside on the patio to conquer the dirt on the glass table.

(In truth the best technique for cleaning glass is vinegar and newspaper, but in a pinch, Windex will do.)

The Big Black Dog, whose fake name is a toss-up between Michael and Jeremy came outside with me. He promptly lay down to bask in the sun on the patio shingles. Before I finished with the table, I thought I saw MJ return to the house. Summer is sweltering for big black dogs. Once the table was done, I went inside to scrub the bathroom sink. Soon it would be time for vacuuming. I felt highly satisfied with my level of efficiency. I transferred the sheets from the washer to the dryer, and threw in a load of curtains.  It suddenly occurred to me that I had not seen Michael-Jeremy for some time.

 

To protect Michael-Jeremy's anonymity, photos of the old Big Black Dog 
have been used to evoke canine images in your head.

“Michael slash Jeremy?” I called out. No answer. The apartment was not enormous and it took me seven and a half minutes to make three thorough searches and realize that Michael/Jeremy the Big Black Dog was nowhere to be found. Had I forgotten him on the patio? Nope, not there.

Now I had lost the lovely pregnant woman’s dog. Worst fail ever. I imagined him jumping off the side of the terrace, and his injured body being lugged away by horrified animal rights activists. Or he had simply slipped away, soon to fall into the hands of irate city inspectors.

I happened to have a picture of M-J on my phone from a picnic the previous weekend.

“Mile End,” I posted on Facebook. “Has anyone seen this dog? Let me know.” I messaged my phD friend who is always drinking decaf lattes somewhere in the neighbourhood. No answer. I like to call my phD friend, The Mayor of Mile End. Calling out for Michael-Jeremy on the way, I went to Chez Boris Café to see if the Mayor of Mile End was taking advantage of Boris’s excellent doughnuts, and if he had come across the Big Black Dog. But alas, my phD Mayor of Mile End Friend wasn’t there.

I felt quite devastated. It was the first of June. June was supposed to be a month of explosive and transformative creativity, and now I was failing as a maid. Even though I am a thirty-year-old grown up, I decided to call my mother and shed some performative tears.

My mother recommended calling the pregnant woman despite my fear that this would result in long-term trauma. Maybe the pregnant lady would have an idea of where M-J had gone. I called and left the most serene message I could pull off on the answering machine. Highly performative.

For the next twenty minutes, I wandered around alleyways and asked random people if they had seen a big black dog. Nobody had. Finally the pregnant lady called back.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “It was the dog walker. I forgot to tell him you were coming. You must have missed each other.”

My life is an ecstatic adventure. Tidying up is a special event. The rest of the afternoon involved rather extensive wars with the vacuum cleaner and its multiple fancy attachments. For fear the machine was not to be conquered, I went back to my apartment to get our dirt devil.  I hope the sight of me in my short shorts hauling a bright red dirt devil through Mile End sparked joy in several people’s hearts.

Eventually, at least the bottom half of the fancy vacuum became willing to suck dirt up. Victory was mine.

If you’d like me to be part of your Tidying Festival, let me know.

The End.

Exquisite Folding with Marie Kondo.
Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor

I Let Go, by Erica J. Schmidt

The Erica Museum
Deep Unyielding Depression, Part One.
The Budgie Exodus of Mile End
Taes Floats Your Boat (re: doughnuts)