They smile at the sidewalks even though it's cold as balls and they must remain on leashes.

Places where you had the true joy.
Or saw it.

Beautiful Neurotic.

There is something to be cherished
in those who are so serious.

On February 11, I will ask the Boatman to send me the bottles of castor oil I brought back from India in 2014.
Unless he already threw them out.

Included in my update, I will mention that I ordered my first full basket of French Fries.
I ate the whole thing.
With ketchup, and even some mayonnaise.
Survived the ordeal
free from both obesity,
and heartburn.

Vincent would be proud of the risk.

Groundhog Day, 2017

Today I might write a letter
To my old Expensive Friend David.
Vincent is subsidized,
but David cost
one hundred and seventy bucks per hour.
He was worth it.
Halifax is
a torturous place
to find friends.

I never got to learn very much about David,
except that he had more than one kid,
and however many children he had,
they all preferred texting
over talking on the phone.

David was generous with his time.
David also seemed to love purple.

Dear David,

I really like purple too.
Really, really, really like it.
Even more than I did in Halifax.

 I really really really love purple.

Tips for Surviving Life:
Prozaac, and Underemployment.

The Big Blue Sky is still not up.
My room smells like a stuffy sleepy person.
The duvet failed to get me off this morning.
Where are the buzz kills,
and who.

Dear Married Man,
It has occurred to me
that I might consider
crawling out from under the table
and re-emerging with some of my dignity.

Next time I'm gonna try
Not to knock all the dignity over
in the first place.

This would be such a fabulous Country Music Song.
Another missed calling!
Alas.

You know all about these.
I love you and don't worry about it.

Unrestrained enthusiasm or joy.
Thinking about this again
And all the people at vipassana
who have been observing the breath below their nostrils
and scanning all their body's cells
as the state of the world unravels.

My computer fan
is evoking the sound
of a low-powered chain saw.

All we've got left
for the pure sanctioned joy
is the babies being born.

Even with the blood
And violence
And fecal matter,
we are allowed to be ecstatic.

I used to be too jaded for this.
But now,
the sight
or the softness
of a onesie
fills me with such hope.

I also see a massive revolution
in the small people
trudging passed Café Olimpico
In vibrant snowsuits twice the size of them.

They do not feel burdened like oversized marshmallows.

They smile at the sidewalks
Even though it's cold as balls
And they must remain on leashes.

The End.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

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Hour of God on a Friday
The Vipassana Diaries: Why I Like To Pee Outside

Exalted

 

Laundry Day

Probably we could cure most of the world’s angst and obesity if everyone had to do their laundry by hand. Even if you do a terrible job like I did, it is still hard work.

It was yesterday morning when I decided to take my first stab at laundry in India. I woke up at 3 a.m. after falling asleep in a strange nauseous deep-fried food buzz.  Or maybe it was a coma. Hard to say. My bed is so hard it’s like rolling around on a wooden foam roller all night. If I'm lucky, this will cure my i.t. bands. When I woke up, the fretting began. Deep-fried food frets. Femoral Acetabular Impingement Syndrome frets. Changing apartment frets. Backwards time zone frets.

After practice and two meltdowns on Facetime, I ventured out to get locate some coffee.  I have a little portable French press, but no coffee to make it with. Jois Coffee, where all the yogis buy their ground beans was closed. So I grabbed some coffee on the street. Here it seems that coffee is made with about one tablespoon of espresso and then a bunch of boiled milk and lots of sugar. The sugar to milk ratio is pretty high

“You have any with no sugar?” I asked.

“One moment.” They were about to boil some sugarless milk for me when I thought, the hell with it. It would make up for the low caffeine and tie me over until my landlady made chai for breakfast.

My house is easier to find now. On the corner of the street there is a home with a sign advertising “Positive Health Classes.” Although I have seen this same sign in a couple of places, this landmark does help.  Maybe you are interested in “Positive Health Classes.” They promise to “Add Life to Years.”

Positive Health Classes
Add Life to Years

When I got back to the apartment, Pushpa my landlady was standing at the balcony.

“I wait for you,” she said. “You lock-ed me.” Oops.  All the doors at Pushpa's house open and close with horizontal metal latches. The day before Pushpa had asked me to make sure that I latched the bathroom door when I was done. I guess I became overly diligent about doors and locked her in from the outside. Luckily, I had only been gone a few minutes.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, shaking my head. There were about forty-five minutes before breakfast. Already I’d been awake for over five hours. It felt like years. The day ahead of me felt like years. With no positive health classes, how would I add Life to Years?



my mildewed yoga clothes and underwear

I hauled my mildewed yoga clothes and underwear to the corner of the balcony. Pushpa watched me as I dumped my clothes on the big square laundry stone. She frowned slightly as I bent forward awkwardly and ran water over a purple American Apparel t. shirt.

“It's making wet,” she said, pointing to my bright pink long flowy skirt. “In bucket.” So all the clothes went into the red bucket that I hadn’t noticed before. Water filled the bucket and then I pulled out the purple t. shirt again. wet t. shirt

wet t. shirt

“Hmm, hmm,” Pushpa mumbled as I tried to figure out where to put the soap.

 
All I had was Ivory Bar Soap. You have to rub some soap onto the stone and then rub the shirt over that. The scrubbing part is vigorous and rewarding and it makes lots of bubbles. I squatted the whole time which was wonderful for my pelvis and my bowel movements.   Definitely the process counteracts angst and obesity. First you rub soap onto your clothes. Some people who don’t want their clothes to smell like mildew leave their clothes to soak in a bucket of soapy water. This is probably an excellent idea. I, however, wanted to get it all over with and so I rinsed everything right away. Pushpa instructed me on how to lift the clothes up and down as I poured more water over it. I got a bit lazy and probably didn’t get all of the soap out. So if you see me at the shala and I’m a bit mildewed and covered with soap streaks, you’ll know why.

The End.

 

Obesity and Neurosis Cures on a String

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
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Our lives will never be the same

Now I am in Delhi
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Simon Says

One day a year, I leave the house without taking a shit.  It's the worst day of the year.  I hate that day.  This week, I've had that day three days in a row.  I've been working at a call centre for the local elections, and I need to leave the house at 7 AM.  At an obscene hour, I wake up to practice yoga.  Despite caffeination, and my most miraculous manifestations to the universe, evacuation just hasn't been happening.  Not before yoga, and not after.  I remain clogged up most of the day. 

Simon hates to hear about my bowel movements.  He's an anomaly.  Simon says it's the most shitty and uninteresting part of my writing.  And he hates my blogposts.  He refuses to read them.  "Write our book," he says. A couple months ago, we started our third book together.  We finished our first book "The Little Savage and the Hermit" last fall.  One of my lifetime achievements was not throwing a plate at Simon at the liquid lunches we had during the revision process.  We sent the manuscript out to a bunch of small press Canadian publishers.  A publisher from Toronto called us back in January.  He seemed really interested, although it was centuries before we heard from him again. 

In the meantime, Simon said that we should write another book.  Many times I've written about playing Simon says with Simon.

"Suck my dick," he used to say.  So I would.  There is only one man in the world I have ever slept with whose dick stays hard after a Long and Thorough Blow Job.  Simon is that person.  After the Long and Thorough Blow Job, Simon would still feel like having sex.  Usually, I wouldn't. But Simon would say, "Let's have sex," and so we would.

Although Simon and I have not had sex for a long time, sometimes we still play Simon says.  After we finished the first book, I thought that probably it was a terrible idea for us to write another one.  But since we sort of had a publisher for our first one, I thought then the second one would be guaranteed to be published and then my dream of being Rich and Famous like Margaret Atwood would be closer.  Plus for some reason, writing with Simon is some of the easiest writing I do.  Often my writing process is painful, and agonizing and angsty.  With Simon, the struggle is less.  Perhaps it's because I am writing about myself, and my audience is clear.  It is easy to establish my voice.  I can write about whatever I want and I don't have to be deep or literary or groundbreaking like Margaret Atwood.  Angst and all, I can just be myself.

So even though there was a high chance of more liquid lunches and plate-throwing, I decided to go ahead with The Little Savage and the Hermit Part Two, and more recently, Part Three.  Simon writes one chapter, and then I write the next.  These days, it's my turn.  But I'm sitting here constipated at the call centre, and I got nothing but shit-filled blogposts and facebook clicks. 

During my clogged up lunchbreak, I decide to call our publisher, to get some inspiration and motivation.  The publisher is a very small press in Toronto.  They were supposed to confirm publication with us in the summer.  Summer became September and now it is October.

"Oh hi, Erica," the publisher says.  "I was going to email you.  We're not going to go through with it. 

It has been a difficult year." 

I am in too much of a constipated zombie to say anything more than "Okay, thank you."I hang up the phone and call Simon. 

"Oh, we knew it wouldn't work out," he says.  "It was fake good news."

I yawn and feel gassy. 

"Well, we are both dead inside," Simon says.  "It doesn't matter." 

I return to my windowless cubicle beneath fluorescent lights. 

The woman next to me has the same name as a bird. Her name is a secret for you, but once one of her callers asked her to repeat it.  She repeats it and then there was a pause.

"Yes, like the bird," she says.  "The Big Black Bird." 

Every once in awhile the lady named after the Big Black Bird makes a high pitched squeaking squawking noise.  Not like the Big Black Bird. 

Dead inside.  The phone rings.

"Thank you for calling the ### help centre.  I was not named after a Big Black Bird.  But I'd love to help you."

Someone wants to vote online and they do not have the internet.  I'll be helping him for the rest of my life.  My supervisor brings me chocolate desserts.  I eat them and slowly start growing into the shape of my chair.  I will never take a dump again. 

Sometimes I just want to post The Little Savage and the Hermit online and be done with it. Margaret Atwood would probably say that this is dumb.  But we aren't playing "Margaret Atwood Says." 

I am not Margaret Atwood.  We've been over this ten thousand times.  Big Black Bird lady does her squeaking squawking thing.  She's wearing a grey hat.  She's  not Margaret Atwood either. 

The call centre phones aren't ringing anymore.  On Facebook, my friend writes that she's going on the Ellen show.  To talk about her self-published book called "Thank You For HPV."  She will empower Ellen's viewers to heal their HPV without taking a drug or a vaccine or ripping things off of their cervixes.  All this makes me feel unempowered and embarrassingly jealous.  I should have had a sexually transmitted disease in my title. I should have tried to contract a sexually transmitted disease on purpose.

Learn more about Thank You For HPV!

Then I scroll down and see that my friend is not really going on the Ellen Show.  She's just manifesting her success to the universe, and on Facebook.  I feel dumb for being jealous.  When my friend gets on Ellen, I WILL be happy for her.  I will manifest that happiness right now. 

Happiness.  Not dead inside.

There are other things to manifest:  Tomorrow will be a new day at the call centre.  My supervisor will bring other kinds of snacks.  I will shit before 9 A.M.  The people on the phone will know what the internet is.  I will spend all day not writing back to Simon.  The Big Black Bird Lady will be wearing a different hat.  Maybe she will make a different noise.

Simon always said that I'm just like him, except I'm female and he's way better at getting orgasms.

Simon says that there are some vulvas, like mine, that you keep licking and licking until you realize that you're a hundred years old and you're gonna die in a second...

In one hundred years, Simon won't be licking my vulva.  The elections will be over.  I'll have taken ten hundred thousand shits and ten hundred thousand different times.  My cervix will be HPV free. Margaret Atwood will be dead.  And the children won't play Simon Says anymore. 

The End.

Synopsis: The Little Savage and the Hermit  (for those who haven't read it yet)

The Little Savage and the Hermit meet on a disintegrating biodegradable yoga mat.  Erica, an imaginative, eating disordered yogi plays the Little Savage, while Simon a reclusive author, is the Hermit. 

This is a modern love story, wrapped up in a bigger tale of solidarity. One writer can love another writer, and that's pleasant, but the greatest thing a published writer can do for an unpublished one, is to write a book with her. Thus the saga unfolds, punctuated with poetry, drama, dreams, sex, humour, alcohol and other trendy dysfunctions.

The book revitalizes the ancient form of the epistolary novel.  Simon opens by recounting the yoga mat scene with nostalgia and a very bad poem.  Erica's response, “What the Tornado Said,” undermines their intimate encounter, refusing to believe that this hermit could have made her wet like the morning.

Although the book was her idea, Erica quickly becomes resistant to continuing. She fears that the process fuels an impossible relationship and believes that she is too self-indulgent to create anything of value.  Simon, however, sees the clear potential in her writing and is too stubborn to let her give up since that would mean that he would lose his shot at a book he's eager to see come to life.

A third of the way into the novel, a dramatic narrative turn transforms Erica into a cardboard box. From this point on, the completion of their novel becomes inevitable and their love for each other, undeniable.

Countless mornings, magic toe shoes and more bad poems ensue, but unfortunately, Simon retains his hermit limitations. Long ago, he chose books over people. With her savage fires and cardboard box angst, Erica can`t do much to change his mind. Once the book is finished, the Little Savage wishes she could begin again, and longs for their “bright happy faces in the wet happy morning.” Classic shitty relationship, carried out by geniuses. At least now they have something to show for it. The hermit's happy. The book is ready.

The Hermit is actually dead.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, by Erica J. Schmidt

Simon Girard 1979-2015
What a Beautiful Face
Guillaume, Part Two
 

 

Supersize versus Superskinny: A Spiral of Shame

Readers, I’m sorry.  My mind has gone dull and I’m totally ashamed.  I blame it on Lady Gaga.  A week or so ago, she announced to the world that she has endured a lifelong struggle with anorexia and bulimia.  At the time of her great announcement, it was evening and the Boatman was working late.  Instead of following  James Altucher’s Seven Habits for Highly Effective Mediocre People, I made the evolved decision of going on Facebook.  There I learned that in response to someone calling her fat, Lady Gaga launched a movement called “Body Revolution.”  

Lady Gaga poses for “Body Revolution.”

Lady Gaga’s movement is a forum on Lady Gaga’s webpage meant to promote body acceptance.  People post photos and stories about their struggles to adopt a positive body image, be they due to eating disorders, illnesses, disabilities, or whatever reason.  Clicking away I travelled from one article about Lady Gaga to another.  Miraculously, my psyche remained undamaged despite the fact that Lady Gaga is 26 years old just like me and like Kiera Knightley (also my age), she has accumulated heaps more fame and success than me and my sad blog and self-help book. 
 
In case you forgot, the moral of the heartbreaking I-wish-I-was-kiera-knightley story was:
 
We all have high vaginas.  Me, you, Kiera, Knightley, Lady Gaga.  Everybody.
 
Here’ s my High Vagina.  Again.  



Me and my High Vagina at the Boatman's mother's cottage

But a twist of fate occurred when I came across the site, “Healthy is the new skinny.”  Like Lady Gaga’s cause, this site also promotes positive body image.  It also seems to advocate for realistic and healthy models in the media.  Wonderful. I’m all about this.  Healthy is the new skinny has a section of videos from Youtube and beyond.  Some of them feature people sharing their own journey towards body acceptance.  Others contain different news stories about disturbing diets, stereotypes and the fact that if Barbie a real person, with her disproportionate body, she’d suffer horrendous back pain and be hard-pressed to walk.  I like this sort of thing, so I kept scrolling down and clicking.

Then I came across a British reality television show called

“Supersize vs Superskinny.”  The whole thing’s on Youtube.
 
As the title suggests, the show profiles a “diet swap”  between one morbidly obese person and a waif-like, usually eating disordered person.  For five days, the large person will eat the emaciated person’s measly diet, while the poor person who’s used to eating nothing has to stuff his or her face with the multi-caloried mountains of food that the big eater consumes every day.

As someone who used to have a litany of food rules and restrictive habits, I find the diet swaps to be a bit unlikely.  Most of the time, the participants change their ways far more quickly and amicably than is realistic.  After five days, almost all of the superskinnies are putting dents in the piles of the supersize’s feasts.  And just about every time, the supersized participants make peace with their meagre portions, and end up leaving something on their plates.

Apparently a lack of sound, realistic journalism isn’t that important to me.  I didn’t count how many episodes I’ve watched, but I made it to approximately season five, where the outcomes of the diet swaps become slightly more realistic.  I know way too much about this show.  I’ve watched it way too many times.

Between meals, other journalists examine different diet and weight related issues.  For one season, a reporter tries out all sorts of fad diets.  On a couple others, they follow a group of anorexic and bulimic patients.  Season five, if you’re interested, does a bit of both.  The doctor on the show travels to Evansville, Indiana, apparently the fattest city in the United States.  In Evansville, they have ambulances that can carry a 1400 person.  So far most people max out around 800 or 900 pounds.  But still.  Oof.

 This guy would need an enormous ambulance to move him which must make him feel terrible.

Seriously, these people have wounds from surgery that won’t heal because they’re covered in fat.  They have to get someone else to help them shower, or wipe their asses. 

I can’t believe I’ve watched this show more than once. Surely once would be enough.  But no, I can’t stop.  I know I shouldn’t look, but I can’t look away.  It’s a big fat binge. 

Although I’d love to hear your thoughts on all this, if I were you, I’d avoid this show.  My obsession with it has caused me great shame.  I wish that I could say something profound and meaningful about obesity and eating disorders and the world’s ridiculous obsession with food and weight, but after so many hours watching these youtube clips, I’m consumed with lethargy and self-loathing. 

Now it’s time to go teach a core strength yoga class. Let’s hope that my students work very hard, igniting the fire deep within their lower stomach so that I may vicariously burn away this spiral of shame.

The End.

Me being skinny in India. Kerala, 2016.
India is the best diet. Or the worst.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, self-help book by Erica J. Schmidt

Tell Me I'm Fat, by This American Life

Are you strong or are you skinny?
Day 69 of Not Puking in Your Mouth
The Benefits of an Ashtanga Yoga Practice, Part Two