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
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
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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)

Dear Vincent, It seems no matter who I'm having sex with, I ugly cry every other time.

Dear Vincent,

It seems no matter who I’m having sex with, I ugly cry every other time. Toronto was quite fun. I bought three pairs of shoes for ninety-nine dollars, and got to ejaculate on my sister’s living room floor. It was my birthday and I was trying on blue spandex and silver sequins with the Dead Inside Man. What a gift. I always like to say, never underestimate the powers of a good, hard fuck from behind. And/or, new shoes.

Thank you for trying to put me on the Gazette Fundraiser Poor People List. I think I am making myself out to be a more destitute and pathetic creature than I actually am. In fact, my couch is very large and very beautiful. And I have a washing machine, an RRSP, organic apple cider vinegar, no roommates, and now, new shoes. If you really want to help me, then accept me into your private practice, and just take my money. Or else can this whole borderline personality thing and take me out for a sandwich.

Love, Erica.

Dear Vincent,

I can’t believe you said that you’d rather read Winston Churchill’s memoirs rather than my own teenage memoirs, since unlike Churchill, I did not win the Nobel Prize. Churchill’s memoirs contain no rainbows. I heard he liked to take naps, and that he was an alcoholic. And depressed. Oh Winston. 

Glimpses of My Teenage Memoirs.

These days, people are saying the era of the personal essay - about when the gynecologist found a hair ball in your vagina - is coming to an end.

Before our last appointment, I went to the thrift store at Plaza St-Hubert, all bubbly that soon I would see you, and surely we would laugh and bask in the optimistic email I had sent you in real life. About my new shoes, cheese curds, chocolate covered almonds, surviving two consecutive family weekends with flying colours, and the good hard fucks from behind. At the thrift store, I like to look at baby clothes, seven-dollar pants, and ugly mugs. If ever beyond these imaginary letters to you, I end up writing my adult memoirs, I should devote a whole chapter to ugly mugs. This week, the St Hubert Renaissance Ugly Mug Winners were the Albert Mug and the Lorraine Mug. Both mugs are inscribed in big black serif letters with their respective names. The Albert Mug pictures the Mayflower at sea, while the Lorraine mug has relatively generic red and yellow flowers on it which matched Lorraine's name perfectly. I laughed profusely in the ugly mug aisle, imagining giving you the Albert mug as a gift, even though your name is not Albert. You wouldn’t have loved the Albert mug at all.

Oh, Albert. Oh, Lorraine.

When I saw, you didn’t mention the shoes, or the hard fucks in my email, and so I assumed you hadn’t read it or else were choosing to ignore it and this made me feel rather awkward, and later very devastated. I’d prepared a show and tell session, and showed you a pile of letters from 1994, the peak of my life when I’d written to my grandparents every single day for a whole year. All the envelopes were covered in rainbows. I wanted to show you what a beautiful dork I used to be.

Envelopes from 1994, back when I used to be a darling

All my life I’ve given imaginary men all the power to have all the answers. All the power, and all the ugly mugs. In real life, the imaginary men don’t even read your emails. In real life, the imaginary men do not meet your needs at all. You have no idea what a wonderful imaginary friend you used to be. Oh well. Now I know you used to play the violin, and then the bass. This is mildly interesting, though some people say that woodwinds and brass players are better kissers. I used to play trombone.

You told me that although I am good at recognizing patterns and stats, I should not to quantify my sex life with fifty percent ugly cries since this might be setting myself up for inevitable meltdowns. You mean well, just like you meant well when you tried to put me on the Poor Person Gazette Christmas Fundraiser List. In other stats, therapy feels like kind of a performance and almost a date. It’s a fucking head trip that seems to cause hysteria, every other time. I don’t believe in Borderline Personality Disorder. I think I might have to finish this memoir, Mondays without Vincent sort of soon. This makes me feel really sad. Next time I might tell you that I have a pretty big crush on you, and this could be a problem. Or else I might just ask you if you still play the bass, and if you’re in a band, and if so, what’s your band’s name, and do you ever sing.

Love, Erica.

Writing to Vincent is healing, but if you want an answer, you should write to me. As fate would have it, Vincent is awfully busy, and I am a much better pen pal, even though I did not win a Nobel prize, or go to grad school. The secret email address is ericaschmidt85 (at) gmail (dot) com. I would love to hear from you and will write back as soon as I can. Love, Erica.

I wish.


Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

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Dear Vincent, When I get really upset, I need to be seen, heard, felt and loved by someone whose dick has been inside of me. Or else you.
Yours til ekam inhales.
Dear Vincent. Can you hold me?