Caffeinating and, Falling in love with some stranger's spine.

Caffeinating and,
Falling in love

With some stranger’s spine.

 

Falling in love

With some stranger’s spine

Is so easy.

 

My ears

smell like

Apple Cider Vinegar.

 

My whole life,

A Eustachian

Salad

Dressing.

 

I just learned

The word

Eustachian

yesterday,

and now

I’m showing

off.

 

Stress-resistant

Makes me think

Of raincoats

And

a Mickey Mouse wristwatch.

 

And hyphens.

 

Most of our mothers

messed up potty training.

I’m pretty sure

mine didn’t

wrap my stroller

up in plastic.

 

Falling in love

With some stranger’s spine

Is so easy.

 

Wonder at

Their dissolving

ear wax.

I prefer

To avoid

Tight deadlines.

 

Soon the stranger

Will be leaving

With his spine

And his sneakers.

 

The End.

Waverly's Smiling Rainbow
Also
I am having a
Tie-Dye Sale.


Saturday, April 22 (Earth Day)


On the North
Yard Sale Stretch
of Bernard
between Waverly and St. Urbain


9-4
Free cookies!


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What I think about when I think about Brand-named Q-tips
Mourning, Wailing, Yearning, wake up
Where is Emma Fillipoff (One)

Today is Holy Thursday, and Meditating is a Holy Hell of a Time.

Title:


Today is Holy Thursday
and Meditating is
a Holy Hell
of a Time


Text:


There are weeks and
months
of my life
when I have a total hell
of a time
meditating.


Everyone knows I like to meditate while balancing, "Women Who Run with the Wolves" on my head. "Women Who Run with the Wolves" is the only hardcover book I own.


In fact, that is not true.


I have a small hardcover book written by Eric Emmanuel Schmidt which I found in the Mile End Armoire where all the hipsters leave their junk. Altogether I possess five books. This includes Ina May's Guide to Childbirth which I'm only borrowing. 


The novel by Eric Emmanuel Schmidt is not big enough to balance on my head.


I like to keep
French novels on my bedside table
in case that helps me learn French
while I'm sleeping. 


Matthew Sanford is a yoga teacher and paraplegic and he says that balancing books on your head has similar benefits to handstand.


Other yoga teachers are somewhat concerned about headstand's risk to the cervical spine. 


Headstands are one of the three things I know about my therapist Vincent.  Vincent is learning to stand on his head. The thought of this warms my heart. Good for Vincent.


The other two things I know about Vincent are:
1. He seems to like citrus and apples.
2. He is skeptical about cooking with a crock pot as he believes that excess moisture might disrupt potential flavour. 


It's possible that Vincent also plays tennis, but this I cannot confirm. 


I did not quite finish what I had to say about balancing a book on my head. 


While I was in Delhi,
I balanced Lena Dunham's book,
Not That Kind of Girl
on my head.


I meditated in the beautiful living room of my Cool Friend Fern's swanky apartment.
(I don't have a lot of experience
with the word swanky)
One time at my sister's house, I also balanced Not That Kind of Girl on my head.
(I wonder if Lena Dunham meditates)


That book was reasonably entertaining. I finished it on the train to Agra on the way to see the Taj Mahal and my billionth fort in two and a half weeks. I ended up giving Not That Kind of Girl to some fourteen to seventeen year old rickshaw drivers. I hope they made it to part about female orgasms being like a sneeze or like a seizure. For whatever reason, this was one of my favourite parts. I also liked the chapter about death. Just like Lena's brain, my brain is constantly permeated with the possibility of death and imminent catastrophe.


Me and Lena. 
Such kindreds.


In addition to our death fixations, me and Lena both like sex and have each had our times in the sun with psychiatric pharmaceuticals. Unlike Lena, I never had a boyfriend who left me with the unforgettable knowledge on how to avoid tangling up your headphones forever. None of my boyfriends have helped me with this. Alas, and alack, more or less.


What I do
when I'm having
a total
or holy
hell of a time
meditating
with Women Who Run with the Wolves
on my head:


Some people claim that to meditate for 30 minutes per day holds immense benefits. In many cases, this is true. One time on Facebook, I came up with the brilliant equation, 3+6+9+12=30. That is to say, you can meditate in chunks and do laundry in between. Everybody loved this tip. Today I did not bother with chunks, and bailed after fifteen minutes. I also did not bother to stretch my hamstrings or exert my ass muscles.


But here are some other tips, for you, or for Lena Dunham or for anyone else who wants to meditate:


1. Instead of sitting, lie down. Lying down is badass and radical.


You can stare at the clouds,
or the clotheslines, or the squirrels.
Or, close your eyes. Give the earth yours cells, and unravel, with tears, or without.


2. Think METTA phrases:
Toward yourself:
May I be safe,
may I be happy,
may I be healthy,
may I live with ease, and/or be free, and/or taste the perpetual and delicious goodness of lovingkindness as often as possible


Toward your roommates and/or your mother: May you + the above phrases.
 
For the whole world: May all and/or may we + the above phrases


3. I'm sorry, I love you, I forgive you, I thank you.


Simon, my ex-ex boyfriend the Hermit told me this one. You repeat it to yourself slash to your ego. Or to people who are driving you nuts. After two days of this meditation, Simon claimed he was cured. Simon jumped out of this world on January 4, 2015. He gave the earth all of his cells. By now his body has transformed into something entirely new. I was lucky to know him.


4. Look at yourself in the mirror and repeat, "I love you just the way you are," or some other version of this. You can use a full-length mirror or just look at your face in the circle of your cover-up's compact. Please refrain from this exercise if it feels oppressive. I first learned of this sort of thing while reading Louise Hayes' book, "You Can Heal Your Life" as I considered various options for healing toenail fungus. One of the first things Louise gets her clients to do is to stare at themselves in a compact mirror and whisper to their faces, "I Love You." Most people cannot do this without weeping. I believed Louise and did not bother trying for a solid eight years. Now it is 2017 and the approximate anniversary of when Jesus washed his apostles' feed. I have taken up painting my ugly toenails purple. And somehow I am able to stare at my face in the tiny compact mirror, and whisper, "I LOVE YOU, ERICA."


On Tuesday, April 11, while I was staring at my face, I plucked only one stray hair between my eyebrows.


Like Lena Dunham, as a child of the nineties, I suffer from odd eyebrow chunks, and arbitrary bald patches. There's me and Lena, once again. 


The last thing
I have to say
is about citrus. 


But the second last thing is about Holy Thursday
when the Catholics get together
and wash each other's feet.


When I was nineteen years old, I was a bit of a darling. And I signed up to live and work in a L'Arche home for people with intellectual disabilities. For two years, I attended some sort of Catholic function at least two times per week. Many of us have a deep aversion to anything Catholic. I get that. The homophobia, anti-abortion discourse, and priests raping children - these make for quite the buzz kills. And yet, in my two years of kicking around the Catholics, I found that this brand of Jesus people are some of my favourites. Especially the nuns. I met so many spectacular and generous and delightful nuns. These humble women embodied service more deeply than anything I'd ever seen.


Anyways, the first time I ever ended up at a Foot Washing Ceremony was rather astonishing. I felt shocked to discover that it wasn't a metaphor. We were actually gonna take our socks off.  Everyone washed someone else's feet and everyone's feet got washed.


Through the whole thing, the song they sang over and over again went,
"If I your Lord and Master, should wash, should wash your feet,
how much more must you, wash one another's too?"


I have often thought that as the baby boomers age, becoming one of those foot technicians who clips ingrown toenails, shaves off callouses and vacuums corns would almost certainly secure a solid income stream into this digital age, and beyond.


Now I will conclude with a short poem about citrus that was written on Monday, April 10, the Full Moon's Eve, and 2017's most beautiful day so far, on which I felt devastatingly oversized and rather weepy:


The world is in bloom.
I'm having a fat day.
I did not know
that worms do not
like citrus.
Once I brought a mason jar
of citrus
mixed with vodka
up the mountain.
Two minutes ago
I looked into the window
and saw white pieces
of citrus in my hair.


The End.

A holy hell of a time
meditating
to you.


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Not That Kind of Girl 
We have no idea if the squirrels are happy/or/ if anyone is
The Lying Down Club

What I think about when I think about brand-named q-tips.

What I think about
when I think about
Brand Named Q-Tips.


Every time I clean out my ears with olive oil, I think of this training I did about how to take care
of someone with Alzeimer's. (In French they call training, formation, and I find this quite poetic.)
The training's presenter was a former nurse who made the commitment to live in a L'Arche home, I think in Trois-Rivières, where she shared her life and helped take care of people with intellectual disabilities. In her home lived a tiny woman in her fifties who had both Down Syndrome and Alzeimer's. Early Alzeimers is quite common for people with Down Syndrome, and for them being fifty or sixty is rather old.


The former nurse taught us about the best order for washing body parts. That is to say, feet, armpits and buttholes last, best case scenario, with many fresh wash cloths. As for Q-tips, these she did not recommend, brand-name or otherwise. Instead, she said you could stick a damp clean wash cloth inside the person's ear and gently faire la tour. Make the rounds.


I also remember her suggesting that you take the person you are caring for out for walks whenever you could. Some people need two extra arms on either side to help them balance. Others only need one. In any case, it is usually best to walk slowly.


"Ce n'est pas du cardio pour nous autres."
Not the cardio
for us. 


I never met the tiny woman with Alzeimers who lived in Trois-Rivières. Almost certainly by now she is dead.


But I can picture her, walking slowly, being beautiful, and not using Q-tips. 


What I think about
when I think about
Brand Named Q-Tips


The Drugstore Date
with my ex-love-of-my-life
The Boatman.


I invented Drugstore Dates in February of 2012. Drugstore dates involve going to the drugstore at any pre-determined hour, with your loved one, or by yourself if you're trying to master self-compassion and/or radical self-reliance. During the Drugstore Date, you can do romantic things such as take your own or your loved one's blood pressure. You might discuss your results with your loved one, or with the pharmacist. Try not to get to competitive about something that is always changing. After the blood pressure is over, take your time perusing each aisle. From podiatric health to Family Planning, each drug store aisle offers something potentially exciting. Be sure to make a stop in the row of greeting cards where you can read a festive and heartfelt message aloud, no matter what holiday it is or isn't. Almost always you will be able to find an obnoxious musical greeting card which will be thrilling and liberating to open in a public space.


No one should leave a Drugstore Date without making some sort of non-regrettable purchase that can serve as a thoughtful and non-regrettable gift, either for yourself or for the Loved One.


The greatest thing about the drugstore is that it abounds with items you won't regret purchasing. Examples are dandruff shampoo, a nail file, Grapefruit Perrier and Brand name Band-aids. In French they call band-aids, les pansements.


No one regrets buying any of these items. You will walk out of the drugstore with a full heart and absolutely no regrets.


On the very first Drugstore Date, the Boatman bought me some purple sparkly eye shadow. Maybe he also bought me some other contraption such as a nail file for my disgusting toenails. I know for sure, I bought him a large box of brand-name q-tips. I'm not sure if he stuck them in his ears. Definitely they were useful for applying cold sore ointment.


What I think about
when I think about
Brand Named Q-Tips


On Sunday, April 9, I saw a toddler lying back in his stroller and clutching a box of brand-name q-tips.


The fresh blue plastic-wrapped box,
his earnest clutching hands
evoked so much.
Gifted with brand-named q-tips so early in life,
this boy ,
I do not
intend to forget.


The End.

Hi.
Thanks for reading.


Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

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The Drugstore Date
All the Lonely People, Rainbows, the Big Black Dog, and Sex
Regrets


How I am violent, by Erica J. Schmidt

Mourning, Wailing, Yearning, Wake up

Mourning
Wailing
Yearning
Wake up.


Vincent called me in September.
He sounded
quite sad
on the phone.


I thought,
"A sad therapist.
Well,
this will be easy."


I don't think
I have good
professional boundaries.
I'm also pretty sure
I want to be an artist.


What does it mean
to be an artist?


My goals in life are
long-term sources of intimacy,
long term sources of sex,
a strong mind,
a healed body.
What is a cervical orgasm?


Vincent's office
has no windows.
Hating myself is
part of my charm.


More therapists
than you'd imagine,
are actually
quite sad.
As they say,
this breaks my heart.
(Or maybe I
should become a therapist.)


I wouldn't mind being
a little bit famous
but I like
when life 
is simple.


For example,
I love you.
For example:
she weeps when
he enters her.


Mourning, wailing, yearning, wake up.
I really want people to see me.


My goals in life are
deep love for all my cells,
a cleared and clear and generous heart,
creativity,
service.


The government is always
running out of money.
After our last session
I cried in
the elevator.


All my life I've wished
I was tiny
and adorable.
Oh well.


I think I am tannée
of this eternal vow of poverty.
But I like
when life
is simple.


Last Saturday
I saw Vincent
on the corner
of Beaubien and Boyer Street.

I always wondered
what Vincent did on Saturdays.
He was walking with a small-sized woman
with curly hair.
I was listening to a podcast about orgasmic meditation
and considering how
the recent breakthroughs
in my life
remain
rather tenuous.


Vincent winked and crossed the street.
I went
to the market
to buy apples.


The End.

My friend Jeff
invited me to his birthday party
I was quite pleased with how my outfit turned out.


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Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

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The Permafrost is Melting in Siberia
I do not know how to fulfill my enormous potential
Hour of God on a Friday

We have no idea if the squirrels are happy. Or / if anyone is.

Human supremacy is
assuming the squirrels are happy.

We have no idea

if the squirrels are

having a good time,

or

if anyone is.

Sometimes I struggle

to find an outfit

that matches  the day.

So far

my best option

smells like the thrift store.

Now that I’m going off Prozac,

I think someone else

might have to

take out
the recycling.

Hormone curation,

myoclonic jerks.

These seem fewer,

but I feel more inclined

to be grumpy.

When I get old,

I hope there is time

to watch the squirrels

carry bagels

across telephone wires.

 

Telephone wires,

and clotheslines,

though by then all the telephone wires

will be buried underground.  

Who knows what will happen to the clotheslines.

 

Time for the squirrels,

and a window.

And jigsaw puzzles.

 

I will not die of loneliness,

but this may seem surprising.

We have no idea

if the squirrels are happy.

Or

if anyone is.

The End.

This outfit matches the day
better than the others.
It does not smell
like the thrift store.


Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:

Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica)
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First no boundaries on the Internet. Then Psychotic Break.
This was my calling on the corner of Rue Boucher and Rue Drolet just around yesterday's sunset on Friday, March 17
Rumplestiltskin


Five Days of Creative Recovery

The Permafrost is melting in Siberia

Money Issues,
Daddy Issues,
Poetry
and oil.


The Permafrost
is melting in
Siberia.


You have always made things
more beautiful than
they needed to be.
More beautiful and
more complicated.


Now that I'm going off Prozac,
I await my brand new orgasms.


Today I slept
past 6 a.m.
Just like
a regular person.


Regular person
Regular French fries.


My body contains no permafrost,
though I heard that once I'm dead
large maggots will crawl
out my mouth.
I don't quite understand
how they'll manage
to do this.


I was thinking of becoming
a gardener,
but doubt that I have
enough patience.


Plus most of my backyard
is covered in pavement.


You have always made life
more beautiful than it needed to be.
More beautiful and
more complicated.


The End.


Making things more beautiful than they need to be
comes from Elizabeth Gilbert
in a conversation with Krista Tippett
in the Onbeing episode, "Choosing Curiosity Over Fear."

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:

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

What does it mean to be a woman, part Two

What does it mean

to be a woman,

part Two.

In grade five

my science fair project

considered

which kind of music

made bean plants

grow best.

The categories were

Classical - both live and recorded,

Broadway musicals - Les Mis, The Secret Garden, Beauty and the Beast,

The Vacuum Cleaner,

Easy Listening

Pop Music,

And Billie Holiday.

For most of their lives,

the bean plants grew

on the bathroom windowsill

each of them privy

to my sister's singing

and the sound

of the hairdryer.

Back then

I was quite the scientist.

To gain further insight

for my research,

I watched a biographical film

about Billie Holiday

whose name was once

Eleanora Fagan.

This is when I learned that many women

have to change their names

if they want

to be famous.

Judy Garland too.

Judy and the Wizard

of Oz

were my favourites.

I even named

my stuffed orangutang

after Judy

and from a young age,

I drew rainbows compulsively. 

"Them that's got shall get."

"Them that's not shall lose."

Growing up

I was lucky to own

more than one

stuffed primate.

All I remember

from the Billie Holiday movie

was the song, "God Bless the Child,"

and Billie slash

Eleanora

shooting heroine on the toilet

and singing in a bar

where she caught five-dollar bills with her vagina.

"Mama may have.

Papa may have."

At nine or ten years old,

this was the first

I'd seen of such things.

"The strong gets more while the weak ones fade."

The bean plant

that listened to

"pop"

was the winner.

Curated by my sister,

the "Pop" cassette

opened with

"The Leader of the Pack."

Bean plants

it seemed,

responded quite well

to whining

and pining

about dudes.

It's my party

You don't own me

Birds all sing

as if they know.

Billie's bean plant

grew an average height.

Now I might remember

Billie dying her skin white.

Or Eleanora.

Or was that someone else.

My last Fat Day

failed to apologize.

My last Married Man

never climbed up

through my window.

I invited him so many times.

As for me,

when I grew up

I did not become a scientist,

or a singer,

or even a gardener.

Or,

anyone's mother.

It was never clear to me

if Billie got to keep

the five-dollar bills

she retrieved with her

vagina.

Or if that would have made

any difference.

The End.

Good morning
heartache.


Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:

Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica)
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What does it mean to be a woman, Part One
Not That Kind of Girl
First no boundaries on the Internet. Then Psychotic break.