Clean and Elegant

Clean and Elegant

Thursday 29 March 2018

Dear Vincent, This is a Hungry Ghost.



Dear Vincent,

This is a Hungry Ghost.


Dear H. Ghost
Hungry Ghosts crave more attention than is available. They mourn and wail and wallow more than is reasonable. Hungry ghosts are not happy for their friends, or for the bright-eyed shiny rich entrepreneurs on Facebook. Their feelings and cravings are more enormous and grotesque than what you would envision in your ideal picture of yourself. Starving your hungry ghosts does not exactly work. Somehow you still have to feed them.

I heard that every few weeks, Chinese monks escape over the monastery walls to get drunk on some disgusting vodka. And that the serene meditators of California go out for an obligatory burger and fries after their retreat. So they wouldn’t get too pure. So their hungry ghosts would not get too hungry. I love these stories.

My hungry ghosts are eating unwashed carrots out of the bag. They are not quitting coffee, or folding the hanging laundry within an acceptable amount of time. They are dreaming illusions of grandeur and longing to jump into bed with someone impossible. They have not forgiven my perfectly darling mother. They are naked and hungry and lonely and sad and still somehow beautiful. And somehow, you still have to feed them.

Love, Erica. 

Send your imaginary and un-imaginary emails to Vincent, or to me. The secret email address is ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com. Love to you and your Hungry Ghosts.


Compost and Me


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Dear Vincent, Are you lonely? Do you have a pain body?
Today is Holy Thursday and I'm having a holy hell of a time meditating
Dear Vincent, I was floating on the joy of feeling seen, heard, felt and loved by you, last Tuesday, November 21



Monday 19 March 2018

Dear Vincent, Yesterday was the seven-year anniversary of me not puking in my mouth, or in the toilet.


Dear Vincent,

Yesterday was the seven-year anniversary of me not puking in my mouth, or in the toilet. I had big dreams of writing a beautiful and redeeming poem, but then it turned out to be one of those days when I had to surrender to the humbling yet life-saving magic of cutting myself a break and grabbing a sandwich and a nap. At least there was some reluctant dancing. And in my head the poem goes something like this,

Seven years later

still not as grateful

as Oprah.

The ghosts are still hungry.

It was beautiful of you to imagine that this might have been any different.

And brave that you walked on anyways.

Love, Erica.

Send your imaginary letters to Vincent to ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)(com).

With Love to your Hungry Ghosts


Follow Erica J. Schmidt on Facebook

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:

Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica)
Montreal Hippie Threads (@mtlhippiethreads)
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Not Separate From All That Is
The Benefits of an Ashtanga Yoga Practice, Part Two
Fat Days for Boys

Sunday 11 March 2018

Dear Vincent, During my month-long hiatus without you, I invented the Shiny Chrome Orgasm. And I basked in my Nun Friend's soothing and maternal bosom of unconditional love, and I got a cleaning buzz. I think I am going to make it. Welcome home


Dear Vincent,

During my month-long hiatus without you, I invented the Shiny Chrome Orgasm. And I basked in my Nun Friend’s soothing and maternal bosom embrace of unconditional love, and I got a cleaning buzz. I think I am going to make it. Welcome home.

Childhood memories equal, the fairy tale, The Princess and The Frog. I remember the frog, crouched on the Princess’s dinner table, and lapping up peas from on the Royal Family’s golden plate.
 Are we able to accept all the ugly things without the promise that deep down the ugly things are actually beautiful and that one day they’ll transform out of being an ugly frog or an ugly toad?

Toads, in my opinion, are a little bit uglier than the frogs.

Can we love the things that are

inherently and likely

ugly forever?

For example, the toads, or else the thick and cakey fungus under certain people’s toenails?

A Shiny Chrome Orgasm is when you polish the chrome of the faucet of your sink to the point that the sight is orgasmic.
Shiny Chrome Orgasm
A friend pointed out that combined with the taps, the whole thing is rather phallic, and isn’t that a little bit exciting?

Childhood memories equal Mrs. Vanden Bosch’s Grade One Halloween Concert. I am dressed up as a beautiful princess, but our song is about a field full of pumpkins. My best friend Ellen gets to be the special pumpkin with the solo. Of this, I am exceedingly jealous. The song is about some special pumpkin who has some special magical way of singing the words, the Boo-Hoo-Hoo. Maybe this turns frogs into handsome princes. Or maybe it burns the whole field down. In any case, I am devastated that I don’t get to sing the Prestigious Pumpkin Boo-hoo-hoo solo. Even before I skipped grade two and was irreparably labelled the Strange and Gifted child, I felt that surely I deserved all the main parts.
And the Princess, she felt like she did not deserve to have to go to bed with the ugly frog. Except the ugly frog had rescued her precious golden ball from the bottom of the pond, and in return he’d convinced the princess to make quite an elaborate promise.

“Promise me,” said the ugly frog. “That you will love me. That you’ll let me be your friend and play with you. Make me a place at your table where I will eat from your plate and drink from your cup. Then, take me to your bed and we can sleep peacefully together.”
Some people might say this qualifies as a little bit of coercion. The Princess was crying very hard when she lost her ball, and the frog sort of pounced upon her vulnerability. And it was in the olden days, and once she’d already said yes, she was not allowed to change her mind about taking the frog to bed.

So first the poor princess was helpless because her golden ball had fallen to the bottom of the pond.


And then she was helpless because her heart’s desire depended upon an overwhelming and impossible promise.

This story does not leave me feeling very equipped.

Place your ugly frog upon a silky and exquisite pillow, and there will emerge your dashing tender-eyed prince.


And

Or

Ever since I went off Prozac, my brain’s been invaded by a voice.

And the voice comes ready with a hand.

And the hand is ready to slap.

The voice really wants to be the main part. Sometimes the voice won’t shut up until the hand wacks me on the face over and over again. The voice wants everyone to hear and know its rage and how excruciatingly disappointed and disgusted and at the end of it rope that it feels with, well,

I guess me.

And the hand keeps slapping because it’s so set on the belief that no one will ever understand me, and this is what I deserve.

Main Special Gifted Pumpkin sings, “The Boo-Hoo-Hoo.”

All the Generic Pumpkins sing, “The Boo-Hoo-Hoo.”

I still cannot remember the line about why the Main Special Gifted Pumpkin was so special and gifted.

All the palaces in the fairy tales look exactly the same.


My nun friend has the softest cheeks and the most soothing bosom. I saw her at a funeral, and she said so many nice things to me. It was like I was at my own funeral.

“Oh, Erica,” she said. “It is so good to see you. You’re so beautiful. Don’t ever change. Stay just the way you are.”

I cannot repeat what my Nun Friend said without weeping, if somewhat delicately. Her words, they shut up the voice and they canned the hand for one whole week. And I got a cleaning buzz, and I invented the Shiny Chrome Orgasm.

I forgot to say that the princess was the youngest of the seven daughters. The youngest and the most beautiful. And she loved to throw her golden ball up in the air and then catch it. Once she got married, I wonder if she kept throwing her golden ball up in the air. Throwing it up in the air, and then catching it.

Main Special Gifted Pumpkin sings, “The Boo-Hoo-Hoo.”

All the Generic Pumpkins sing, “The Boo-Hoo-Hoo.”

Welcome home, Vincent!

There is probably something symbolic about the golden ball falling to the bottom of the pond.

Our golden balls are falling to the bottom of the pond all the time.

Main Special Gifted Pumpkin sings, “The Boo-Hoo-Hoo.”

All the Generic Pumpkins sing, “The Boo-Hoo-Hoo.”

Oh Erica, you’re so beautiful. Don’t ever change. Stay just the way you are.

In therapy, I always get to have the main part, and surely, this is one reason why I like it.

Welcome home, Vincent.

Love, Erica.

P.S. In fact, once she married the prince, the princess kept her golden ball safe and sound on a purple cushion, under a glass dome. Cause what if the ball fell into the pond again and some better frog prince showed up. The End.

Please send your imaginary emails to Vincent to ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.


Grade One. Surely I deserved all the main parts.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:

Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica)
Montreal Hippie Threads (@mtlhippiethreads)
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Rumplestiltskin


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


On Thursday, January 4, 2018, I did not end up flying to the edge of Newfoundland and embarking on a long westward frigid and impossible walk across Canada in my boots that tend to become damp and cold within seven to 98 minutes of putting them on for the benefit of everyone’s mental health which feels like an emergency and also chronically neglected and in memory of Simon Girard who jumped off the roof of Sherbrooke Street’s le Tadoussac on Sunday, January 4, 2015.








Thursday 1 March 2018

Dear Vincent, My last orgasm felt like it was healing for my kidneys.


Dear Vincent,

My last orgasm felt like it was healing for my kidneys.

How is your vacation going?

Everyone in Montreal is relatively ecstatic because the world is melting and the weather, it is no longer exactly horrific.

As for me, I get to have a cleaning buzz. Sometimes when you do the same thing over and over again, even it hurts your forearms, then you get to have a buzz. How nice for me to get to have a cleaning buzz today at 6:03 p.m. I am laughing at myself having a cleaning buzz as I cross Rivard Street on the way down Mont-Royal.

Being a cleaner is like getting paid to be a person. I think that’s what everyone wants. To get to be a person, whoever you are, and get paid for it. I am laughing at myself once again.

Love, Erica.

Vincent is on vacation, but you can still send him your imaginary emails. Or you can send them to me. The secret email address is ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com. Hope you are living the dream and having your favourite kind of cleaning buzz. Love, Erica.

Living the dream.


Follow Erica J. Schmidt on Facebook
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



Dear Vincent, I was floating on the joy of feeling seen, heard, felt and loved by you last Tuesday, November 21
Dear Vincent, Are you lonely? Do you have a pain body?
Dear Vincent, Looks like you got some sun.