Dear Vincent, Now you have three pen pals.

Wednesday, September 6, 2017

Dear Vincent,

So far you have three other pen pals. All of their names are secrets. Except for Sorrowful Simon. His name is not a secret.

“I have never felt enough to be with someone.”

One of your pen pals whose name is not Sorrowful Simon wrote this. So many of my friends have said the same sort of thing. That they will never be enough to find love. I have been known to say this myself. But the truth is, many people who have found love are actually rather obnoxious, or if you look at their lives, at least one or several components are a total disaster.

What does it mean to be good enough?

Dan Savage always says that to enter the dating scene you need to be in “good working order.” I imagine this means a minimum of wailing in alleys, throwing shelves across your bedroom floor, and as you like to say, having to put out all kinds of fires from six in the morning until bedtime. In fact, this past summer, my level of Good Working Order has been highly questionable. Likely, I was Out of Order. Even so, my Meditation Partner still seemed to appreciate the blow jobs, more or less. The Well-Fucked Woman says that Cock Worship and opening your throat to someone else’s genitals is redeeming, both for the cock owner and for whoever is giving the blowjob. You can even have something called a Throatgasm. What a thrill, though, perhaps first you need to be in Good Working Order.

Is peace around the corner? On Friday I moved around the corner to Hutchison street. Friday night, at a restaurant on Bernard, a Chiseled-Cherub-Faced 23-Year-Old Filmmaker asked me about my choice of Asian soup. He ordered chicken, and I had tofu, even though I’ve recently opted to try eating meat, instead of Abilify and Celexa. After our soup, we ate fortune cookies, which always allow for easy poetry. My fortune cookie said that my mind was “sharp, fast and analytical.” His said something about how he would soon meet an auspicious and valuable friend.

I told him I didn’t want babies, and he said, “But you never know. In a decade you might change your mind. You’ll be like a totally different person. I feel like I’m totally different from how I was ten years ago.”

My friend, it killed me not to say, ten years ago, you were having your first wet dreams. These are the pros of hooking up with a 23 year old. Endless earnest, innocent and adorable insight. The cons, I suppose are, what the fuck do I do with my daddy issues?

The next morning, I sent the Chiseled-Cherub-Faced 23-Year-Old Filmmaker my story, The Magical Rock Vagina Cleanse. He texted back gushing that I might be almost be a female counterpart to Charles Bukowski. His text generated unambiguous sensations in my vagina. Even though I am likely far too large him, and far too old.

All weekend I washed all the walls of my new apartment. And all the floors, and I didn’t cry once. Also, my washing machine arrived, and it purrs. Also, last Tuesday I forgot to tell you about this thing that I invented called mood sports. Mood Sports is you against your mood. One fun thing about mood sports is that they only contain one vowel. I always find this sort of thing so soothing.

While I was sleeping on Saturday night, Chiseled-Cherub-Faced 23-Year-Old Filmmaker texted me a peace sign, and asked if I was going nuts. At 5:17 A.M. the next morning, he reported that on his end, nuts weren’t had, but he made a ton of new friends. lol. Happy Face. Haven’t heard from him since.

Ten years ago I felt like a totally different person. I kind of feel the same way about last Tuesday. Everything always arising and passing away.

Happy full moon.

Love, Erica.

You too can write imaginary emails to Vincent. The project is called "Mondays without Vincent" and the secret email address is: ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.

Vincent will be delighted to hear from you. He will write back as soon as he can.

Much love, Erica.

Going nuts tonight?
:)


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Dear Vincent, Thank you for responding to my hysterical phone call.
Dear Vincent, Sorrowful Simon has written you a letter.
Chuckie the Horse and the Day Jack Layton Died

What does it mean to be home

What does it mean to be to be home


Three things I've never excelled at are
Lighting matches,
Cooking and
Opening locks with keys,
Even the right ones.


Dear Vincent,
I am moving.
I wish you'd been around 
to affirm this decision.
Love, Erica.


One thing I've never excelled at is
Closing the cupboard doors
After I use them.


Rain is merciless.
The squirrels must be sleeping
Or else hiding.


These days I'm choosing to be
More hungry than
I need to be.
Hungrier
And more worried
But just as honest.


One thing I do not excel at is
Not telling you
I wish I had
5.25 boyfriends,
Seven fathers
and that my eleventh therapist's name was Vincent
and
I kind of adored him.


Dear Vincent,
These days I'm trying to teach myself
to fall asleep on the floor.
That way you never need anything
Or anyone.
They say that after a while
the floor will start to get mouldy
but
as long as
you keep leaving
it'll be fine.
Love, Erica.


Rain is merciless.
I am not excelling at
My usual routines.
So many things
once occurred before breakfast.
This is how
I'm like the squirrels
if not like
Margaret Atwood.


What does it mean to be home.


Dear Vincent,
I am moving.
I wish you'd been around
to affirm this decision.
I have no idea if the squirrels feel at home.
My sense is they
are hungrier
than I am
but less worried.
Rain is merciless.
I do not use umbrellas but
it looks like the kind of day when
you might need one.
Love, Erica.


The End.

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What does it mean to be well
We have no idea if the squirrels are happy. Or/if anyone is.
Hour of God on a Friday

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

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.


Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
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

Awakened by the Exit of the Broccoli Water

Awakened by the
exit of the
broccoli water.
I hope you're alright.
You sound a bit shitty.

 

Once upon a time, there was a broccoli shirt.
The broccoli and the cauliflower
were best friends

Please
Don't worry about me.
I have a jade egg for my vagina now.
Everyone's tired
of hearing about it
Already.

Vincent suggests, "Don't shit where you eat."
But sometimes you shit
Or shit vaguely,
And still get invited
For snacks.

In other news,
The OkCupid foodies
Are naming themselves after tacos.
Unimaginable tacos
Un-vaginal tacos.
Gordon Taco.
Taco Guillaume.

Almost all the tacos
Contained iceberg lettuce.
A heart that sighs
does not have all it desires.

Taco69
plus some kind of trendy salsa
And one of those unconvincing
references to happiness.

"I am wat U R looking for."
"Who is Magareth Atwood?"
Likely
the arc
has to do
with needs.

"I hope I'm not a narcissist,"
said the Married Man.
My sense is
he hates himself
too much.

An unexplained craving for radishes.
I want to preserve my Youth!

My dear Lady,
I saw your page.
Your are
very nice
And beautiful.

Condescending Taco
Corrected a "to"
With not enough o's
Or too many.

He remarked upon
What seems to have been
My emotionally turbulent life.

Well,
I am not
a delicate flower.
Though I do have a soft spot
for Vincents and Patricks.

Hi dear Lady.
Did you receive my message?

On a Friday in September
My life's sheer lack of agency
Felt like it was something
to celebrate.

My dear Lady
I am Patrick.
Love to meet you.
Am impressed.

On a Friday in December,
after visiting several spiritual places,
we stopped on the side of the road
on the way back to Rishakesh.

I pissed for what seemed like five minutes.
None of it got on my snowsuit

While we're at it,
Ira Glass sang a song this week.
He does not sing well.
I have never heard you sing
But it made me think of you.

The End.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

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The Erica Museum
Not That Kind of Girl
Why  I am like Oprah

 

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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My Ego Throws Up When I Won't Believe It
Hour of God on a Friday
The Vipassana Diaries: Why I Like To Pee Outside

Exalted