Dear Vincent, I was floating on the joy of feeling seen, heard, felt and loved by you last Tuesday, November 21

Dear Vincent,

I was floating on the joy of feeling seen, heard, felt and loved by you last Tuesday, November 21. All the joy lasted for approximately 39 hours and 17 minutes.

So I got this brilliant idea that I’m going to walk across Canada for mental health. My mental health, and everyone else’s. On Monday, the Social Worker said that he’d no doubt I’d pull it off. Apparently I am the most resilient person he has ever met. C’est incroyable de voir comment tu rebondis. Incredible to see how I bounce back.

I bounce back, by Erica J. Schmidt.

Next to the social worker’s desk, there are pamphlets about how to determine if you are experiencing a crystal meth crisis, and what to do about it. The Social Worker has a much more beautiful office than you do, with floor to ceiling windows that look over the Village, the Latin Quarter, and far beyond. His garbage can is disproportionately large for the amount of Kleenex anyone could ever use, even me. It used to be I got to enjoy looking out the window, right above the Social Worker’s head, but now the patient’s chair has its back to the sky, right above Saint-André street. I guess someone got aggressive the other week, and this way the Social Worker is better equipped to make an exit strategy.

Shortly after he marvelled over my miraculous resilience, the Social Worker brought up how I really need to prepare myself for switching therapists and that perhaps I should also consider getting a new job. I respond very poorly to both of these topics. I melted down hard and then left.

On Monday, November 27, all together I walked 14.2 km. If you want to walk across Canada, you have to walk at least 30 km per day, 6 days a week for approximately nine months, though likely more if you want to avoid the highway. The problem with walking across Canada is that just about three to four times per week, I wonder if I might be missing my left hip joint. My very half-assed plan is to leave on January 4, 2019, the four-year anniversary of when my ex-ex boyfriend Simon jumped off a building, meaning that he offed himself. On the way home from the Social Worker’s, the thoughts were dark and I wondered if maybe I should leave sooner, since nothing seems to be clicking these days. Except my left hip.

Precarity turns out to be a real word. I am going to try micro-dosing on mushrooms. Last winter, one of my friends used to wish that the crusty mole on the outside of his left calf muscle was some kind of terminal cancer. The Magic Mushrooms really helped him. I took my first dose on Tuesday, and dreamt of a lovely brown cow. I could only see him from the neck up. The cow’s eyes and face told me that it was okay if I ate a hamburger, something I haven’t done in over twenty years. In fact, the hamburger was excellent. With cheese.

Club 21. I could take these up.

I hope the cow says hi to me again. I am the moodiest person I know. Moodiest and loneliest. Most lonely.

The cow said, it's okay.

Hamburgers, and mushrooms. At this point, I see no other options besides flying to Newfoundland in January and risking the loss of a toe.

Hi, I said when I saw you this morning sprinting down Laurier somewhere between St Urbain and de l’Esplanade.

Hi, you said back. You were making quite some air time. I hope you got where you were going.

I was on my way to see Philippe, another far-away therapist who has fancy gelled back hair and an overworked beard. I made up the term overworked beard in the summer of 2016, and I just love it. Philippe’s office has reasonable windows. He isn’t available to see me long-term or intensively, and this is a relief because I want my sessions with you to last forever because you make me feel seen, heard, felt and loved.

Nearly three hundred people have clicked on my post about some other Vincent coercing me into a blow job. The Russian bots seem really into my blog these days. I wonder if they will like my sentences about the trees in Parc Laurier.

Dear Russian Bots,

Do you like these sentences?

: (Colon)

Sentences trees never feel

My life was not supposed to be like this.

All my limbs are far too large

and far too awkward

and flailing in all the wrong directions.

How lazy of me to rest

and respect my natural seasons

of bearing fruit

harvesting

and silence.

How greedy of those creatures who

help themselves to everything I have to give

only to squander what they take

and then forget.

If only everything were entirely different.

I’m ugly.

I need my own space.

That’s the end of the sentences trees never feel. There were seven sentences trees never feel. I could add seven to the title, sentences trees never feel, and the only vowel in the title would still be e. Love that.

My friend who last winter wished the crusty mole on the outside of his left calf muscle was terminal cancer recommends drawing and writing all over your walls.

So I wrote the sentence, what happens if I write on the wall?

What happens if I write on the wall?

Also:

Mood sports do not contain

A

E

I

Or

U

Or

, / (Comma slash)

Orange.

hash tag equals #alts2wishingcrustymolesRcancer

The hash tag equals #alts2wishingcrustymolesRcancer

I want to draw a pelvis, but it is doomed to be approximate and one-dimensional. How do you draw a baby? I think I would make the hair pink.

I prefer not an overworked beard.

Yours is just perfect.

Love, Erica.

You too can write imaginary emails to Vincent. Or you can send them to me. The secret address is the same in either case, ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.

Much love, Erica.

Some might say I'm not quite overworked. Not like the beards.


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Hippie Threads Holiday Market! December 2!


When I am really upset, I need to be seen, heard, felt and loved by someone whose dick has been inside of me.
Or else you.
Dear Vincent, Are you lonely? Do you have a pain body?
Lizzie

Five Days of Creative Recovery

The Bald Baristas are closed on Mondays.

Soon I will need to dis-assemble The Erica Museum. I am quite sad about this. These days, I’ve been rather sad about a number of things. The sources of grief, they are easy to find. An obvious slogan on my Brain’s Brochure: “Her thoughts provide an excellent Source of Grief.”

Besides Sources of Grief, my brain also likes to concoct catchy acronyms. As you might already know, Deep Unyielding Depression equals DUD. Sources Of Grief equals SOG. What’s your brain’s favourite SOG?

SOGs often lead to self-deprecating tornados. Tornados and/or hurricanes. Once you get stuck in a tornado or hurricane, it can be hard to escape. SOG-inflicted natural disasters are powerful, fascinating and convincing. In my brain there is no shortage of such natural disasters. Although I have a talent for beating myself up about all sorts of failures, not writing well and/or enough seems to be one of my psyche’s favourite forms of self-torture. Unfortunately, the relentless and self-inflicted pressure is not original. Nor does it really help my cause.

Writer’s block is hard to kick. What a drama. And the thing is, I don’t really even have writer’s block. I write all the time. Constantly. For my translation gigs, in my journals, for my pen pals, for my lucky texting friends. But the SOG story says, “You are not making anything official.  You are not Margaret Atwood. You suck.”

And well, as we’ve already established, I am not like Margaret Atwood. Everyone knows why.

There’s a quote about Margaret Atwood in my self-help book, I Let Go. Once again, I will say, it is rather hilarious that I wrote a book called “I Let Go” since I find it excruciating to let go of anything. I am thinking about writing a sequel, “I Don’t Let Go.” In any case, here’s the I Let Go quote:

“So you didn’t get to be Margaret Atwood this time around.  Neither did anybody else.  Margaret Atwood is Margaret Atwood.  Perhaps she saved time by not humping her duvet, but she still had to experience strenuous shits and sinus colds and mediocre sex.  Plus she’ll probably die before you will.  If not then you get to beat her at turning to worm shit.”

Me and the Hedgeclipper in I Let Go. Excellent Drawing by Sara E. Enquist

As an additional point, one might pity Margaret for having to be so coherent. Poor Marg.

Once my Magic Mushrooms Friend told me I was as smart as Margaret Atwood.

Oh, Marg

As smart as Marg. I find it extremely rewarding to write sentences and phrases that only use one vowel.

Bob throws socks on John’s hot dog.

Su’s ducks fuck up.
She sends tense sentences.

I miss his dick.
Is Dick sick?

The i sentences are the funnest. Is funnest a word? Apparently not.

“We’re not writing a book. We’re writing our lives.” This is one of my favourite quotes from Simon, my ex-ex boyfriend who jumped off a building last January 4th. The good news is, you’re allowed to write your life however you want. In text messages, postcards, or in exquisite copy for soothing skin creams.

Yesterday, I wrote an optimistic poem on Facebook. It came to me as I walked down an alley in my neighbourhood. I was on my way home after hours of fruitless and discouraging apartment hunting.

“Repress your hopeless thought.

Behold the optimistic clothesline.”

the optimistic clothesline

Clotheslines are super optimistic. So are white t.shirts.

behold the white t. shirts.

With great optimism, my friend Naomi once gave me a whitish jacket. On the weekend, during a visit to the Bald Baristas, I somehow managed to get a bunch of black ink all over it. I’m surprised this hadn’t happen much earlier. The incident provoked zero hopeless thoughts. In fact, I felt excitement as I imagined borrowing art supplies and transforming the jacket into something wild and exuberant. Something to wear or to put in my next museum. 

the optimistic jacket

By the way, a total of two people came to visit the Erica Museum. Admission fees were paid in chocolate chips, seaweed, tempeh and hazelnut pudding. Also, I am giving away the Threesome Tights. I do not think I will wear them again. If you think the tights might work for you, please be in touch.

Threesome Tights. Available for a Limited Time Only.

Anyways, all this is meant to introduce my project for this week: Five Days of Creative Recovery. It is meant as an antidote to the SOGs and the DUDs. For the next five days, I will do my best to post something creative. Out of words or whatever I can manage. This blog is often very silly, and I do not have a million readers. Even so, over the years, the process of sharing has brought me immense relief and sometimes joy.  

Thanks for being there.
Love, Erica.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, by Erica J. Schmidt (2-3 bucks on Amazon)

Creative Practice, Simon's Genies, and the Exuberant Bodhisattva's Big Exciting Blog News
Yours Til Ekam Inhales
Deep Unyielding Depression

The Erica Museum
Why I am Different from Margaret Atwood...