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.

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.


Now the decade-long fortnight without you is all over. Another has begun. On Tinder, I have more than fifty matches. Mostly nobody talks to me except every once in a while someone asks me where I bought my banana hat, and how often I wear it. In such cases, I tend to fault them for being unoriginal, and reply nothing 

"Nice bananas."

Today it is October 1st. I was born in October, as were my mother and sister. But they are Libras, a club I never made it into. Recently I dreamt I was meant to assist my mother through her labour and birth. She wished for a VBAC, a Vaginal Birth After Caesarean. Her Caesarean was me. I was late and upside down. Some people say that upside down c-section kids don’t flip because they want to remain closer to the sound of their mother’s heart beat and isn’t that beautiful. When I was born, legend has it that my father turned white as a ghost. Once they told my mother I was fine, she had the sense that now if she were to die, biologically, this would be reasonable, as though her task as a mammal was complete. The three and more decades that followed have contained

Endless quests for keys,

Piano lessons,

Bunion surgery,

Divorce,

Dead goldfish,

Dogs,

Hamsters,

And neighbours.

That mothers drive their children to pet stores to replace their deceased rodents is heroic.

In my dream, I could not find my mother’s birthing room and so I was of no help, and not heroic.

If I were to have a daughter, I’d name her October.

Mostly on Tinder, when I tell people I write letters to my therapist and post them on the Internet, they do not write back. Though one guy who is finding the cure to cancer on government grants did write back, and we ate sandwiches. He said he had to go home shortly after I announced that I was pretty sure I needed to cancel my debut as a nude life-drawing model due to the fact that the organizer was insisting that I show up with an excellent haircut, makeup, and fully shaved. I felt this was oppressive and also refused to consent to naked photos of myself proliferating around the Internet. The gig was only fifty dollars, and I am naked on the Internet in other ways. Perhaps my Cancer Curing Grant Friend felt that my resistance to shaving meant that I had a massive bush, and some people are opposed to such things. Or maybe I was just too tall, and/or talked a little too much about my therapist.

Mood Sports in the days that followed were rather treacherous.

For example, I composed my ex-boyfriend this angsty text message:

“Everything is wonderful but I still hate my life.

Dear the Boatman,

I have had two difficult mornings in a row. This morning I almost called the crisis center but I knew all they would saw was, have breakfast and take a shower. So far I have had breakfast. I did not take a shower yet. My vagina was a bit itchy so I used a syringe to stick some yogurt inside. Now it is coming out in weird disgusting chunks.

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 Vincent. As it turns out, none of these people tend to be all that available.

It seems like the greatest gift you can have in life is to not give a shit. You seem to have mastered this well. Perhaps Vincent has too.

How nice for you.

Love, Erica.”

After writing this, I had a shower, called the crisis centre and never ended up pressing send.

The syringe of yogurt up inside your vagina is something I would probably recommend.

I never told you I was looking out my window, but I am. It looks like my landlord has thrown out some houla hoops. One purple, one yellow. Too tiny for an adult. This makes me think of hopscotch which is not quite a sport, but not quite that easy either.


The leaves in my begonia are covered with this chalky white residue which could be from a fungus, or from bugs, or from the trucks in my back alley that deliver boxes of fruit or coat hangers or toilet paper to Parc Avenue shops, or from bird shit, or perhaps my begonia is simply dying.

The Begonia, Pre-Ugly White Residue, Post-Thrive 

Someone on Tinder has broken his ribs in a vineyard. The doctors gave him morphine. As for me, I still haven’t cracked the Abilify.

If I had a daughter, I’d name her October. The next sentence could be, if I had a son, I’d name him Vincent. Except everybody knows I don’t want kids anyways.

See you in a Tuesday or two.

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.

Together at last.


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Dear Vincent, Are you lonely? Do you have a pain body?
Hour of God on a Friday
Mother's Bunion

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.


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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.

What does it mean to be a woman

This is just me

menstruating

on some obscure corner

of the Internet

on Mother's Day.

 

I meant for it to be

more groundbreaking

and edgy

than it actually

turned out.

 

Slides of the in-

side of the vagina

don’t look much different

from slides of the larynx.

 

Both appear pinkish

and alive.

 

This is what I learned

from the only speech pathologist

I know.

And I trust her.

 

Once I had a speech pathology.

When I said,

“Menstruation,”

I pronounced it like

a three-year-old would.

 

“Men-

Stuation.”

Very cute.

And edgy.

 

What does it mean

to be a woman?

 

You might have

three to seven

fat days per year.

 

I tried to cancel these

the day I turned thirty,

and had mixed results.

 

The last time I had a fat day

Vincent was on vacation.

As a woman,

I can make

my own choices

about fat days.

 

As a woman

I’ve become

mostly well-versed

in forgiveness.

Phrases that begin with

“As a”

truly help a person

to feel smug.

 

But making a whole list

of such phrases

is annoying

and seems pretentious.

This is just me

wondering if

my eternal tits

have finally grown

and if anyone will notice

and if that makes me more

of a woman. 

As a woman,

I am better off

avoiding coming off

as pretentious.

 

This is just me,

once again hoping

some dude will enjoy

my performance.

 

The first play

I ever wrote

in my life

was called

Back

When I

Used To

Have a Prostate.

 

You don’t need a prostate

to have a urethra.

You don’t need an s,

to have two urethra

at least not today.

 

The Dépanneur Café

no longer serves jujubes

at least not today.

 

This is just me

hoping the dude

will find me delightful,

charming,

witty,

sincere,

possibly good-looking.

Cute.

Edgy.

 

This is just me

Feeling hungry,

But pretending I’m not

Hungry

Or dissatisfied

In any which way

Whatsoever.

 

The End.

This is just me
wearing the blazer
I am trading for Kombucha
Tomorrow
on the Trade Hole


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What does it mean to be well
This is just me menstruating on so obscure corner of the Internet on Mother's Day
Hi my name is Erica. I'm having thoughts of death.


My Eternal Tits

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.

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

 

Jade Egg

On the way to the St-Michel Flea Market,
We passed a Validation Centre.
It looked closed and I
Forgot to take a picture.

Objets désirés, objets trouvés.

Most would refrain from buying such things used.

A man held our jade eggs in his dark rough calloused hands.

Dirt filled the crevices.
We got a special deal.

The alarm bells have been ringing for quite some time.
You wish life could be solved by sticking a jade egg up your vagina.
How long have you been holding your breath.

The End.

Objets désirés, objets trouvés
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The Magical Rock Vagina Cleanse
What People Really Need
The Performative Love Letters
 

 

Yours til I'm a Post-Modern Literary Genius

Hi Everyone! Sorry to leave you hanging on the Magical Rock Vagina Cleanse. I'll announce the fascinating conclusion soon. The following post was meant as a Facebook status update for my new business, Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt. Deep Cleans involves me sparking joy in other people's houses. As fate would have it, the post ended up being a little too long for Facebook, and so I decided to publish it here.

Yours til I'm a Post-Modern Literary Genius

Parting with the written word can be difficult. Everyone possesses at least one shoe box if not several crates of old course notes, journals and handwritten letters. Certainly going through these boxes later on can bring laughter and deep joy. Also, everyone wants to channel this material into the book they’re going to write in all their spare time. And how is that book going, everybody?

When I opened my boxes from Halifax last week, I came upon a FedEx envelope of a romantic personal correspondence from 2005. At a CPR course, upon performing a pretend secondary body check, my partner concluded, “Well, looks like you’re in pretty good shape.” Once the course was over, I delivered a rambly verbal machine gun speech. In it I must have mentioned how I believed that we could change the world by writing letters, by being pen pals. My CPR partner’s name was Cavan Van Ulft and he was eager to try and change the world with me.

For the next month or so, we wrote letters back and forth. He was living with his parents in Nepean, while I was working at an Easters Seals Camp. Cavan Van Ulft sent each letter in a brown 3 by 5 Manila envelope.

“Miss Erica Schmidt,” he would write in the first address line. Beneath this, he’d write a flattering and eloquent caption.

“Warning! May be habit-forming or addictive,”
“Post-modern Literary Genius,”
“The prettiest girl on the prettiest street in the prettiest town in Ontario.”

Cavan's Letters

His letters were always meticulously composed and handwritten on plain white paper. Both of us always wrote back immediately upon receiving the other's letter. My stationary varied from long thin strips of cardboard to red and blue paper, in case either red or blue were his favourite colours. I sealed many envelopes with frog stickers. “Sealed with sticky frogs,” I'd written on one envelope. Another time I included a lock of my hair.

Thursday, June 30, 2005

Dear Cavan,

Maybe your favourite colour is blue, or maybe it is red. Or maybe I should send you a fill-in-the-blank worksheet for you to send back to me. So that I will know your favourite colour. I could also ask you whether you prefer my sentence fragments to be written on stationary with straight lines on it or on blank sheets of blue and red (or some other colour) My next though might have been, do you maybe wish there were fewer sentence fragments and more complete sentences. Or vice versa. Unfortunately, however, this potentially brilliant series of complete and fragmented sentences was interrupted by a phone call.

It was you! I had piece of lettuce stuck in my teeth the whole time and you never said anything! How embarrassing. After flossing and brushing away lettuce and gingivitis (if I’m lucky), I have laid myself down in preparation for sleep…

My Letters

8 July 2005

Re: “Money is nice but it can’t hold hands.”

Dear Erica,

Your letter was beautiful! Thank you so much for sending it. I read it over and over. And the gifts you included in the envelope are amazingly thoughtful. It is very postmodern. Especially the bumper sticker.

(The bumper sticker was inscribed in blue and black markers, “Everything comes down to one thing,” it said. “The single key to mastering human existence is.”)

It is very postmodern. You know by now, no doubt, from my list of favourite things, that my favorite style of art is suprematism, so I am very into ambiguous messages that require input from an audience to be understood. So I think it’s just great. And also very clever…

You are constantly surprising me, exceeding my expectations, and delighting me. You are pretty irresistible, as far as I can tell. So don’t you dare stop – ever.

The Post-Modern Bumper Sticker

There are few people in the world who can compete with me in their eccentricity and intensity. Likely, Cavan Van Ulft was one of these people. The last time I googled him, it seemed he was trying to become the prince or ruler of an obscure island somewhere in the arctic.

During one of my days off at camp, I went on a “date” with Cavan. My parents drove me to Ottawa and dropped me off at the Rideau Center, where Cavan and I wandered around and he revealed his taste in jeans. Cavan was nice enough; however, I realized right away that my imagination had gone overboard, and that our in-person experience was doomed to be infinitely less exciting than our riveting correspondence. As tactfully as my 19 year-old self knew how, I told him so in my next letter.

Within a few days, I received a priority post FedEx package at camp. It contained all of my letters. The frog stickers, the postmodern bumper sticker, my lock of hair, photos of my dog.

In the weeks that followed, Cavan sent me several emails with the words, “PLEASE SEND MY LETTERS BACK” in the subject line. I believed this was ridiculous and have kept the correspondence ever since.

Rereading Cavan’s letters now, I now appreciate that they are absolutely exquisite.

19 July 2005

Probably as a result of the intense heat wave that we have been going through, the scent of your lock of hair has permeated both pages of your last letter and its envelope. In the slight breeze that's been blowing in my back yard, it has made everything around me smell like you. It is absolutely delivious. The only problem is that I frequently get lost in thought while sitting outside re-reading your letters and I think slightly sunburnt... because I kept taking deep breaths and zoning out and losing track of time. But it's wonderful nonetheless...

Everyone should be so privileged as to be the recipient of such generous and inflating epistles. I feel some regret at writing Cavan off as some crazy nut. I think he does deserve to get his letters back. After inhaling one last spark of joy from my favourite missives, I am going to try and track him down, to return his side of this unreplicable correspondence, and to wish him well.

The End.


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