Kale Phone

Kale Phone

Sunday, 1 May 2016

Deep Unyielding Depression, Part Two

The Five Days of Creativity Series is taking longer than five days. To critics and complainers, I say, “Time is silly. Why does everything have to be so fucking linear?”

Now it is May 1st. I am switching apartments today. Again. My ever expanding stock of possessions has grown to include three and a half suitcases. And yet somehow I only own one and a half t. shirts.

It’s a toss-up over whether to move on foot or via Uber. Both smugness-inducing options, though my rectangular friend the i-Phone is predicting rain, which might dampen the smugness and the suitcases, should I decide upon walking.  
These days as I meditate, I balance a hardcover book called “A Thousand Splendid Suns” upon my head. I gave the inside of the covers a go as well. Seems like a decent story. What a relief to read something that’s not the internet. Oh, Internet.

Oh, Joni Mitchell.
This morning as I balanced A Thousand Splendid Suns upon my head, a song of Joni’s entered my brain:

“I am on a lonely road and I am travelling, travelling, travelling.
Looking for something, what can it be?”

Joni, All I Want

What can it be? No fucking idea. But just in case, better not stay anywhere too long. Poor Joni. I hear she’s not feeling so good. A couple Mondays ago, I wasn’t feeling so good either, though my condition was far less extreme than Joni’s. I had meant to blog about Dan Savage’s hump porn fest, but instead I hit up some tedious public health care. Here’s part of the story, which I shared on the One Year of Metta Community Facebook page. The page was organized by one of my first yoga teachers ever. For one year, a bunch of metta practitioners takes turns sharing how they are experiencing lovingkindness and meditation in their daily lives. It is quite lovely.
Here’s what I shared on my turn:

Deep Unyielding Depression, Part Two  
Monday Morning. 35 minutes of meditation, 75 minutes of yoga, one unsuccessful computer task and the whole world seems like it’s already crumbled. Yet again the day seems doomed to the familiar fog of unyielding sadness, paralyzing futility and self-sabotaging thoughts.

Everything is awful and I’m not OK.

The day before, a friend had told me about her boyfriend’s high-fat low carbohydrate diet, and something called the bullet-proof coffee. Perhaps the new ticket was in the 10 000th eating regime. I whipped up the coffee with the coconut oil and raw egg. It tasted alright, but a little cold. When I reheated it, the egg cooked at the bottom of the pan. I kind of hate eggs. So much for that.

I am feeling a mess. Yoga, flaxseed, fresh air, and it’s still me and my head, banging against the wall.
I call my friend Franck, who took me up the mountains on a motorcycle in India. Franck is really into God. God and Franck talk all the time. Franck’s surrendered his whole life to him, or her. I hope that he will not tell me that God is the answer. God can’t be the answer today.

“What is it my darling?”
“I can’t do this anymore. Please don’t tell me to talk to God.”

“No, no God today.” It sounds like he’s been waiting for this call. “You go to doctor, you tell them you’ve been depressed a long time, you cry every day.”
Five years ago, I decided psychiatry and psychiatrists were mostly dumb. I canned the Prozac and quit the vomit elements of my eating disorder, fueled almost entirely by willpower, self-discipline and maybe backbends. I thought that was that. A trophy recovery success. No vomit, no Prozac.

And well. Here we are again. No vomit this time, but a low-grade level of the “Divorce” Diet, and a high-grade level of despair.
“It’s okay. You’re just depressed. You’ve been depressed a long time. You go to doctor.” God bless Franck. No more Shiny Happy Lululemon Formulas. No more trying to think yourself out of it. You feel unwell. You are worthy of help.

There is no Shiny Happy Conclusion.
I love myself enough to try the Bullet-Proof Coffee. To wander all over the city seeking help in the rain. To spend four hours in emergency, only to learn the psychiatrist has gone home. And to go back the next day, waiting amongst the people with injured feet and the need to vomit into boxes that look like they were meant for French Fries.

When it’s all over, there is brief elation, though no Happy Recovery Trophy. Multi-vitamins. The possibility of Prozac. Lentils, bedtime, tomorrow.

The End.
Update: Just about two weeks later, and I’m feeling pretty good. Prozac is a fabulous drug, though I’m having a hell of a time sleeping.


Oh, and I gave the Bullet-Proof Coffee some more chances. We are having an okay go at it.
See you in the Mile End!
 I was thinking of starting up a Mile End Butt Club. Guaranteed Happy Butts. Let me know if you’re up for this.

Butt Club, Anyone?!?
Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, By Erica J. Schmidt

Deep Unyielding Depression, Part One

Five Days of Creativity (Intro)
Day One: Kleenex (Working Title)
Day Two: Performative Grilled Cheese (Recommended)
 

Wednesday, 27 April 2016

Performative Grilled Cheese, by Erica J. Schmidt

Last week I got to translate several dramatic and prestigious sentences about a Burlesque show. It was all very sophisticated, and full of performative issues.

For example: Is art able to erase the performative nude body?

When and how does art render the body performative?

A collective conversation on a stage laid bare will allow artist and spectator to explore these performative issues.

Oh, Burlesque. All this made me long to do something performative. Perhaps not nude, but definitely performative.
I've decided the phrase "Performative Grilled Cheese" has quite an excellent ring to it. So does its acronym PGC. At Café L'Étincelle, the Bald Baristas make a thoroughly delightful and satisfying grilled cheese. Crinkled, cheesy, and lovingly assembled on substantial pieces of sourdough, it is every best thing a grilled cheese sandwich can be. And all for just $4.25.
Grilled cheese is an outing sort of event for me, for the reason that buying blocks of cheese is way too much of a commitment. Blocks of cheese, loaves of bread, forget it. Grocery shopping has been a disaster ever since the Boatman and I broke up and I moved to Montreal. There are way too many choices and I switch from store to store, wandering down the aisles in paralyzing vacillation. It can get a bit embarrassing. Hence the Bald Baristas.

(I hope they don’t mind that they have suddenly become the Bald Baristas on this highly famous and prestigious blog. My dear B.B.’s, you must know that I give nicknames to all of my favourites!)

I adore the Bald Baristas. If ever you come to Café L'Étincelle, you will see. They are totally adorable. What's more, their grilled cheese renders the body performative.

Before we get to the performance, I want to mention that I developed an extra special love for grilled cheese in India, when the thought of any sort of curry item caused and/or reminded me of liquid shits and/or the nauseous conviction that I should probably get a pregnancy test.

The triple decker grilled cheese, fresh from the streets of Bangalore.
60 rupees. (1.2 dollars)
All the vegetables come from a can.
For 10 extra rupees, you can request brown bread, but I do not recommend this.
One day I will consume turmeric again. Absolutely not now.

Now it is time for the performance. I wore a weird and confusing frilly corset-possessing shirt that my mother gave me. It is an incomprehensible shirt; however, I have a theory that I come across as the sort of person who does not understand shirts, and that this is part of my charm. Underneath the shirt, I was naked. Being naked underneath clothes is one of life’s most fascinating details. It can sometimes be difficult to think about anything else.
confusing frilly corset-possessing shirt from mom.
Can art provide a solution?
When? How?
Is art able to erase the performative nude body?

Very hard to say.

Performative Grilled Cheese, by Erica J. Schmidt:
 
This morning there was also a performative seaweed opportunity, but my I-phone ran out of storage.

The End.
Be sure to visit the Bald Baristas at Café L'Étincelle, 1991 rue Beaubien.
I can't wait for my next Grilled Cheese! Their coffee is also exceptional!
Bonus Performative Broccoli. Why hold back now?
Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
2-3 dollar self-help book, I Let Go

This post was part of a five-day series called, "Five Days of Creative Recovery" during which I will try to post something creative every day, even though my priorities should almost certainly be looking for a new place to live on May 2.

Feel free to join in with your own creative pursuits!

Five Days of Creative Recovery (Introduction)
Day One: Kleenex (working Title)

Jujubes
Selfies with Brownies
Rideshare, Sterilization and Doughnuts
My name is Erica. I love coffee.
 

Tuesday, 26 April 2016

Kleenex

(This is Day One of a Project called "Five Days of Creative Recovery." It is meant as an antidote to Deep Unyielding Depression and various Sources Of Grief. For the next five days, I will do my best to post something creative. Out of words or whatever is possible. Feel free to join me however you'd like!)

Kleenex (working title)

When I was seventeen years old, my father and I flew to Winnipeg, Manitoba to say goodbye to my grandmother before she died. My grandmother was in her late eighties, and I think she had pneumonia.  I know she had nine children, two of them twins, one of them born almost dead. Her husband, Julias had died a good half decade earlier. When he died, I’d sewed Grandma a simple cloth bag out of quilted patchwork. She’d used it to keep her Kleenexes. At one point, my grandmother had insisted on starching my grandfather’s cloth diapers. And then somehow, she’d made the switch from handkerchiefs to Kleenex. Is that what death does to you?

As with most nursing homes, the hallways of Fred Douglas Lodge smelled of urine and antiseptic cleaning supplies. Crowds of half-asleep people in wheelchairs gathered around a large t.v. that played Singing in the Rain. And some poor man in the Lazy Boy cried out for Jesus.

Oh mighty Lord! Help me!

My grandmother spent most of her time in her room. She had a meticulous soap opera schedule to keep up with. When my father and I arrived, the t.v. was on mute. Grandma was lying in bed, a few squares of Kleenex arranged across her chest. We both kissed her and then I helped myself to stale bridge mix. She nodded as I ate. Since we lived so far away, whenever we went to Winnipeg, my father dedicated most of his time to sitting with my grandmother. To make up for all the months he wasn’t there. All his other siblings came at least once a week. If ever anyone missed a visit, Grandma would not be impressed.

Every time I visited Grandma, I felt quite guilty because I had long ago lapsed as her personal correspondent. Between the ages of eight and ten, I’d devoted myself to sending my grandparents letters every single day.

Dear Grandma and Grandpa, How are you? I am fine.

Then I’d go on and on about my violin lessons, swim meets and sleepovers. Back then I was quite a comedian and would often include a few good jokes.
What goes ha ha ha, plop?

Somebody laughing their head off.

Ha. Plop. I feel like I have not said the word “plop” in quite some time.
I used to decorate the envelopes with Mr. Sketch Smelly markers. Then I got busy with my extensive academic, musical and athletic ambitions. The letters simply stopped.
They were the joy of my grandparents’ lives, and then they were over.

“What happened to all the beautiful letters you used to write?” my grandmother sobbed one summer as I kissed her goodbye. Thirteen years old, and now I was a big disappointment. Grandma also complained that my hair wasn’t as lovely and curly as it used to be. So many burdens.
I think I am eleven here. Still sporting the curls, as I try desperately to be photogenic.
But as people are dying, you are supposed to get over such things. On her death bed, every time my grandma had to blow her nose, she ripped off a tiny square of Kleenex. Instead of using the whole thing, she would separate the two-ply pieces in half and then rip them into tiny squares. Four squares for each flimsy half. Days to live and Kleenex still seemed worth saving.
I remember staring at the ripped up Kleenexes. In my seventeen year old head, I thought, “Wow. Life is so tragic. So profound.” I was super deep and wise. Perhaps not, but I was definitely sincere. I felt bewildered that all the people at Fred Douglas Lodge would die, and eventually everyone would forget that they’d bothered to squander Kleenexes all the way to the end. I had this clear thought, that writing was the only real chance for redemption. Otherwise what was the point.

My grandmother died the weekend after we left. It was Easter Sunday. Nobody ever told me whether or not during her final days, she’d branched out and let herself splurge on the whole piece of Kleenex.

The End.
Be Creative.
I love how tidy my bookshelves are. I don't have a bookshelf anymore.
I Let Go, by Erica J. Schmidt (2-3 bucks on Amazon)

 

Monday, 25 April 2016

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...
 

Monday, 11 April 2016

Deep Unyielding Depression

Deep Unyielding Depression.

I love this phrase, especially the word, Unyielding. As a second selling point, its acronym spells, DUD. How deep is your DUD?
My loving and thorough parents started sending me to therapy when I was eleven. Because of this and other theatrical tendencies, I believe I have the tendency to transform every un-exuberant moment into something unyielding and pathological.

And it has been awhile since we heard from Simon, my dead ex-boyfriend who jumped off a building on January 4th, 2016. What does Simon say this time?
Simon says: I wonder what I’d be like if, like you, I’d been sent to psychologists from the age of eleven. If a bunch of people had played around in my head the way children play in the bathtub-I think that by now I would have died ten times already. I’ve already died ten times anyways.

Ten times, or at least once. I’m not sure the bathtub analogy works in English. Simon and I used to fight extensively about translation.
Since I got back from India, I’ve been busy translating exciting phrases about soothing and luxurious skin creams and foams. My favourite is the foaming and emollient shower gel. You can use it in the bathtub or the shower.

Last week’s Catchphrase:
Do you want to be emollient and foaming?
I do.

This Week’s Catchphrase:
Deep Unyielding Depression.

So far the low-grade DUD has lasted 1.5 days. I think that the act of paying taxes has triggered Delayed Reverse Culture Shock. (DRCS.) Taxes, and a birthday party filled with babies. Everyone knows I don’t want babies. I don’t hate babies either. And yet, a great abundance of babies can make me feel lonely and empty, as though my life is unimportant and shallow.
Now is probably an excellent time to start making my own yogurt. Yogurt, or no-knead bread. Bacteria and/or yeast.

All your sadness is in your lungs.
I wish I was Miranda July.                               

Erica says to Simon: Aren't excessively self-indulgent, self-deprecating people irritating?
Simon says: Yes.

Erica: I hate people like me.
Simon says: Me too, but you’re not only self-deprecating. You also believe in yourself immensely. I have a theory on how this happens. Here it is: so one parent loves and cherishes their kid, but the other doesn’t believe she can do anything. You end up with a kid who turns into a half-shit, half-magnificent adult. Over time, one half swallows the other. Which half swallows what is yet to be determined.

Both of my parents thought I was magnificent.
There must be something clever to say about swallowing.
Me and My Sister, Being Magnificent.
I am not sure what is going on with the brown shit-like speckles.
Emollient foaming gels were not in the budget.
Certain skin creams produce a freshening effect upon application. Produce or procure. I googled “freshening effect” and everteen vaginal tightening gel natural intimate wash came up. In Montreal, it’s raining really hard.

Half Shit, Half Magnificent. This was the title of the poem Simon begged me to write. Simon didn’t like it very much. It’s true the poem was pretty terrible, but better than the one he wrote about my phosphorescent ass cheeks.

Hungry Halves. Contact Dermatitis. Another word I like is Unrelenting. Also, Unrivalled.
Are you seeking unrivalled comfort?
Yes.

I wish to be captured within a meticulous formula.
What they mean by everteen, this only just occurred to me. Everteen and the Intimate Wash. Gross, and rather upsetting.

My eye contours feel uncomfortable on a daily basis. Not everyone is as happy as they look on the Internet.



The End.
 
Me and my uncomfortable eye contours.
Follow us on Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Self-Help Book: I Let Go

My name is Erica. I love coffee.
Hip Replacements and No-Knead Bread versus Chapped Nipples and Low Sex Drive
What a Beautiful Face.
The Erica Museum

Why I am Different from Margaret Atwood, and What I Don't Gain from Humping Duvets
 

Thursday, 7 April 2016

The Erica Museum

It appears I have left the sub-continent.
Now I am in Canada. Montreal, as fate would have it.

I thought that India would involve more sex, and more blogging. But that’s okay. Now I have a whole bunch of extra condoms I can put in the Erica Museum I’m about to blog about.

The girl I am subletting from for April kindly emptied her plentiful shelves. I am curating the shelves with my suitcase and two backpacks full of stuff. Since returning from India, I have added an extra suitcase to my life. At first, this generated mixed feelings; however, I think that ultimately it expanded my curating options. Isn’t curating a delightful word?  One might also say, Curation, though I am not entirely sure about that.

 
Me and My Life with the Extra Suitcase
My room is large and sunny. It came with two beds, two sets of shelves, and a weird pale peach coloured dresser. Included on the biggest bed was a Canadian Version of the Ugly Polar Fleece Bedsheet. It reminded me of India, and this instilled unrivalled comfort. I have nicknamed the Canadian Version of the Ugly Polar Fleece Bedsheet (CV/UPFB), the Deer Duvet. As a source of sexual gratification, it is working reasonably well, as such polar fleece items generally do. These days I tend to leave the Deer Duvet rolled up.  
Deer Duvet
Palm Tree Wallpaper. The photo does not do it justice.
On the walls, there is absolutely nothing apart from three long strips of palm-tree covered wallpaper, framed together. I’ve never seen framed wallpaper before, not even in India. What good fortune. If I had tape, I would add to the walls a birthday/going away card from my sister. It is a picture of a photographer taking a photo of a whole bunch of people’s bums. Full Moon Portrait, it is called. My sister generously labelled some of the bums with names and initials of some folks whose bums I saw and/or came close to seeing this year. How nice that at the birthday dinner table, my father and his girlfriend got a sense of what I’ve been up to.
Full Moon Portrait. If you don’t see your name on a bum, blame my sister.
As it happens, I do not have any tape.
However, I am the very proud owner of scissors. And they made it into Exhibit One of 19. While I was in Delhi, I purchased a large pair of blue scissors for 90 rupees. Since then, I have been cutting my own hair and it is one of the greatest joys of my life. Travelling with scissors means that on airplanes, you no longer qualify for the prestigious Strictly Carry-On luggage status. But let me tell you, it is totally worth it.
Exhibit One of 19 + Scenes from a Haircutting Party, Bangalore
Exhibit One of 19 also features the Juno nominated children’s CD, “(name concealed due to the Dignity of my Somewhat Famous Relatives),” in addition to the intermittent presence of my I-pad mini, whose redness brings together a rewarding motif of primary colours.

Now we are going to skip the purse, shoes and broccoli t. shirt exhibits to get right to Shelf Nine of 19. Purple Combination Lock and Chain. Purple Combination Lock is from back in the days when cardiovascular fitness was still a concern and I used to go to Public Lap Swims. I took the combination lock all the way to India and used it to keep various beach house shacks secure. Somehow I remembered the combination which I wrote down in a cloth covered fushia journal in approximately 2009. The journal now exists in an unknown location. I really really really like purple. Same thing for fuschia, despite its elusive spelling.
 
Chain from Shelf Nine
The Chain from Shelf Nine was given to me by my Friend Franck. Franck is a rather spiritual and unusual fellow. In the winters, he hangs out in Rishikesh, writing, helping with a digeridoo factory and talking to God. In the summer, he builds boats in Montreal. Like a real Boatman, not just an arbitrary name I made up for blogging fairy tale purposes. Oh well. Anyways, when I went to Rishikesh, Franck took me up the mountains on his motorcycle. Everyone is dying to know what happened and so we are both going to write a story called, “No Garlic, No Onions, No Toilet Paper.” Franck’s version and Erica’s version. Franck gave me the chain after the motorcycle trip, for my eighteen-hour train ride to Varanasi. God is a big deal for Franck. He talks about God all the time. Even so, he thinks you should lock up your bags on the train. I wanted to leave my chain in Goa, but my Israeli friend convinced me to keep it, in case I ever want to be tied up.
Me and Franck on our way up the mountains.

Plus Me, In the Mountains
No Garlic, No Onions, No Toilet Paper
Exhibit 16: Books.

The Book of Stuff and Whatnot: I helped a bunch of teenagers put together this anthology of short stories, drawings and poems. Perhaps this in itself counts as a sort of curating. In any case, narrowing down my book collection to contain 50% teenage poetry and creative writing was not a terrible choice.  A few excerpts:

The Struggle:
My heart feels ever so heavy.
I’m about to stumble. I’m feeling unsteady.
I feel like I could forever fall. I just can’t stop hitting this hard, brick wall.
My head spins.
And I feel like I’m not going to win.

The Hardest Part:
Even though my mind knows it, my heart refuses to accept the truth.
That you are gone from me.
Forever...

Curiosity Killed the Cat (A Sonnnet)
They say curiosity killed the cat.
Now and then, notice where your head is at. 

The Book of Stuff and Whatnot + a book about Ashtanga Yoga and Having Babies
Yoga Sadhana for Mothers: Shared experiences of Ashtanga Yoga, pregnancy, birth & motherhood: For someone who has no desire to bear her own child or be a mother and/or practice Ashtanga Yoga, I read this book incredibly quickly. I think I am going to pass it on to my Pregnant Friend, who is no longer pregnant, but who has remained my Pregnant Friend in my psyche. Maybe you have friends like that.
 Hazy Indian Currency/Condom/Bandaid/Broken Rock Mini Museum
Indian Currency/Condom/Bandaid/Broken Rock Mini Museum: Here we have the leftover Indian currency, the leftover Canadian condoms I took to India – there were more than two, but I gave some to friends, and selected these specially for my exhibit – and the broken brown rock that my friend Naomi gave me to heal my painful gushing periods. And bandaids. I smashed the menstrual rock in my seven-dollar hotel room in Rishikesh. From that point on, menstruation ceased for over four months.  The blood came back two and a half days after I curated this exhibit, and the morning before I went to visit Franck. Franck takes full responsibility.

Teenage Poetic Interlude:
The Serenity of a Journal Entry:
As you can see, I adore poetry.
Reading and writing are skills I carry.

(End of Interlude.)
May we all carry these skills all the time.

Some of my clothing made it onto the shelf, including a somewhat fuschia and multi-coloured dress I bought in Goa for 500 rupees, the Threesome Tights, and a fancy frilly shirt my mother game me.
Threesome Tights on Legs, with Birkenstocks
Other exciting exhibits feature Tarot Cards, the Fanny Pack Museum, Generic Spiritual Objects A, B and Others, Burgundy Doc Martens and A Letter from Cambodia. The Erica Museum will be on display for the month of April. That is to say, it is a limited edition. Also, I will need a new apartment come May. And/or another country to live in.
To learn the Secret and Exciting Location of the Erica Museum, please get in touch. Curating/Curation Workshops are also available. The fees are not exorbitant.  But if you’re super short on cash, in lieu of money, I could sort of use a decent sized book for balancing on my head during meditation. I gave, Not That Kind of Girl to some rickshaw drivers in Agra.
Not That Kind of Girl, passed on to young rickshaw drivers in Agra
 
Not That Kind of Girl, on my head
And it seems the teen poets are winning the day.

At the end of The Book of Stuff and Whatnot, they generously wrote me a bio. Whoever taught them how to write bios was an okay teacher. I am pretty happy with this:

Erica Schmidt (Coordinator)
A woman of character and just a touch of both serious and childish nature. An altogether fearless mentor to the writing club, she is fearless in her writing, as well as in real life.

Book: The Book of Stuff and Whatnot
Genre: Murder, Mystery and Imagination

The End.
See you at the museum!


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Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
2-3 Dollar Self-Help Book: I Let Go


Not That Kind of Girl, The Blogpost
Business Ideas, On a Tuesday
Mother's Bunion

God Box