Friday, July 25, 2014

White Space

Wow. It's weird in here. All this white space. It's freaky. Where are all the words? All the sentences? All the paragraphs?

Who the hell took my words?!?!?

Oh. Wait. There they are. The more I type. Hmm. Seems the more I type, the more there are. Ohhhhh. Yeaaaahhh. Thaaaat's where they are.

Those wascally words. Seems they just don't appear on their own, now do they.

Wats.

Here's to having an awe-inspired weekend doing whatever you do to fill in your own white space. Figuratively speaking. Or in my case, literally speaking.

Namaste.

~ Olivia J. Herrell

 

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

Internal Dialogue 101

Go ahead. Do it. Write something. Write a blog post.

Nope. Can't.

Why not?

Hmm. Not sure, really. Just can't. Don't want to. Can't make me, either.

Really?

Really. Not doing it. Not until I finish that book I'm writing. Not until then, I tell you.

Really? That doesn't make much sense.

Um. Sense? It's not about sense. It's about. Crap. What is it about?

Hahahaha. See. You're bonkers.

Me? YOU'RE bonkers. I'M fine. I can't. Don't want to. Can't make me. And that's all there is to it.

Huh. Alrighty then. Have it your way. But you will. I know you. Sooner or later, you will.

~ Olivia J. Herrell

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Coincidence? I Don't Think So.

I started the day with vigor and verve, newly-repaired Activator in hand. Somewhere around midday I realized it. My finger is hurting. Inspecting the site of pain, I find a blister forming at the bend of my middle finger, no small feat considering it's right smack on top of a callous. A fifteen year-old callous.

Really? So you mean the scratchy duct tape that the dude (um, professional) used to repair the cracked shaft rubbed against my finger all day and gave me a blister? Grrrrr.

So I put it aside and used my other one. Now mind you, this Activator is cracking too, and on the brink of the same repair. But I've been careful, you see. Been nursing her along. Not five minutes later, BLAM!!! I turn around to look and she's lying on the floor busted, the handle in two pieces beside her.

Bum-bum-pa-dum, bum-pa-dum, pa-dum, pa-dum.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I know you can't hear me. But that was a high-pitched scream. Because, don'tcha know, it goes with the rest of my day. Week. Since getting home from Casper, actually. GAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

After everyone left and I had time to stew, it hit me. Crap. Now it's obvious. Is it to you? One instrument hurts my hand, the other one breaks outright? BLAM, POW, KAPOOEE.

Now I interpret this as one of two things, both of which are signs. And yes, if you're wondering, I believe in signs. One, I was hating on my day job and indirectly destroyed the object of my hate, or two, the Universe, God, my angels, whoever's up there talking, just said "hang it up".

Get rid of my day job? Did I just say that out loud? Because I have lots of reasons to keep it. And only a few to let it go.

But look at the signs. At my heart. The heart that calmed the minute I sat down to write about it, the moment I laid hands on my computer. Listen to her. She is the song of the sea, of wind-tossed waves sluicing against a sandy beach, the roar of quiet abandon to what is and what shall be.

Remember what Bade Baba said?

"The heart is the hub of all sacred places; go there and roam." ~ Bhagavan Nityananda

Yeah. Thank you, Bade Baba. Thank you very much. I will. I'll look at those signs.

And I will see.

~ Olivia J. Herrell

Friday, January 31, 2014

Agita aka A Bad Case of the Grrr's

ag•i•ta (ˈædʒ ɪ tə)
n.
1. heartburn; indigestion.
2. agitation; anxiety.
[1980–85, Amer.; < Italian, <agitare < Latin agitāre agitate], courtesy http://www.thefreedictionary.com/agita

Agita. I'd never heard the word until a few years ago, when my friend from Long Island introduced me. It perfectly describes what I'm feeling today, a deep level of unease. Dis-ease. A teeth-gritting, muscle-clenching day when everything and everyone gets on your last nerve. Of course, I know it's not them. It's me.

Agita. I found this excerpt from an article by David Giacalone upon googling the word. The highlights were supplied by me.
"...I discovered a fuller and fun discussion of agita at The Word Detective, which includes: You won’t find “agita” in most dictionaries, although it is a quintessential Italian-American slang word. Strictly speaking, “agita” is a stomach upset or heartburn. But “agita” can also mean that special kind of existential dyspepsia of the soul you get when absolutely everything goes wrong. Comedian Jackie Mason has explained “agita” as “when you have been aggravated to the point where it feels like you have a serious migraine headache throughout your whole body.” “Agita” is thus more or less the Italian-American equivalent of the Yiddish “tsuris” (”misery”), an equation not lost on Woody Allen, who made a song about “agita” the center-piece of his 1984 film “Broadway Danny Rose.” ~ David Giacalone 
Strange word, agita. One you don't hear growing up in the south. But it's one of Those Words. Once you know it and experience the feeling, you think, "Yeah. Exactly. Agita."

So like it or not, I've got the grrr's. Could it be the fallout from Flurryopollis or whatever Jon Stewart called it? Seeing nothing but white for three days running? Being on high alert for thirty hours, watching Facebook's newsfeed, helping pray family, friends, clients and other's loved ones home safely?

Or maybe it's the inner manifestation of an itchy rash I've developed from a new sensitivity to latex and spandex. Which, by the way, is in every bra ever manufactured, including the camisoles to which I'd resorted.

Whatever the cause, the best thing to do with a person afflicted with agita is: RUN. Or duck. But for heaven's sake, don't try to fix, or understand it. Just go away. Leave us alone. Hope tomorrow's better.

Of course, if you, like me, are the one suffering from agita, you're screwed. I can't run. I can't hide. I can't duck. I'm stuck. With an anxious, irritable me.

So here's hoping for a better tomorrow.

~ Olivia J. Herrell

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