About Me

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Kymberlie Ingalls is native to the Bay Area in California. She is a pioneer in blogging, having self-published online since 1997. Her style is loose, experimental, and a journey in stream of consciousness. Works include personal essay, prose, short fictional stories, and a memoir in progress. Thank you for taking a moment of your time to visit. Beware of the occasional falling opinions. For editing services: http://www.kymberlieingalls.com/p/editing-services.html

Thursday, March 24, 2011

The Blues And The Whys

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I guess that’s why they call it “the blues.”  It seems that your whole world is shaded by blue trees, blue clouds, but never a blue horizon.  Kind of like how, even in the hottest part of summer, it always seems to rain at a funeral.

I’ve been saying for a while that I need to take some “me” time.  It’s been a whirlwind couple of years – putting myself out into the world after a long absence, then in typical fashion, realizing I overdid it.  It started off with writing, then realizing, then came the editing (while at the same time learning, in therapy, not to edit), the organizing, the teaching, the friending – with all of that comes responsibility, and when all of that becomes too much, I’m left with a big fat pile of failure. 

How do I continue to write about myself without ever getting tired of hearing the sound of my own voice?  It’s not easy.  It takes work.  So when you also wonder why I spend much of my time with online fraternization, posting on the high-profile walls of strangers, networking with people I may or may not like – it’s much for the same reason as anyone else.  It’s my work.  It’s what I do. But I get frustrated, just as anyone else does, when my work, my words, are not appreciated.  I rant and rave about people I’ve never met, which unnerves my husband to no end (this I know from the argument we had last week) and boggles the minds of friends whom I’ve known for decades. 

It’s a good thing I’m not a doctor – I couldn’t ever be objective enough.  My work becomes quite personal at times – as personal to me as my past, which is never far from my present.  Friends that may be scattered pages in a wind that is constantly swirling about in my head, dancing through the gray skies that are my thoughts – I carry them like the blood in my veins, always. 

This is why it feels like another razor slash to the skin to learn that another one of these friends has died.  All I could do was stare at the screen in horror when the words flashed before me.  “She died – just last month in fact.” 

Ouch.

And it’s been too much time on my hands in recent days to sit, and think.  Death, rainy days and thoughts about both are a lethal combination, it is not recommended for the weak. 

The world should fear the day that I am weak.  Like the apocalypse, it is coming.  Pin all the dates on it you want to, you’re never going to see it coming, and like the earth, nothing will never be the same after. 

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