About Me

My photo
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.rainfallpress.com/

Friday, November 4, 2011


I am missing a lot of things today.

Aside from the usual; my keys, my sunglasses... my mind. 

I miss the shopping days of my youth.  Pouring over the makeup counter, experimenting with Royal Purples, Sweet Sixteen Pinks, and Apache Earth Browns.  The first eye shadow my mom ever bought me was Robin’s Egg Blue.  I was thirteen years old, and it was accompanied by my first pair of wedge heels and Strawberry Kiss lip gloss.  Colors to brighten my drab world.  As I grew older, my friends and I would admire all of the rich textures of the name brands, and end up scraping our pennies together for the copycat pencils, powders and lipsticks.  While I applied these things with hope of beauty, the mask was really to cover my lack of confidence. 

I miss, too, the days of buying music - holding it in my hands, versus a digital click.  Rasputin’s was the place to find me.  At eighteen, nineteen years old, back when we had this thing called ‘record albums,’ I dove head-first into the clearance section (100 albums / $20!) – without that deal I wouldn’t ever have discovered the warm soul of Otis Redding, the horrible pop of most of the Jackson family, the revolution of John Lennon, the intimacy of Tchaikovsky, the B-sides of my favorite artists.  I was fearless in my exploration.  I miss falling in love.

Just as I miss falling for a new movie hero, or a character in a favorite book.  The Electric Horseman has been on my mind today.  My heroes have always been cowboys, and when Robert Redford stumbled over the words to his leading lady “Hey?  I keep wantin’ to thank ya, but then I keep wonderin' what for…” … I have spent decades searching for that “what for.”

I miss my friends.  As we age, they’re falling more and more by the wayside.  While we wander around this middle-aged territory, most seem to be afraid of what they think about it all, so it’s easier to hide behind ‘responsibilities’ and other such walls.  My husband thinks he is a rock and an island unto himself.  We’re different that way.  I need to reach out and touch people, even when I don’t want to be touched. 

My friend Carolyn’s been trying to tell me something today.  I know because I heard my Carolyn song twice while my iPod was on shuffle.  I have an idea of what her message is, because it’s been rolling around my head for about a week now. 

Last week a new friend came into my life, and he may not be around for long so there is a strong voice telling me to appreciate Bill while he’s here.  Bill has made the decision to end his life, because his health and personal issues have worn him down.  Every day since I’ve become acquainted with him, though, he finds a reason to pull through.  What surprises me is that he pulls through the night as well.  I’ll bet that it’s at three in the morning when the sun has set long behind him and isn’t going to rise again for a good long while that his grip on hope loosens just a little bit more.  It’s only been a week, but I already know that I’m going to miss him when the night comes that he slipped off the ledge.  Like with anything or anyone else, the caring comes in letting go.  To accept, not to judge. 

I haven’t been able to let go of Carolyn in my mind, in the three and a half years she’s been gone.  Her death blindsided me in many ways, but in my search for closure I have found a stronger voice in my writing, in my actions.

So, while I try to age gracefully, and move along with the times, I have simplified my look in going with the basics.  No longer is my face decorated with wild colors, I don’t polka-dot or stripe my nails like I did.  My wardrobe is basically dark, with just splatters of color here and there.  My friends never have time to breathe, much less work on developing a friendship, so I’m learning to be my own lunch date.  I no longer have the time to play with music; staying with what I know, and finding it difficult to even keep up with that. 

When I hear about shooting stars and see them crossing my path, I know she’s speaking to me.  There’s a bittersweet comfort in the crisp fall air or when rain is on the way.  It’s Carolyn coloring my world, and reminding me to let others do the same.  While I work to infuse my gray insights into my words, I have to let go of those thoughts as soon as I write them down, let others find their colors in them. 

They say a rainbow has seven colors.  The truth is there are a million in-between shades.  Bill is one in my million, so was Carolyn, and while there are many others like them, none are faceless in the crowd.   

Tomorrow is my day off.  While my trips to the record store have fallen to the past, I think a cozy day with the kitties, a blanket, a bowl of homemade soup and a dusty album on my turntable seems just about the right way to color my day. 

© Kymberlie Ingalls

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.