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

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

Not Pretty Enough



Am I not pretty enough, is my heart too broken?  Do I cry too much, am I too outspoken?  Don’t I make you laugh?  Should I try it harder?  Why do you see right through me…?

I know I’m not pretty, but am okay with that.  I’m a whole lot of things, that just ain’t one of ‘em.  Strangely enough, I get ‘cute’ a lot – but cute in my mind is reserved for puppy dogs and cheerleaders, not dark souls like myself.

It’s said that when a woman reaches a certain age, her beauty flourishes because she has become more confident in herself, something that only comes with miles.  I’ve definitely done the drive, but all that stares back at me in the rearview mirror are darker eyes and a tired soul. 

More Wicked Witch than ‘pretty’ little Dorothy. 

Last week I told my husband my eyes baffled me.  They’re not my mom’s, not my dad’s.  Someone said a man could fall into them and never find his way out. Truth be told, I get that a lot.  It’s a good way to tell when someone is lying to me, because I don't do eye contact – so how would they know?  If our eyes are the windows to what’s inside, I’d rather keep the curtains closed. 

Used to be I had great legs.  Long, and lean.  They’re still lengthy, but like my waist have grown in size.  My last mini-skirt went out with my 20s and men no longer fantasize about climbing to the golden Himalayas. 

Ironically, in my big weight loss a few years ago, my chest was first to shrink.  No good deed goes unpunished. 

Over the years, I’ve asked men what about me attracts them?  The answers have been varied – “sexy,” “sultry,” “there’s a craziness in you.”  Even “vulnerability” has been tossed about.  Then they throw in the eyes, or the legs or the neurotic mind.  Okay, but those are all just pieces.  Even a pit bull still has the heart of a dog. 

Lately I seem to be obsessed with the changing of my Facebook profile photo.  It’s as if I up the odds with quantity, eventually quality’s going to follow.  I’ll pose and click and post, putting my needful vanity on display, yet the same face glares back at me; if you can’t be pretty on the inside, you’re wasting your time.

There it is.  I can prop up the old girls for an impressive display of cleavage, show off my pretty little painted toenails, try everything to turn my lumps and bumps into curves and contours, but at the end of the day it’s all about the innards, isn’t it?

Finally, I went to the ultimate judge:  “Honey, when we first met, I was not like the other women you were dating.  Why did you want to see me again?  What was it you saw that first night?”

The pause only served to show his sincerity:  “You were real.”




 

© Kymberlie Ingalls, May 2, 2012
Lyrics: Not Pretty Enough / Kasey Chambers


Friday, August 10, 2012

A Fame To Be Reckoned With


You ain’t seen the best of me yet.  Give me time, I’ll make you forget the rest.  I can grab your heart til it breaks…

August appears to be a month of greatness.  Legends have been born and have died in this month that sees the waning of summer descending upon us.  Four of our nation’s leaders came along including current President Barack Obama, while baseball great Mickey Mantle went to the field of dreams.

There have been years that I take an annual retreat in August – just an overnighter so that I can be reminded how much I love coming back home to my husband and my two purring baby girls.  The economy has made it more difficult to indulge in this luxury, but the waves are calling me.  Sometimes indulgence is the necessity.

It’s a time to reflect on my impact in the world.  Looking around, trying to size up my footprint.  So easily are our tracks in the sand washed away in the tides to be forgotten, until we take the next step, leaving another print.  

Each word I write is a sandy step.  It’s my way to plant my foot firmly into the wet grains, but as soon as the waves crash, there’s another clean slate to inscribe.

I’m not a worldly person.  I’m not cultural, my little world is very important to only me and it’s a full time job to stay aware of what’s around me, I quite often forget to look up at the stars and remember there are millions of people around the globe staring at those same wish-catchers. 

Tonight, my dinner was interrupted by my husband’s excitement at a roving robot like something or other landing on Mars.  I didn’t have a clue what was happening, nor do I understand the concept of why it’s such a big deal.  I mean, we’ve traveled into space plenty, what makes this one different?  Don’t tell me; like the intricacy that is Star Wars, I’ll never get it.  Roger was being silly when I asked him to explain it as he watched a live feed of a cheering NASA –  “It’s a moment the whole world is excited about, except for Kymberlie.” But… I felt left out.

Then, an hour later, I stumbled across a post on the effect of AIDS on our current culture, and I expressed my sadness.  Educating others on sexual diseases and encouraging safe sex is something I believe in strongly.  Ignorance is what’s killing us; of our options, and of the actions of others.  I replied with my support of this post, and was surprised to receive this message back, almost as if it came in a bottle from the sea:  “You are such an ally.  I get that you are aware of a whole lot.  I see how you stand out in your support.  You inspire me.” 

Evidence of a footprint.

Legacies find their home in this eighth month, so named for the Roman Emporer Augustus, because several fortunate events of his life occurred in this time.  It’s been 50 years today, August 5th, that Marilyn Monroe was found dead, the same day Lucille Ball was born 101 years ago.  My grandmother and pop legend Madonna entered the world on August 16th, Elvis Presley left it on the same day, some years later.  The great voice that was Whitney Houston graced us on August 9th, long before Jerry Garcia went ridin’ that train outward bound, the same day as my own birthday. 

Yeah.  That’s right.  Remember my name.

See, I had a vision, was left in the cold.  I had a story that had to be told.  I’ve lived and I’ve gone, it’s not a game, I’ma make sure you remember my name…




© Kymberlie Ingalls, August 6, 2012
Lyrics:  Fame / Irene Cara (1980)   Fame /  Naturi Naughton feat. Collins Pennie (2009)

Saturday, July 28, 2012

I Miss Me



It was late, but driving at night always appealed to her.  She was a night owl, working grave shifts; even on her days off rarely surfaced before the sun was on its downhill slide.  She tossed her duffle carelessly in the backseat of her old Nissan wagon.  It landed on the heap of soda bottles, paper bags full of clothing and other miscellaneous things a young woman kept handy when she was always trying to escape home. 

This was going to be a different kind of trip.  It was a difficult household – just the two of them, and sometimes the older woman’s depression and needs took their toll.  She was twenty-five years old, but Grandma treated her like she was still a toddler, despite the dependence on her granddaughter. 

The depression ran much deeper than that.  Taking it on for both had taken its toll on her, and it was just the icy tip of her mountain.  Twenty-five years of falling down that mountain, rolling and tumbling, bruised by every hit she took.  Grandma hadn’t been able to save her from that, though it felt as if nobody had ever tried quite hard enough.  The result being that everyone now bore the brunt of her solid edge.  Nobody had taken away the abuse, the hate she’d suffered at her stepmother’s hand. 

Then came the affair.  For the last few years she’d been embroiled in a hot-blooded, emotional entanglement with someone she couldn’t be with, couldn’t be without.  He’d never promised to leave his wife for her – she knew the rules before rolling the dice across her heart. The snake eyes that came up were none but her own. 

The inferno was dying, there was no strength left in her to bring it back to life.  She could stand the hurt if he would only love her, but alone, empty of him, her mind melted.  Others took her body, one without her permission, but nobody could rescue her heart. 

This was going to be a different kind of trip.

Fumes?  Pills, or chemicals?  She didn’t have a gun.  There wasn’t a determined plan, more just a knowing.  She didn’t want to come back, and she had nowhere left to go.  As the car rolled forward, there was no looking back at the house she’d known her entire life, before nobody wanted her and it became her prison. 

The car seemed to drive its way across town with a mind of its own.  She looked at the unlit homes, the neon signs over the darkened buildings for what would be the last time.  This town owned her, had cast its curse mercilessly.  She felt no pride at this place of her birth, her life. 

Without warning, a tow truck barreled up alongside her, moving into her lane and with no one else to witness it, shoved her car into the curb.  The wheel snapped violently against her hands as the truck’s red lights cruised away from her.  There was a sharp pain as she let go.  The car lifted itself onto the sidewalk before coming back to the gutter with a hard fall and her head landed against the cold window. 

Everything was quiet.

It was , and the street was vacant.  After a moment, she pushed on the door and it creaked open slowly.  Falling out of the car, she stumbled to the sidewalk, noting the black tire marks that squiggled across the moonlit gray.  One busted tire rested on the curb with its rim dented heavily, and another was shredded. 

She sank to the ground, and she cried.


“I may have already said this…” It’s a reflexive statement that begins most of my conversations, or is dropped in at some point.  In the last fifteen years, it’s become a way of a life with memory loss. 

The other day I was having a conversation with someone who was commenting on my hair.  “Oh, that is such a great story…” and started to tell one of my favorite tales of how I became a redhead. 

“You already told me.” He interrupted.  I did?  The thought iced across me.  But... so I had.  He even gave me the details.  I had absolutely no recollection of this conversation, and I’ve only known him for a month. 

Many of my friends in their seventies and eighties have sharper minds than I do, and I’m only half that.  They laugh and tell me I’m not old enough to have those problems yet.  Surely I’m exaggerating. 

I forget things.  Big things, little things.  Lots of things.  My husband loves it, I suspect, because he can use it to his advantage in an argument, and does so often.  “But you said…!”

There’s a name for such things – PTSD, DID, MPD.  But… I don’t care for labels.  It’s all hints and allegations.

Most of my childhood is gone.  Something can be jarred and will fall out of the attic, but for the most part it’s all been boxed up and sealed.  A good part of my twenties has been taken away.  I’ll read the scant journals that have thankfully survived.  If it weren’t my name attached to them, I’d wonder who that person was, because it’s not anyone I know.  I read archives of conversations I had online or in email, and feel sad for her before realizing.. that’s me.

My obsession of begging my family for photos that I try to preserve grows more every day.  Everything my husband and I do, I take hundreds of pictures, not wanting to forget our life, but even the images don’t always help.  They can tell me what I was wearing, that he still had streaks of color in his hair, but they don’t tell me how I felt.  That he tells me every day “I love you” shows me the life we have built, when the rest fades away all too quickly. 

That tow truck was an eraser, swiping away much of what was scribbled in my head.  It didn’t just take away the bad things, it stole away the good as well.  My instincts have had to sharpen themselves on the stone of what is forgotten.  . 

I’ve also become fixated on writing down as much as I can now, because I’ve trained myself. My words have to paint as much detail as possible.  They are what preserve the emotion. 

Entertaining myself has become easier – I can watch an old movie or reread a book because I won’t recall the ending.  I am thankful for the social media of today that allows me to express myself, and save it for later.  The technology to rebuild my memory for a later time. 

There’s no recollection or proof that I hit my head that night.  Amnesia isn’t always brought on by physical injury.  Something broke inside, something was happening that apparently I couldn’t handle anymore.  This is what therapy has taught me.  The weight of it all simply collapsed upon itself.  The weight of being me.

I’m constantly looking in the windows of my own life, trying to find the door to get in. 

Like a child, I need steady reminders to accomplish the simplest of tasks.  I break promises without meaning to – a constant source of disappointment in myself.  Many think I’m not interested enough in their lives to remember a conversation, an event or a favor.  It becomes tiresome to repeat themselves, and I get that.  But try it from my end sometime.  I don’t even get to enjoy being the narcissist I appear to be. 

It’s been years now of trying to unlock secrets.  I don’t know what frightens me more – the burden of what’s stayed with me, or the horror of what was left behind.  

“I’ve been all up and down the roads that lead to my old memories but I can’t find the one with all my hopes and dreams.  And I’ve been looking in my eyes for something I still recognize.  Some stranger’s stare is all I see – I miss me, I’m not the same.  Just someone else usin’ my name…”

© Kymberlie Ingalls, March 11, 2012
Quote:  The Last Unicorn / Peter S. Beagle
Lyrics: I Miss Me / Brad Cotter
“Drown out my dreams!
Keep me from remembering whatever wants me to remember it!”
*          *          *          *          *

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Welcome, Stranger... Cheers To You!

Making your way in the world today takes everything you’ve got.  Wouldn’t you like to get away..?
I want to run away. 
Well, drive away.  I want the pavement to whisper in my ear, want to feel the curves of the road hug my shivering soul.  There’s a magic that finds me when my hands rest upon the cauldron-like wheel, soaking into my skin like a healing tonic. 
What is it I’m running from?  Maybe from the helplessness in my husband’s eyes as he watches me move about aimlessly, a forlorn mouse in a maze.  All of this cheese dangling, any way I turn, and yet the appeal just isn’t there to take a nibble. 
Probably because I’ll end up with my head caught in the steel trap.
Life inside the maze can be a chaos of its own.  Blind corners, hard cold walls.  Okay, maybe I’m trying to outrun the misperceptions that plague the world.  How am I to know the poison from the provolone?  To counteract the dismal society that I bury myself in every day, I often take my little computer and hide away somewhere.
There’s an old saying; “Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name.”  I was eleven years old when I fell hard for Sam Malone.  The hair, the laughing brown eyes, and oh so tall.  Did I mention the hair?  From the day he first appeared behind the bar of a little tavern by the name of Cheers,  I’ve been claiming that some day I’ll have my own quiet seaside dive or a rowdy little neighborhood pub to call home. 
I heard a story that JK Rowling gave birth to Harry Potter while haunting cafes as a young mother.  I wonder if she were encouraged at all by the kindness of strangers who may have become friends along the way?  I know I am.  Listening to random table conversations is a great source of inspiration, but becoming part of the establishment is an honor that doesn’t come around too often.  A random smile can be the sparkle in a day, a ‘hello’ is worth its weight in gold, but kind words to go with it are rare gems. 
That’s why, when I’m welcomed time and again to a watering hole or lunchtime favorite, I make a point to keep coming back.  It takes a special talent to put on a face for the public, fill their every request, and lure them back for more.  I know, I’ve had to do it; these men and women who pull it off get my respect by the plateful. 
For all of those who quietly brighten the days for the familiar faces they see, I thank you.  For Josh, who has taken on the role of BFF, and Paul, who remembers my name, Miguel who stops by to say hello and chat about working his way through school, Gabriela and her angelic smile, Jasmine with her wicked sense of humor.  There’s Wayne, who is a saint with my difficult requests,  and Sabrina, who never loses her grace, and Adam who strides around the bar like he actually wants to be there. 
And John; who, three years ago when I asked “Why is ‘no onions, no peppers, and all sauces on the side so difficult to understand?” never blinked an eye but answered sincerely, “I don’t know, because that seems simple enough to me.”  And he made everything right.  John makes a point to not just glide through with a half-hearted “How’s everything?” but makes us believe he really wants to hear the answer. 
So, when there’s no time to grab the old girl and head for the highway, I settle for these mini-vacations of long, lingering sandwich sessions.  If I could gather up these favorites and give them a new home, we’d all be serving smiles and spirits and singing around the piano tomorrow. 
You want to be where you can see our troubles are all the same, you want to be where everybody knows your name…
© Kymberlie Ingalls, June 19, 2012
Lyrics: Where Everybody Knows Your Name / Gary Portnoy

Sunday, June 10, 2012

Walls


All around your island there’s a barricade, it keeps out the danger but holds in the pain…

The number one rule of writing is “show, don’t tell.”  It’s like that with relationships too.  I don’t need to be heaped with compliments all the time.  In fact, it makes me extremely uncomfortable and has been the source of discontent lately with a very dear friend of mine.  He doesn’t understand why it causes me such duress. 

I appreciate that he thinks I’m this wonderful person with amazing talent and superhuman powers and stuff.  He claims that he recognizes my faults as well, but I’m not convinced.  It seems every sin I’ve ever committed only seems to add to my allure.  What I have tried, unsuccessfully, to explain is piling on the compliments may be fine and dandy with anyone else, but I’m a horse of a different color.  A whole rainbow’s worth of different, in fact. 

It’s taken me forty years to come to terms with the pressures I put upon myself.  I’ve been abused, assaulted, anorexic and bulimic, neurotic, drunk, depressed and catatonic too.  I have an amnesia of sorts brought on and triggered by traumatic stress. 

Just one big flaming ball of fun, I am.  Lock me in the barrel with the other monkeys. 

Because I was trained so young to feel unworthy of being alive, subsequently I did all sorts of things to self-destruct.  In the end, it’s all about control.  I couldn’t control the pressures being put upon me, so the challenge became to override all of that with my own set of expectations. 

In all of this there was never a motivation to excel in anything specific.  I never went for promotions or educational achievements.  Anything that I might have to answer to while playing by the rules was out of the question. 

So, now, when I’m praised or handed an unconditional or unbiased compliment, I don’t know what to do with it.  Suddenly there is a pressure to be that.  And when someone barrages me with such admiration, I revert to a fat dirty pile of how-the-hell-do-I-live-up-to-that?  It doesn’t matter that maybe I already did.  It’s not in me to see it that way. 

There are still urges deep within me to take leaps from a cliff to see how far I can fall and still come out alive.  It’s like any other recovery – it never goes away.  Unwanted survival instinct.  To feel any sort of idolization is a daunting terror.  My friend will say to me “I don’t idolize you.  I recognize that you have faults, just as I do, and that makes you more… you.  And I genuinely care for you.  The real you.” 

But the bar has been set, and like a gymnast who must leap and vault higher than the time before, I feel like someone trying to achieve a perfection that doesn’t exist.  He may see me as amazing, I see myself as a fraud who now has to be amazing.

I love that he appreciates what he sees as the good in me, but the truth is I can’t handle the enormity of being told so.  That he gives to me his friendship, that’s his showing.  I don’t need to be told why. 

But you’ve got a heart so big it could crush this town – I can’t hold out forever, even walls fall down…


 


© Kymberlie Ingalls, June 10, 2012
Lyrics:  Walls (Circus) / Tom Petty

Monday, May 14, 2012

Once Upon A Lie


The further from perfect I fall, the more at home I feel in my bones.  But I contradict myself, because lately I can’t even live up to my own imperfections. 

You are not a statue, and I am not a pedestal.
Why am I expected to be now?  The ring of irony I wear has made me golden in their eyes.  Too many eyes.  It’s not the real me before them; I have been plated in fool’s gold.  A pirate of pyrite.  It is my words that dance, hazy images that lie.  Pieces of me.  Pieced out, when I desperately need to be whole.

I am not a pedestal, nor do I wish to be placed on one.  My fear of heights is not without history.  Placed high to be saved, when it is they who need to be safe from their jagged hearts and twisted transitions. 

Desired for my faults, inferior in the face of them.  I find myself staring heavily into thin air, not an answer to be found.  Somewhere lurks the question, but would I recognize it if I saw it? 

Rain is in the air; the rolling clouds watch over me yet there is no solace.  Despite the chill that sweeps across my skin, a heat is building from within, threatening to stoke embers best left untouched, much like myself – dangerous if played with unsupervised. 

There is a phantom who lives in my mind.  He casts his demands about like confetti at the Mardi Gras, beckoning to see how I will dance to his strings.  The spell cast so long ago lives in my shadow, visible only in the moon’s beam.  A spell that gives permission to the wicked that I do.   

Wicked does not belong on a pedestal, any more so than I belong to any one heart. 
Mirror, mirror, truth be said;
who shall lie upon this bed?
Lie upon me, lie within,
the pedestal was fallen by my sin.







































© Kymberlie Ingalls, April 24, 2012

Original artwork by Kevin P Goss © 2012


Saturday, May 12, 2012

Days Of Mothers


Twenty-five years and my life is still trying to get up that great big hill of hope…

“You’ve talked about how the day goes, every year.  How it affects those around you.  But, how do you feel about Mother’s Day?”

I’m often not able to accurately answer questions posed before me.  I’ll stare at wall, or at the ground, the sky, the bird outside the window, as I ponder my response.  So many words.  It’s difficult for me to make sense of the jumble in my head where they bounce and skyrocket like popcorn kernels. 

How do I feel about Mother’s Day?

It’s another day.  A day to remember the epic battles between my mother and my evil step…mother.  Funny, I’d rather she be a step I could walk on and away from than the poor substitute for a mom that she turned out to be.  I’ll hand her a polite gift of miniature roses, but when the sun rises it is my Mom I’ll be missing, and not just because it’s some particular Sunday that Hallmark tells us to honor. 

Every Sunday, Monday, Tuesday.  Every single day of the week, I miss my mom.  Mother’s Day is just a hollow reminder that turns my brother into a raging bitch from that day until June 17th – Mom’s birthday. 

Maybe someday he’ll get over it.  Holding my breath and waiting only gets me a nice skin shade of blue.

Another question asked of me:  “These issues with your stepmother.  Can they not be resolved?  Isn’t there some kind of closure to be found?” 

Some answers are nothing more than predictions, and I tossed out my crystal ball a long time ago. 

Today was emotional, for various reasons.  Up, down and all around like a carnival ride, only I ended up dizzy and stumbling around a house of mirrors, not sure where to take my next step.  Echoes of questions pushed and pulled at me, while waves of giddiness were mocked by the teary-eyed mess staring from inside the reflective walls. 

I learned today that my cousin and her girlfriend lost their child.  She was five months along, and the baby simply couldn’t be saved.  They buried their child together, and asked for prayers of love and support. 

Sometimes I wish I knew how to pray.  Just open your mind and speak.  Speak to what?  A God who doesn’t bless their union?  That’s what the Christians were saying on Facebook today. 

A prayer doesn’t have to be to God, Jesus, The Virgin Mary or the tree in my front yard.  A prayer in my mind is a wish for peace, however it may show itself.  My prayer is that they will someday celebrate Mother’s Day with more joy than sadness as they cradle their family in their arms.  The love they share will get them through this horrendous time; that’s where I choose to put my faith, and find my inspiration. 

Every single day of the week these mothers will miss their son.  Every day for the rest of their lives.  If only they’d been spared that agony.  Life is brimming with if onlys.  Sooner or later we have to make peace with them and appreciate what is. 

They will need to lay their child to rest.  My brother needs to lay our mother to rest.

Sooner or later, there’s a way out of the house of mirrors.  The secret is to find our way through the looking glass and move forward, not to keep staring at what’s reflected behind us. 

And I cry sometimes as I lie in bed, just to get it all out, what’s in my head.  I wake in the morning and I step outside and I take a deep breath and I scream from the top of my lungs ‘What’s going on..?’



© Kymberlie Ingalls, May 12, 2012
Lyrics:  What’s Going On? / 4 Non-Blondes

Monday, March 26, 2012

Rainy Days And Mondays


Tell me why I don’t like Mondays, I want to shoot the whole world down…

On January 29th, 1979, Brenda Ann Spencer took a gun in her 16 year old hands and went for a spree at the Grover Cleveland Elementary School in San Diego, California.  Two adults were killed, eight children and one police officer were injured.  When asked why she would do such an unspeakable thing, her answer was simple:  “I don’t like Mondays.  This livens up the day.”

Never being the kind to work a typical schedule, Mondays have had little meaning to me.  It was a day like any other, and days are rarely kind to me.  Seems everything interesting ever happens after the sun has been put to rest. 

For the last ten years, Mondays have been a day to sleep.  Weekends were consumed by a racetrack where my family gets their dirt on by driving circles in the mud, and I was documenting all of it for the world to see.  Sunday was clean up day – Monday often came and went without even being noticed. 

Ever since I hit the top of the hill last summer, my priorities are changing.  Forty years have come and gone, one year blurring in to the next like a never-ending snow storm.  . 

Lately I’ve had reason to like Mondays.  They seem to bring good things; smiles, flights of fancy, and healing rains.  At the same time, I feel like Brenda Ann Spencer – like something drastic is needed to liven things up.  Someone said recently that weekends are good, a time to step back.  This is a foreign concept to me – me being the bull in my own china mind.  Stepping back isn’t a talent I possess; move forward, all the time. 

A funny thought for a girl who loathes change. 

Mondays have become a day of intrigue, an invitation to see what the rest of the week will bring.  My orbits have been turned topsy-turvy – suddenly mornings are night, thoughts are more real than I think, and nightmares have become the dream.  Soon the sun will start crying rain and I’ll really be confused. 

As the week winds down I find myself faced with doubts, and decisions.  Irrational insecurities sweep through, invading my body until I fall wearily to bed.  Days become weeks, years – the faster they come around, the more the need to fill them with activity.  Places to go, people to see, on a regular schedule.  It’s harder to face a future that holds such uncertainty as ours does – no stable work, living month to month, waiting for the next dramatic chapter to unfold.  Every Tuesday and Friday finds me toting my netbook and my thoughts to the restaurant where my friend Josh works.  Each Wednesday night I trek to Berkeley to lay my words on a table to be judged.  Thursdays are a day for introspect.  Habitual therapy is what carries me.

The moon that once encouraged my thoughts now leaves me afraid of their power.  Suddenly the Monday sun isn’t so dastardly, bringing around warm words and a calm harbor. 

Can I embrace these days, revel in their allure?  Or should I be seeking the conventionality that society dictates?  The world does not like Mondays in general, and isn’t accepting of those who see it as anything other than the beginning of a dull existence that loops in five-day cycles.

My inclination is to liven things up.  Shake the tree and see how the Monday topples out.  I know what to expect as I go about my weekly rituals, but Monday is a free-fall. 

What reasons do I need?  None other than to grasp at opportunity. 

Life is too short not to live. 

Saturday may be the longest day, Sunday may be the first day, but life begins on a Monday. 

He always said she was good as gold.  He can see no reasons, and there are no reasons – what reason do you need to die…?



© Kymberlie Ingalls, March 26, 2012
Lyrics: I Don’t Like Mondays / The Boomtown Rats