Music is my obsession. It influences my thoughts, my emotions, and my work. It stirs my soul and is an essential ingredient to my existence. Please join in and share your thoughts as well in the comment boxes on each piece. The beauty of song is that there is something out there for each and every one of us.
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/
I walk into brick walls often, many admonish me to
look where I'm going.Blindness isn't
always in the eyes of the beholder.Sometimes it's the darkness of a mind, the beating of a black
Even the blind can see.
We see through the scent of a cloud whispering from a far
away sky, through the touch of a breeze that's traveled around the world to
greet us.We see through the sounds of a
lonely piano where great passions are spilled forth to dance as a fire licks
the night air.
Mine is a hysterical blindness in that it keeps me from
seeing the moments mercifully buried, but I live in fear of what could possibly
be blacker than the horrors remaining unseen in my memory. Happiness is fleeting; I find myself living those moments as often as possible, while I scribble in the moon's light trying to recover what's been lost.
Long have been the nights that I've slashed my veins to
write in bloody ink, chasing my demons into the midnight.Or... am I the one pursued?It is in those hours that I look for
something tangible, anything to bind me to a world of realism, and not the
twisted turns of my mystical whirlstorms.When the ivory sings to me, its voice comes from the soul of another,
and as I strive to be heard, I am calmed by common expressions.The soothing touch of a human hand allows me
to toss my words about without fear of falling alone.
In the quiet silent seconds... I came
down to meet you in the half light the moon left...
I am a moon girl.
Always have been for as far back as my memory can reach. I'm not sure if
it's because I feel a safety in the grays that glimmer in the shadows, or if
I'm trying to harness the beauty of its solemn solitude.
I've never been a woman to draw the looks of men. They don't approach me
upon sight. It seems its my words that draw them in, whether intentional or
conversational. It's a power that I'm not always comfortable with, because it
can lead to a cracked heart - mine more often than theirs, for guilt is a heavy
Often I question why it is these friends fall for me over time.The replies have varied from "you're so
much fun to talk with!" to "you're amazing, like an onion, one just
has to keep peeling the layers to get to your center."Last
night, a very quiet man said to me "You have lots of stories.And I like the way you tell your
I think it's the safety in that I can't be had, mingling with the hope that
I can be.Is it me giving off that mixed
Is it me whom they see in their looking glass?The magic stops there, leaving only me on the
other side, mired in clay.
There is a small seed deep inside of my soul that wants to be wanted, but when
it is tended to and the roots take hold, it becomes frightening because all I
can think is... what have I done?It feels as though I'm drifting through time,
that I am nothing more than a transition, a transparency.I am wanted for my parts, but rarely ever for
It is when I lay my weary self down at the end of each night, and feel the
warmth next to me that I know I am wanted, always.
There are women, and some will hold
you tight while others will leave you counting stars in the night...
(c) Kymberlie Ingalls, February 26th, 2011
Lyrics:Come Down In Time/Elton John
Today I don’t feel so special.Ah, but you are! come the reassurances, but are they sincere?How does one know?How do I know?What’s the expression… “if ya ain’t lyin’, you’re dyin’.
In other words, people are too fucking polite.
I spend a lot of my time wondering whether I’m worthy of anyone else’s.Too much of my time.What I need to be doing is taking a better look at whether they are worth mine.
Way back in the day, my mom used to be big into the CB radio scene.Like me, she was very social by nature, and she loved to talk a good game.Her call name was Pocket Mouse.When I was a kid, I thought it was kinda cute.It wasn’t until recently when I was describing Mom’s perverse humor that it hit me just what it meant.Remember the old line, “Is that a mouse in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”
She was special.She had a way of relating to people that made them feel at home.A woman of steel with a heart of gold.All of my life I’ve wished to be her, flaws and all.Me?I’m just a tough nut to crack with barely any heart left at all.
What is left of it, however, is worthy.
So, were I to pick up a CB right now and introduce myself, I think it would be Pocket Brass.Because I need to remember that my heart has endured a lot, and still beats steadily even when it wants to stop.It’s not quite as pretty as gold, and has dulled over time, but it’s strong and worth having in your pocket.