Genesis 1:27

I imagine God standing in a kitchen, looking silly in an apron. While He gracefully removed all the proper utensils from the cabinets, He hummed a song of love. He took each and every ingredient, measured it to perfection, and added it into the mixing bowl with great care. He spooned the batter into the pan gently and was careful not to spill. He placed it in the oven, and patiently waited for the timer to ding so He could remove His creation and gaze at it with eyes of wonder. 

“You are beautiful.” 

His piece is an acquired taste. One can hardly grow accustomed to it’s crass behavior. It strives for perfection, but always falls short. It wants to be brave and courageous. It seeks approval. It’s motives are unknown to not just it’s peers, but also to itself. It question’s the ingredients God used, and talks to Him with doubts and uncertainties about it’s character. 

God created me. But the magic about it all is that only He knows why He used pecans instead of walnuts. 

Yours until the pigs fly, 

Alessondra Marie

Excuses

I haven't been here in a while. I mean, yes, I have been to this specific location quite regularly for a long time. I've sat in my black and white bean-bag chair, decorated with hundreds of circles, making me feel as though I'm sitting on eyeballs. I've stared at this blank page for hours, and I've tried composing something mildly interesting probably a dozen times this week alone. But I haven’t been here. My heart hasn’t been present in my mundane writings. I’ve been perusing it out of habit; writing out of haste. I’ve been acting the way a writer should not. 

But then perhaps, I have an incorrect notion of how a writer should act. Am I lesser of a writer because I feel everything different? Am I wrong for feeling numb or simply angry? Everything feels jumbled up in my head, and the words refuse to arrange themselves properly on paper. The way it should be is a perfect picture in my heart and mind. But the correlation between my invention and the world’s truth is somehow lost in translation. 

There are not enough words in the extensive english language for me to describe the vast amount of things that have occurred in the past few months. There's been death, injury, sickness, and hardship. But there's also been life, growth, revelation and a different kind of wealth. 


I work with three little miracles three times a week. I have the honor and privilege to watch these children grow into their own people. I received bad news yesterday while I was working. Once I got off the phone with my mother, cousin, and boss, I took in a deep breath and looked into the eyes of the lives that just began seventeen months ago. After a whine and a giggle or two, I picked up Katie and she blew me a kiss. I thought to myself, "Out of all the places I could be, I'm so glad I got the news while I was here." I kissed Katie's forehead and took her into the kitchen and moved on with my day. 


There have been certain things I've learned to handle with grace. That being one of them. That's something worth writing about. 

Yours until the pigs fly, 

Alessondra Marie

I cry more for fiction than I do for Real Life

I escape into books. They move me in a way that reality doesn't. They manipulate my feelings and sneak into my thoughts. I launch myself into an intentional state of psychosis. I become attached to these fictional people. I learn their quirks, see their mistakes. Sometimes I'm baffled with their ability to handle situations with calmness and grace. Why I can't be like that? 


Then I remember that as much as I would sometimes love to be a character in a book, I am not. I am a sixteen year old girl that follows a mundane life. My daily struggles are mainly decisions regarding lunch or who to bring to Senior Ball. There is no heroism in real life. There is no climax. There is no magic. There is no struggle to win. 


What makes a great story is the incessant battle to live, and how the hero managed to come out on the other side. Either that, or a tragedy; in which case, the hero does not survive. 


However, I am not faced with a struggle between life and death. I am faced with a struggle relating to my indifference towards life. The boredom that is constantly tugging at my heart relates back to my desire need for adventure. 


I almost feel as if my life isn't my own, and until it is, my mind will thrive in a realm out of reach from the world that my body partakes in.


But the truth is quite the contrary. One day I will live my fairy tale, I will solve the mystery, I will learn to love, I will change a life, I will save a life, I will conquer all of my fears, I will feel something beyond anxiety, I will be larger than life.
I will do and be something grand. 


One day I won't turn to a book to fulfill the need of an adventure. Rather, I will grow weary because of my exciting life, and desire a good read. 


Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie 

The Bucket List

• Hike
• Make an alias and disappear for 3 days 
• Give a stranger $100
• Make a recipe
• Make art
• Make love
• Perform
• Stay in the city for 3 days
• Live the night life
• Hot air balloon 
• Throw a tantrum 
• Turn eyes
• Spit like a man
• Horseback riding on the beach
• Cruise 
• Disney world
• Harry Potter Land
• Meet Meg & Dia 
• Just drive
• Steal something
• Attend 33 County Fairs
• Go stargazing 
• Run away
• Rent a flat in London until the lease is up
• Be hypnotized 
• Adopt vegetarianism for a month
• See the sun rise, and the sun set on the same day
• Learn to play piano
• Own a pig
• Fall asleep on the hills
• Have a food fight in my own home
• Just say 'yes'
• Plant a tree in memory of someone (something)
• 3 Country festivals
• Hold a Koala Bear
• Climb a volcano 
• Disrupt rich people 
• Pretend to be a superhero 
• Skinny dip
• Milk a cow
• Visit South America
• Sleep in a castle ruin
• Write a story
• Write my story
• Take a pottery class
• Go fishing
• Quote movies in serious moments

Inadvertently Reaching You.

I bet you're sitting on your air bed, your computer chair, on the couch, somewhere, with your gorgeous blue eyes glistening in the light, tears staining your face, telling yourself life is unfair and cursing the God that's always done right by you. 


Everything turned black and white the moment you rushed into my house. I closed my eyes and time stopped and I asked God what was happening. I begged Him to make it all stop. It broke my heart that I broke yours. When I opened my eyes, I was dumbstruck, because you were still there. Your hands shaky, your eyes heavy, your heart racing. 


I had a moment of wonder when we were sitting, talking, challenging one another. I looked at your sweaty forehead; it was blemished and far from perfect. I saw your long, dark eyelashes, and fought the urge to brush away the loose one. I watched your mouth quiver, turn to stone, look defeated. I looked and saw your undeniable beauty. I saw the person I could never attain. You're not mine. 

You sat there, knowing the battle had been lost, and claimed Shakespeare to be stupid.

To which I looked back and said, "Shakespeare wasn't stupid; he wrote tragedies. He was a genius." 

The only thing I knew to do at that point was to consult God who never audibly answers me. 


You weren't there to see me once you walked away. Don't you think for a single second that I don't care because if you were God and saw from His omniscient view, you'd know that your words destroyed me. I can write how I saw you, but there aren't enough words in the vast english dictionary  to describe how I saw me. 


I know I confided in you. I know I have things to work on. I know I'm not perfect. 
I know you confided in me. I know you have things to work on. I know you're not perfect. 


I promise there is something better for you. 
And I promise it's not me. 


Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

Talks With God and Fortune Cookies

This morning I woke up to a ruckus. My mother came storming in and out of my room for only reasons God knows. She was mumbling something about the dentist. As her tornado continued down the stairs and out to the garage, I lied in bed to let my mind wake up. 

I received the reality of my dream being over, and real life coming back into play. As I did, my heart became heavy with this new day in my hands. I sat up in my bed and rubbed my eyes until they ached. I looked over to the mirror and saw my reflection which made my day that much worse. 

"Don't you see what I see?" A small voice said in my head. 

In disgust with my reflection and knowing this voice all too well, I decided to argue, "I see a girl with bed head and red eyes. I see a girl that gets in people's way. So if that's what you see, then yes. I see what you see." 

A chuckle brightened my heart. Louder this time, the voice explained, "That's not what I see. Look again." 

Afraid of being disappointed of my mirror image, I reluctantly looked up. 

"Don't you see what I see?" He asked me again.

I held my breath while I burned a hole into the mirror with my eyes. I was desperate to see what He saw.

"Don't you see the beauty in you? Don't you see the self depreciation washing off of you? Please tell me you see the fear being afraid of you, and the gossip not wanting to tempt you."  

I looked down to my hands with shame as questions of doubt swarmed my mind. Suddenly, curiosity kissed my heart. When I looked back at my reflection, I saw what he saw. 

In complete awe, and a new ambition to be that person, I leaned over to check what time it was: 8:30 AM. 

I got this fortune last night. I thought I'd be productive in the sense that I'd get something done, not in the sense that I'd find myself. The irony of the situation is that I've been praying for God to change me. I told Him no more than three days ago that I was sick of fearing everything but Him. Because I knew that in actuality, I shouldn't fear anything but Him. 

Yours until the pigs fly,

Alessondra Marie

Unwanted Phrases

Part of our problem is that your music makes me angry. I never told you that. But your music makes me furious. One time I was driving with my Dad. We were discussing our music taste. I told him spitefully with you in mind, "I like anything that has a lot of meaningful lyrics and good music." As soon as I said it, I wished to take it back. That happens to me a lot. Stupid. But I said it and we laughed at the absurdity of the statement; my rash giggles disguised the blush that was staining my cheeks. We rushed onto the freeway as I recovered from my idiocy. I further explained that I mostly prefer M&S or Blind Pilot. Not the angry raps like Eminem. 

I fantasize of being spontaneous with unreasonable ideas. M and I used to be, and maybe that's because he had the 'stang. We were hopeless idiots, driving in the backroads of Livermore, out towards Castro Valley, pit stopping at cemeteries, dancing under the stars to Owl City. I'd be a stubborn little girl each night, begging and pleading that he wouldn't take me home. M would give in, and take me to one more place. He understood my thrive to live a fairytale; to be nomadic and live on edge. He had the means to satisfy this desire, and the ideas to do it. As for us? We don’t have the means, you don’t have the desires, I don’t have the ideas to come anywhere close to being spontaneous. 

I cut my hair to a length you probably will hate. But that's how I cope with just about everything, I cut my hair. I chose not to ask your opinion after I carefully considered the way we discuss things. For instance, if I asked, "Should I cut my hair?" You'd probably reply, "How short?" and I'd say, "I'm not sure; maybe something like this?" and I'd show you another picture of Natalie Portman because I want so much to be as beautiful as her. Not knowing the simple desire of affirmation I seek, you'd probably say, "Yeah that looks good" with your half hearted smile that I knew meant, "I really hate it but I know that's the wrong answer, so I'll just give you this smile and nod my head and say yes." 

But that’s not how I want this conversation to go. You see, I imagine Jack Dawson and Rose DeWitt Bukater laying on my bed in a less contemporary version of my room. I saw Rose, the girl that longed to be saved, and was saved by Jack in every way a person could be saved, ask him the same thing. He'd look at her and say, "I hate it. I hate short hair, Rose, and you know it." With a look of something resembling a mix of frustration and devastation, Rose would quickly reply, "Well, Mr. Dawson, with all due respect, that was rather rude." and then they'd laugh because that's what they did. Jack would sit up and as her giggles continue to fill the room, he'd inch closer and closer to her face, examining nothing but her until her face was too close to see clearly. Her giggles would soon reside. Her breathing would get short, anxious to hear what he'd say next. He'd say quietly into her ear, "Rose, it doesn't matter to me how short your hair is. If you want to cut it, then cut it all off. I'll look at you you all the same, no matter how short or long your hair is. So cut it, Rose. I want you to cut it all off if that's what you want." 

But you're not Jack Dawson and I'm not Rose DeWitt Bukater. 

Yours until the pigs fly,

Alessondra Marie