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

Notice Me.

There's a new constant buzz in my ears due to my broken headphones. I've missed the slight murmur of casual chit-chat that lines Gregory Alan Isakov's lullabies. I forgot how my chai gets cold and my water turns warm. 


I used to stare down the best looking guy until he noticed. Then I would blush. But I've grown out of that. (For the most part.) I'd wonder if I'd ever find my prince. The one with the looks, the intelligence, and the love that i deserve. 

I took a minute to close my eyes and reflect:

Life itself is the most wonderful fairytale. 


Fairytales have always been an option in my mind. I've always looked for the magic in the world. I was the kid making up the adventurous games; creating poems to recite; learning about fairies and how to identify them during recess. I'd get my friends in trouble because I'd venture past the boundaries of the school when we weren't supposed to. 

But time taught me that Santa was nothing more than a far fetched fantasy. 

Adventure didn't exist in the way I needed it to.

I get the attention of my prince with no problem at all. But my immaturity and selfishness always manages to get in the way of my ability to love. I become clouded with angst and frustration.

I've lost the ability to create a new adventure or fantasy.

Despite the unmistakable rejection, the desire to seek out the impossible is constantly tugging at my heart. I feel like the character in the book that sits around waiting for years and years praying that something exciting would happen. 

Because of this, I understand why people decide to make bad company; we want to witness something worthy of controversy. The stink of cigarette smoke that never leaves our curls; the fragrance of booze purging through our pores; the desperate acts we do just to be noticed. 

Although a fantasy for some, it's a nightmare that is far from my happily ever after. 

So I'll open my eyes, count my blessings, and make the best out of the bored life that I've been given. 

Yours until the pigs fly, 

Alessondra Marie

Childish Expectations

When I was younger, I wanted so badly to be an adult. I was a mere thirteen, begging to be recognized. No one validated my fears or desires. Not to say that I was neglected. 
Because I wasn't.
Not by any stretch. 


But anxiety drowned out my voice. I wanted to be older just so I could be heard. 


And here I am. Sixteen. 
Responsibilities are handed to me. Without question, I'm expected to meet nearly unfair expectations. 
And of course I can. I usually just don't want to. 


I am not an adult. 
I'm a child stuck in this body that grows and learns far too fast for my heart to keep up. 


Unfortunately I can't slow it down. Life keeps going...


Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

Your Strengths Are My Weaknesses.

I miss you, you know. Your laugh, your smile. The way that you're always falling apart. but yet you're always keeping it together. 


I often remember that dark rainy night we spent in your abandoned house. 
The way I knew that no matter what happened to you and him, you'd always be my sister. 
I associate you with Baja Fresh. Their salsa reminds me of you.


I am constantly, but silently, wishing that you were here to help me now. 


I knew I missed you. But i didn't realize just how much until I started writing. 


Things have been falling apart. My stability has been taken away. I don't remember how to maintain homeostasis. 


I've been forgotten by many people. Maybe it's intentional. I wouldn't be surprised. I can't tolerate me either. 


Everyone is growing up and moving on. I have the taste of what's to come staining my lips, but that's all that's present. I have no proof, nothing tangible to cling to. Everyone grows up. That includes me. Things change, people move on, move away. 


I should be used to it by now. Seeing that L blocked me from facebook. I'm not even sure why. It's been years since I've talked to her. But I have to admit, it hurts. 


It makes me wonder what's going to happen with V when she goes to college. She promises me the future, but so did so many others. And they haven't stayed constant. 


It often still scares me. To think that A is gone and never truly coming back. Yeah, he visits. But we won't ever live together. 


On top of that, what if A and I actually make it? Can I tolerate being a military wife? Raising our children by myself. I always thought I could, but facing the harsh reality of not having the grace of the computer to help me communicate gave me a taste of what it could be like. 


I know I'm strong. 
But I don't think I'm that strong. 


Actually, I take that back. I'm not strong. I need you to be strong for me. 


Yours until the pigs fly, 
Alessondra Marie

The Hypocrisy of Trying to Help

I feel like my hermit crab trying to climb out of my cage. I climb the walls, bite the fence, sit on my house, do all that I can to try to escape, but I can't get out. I might get to the highest point in my cage, but when it comes down to it I'm still stuck; not able to exercise the ability of adventuring out.  


I obliviously climb higher and higher. I think I'm getting somewhere, but then something happens to shake me off the walls. It makes me realize that I'm caged in. 


I thought I gained the ability to wear my heart on my sleeve. I thought I grew up so I could tell people when I'm hurting. But instead of that, I realize that all I am capable of is the hypocrisy of pointing out your flaws. 


I'm never moving forward. Just trying to push you ahead.
I mean well, honest.


I can not fix you. 
But should i try? 
How do I even try without making you feel judged? 
I don't even want to try.
I have to get my own shit in order. 
That's what you don't get. I'm just as fucked up as you are. 


Lost, insecure, hurt, afraid. 


And yeah, like you, I have absolutely no reason to be that way. 


"Too many guys think I'm a concept, or I complete them, or I'm gonna make them alive. But I'm just a fucked-up girl who's lookin' for my own peace of mind; don't assign me yours." Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind


Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

3 Rounds and a Sound

I'm currently making a pumpkin pie. I'm waiting for my pumpkin to get steamed. 


I named my pumpkin Jimi. I'm not sure why. It just seemed appropriate. 


Unfortunately, Jimi's slaughter (I had to cut him into 5ths) may be in vain. I have no clue what I'm doing. 


Aside from being lost in my pumpkin pie making, I'm lost in nearly everything I do.


Writing doesn't even make sense to me anymore. Which is why I haven't posted anything lately. Don't get me wrong, I have been writing. I just haven't written anything worth posting lately.


Even though I lack inspiration, I try to write because thats what a writer does. We write even when we can't think of anything to write about. How could I expect to be a better writer if I don't push through the times that'll teach me the most? That'd be like giving up on God as soon as the emotional high of the Holy Spirit wears off.  But let me tell you, writing is usually the only thing that makes sense to me all of the time. So when I get writers block, it's like my whole life spirals into chaos. 


Although not always enjoyable, I do have a life outside of writing. 


I went to a concert on Sunday. It was one of the best concerts of my life. It wasn't a high energy concert, so no, there was no moshing. But that didn't matter. I don't like moshing anyway. 


We were right in front of the stage. I'm relatively certain Israel looked straight at us. Being the dumbfounded fan-girl that I am, I gawked at them during their finale. It was pretty amazing. They came off the stage with us. They performed their last song completely unplugged. The whole audience on the floor fell onto their bums because that's what the band wanted. Like children, we sat criss-cross-apple-sauce in front of Blind Pilot, and listened to them play what was clearly their most meaningful song. Fortunately it was the best performance I have ever seen. Unfortunately, I will never be able to listen to the song the same way. After you sing a song with the artist that wrote it, you can't listen to the damn thing without remembering how much it meant to them. Seeing it performed with such care didn't quite taint it or ruin it, but it certainly changed my perspective of the song.


It baffled me, how much respected their music. That's the way a performer should be. 


One day, I hope to learn how to respect my music. I'll eventually create songs. And when I do, I will respect it my music much as Blind Pilot respected theirs. 


I will never perform for the love of performing, but for the love of the music, and the love I have for what my music is for. 


I hope this suffices for the lack of posts I've done lately. 


"Now I see you, 'til kingdom come
You're the one I want
to see me for all
the stupid shit I've done

Soil and six feet under,
Kept just like we were
Before you knew you'd know me
and you know me

Blooming up from the ground
3 rounds and a sound
Like whispering "you know me.
You know me."

So this was our song
This was our song.
I still see the lights
I can see them"


Yours until the pigs fly, 
Alessondra Marie