What Does God Look Like ?

I believe this is a question that’s been asked by every human who every lived; but I don’t believe the same answer is shared by all. What does God look like?

I went to catholic school, and during those years, God was always referred to as He, and when a ‘He’ is mentioned, the first image that crops into my head is a boy or a man. So throughout my life, I’ve always pictured God to be a man.  The image of Him was simple–a man wearing a white flowing robe, perched high on a glowing cloud, surrounded by angels playing mellifluous melodies on trumpets.

Then as I got older, the image of Him changed. He was still a He, but there wasn’t a cloud, nor any angels. It was just Him. Then during a very traumatic time, His image went from being a tall man in a white robe to just His head. And I know that sounds blasphemous in a way, despite my intention.

Today, if you asked me to explain what God looks like, I couldn’t. Because in my head, He’s a he who’s not a he, but can become a he if he wants to. To me, He’s an encompassing swirl of energy that has conscience. Picture the wind. We can’t see it, yet we can feel it; it’s all around us. That’s how I picture God. Pure intelligence who is vaporous; who is ethereal; yet who could change form any time.

God is every particle of every atom of every existence, and that’s just in the physical world. I can’t even begin to fathom what He is outside of this realm.

What does God look like to you? I’m just so curious.


YO, Adrianne. That’s right. I have a New York Accent

I’m Valentine deFrancis, and I’m a writer from New York. Today, I would like to talk to you about stereotypes and how a typical New Yorker is stereotyped as, well, not so bright. Now I know that TV and movies depict New Yorkers as sausage eating, money hungry, pushy, arrogant, gangster-leaning types, but of all those things, what gets me the most is how our intelligence is based upon our accents. It’s true.  Hey, listen. I was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York. Yeah. That’s right. Brooklyn—the pizza capital of the world; the place where John Travolta struts his bad-ass self in Saturday Night Fever. Yep, that’s where I was raised. But here is where the whole thing starts going uphill. People naturally think that New Yorkers are not sophisticated because we have that accent. Know what I mean? Let me educate you on our wordage, if I may.

The entire U. S. says the word coffee as follows:  caa fee

A New Yorker says  caw fee.

The entire U. S. says the word water as:  waa ter

A New Yorker says  waw ta

The U. S. says hello

A New Yorker says yo, whas up?

The U. S. says, forget about it.

A New Yorker says fuhgeddaboudit

The U. S. says, thirty third and third

A New Yorker says tirdy tird and tird

But people, does that make us stupid?

I was speaking to some friends from Myspace on the phone and each one of them giggled at my accent. Each one of them said, “Gee Val, I never expected you to sound so New Yorkish.”
Heck, people. What the hell am I supposed to sound like? A Frenchie? A Brit? A Korean? I’m a New Yorker! I’m supposed to sound this way, but that doesn’t negate my brilliance. Did I mention that New Yorkers are also very modest?
Just because I have this Brooklyn accent doesn’t mean that I was raised in a cabbage patch. Oh contrare, my lovelies. This Brooklyn native is quite intelligent and more than on her toes. You have to wake up prit-ty darn early to get over on me or any New Yorker for that matter. Get a load of this little diddy that happened two days before I flew out to Vegas last week.

I went online to purchase my plane tickets, and I happened to notice that you can buy extra leg room for $30.00 per person. I’m 5’7″, and the boyfriend is 6″, so I say to myself . . . great. I’ll buy the seats with the extra leg room. Who cares about the $30.00 per person. I need to be comfortable when I’m flying. Of course, my boyfriend doesn’t care where he sits because he’s a commercial pilot, and he’s used to sitting anywhere. So I buy the seats with the extra leg room.

Twenty-four hours before my flight, I print the boarding passes, and I see a little notation that advertises the extra leg room seats for $10 per seat. I say to my New York self, WTF? They ain’t rippin’ me off. So I call them, and this is the brilliant answer I get.

JetBlue, my name is Betty, how can I help you today?

Yes, I purchased two seats to Las Vegas, and I paid $30.00 per person for the extra leg room seats. I just printed my boarding passes and noticed that you are now selling the extra leg room for $10.00 per seat. I want my account credited for $40.00.

Let me check that for you ma’am.

I tap my pen and begin to softly hum, and then she comes back on the line.

Ms. deFrancis, the reason you were charged $30.00 per seat is because you have a longer flight time.

I laugh out loud.

Let me get this straight. I am charged more money for the same seat because I will be on the plane for an hour more? What kind of nonsense is that?

Well, Ms. deFrancis, if you think about it, it makes sense.

Oh it does, does it? Explain how.

Well, your legs will be stretched out for a longer duration, she says.

I bulge my eyes and shake my head, wondering if I heard her correctly.

Repeat that again?

Yes, Ms. deFrancis. Because you are using the plane’s seat longer, we charge you more.

I stare at my refrigerator for approximately 3 seconds before my New York attitude kicks in. Where are you located, Betty?

I’m located in Utah, she says.

Hmmm, Utah. Well, let me tell you something, Betty, from Utah. Do you expect me to buy that line of shit? Is that what JetBlue tells you to tell your customers, or are you just winging it? I have never been so insulted. What kind of crap is that? The plane and the seats are still the plane and the seats whether I fly to Florida or Vegas. So you’re saying that because I stretch my legs for 2 hours more, I’m charged for it?

Well, umm, yes Ms. deFrancis. That’s our policy.


Ummm, I can see you’re upset, she says.

No Betty, I’m not upset. I’m insulted at your pathetic attempt to demean my intelligence with that absurd answer.

She giggles.

I hang up on her.

Now people, tell me. Did that make any sense to you? I may have a New York accent, but I don’t hear with an accent. Geesh, give me a break!

is a duck’s ass water tight

We humans are so crazy, aren’t we?

Just the other day, I got out of bed as I normally do, went into the living room and cranked open the windows. From there, I went into my office and did the same. It was a beautiful morning. The birds were out back, calling to each other. My wind chimes were gently playing their mystifying melodies. And at that moment, all was good.

I proceeded to shower and dress, and as I was blow drying my hair, I thought it was incredibly hot in the bathroom, so I climbed into the shower and opened the window. Ahhhh, that’s better, I thought. When I was done, I went into the kitchen to grab a bite of breakfast. I walked over to the refrigerator to get the milk, when I happen to take notice of my thermostat–it read 70 degrees.

70 degrees, I said to myself, and I’m sweating?

Then I began to think. And we all know what happens when I think too much. Well, I thought back to only several weeks ago when it was cold out. While the winds were blowing gustfully and the temperature was only 35 or 40 degrees, I had my heat set at 70 degrees. I kept it that way all winter because of the high cost of gas. And because I kept it at 70 degrees, I froze my hiney off. I was dressed in sweaters, and a shawl over my sweaters, because as I said, it was ONLY 70 degrees in my house. Is anyone catching on to what I’m saying?

How come it’s 70 degrees in my apartment right now, and not only am I warm, I have every window open? Yet, in the winter when I had my thermostat deliberately set for 70 degrees, I froze my damn butt off. Can anyone relate to this?

It’s almost similar to this scenerio. During the summer, we crank our air conditioners to 65, and we’re totally comfortable, yet in the winter, if we were to keep our thermostats at 65, we’d freeze. So what’s the deal with that?

Okay. I thought enough for one morning. I know someone reading this can totally relate to what I’m getting at.

A journal confession: I’m going to end up alone

I found out that God knows how to bring it on. Doesn’t he? He gives me whatever lessons I need the most, and he keeps bringing it until I finally get it. I’m a thick-headed girl—always have been. But once I grasp the concept of something that is being shown to me, I usually get it. However, there are times when I don’t get it because it’s the other idiosyncrasies that I possess that give me trouble. When I take all of my idiosyncrasies into consideration, I realize that it’s more than one tiny thing that I have to work on, concerning my personality. It’s a series of malfunctions in my perception, which I must take one by one, analyze, and then yank them out from my core beliefs. Do you know what I’m saying? I can’t blame my inner feelings on just one particular thing. It’s never just one thing, is it? It’s a cluster of things that lead up to the ‘thing’ that eats at us. And this is what people don’t understand. When people have issues, they think it’s the ‘issue’ giving them trouble when it’s really their core beliefs. All of our experiences have formulated our beliefs. And even though we experience events, it doesn’t make our beliefs accurate. Because once again, perception can be faulty due to upbringing. Yikes! I’m turning Freud-a-neeza

During the day, I feel isolated. In order to write, I have to stay by myself. I speak to my sister and the BF for a brief moment or two, but it doesn’t make me feel any less alone. I don’t have anyone to share my thoughts with. I only have my laptop who doesn’t know how to answer me back. Not too many people I know are into paranormal psychology and metaphysics. The sister doesn’t understand it, and the BF just stares at me like I have four heads. So I know the feeling of loneliness. You can be in a room full of people and still feel lonely. I know this first hand.

For many years, I believed that I would be alone. I believed it was my fate to not have anyone to love me. I didn’t connect with guys. I dated them, but it wasn’t real. Nothing lasted. A date or two was as far as it would go because either I didn’t like the guy, or the guy didn’t like me.
And I stayed alone for many years. I gave up dating. I couldn’t be bothered with the head games–so I just turned down dates and stayed by myself. I was tired of reaching out and nobody being there, and this included friendships, as well. If anyone knows what it feels like to believe that they are meant to be alone, it’s me. Even now, I believe that I’m meant to be alone. I don’t understand why I don’t have many friends. I have online friends, but nobody here to talk to face to face. I have two close friends who live out-of-state, but they’re out-of-state.

My parents were loners, and I want to break that mold. I don’t want to follow in their genetic isolation path. I want friends, but I refuse to be anything other than what I am to have them. I’m different, and I know this. I’ve always known that I’m different. People tend to back away from me, and yet, they tell me that I fascinate them. I don’t get it. Maybe it’s my face or my look, or the way I command myself that intimidates others? But this is me, and I like me. I like me because I know that I am loving and gentle–and others would know this too, if they would take the time to look past my exterior.

You are the same as me. You want to come home to someone who you can connect with on many levels. You want to experience love and lust, and laughter and goofiness, and you want to share intimate secrets and beliefs about life and God. Yes, I know exactly what you want, and it will happen, however it will happen, and with whomever it will happen with. Just keep the faith. A person such as yourself is a gift to the person who is waiting for you. But maybe you have closed yourself up, and you’re not letting love flow in, just as I’m not letting my fame flow in, due to the fear of it. Think about that. We say we know what we want, but when we think about it too closely and examine it, we close our minds because we think it’s not going to happen, and that thought in and of itself is very scary. Yes, no? Is it possible that we are pinching ourselves off from what we want because we’re afraid of not getting it or because we’re afraid that we actually might get it?

I’m a Black Sheep and I Don’t Care by Valentine deFrancis

I don’t fit in. Yep, that’s right. I don’t. I never did. I was always different. I was always the outcast–the quiet one–the one who didn’t have much to say. Yep, that was me and still is. Ask me if I care. Ask me if I ever really cared. Go on. Ask me.

Growing up, I walked to my own beat. I wanted friends but they didn’t want me. I wanted to fit in, but for some reason, I just didn’t. It mattered back then. It mattered most of my life. But I was different you see. There was something about my personality that people backed away from. Maybe it was my independence or my “I can take it or leave it” attitude. But whatever it was, I just didn’t fit in. And it hurt, a little. And I wanted to fit in, but no matter what I did, it didn’t work. I was an outcast. I was the black sheep. But you know what I found out about being the outcast or the black sheep? I stayed true to myself. I remained who I was, in spite of not being a part of the group. Yes, it hurt me, and there were times that I tried to fit in–changing my ways to please the crowd, but it never lasted simply because it wasn’t my real self. And so, I never did fit in. But let me tell you what ultimately became of not fitting in.

I’ve learned, the hard way, that walking to my own beat, and being my weird self, has made me “an example”. People look at me now and are drawn to my unique God-given personality. They are curious at how I can be so free, and they want to know all about how I can walk to my own beat. They admire my ability to dress differently, and they are whispering to each other “how does she do that?” I guess you can say that my uniqueness is now considered edgy and interesting, and therefore, I’m setting the trend. Conceited you think? Nah. Just honest. So did I mention that I’m a black sheep? Yep. I am. And I ain’t changing for anyone.

Look deep and be what you feel comfortable being. You don’t have to fit in to be happy. Most of the world’s greatest artists, muscians, writers and thinkers were considered black sheep. They were considered weird, and yes, people made fun of them and snickered behind their backs. Look at these famous people now. They’ve set the trends that most humans follow. Yep, these black sheep are now icons.

It’s okay to be different. In fact, if you are, you are trendsetters. You are wonderful, loving, specimens of spiritual self. Don’t change. Just be who you really are and then trust me on this . . . you will set the trend!

©valentine defrancis. all rights reserved