Cubbies own, Len Kasper

So pretty much for those of you who are not die hard Cubs fans, this is Len Kasper. He does play-by-play broadcasting for the Chicago Cubs. He answered questions today at my college's (Columbia College Chicago) radio station (88.1 fm) with two other members there on a panel. One thing that I do have to say is that Len says there are things to look forward to this upcoming season. Even with the disappointment of the end of this years season, we have some good times to look forward to.

Morning

The water hits her face and chest. It’s so hot that she can feel goose bumps form across her bare skin. She keeps her eyes closed as she embraces the continuous stream of water and lets it calm her body. She turns around and wets her hair before lathering a huge glob of shampoo into her mop. Rinsing the shampoo out of her hair, she watches the soap fall down her curves and spiral down into the drain. She puts more cream into her hands and layers her tresses in conditioner. As she waits a few minutes for it to soak into her hair and scalp, she washes her face and shaves her legs. She hikes up her leg and lets the steaming water massage her calf. Gripping the blade, she skims over the contours of her leg and eliminates the burdensome stubble as she does every morning. She repeats this process on the other leg and curses when the blade catches, nicking her skin. She watches the crimson liquid drizzle down her calf for a second before the water thrashes over her leg, washing it away. Opening her bottle of Aveeno shower gel, she slaps some soap onto her body and rubs it around a bit letting the smell hit her nostrils and relax her thoughts. She rinses the conditioner out, and is excited by the new, smooth texture of her locks. She shuts the water off and covers her body with a large, fluffy towel. It feels good on her skin and she walks out of the shower into the spacious bathroom.
She unwraps the towel from her damp body and purses her lips as she takes a small glance at her figure through the mirror. Clouds of steam radiate from her body, and the warm air mixed with lavender and chamomile burns mildly in her nose. Large droplets of water splash to the floor from her drenched hair. She grabs the towel and shakes it over her head roughly, soaking up the excess water. She puts each of her ankles through the lace and pulls the panties up her calves and thighs slowly. Standing on her tip toes, she looks at her legs and butt in the mirror, the cheeks cup out slightly at the bottom. “Cute,” she thinks. Then she frowns, noticing a newfound layer of fat around her thigh. Sighing and clasping her bra together, she dares not to take another look at her body.
Reluctantly, she leaves the bathroom and walks into the cool confines of her room. She rummages through piles of clothes and finally chooses a pair of light, faded jeans with tears and holes all over them and a “Nantucket red” t-shirt. She pulls the shirt over her head and smoothes it out across her stomach and back. She glances at the white letters spelling N-A-N-T-U-C-K-E-T backwards in the mirror and smiles slightly, remembering her own journey down those cobblestone streets. She opens her mouth wide and lets out a large yawn. When she closes it again she suddenly tastes the peanut butter and chocolate from the cereal she ingested an hour before.
She runs cool water over her toothbrush and squeezes a bit of minty freshness onto the bristles. She carefully cleans each tooth, smoothing out their surface. Quickly brushing over her tongue and spitting a few times into the sink, she turns the water off. She wipes her mouth with a towel and walks out the door only to walk back in again a second later to retrieve her forgotten purple comb.
She combs through her hair roughly. There is no time for nonsense this morning. She untwines all of the tangles in her damp hair until her fingers can go through the strands smoothly. Squeezing a dime sized amount of cream onto her hand she works it through her hair gently to make her hair softer. “Beep. Beep. Beep.” That’s the sound her hair straightener makes when pressing the buttons to make it hotter. After waiting a few moments, the straightener is finally hot enough to smooth out her unruly waves. She calmly presses portions of her hair and listens to the steady clack of the straightener as she works. Looking at her work she smiles and sprays a layer of hairspray about her locks.
She grabs a pair of tweezers from her bag and scorns the mess her eyebrows have become. She plucks each unwanted, misplaced eyebrow hair as she watches the skin blush from the necessary pain. She lets out a small forced laugh as she thinks of her former hair dresser’s ranting, “The things women do for beauty. Beauty takes pain Noel!”
Happy to be done taming the caterpillars above her eyes, she turns to the mirror, stares at her pale skin, and pulls out a variety of makeup. She frowns at the shadows below her eyes, and smoothes on a small layer of concealer. She sweeps the beige cream over her face to cover all of her flaws. The cream is cool on her skin. She skims her face briskly with a loose powder on her skin, and brushes some tan bronzer swiftly about her cheeks. Moving her face closer to the mirror, she delicately lines the top of each eyelid with the black pencil, purposely going a bit past the outside corner of her eye. She does the same on the bottom lid, stopping at the end of her lid. A small gold case is lying on the floor next to her; she grabs it and holds the small brush in between her fingers. She layers the violet powder onto the brush and generously sweeps it across each lid. Pulling out a pink tube of mascara, she unscrews the top and pulls out the applicator with globs of thick black cream. Before wiping the brush on her lashes, she wipes the excess mascara off on the tube. She applies the black substance on her lashes and watches them lift and separate. Screwing the top back into the tube, she smiles at her work. She is finished “putting on her face,” as her friend Mary would say.
Glancing at her phone, she sees that she has time to warm up her car before speeding off to school. After putting on a warm black jacket she runs outside and unlocks the dark green door. Sliding into the seat, she blows hot air onto her fingers and shoves the cold key into the colder ignition. Making sure the doors are unlocked, she turns the defrosters and the heat to the highest setting and runs back into the toasty house. She runs through the house grabbing her sandwich for lunch, her backpack, her brothers, and pair of fuzzy fleece gloves. Finally, her brothers and her all pile into the car and speed off to class.

I pity you

"i pity you because you'll never change. i pity myself because that will never matter to me at all.[Katy Bartlett]"

pieces of your soul

pieces of your soul
theres always that one person in your life that will always keep you wanting more. they leave you intruiged. and everytime you see them they make sure your heart is aching and pounding so fast that just 1 more millasecond by their side may have just made your heart shatter with the passion from all the little memories you ever experienced with them.

then one day. they decide that your not good enough. and they with the hand that felt as if everytime you held it you were holding the universe and everytime he kissed your hand entwined with his, it was if a shooting star shot up your spine, he waved you away. Just like that your whole world dissapears and its as if for an enternity you are in a miserable limbo alone and heartbroken. you cry out every tear until your eyes are parched and its like a sand storm is twirling you. keeping you in exsistence. but if you had your way you would stop twirling. you would be perfectly still so that no one can see how pathetic you are. your like this for a long time.

And then, finally...when you think that you've picked up all the pieces of your soul that you lost in the storm, he walks back in, and he gives you the pieces that you forgot along the way. the pieces so small that even you would forget they were in you before. he misses you. and as much as it makse you happy. It would be a shame...to go back into the storm. It would be a horrible mistake to walk into something that would end the universe again.is it really even worth going though that much agony if you dont even KNOW in your heart that HES the one.

-noel tijerina

[as published in byzantium 2008, Glenbard West Highschool]

all the leaves of my soul float elegantly into your heart

The thing you probably don't understand is that the simple mastery of your charm has unrelenting control over me. You, the masterpiece set before me shows only allusions that can make my heart spin and dance with the same grace the first falling leaf of fall has. And fall it is! I've been falling more in love with you everyday, all the leaves of my soul float elegantly into your heart. Consequently, I lose grasp of myself in the divine life you have set forth for me. I ask myself if this can all be real? I think, of course… this love is the most tangible connection of two souls. This love is a once in a lifetime chance. The ends of time go both into history and to the future infinitely, and though there is no one unique instance, no one unique love throughout all of the past, and all of the future, this is it for this moment in time. History repeats itself though, and this love will happen again. Nevertheless, I must hold on to what I have been given, being blessed with power SO strong between two people is something that should never be let go. Not everybody gets this opportunity. I must embrace it firmly but let it breathe, for I don't want our souls to feel the want to squeeze through small breaks and tears of my grasp.just understand the control you have, acting as a puppeteer, you can do with me anything you would like.

a series of poems: love and war [with myself]

dangerous perfection

Ive changed, even now...
I’m not nearly who I was last
september.
ive hurt people
people have used me
and I’ve betrayed the importance
of my existance.
but looking into your eyes again
being held tightly in your arms
brought back everything I’ve lost,
innocence, a heartbeat,
because you’re my fairytale,
your flaws, your mistakes
they are my perfection
the mere thought of you
is a snake, tightly wrapping
around my heart
your breath intoxicates me
your lips ignite my soul
your hands provoke my heartbeat
you satisy my thirst,forever
you’re my drug, and i am high

-me.

Your first night with her.

Your first night with her.
This is your first night with her.
Catch a glimpse of her smile when
She peaks around the bathroom door
Before she dresses
She walks toward you, with that
Insane hair you love.
Tracing a finger around your lips,
She closes her eyes.
When she opens them again,
Whispers. Until I die.
It’s strange, having her sleep so close...
She thinks so too.
It’s strange, but its nice.
[Don’t worry] she is comfortable with you.
She breathes sweetly as she sleeps
Your lullaby tonight
She doesn’t even have to try, you think
Content tears flow down your eyes.

-me.

Fading

Boy, you warmed my heart
And you melted my soul
But, slowly as our love fades
I feel icy shivers down my spine
That remind me of the dark and frigid winter
That I was trapped in
Before you saed me
From the stale splintering air

-me

A Frenzied Mind

A Frenzied Mind
Click, click click. The sound of the keys being pressed calms her mind as her thoughts are buttered over the screen. The clicking pauses as she pans her room, scorning at the mess. With a small frown she turns back to the screen and furrows her brow before the quick clacking begins again. There is something about the clean, organized look of the programs and windows on the screen that relaxes the frantic buzz of images and words in her head. The quick staccato her fingertips create on the board expresses her frenzied thoughts. She is strangely reminded of Edvard Griegs piece, "The Hall of the Mountain King."
A soft bubbly sound interrupts her typing. Her body jolts a little, surprised to see someone instant-message her at one in the morning. Her friend requests to watch her work quietly over webcam. She accepts the request and looks into the small green light on the top of the MacBook. The camera lens is a small rounded square. She looks at it without emotion and goes back to typing. The intelligence of the machine not only organizes her thoughts, but enables her to enter a network of friends that possess the same piece of technology.
Taking a break from writing she skims through several albums that hold thousands of her small visual memories. The slim three-dimensional device allows her vast memory to be organized in several albums and documents throughout the various programs encrypted into its body. Brushing her finger across the surface of the finger-pad, she smiles at the crisp, unused look and feel of this device. One would even describe its architecture as "fake." She can't disagree with this statement because it does in fact look fake. The perfect rounded corners, the smooth straight edges, and the small cloudy apple shape all add to its perfection. This reminds her that though the outside of the gadget is pristine and sleek, without a sense of personality or color, the inside is filled with her silly, passionate, heart-wrenching thoughts and adventures.
Clicking on the all-too-familiar music note icon, she scrolls down to the band 3 Doors Down and plays the song "When I'm Gone." Music, just like the hundreds of pictures and documents on the contraption encompasses thousands of her memories. She lets the lyrics flow through her soul as she writes. Each song evokes mental images of different events in her life.
Being able to touch all of the significant things that have happened in her life, and enter a world of important people through one piece of machinery is an extraordinary thing. Even more striking is how many ways she can come into contact with all of these things. Listening to the music it holds lets her hear the happiness or sadness of her stories. The clicking of the keys brings serenity to her tangled thoughts, slowly quieting her mind. Seeing snapshots of her life brings even more vivid photographs. They bring back tears to her eyes, and melodies to her ears. They bring back tastes to her tongue, and touches on her skin. The piece itself gives an impression of "organized chaos."
While this MacBook tells us all that this girl is organized, clean-cut, and simple, inside it holds the chaotic mind of a young woman. Her mind is not at all straightforward or simple. It is mazes of thoughts, piles of images, and albums of songs. Each small piece is a different part of her. Each fragment represents a smile, a laugh, a cry, a hug, a kiss, a proud moment, or a moment of shame. Each particle inside of this technology is her soul stored away in different applications, and saved for her own records. Maybe, just maybe, this MacBook can offer this woman an explanation of herself.
Thousands of creative individuals around the world use this MacBook in the same way, organizing their lives in a mere 2.4 GHz of memory. To harness one's own creativity, one must be able to organize the intricate details and stories that flood their mind, just as she does. However, she realizes that everything that enters her mind will not be inserted into the contraption. Unlike her mind, the MacBook has limits. It can develop a masterpiece, but it cannot create it. It can "auto correct" spelling, but it cannot use the smooth black keys to capture her elaborate musings.