Inspiratious

I need to be up fairly early this morning. It's my day to volunteer at clinic. But how could I resist a perfect night for writing. The air is slightly crisp, with each breath like drinking from a high mountain stream. The sky dappled with luminescent clouds drifting in the bright evanescent moonlight, with stars sparking between, yields inspiratious thought that cannot be denied. It's a shame that I am not writing poetry tonight, for I am bound to a cause. I am in the thick of writing essays for supplemental medical school applications, and I have time for little else. If only every day I sat to write could be as perfect as it is now, with the very elements vitalizing my whole being. But alas, my macbook's battery is not so empowered, and I must sleep before the sky turns to grey.

Carousel

It's not often that I take time away from the obligations of a busy life to visit my family in Dixie. I visit maybe once a year, sometimes not even that often. The time was ripe for a trip south. At these interviews I would love to spend time behind the camera, capturing and bottling memories to be reviewed in a day when family is far away, yet I find the camera to be a distraction from making memorable moments. As a result I typically leave the camera work to others. I rather record memorable moments in my heart than spend the few days that I have half hearted. Nonetheless, I feel compelled to give my artistic side expression. I find myself in conflict, wanting to dedicate time to my photography, and what better subjects do I have than those I love, yet I don't want to distract from making memories. This trip I took no shots but those in my heart. The drive to the camp site through Kolob was stunning, passing through fields of pink wild flowers among the quakies and pines of the forest. The beauty of the scene was only rivaled by the onward drive to Dixie, with its beautiful red sandstone cliffs dotted with lush vegetation. Nature in all her majesty was yet no match to the beauty captured in the joy of the children playing, be that upon the ripples of the lake, or in the streams of the park. 

My niece Sadie and I riding horses. 

Sadie and I playing in the sandstone river at the park.

Gateway

For all the bad things that I teach my nieces and nephews I'm sometimes surprised by the complete trust my twin gives me with her children. (I once had my niece memorize the fundamental truth regarding the nature of the milk carton by repeating, "It's a man's right to drink from the milk carton.") But then again, how can my sister not trust me, I love them as if they were my own children, and they are the closest thing that I will ever have to having children of my own.

A few weeks back the two bachelors of the family were given the privilege of tending the little ones. I wish I would have thought of this idea years ago, when there was a bit of Chaos in my life, but I thought the kids might enjoy the fountain at the Gateway.

Blake and Spencer waiting for the show to begin.

Boys will be boys.

I don't know what was going through his head, but it really did look like he was dancing out there.

Cha cha cha.

 And for the finally.

The innocence and joy of childhood: What a beautiful thing.

The fountain in its majesty (and by that I am referring the the grander of the children's joy). 

Of course uncle Gary had to buy them strawberry cheese cake ice-cream.

Uncle Steve is trying to teach Sadie the fine principal of sharing.

He was denied. 

Three Summer Days

I've been so busy lately, it's actually been some time since I've painted or written any poetry. I last wrote in December, penning "Heart String". Some months ago I had the inspiration to write, but not the time, and now months later I wonder if I still have the inspiration to write that poem, or if it is forever lost. I still have the emotions ingrained in my heart, but I don't know if I have the words for it anymore. I haven't had much time for reading either. I've read very little of Keats in the past six months, though ironically I picked up his book of poetry a few days ago and began reading again. (I'm still working on getting through "Endymion".) His words are often definitions of my life, of my being. “I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.” One day I will paint those three summer days.

Photogenic

I believe some people are just born photogenic. I'm not one of those people. It's not necessarily that I hate every photo of myself, but I rarely like photos that I try to produce an authentic smile in. I generally don't even try to smile anymore, but this photo is for medical school secondary application, so I figured I better try. The photo below was the result of over 200 shots. I'm not entirely satisfied with this one but it will have to suffice.

Gary James July 2011

Summer Read

July is reading month at Primary Children's, so I decided that I would organized a Story Hour each weekend. I began my summer reading with my favorite, Green Eggs and Ham. My young audience loved it. We then moved on to The Cat in the Hat and and an hour later we finished off with One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. It looks like it's going to be an indelible summer.

Keats

In reading John Keats I one day came across this quote from his love letters to Fanny Brawne,  "I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death.  O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute."  The quote puzzled me.  That he brooded over his Love was easy enough to understand, but that he brooded over the hour of his death and looked forward to it with fondness, that was thought provoking.  I believe that I understand Keats now.  Keats did not live a life of ease and pleasure.  He saw much sorrow, and lived with more.  To be separated from his Love, both in distance and circumstance of life, was his greatest hell.  He was tormented from day to day, yea, even breath to breath, and though he may temporarily take pleasure in a fine cup of tea or a beautiful sunset, he was yet tormented in those pleasures, in that he took them alone, without his Love.  For Keats, the hour of his death was also the hour of his soul's delivery from torment and hell.  Yes, I do understand Keats...