Monday, December 19, 2011
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Ennio Morricone - "the crisis"
I find this song to be one of the most profound and beautiful pieces of music. It is just the same repeating line over and over, but it all the same it is amazing.
Friday, December 9, 2011
11 Things to Know at 25(ish)
It seems I ran into this article at the right time. I have been pondering many of these thing over the last couple weeks. Have a look. Lots of good stuff.
11 things to know at 25ish
11 things to know at 25ish
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| http://media.smashingmagazine.com/cdn_smash/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/Julien-Legrand.jpg |
Monday, December 5, 2011
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Lets go for a bike ride
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| http://www.flickr.com/photos/c-reel/sets/72157627699225433/with/6214342671/ |
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| http://www.flickr.com/photos/c-reel/sets/72157627699225433/with/6214342671/ |
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| http://www.flickr.com/photos/c-reel/sets/72157627699225433/with/6214342671/ |
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| http://www.flickr.com/photos/c-reel/sets/72157627699225433/with/6214342671/ |
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Winston S. Churchill
"What is the use of living, if it be not to strive for noble causes and
to make this muddled world a better place for those who will live in it
after we are gone?...I avow my faith that we are marching towards better
days. Humanity will not be cast down. We are going on swinging bravely
forward along the grand high road and already behind the distant
mountains is the promise of the sun."
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
John Milton
The mind is it's own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, and a hell of heaven.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Happy Halloween
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| http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3161/3056076295_21122bdda0.jpg |
Haunted
Houses
All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands
glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the
floors.
We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.
There are more guests at table than the
hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.
The stranger at my fireside cannot see
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear.
We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty
hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old
estates.
The spirit-world around this world of sense
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and
vapours dense
A vital breath of more ethereal air.
Our little lives are kept in equipoise
By opposite attractions and desires;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
And the more noble instinct that aspires.
These perturbations, this perpetual jar
Of earthly wants and aspirations high,
Come from the influence of an unseen star
An undiscovered planet in our sky.
And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud
Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of
light,
Across whose trembling planks our fancies
crowd
Into the realm of mystery and night,—
So from the world of spirits there descends
A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and
bends,
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Friday, October 28, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Gray or Grey
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| http://www.flickr.com/photos/dcdead/3614080324/sizes/o/in/photostream/ |
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| http://www.flickr.com/photos/dcdead/4742388815/sizes/l/in/photostream/ |
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| www.flickr.com/search/?s=int&w=all&q=storm&m=text#page=6 |
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| http://www.flickr.com/photos/13010608@N02/2440884617/sizes/z/in/photostream/ |
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Marques Toliver and Lianne La Havas
What I'm listening to. Two incredibly talented artists that few have heard of.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Prayer for My Unborn Niece or Nephew by Ross Gay
Last week I sat with a coworker at lunch and talked about his life growing up in Liberia and Sierra Leone. I mentioned that I had read Ishmeal Beah's book, A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier, to which he simply stated "war is a terrible thing". It is weird that a kid my age is a true war surviver. I cannot imagine what he saw and felt as a young boy in Sierra Leone and it awes me to see what a happy exuberant man he is now. Anyways, this poem struck me as I read it this morning and I imagine it is because of my talks with my friend last week. Enjoy!
Today, November 28th, 2005, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania,
I am staring at my hands in the common pose
of the hungry and penitent. I am studying again
the emptiness of my clasped hands, wherein I see
my sister-in-law days from birthing
the small thing which will erase,
in some sense, the mystery of my father's departure;
their child will emerge with ten fingers,
and toes, howling, and his mother will hold
his gummy mouth to her breast and the stars
will hang above them and not one bomb
will be heard through that night. And my brother will stir,
waking with his wife the first few days, and he will run
his long fingers along the soft terrain of his child's skull
and not once will he cover the child's ears
or throw the two to the ground and cover them
from the blasts. And this child will gaze
into a night which is black and quiet.
She will pull herself up to her feet
standing like a buoy in wind-grooved waters,
falling, and rising again, never shaken
by an explosion. And her grandmother
will watch her stumble through a park or playground,
will watch her sail through the air on swings,
howling with joy, and never once
will she snatch her from the swing and run
for shelter because again, the bombs are falling.
The two will drink cocoa, the beautiful lines
in my mother's face growing deeper as she smiles
at the beautiful boy flipping the pages of a book
with pictures of dinosaurs, and no bomb
will blast glass into this child's face, leaving
the one eye useless. No bomb will loosen the roof,
crushing my mother while this child sees
plaster and wood and blood where once his Nana sat.
This child will not sit with his Nana, killed by a bomb,
for hours. I will never drive across two states
to help my brother bury my mother this way. To pray
and weep and beg this child to speak again.
She will go to school with other children,
and some of them will have more food than others,
and some will be the witnesses of great crimes,
and some will describe flavors with colors, and some
will have seizures, and some will read two grade
levels ahead, but none of them will tip their desks
and shield their faces, nor watch as their teacher
falls out of her shoes, clinging to the nearest child.
This child will bleed
and cry and curse his living parents
and slam doors and be hurt and hurt again. And she will feel
clover on her bare feet. Will swim in frigid waters.
Will climb trees and spy cardinal chicks blind
and peeping. And no bomb will kill this child's parents.
No bomb will kill this child's grandparents. No bomb
will kill this child's uncles. And no bomb will kill
this child, who will raise to his mouth
some small morsel of food of which there is more
while bombs fall from the sky like dust
brushed from the hands of a stupid god and children
whose parents named them will become dust
and their parents will drape themselves in black
and dream of the tiny mouths which once reared
to suckle or gasp at some bird sailing by
and their tears will make a mud which will heal nothing,
and today I will speak no word
except the name of that child whose absence
makes the hands of her parents shiver. A name
which had a meaning.
As will yours.
Today, November 28th, 2005, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania,
I am staring at my hands in the common pose
of the hungry and penitent. I am studying again
the emptiness of my clasped hands, wherein I see
my sister-in-law days from birthing
the small thing which will erase,
in some sense, the mystery of my father's departure;
their child will emerge with ten fingers,
and toes, howling, and his mother will hold
his gummy mouth to her breast and the stars
will hang above them and not one bomb
will be heard through that night. And my brother will stir,
waking with his wife the first few days, and he will run
his long fingers along the soft terrain of his child's skull
and not once will he cover the child's ears
or throw the two to the ground and cover them
from the blasts. And this child will gaze
into a night which is black and quiet.
She will pull herself up to her feet
standing like a buoy in wind-grooved waters,
falling, and rising again, never shaken
by an explosion. And her grandmother
will watch her stumble through a park or playground,
will watch her sail through the air on swings,
howling with joy, and never once
will she snatch her from the swing and run
for shelter because again, the bombs are falling.
The two will drink cocoa, the beautiful lines
in my mother's face growing deeper as she smiles
at the beautiful boy flipping the pages of a book
with pictures of dinosaurs, and no bomb
will blast glass into this child's face, leaving
the one eye useless. No bomb will loosen the roof,
crushing my mother while this child sees
plaster and wood and blood where once his Nana sat.
This child will not sit with his Nana, killed by a bomb,
for hours. I will never drive across two states
to help my brother bury my mother this way. To pray
and weep and beg this child to speak again.
She will go to school with other children,
and some of them will have more food than others,
and some will be the witnesses of great crimes,
and some will describe flavors with colors, and some
will have seizures, and some will read two grade
levels ahead, but none of them will tip their desks
and shield their faces, nor watch as their teacher
falls out of her shoes, clinging to the nearest child.
This child will bleed
and cry and curse his living parents
and slam doors and be hurt and hurt again. And she will feel
clover on her bare feet. Will swim in frigid waters.
Will climb trees and spy cardinal chicks blind
and peeping. And no bomb will kill this child's parents.
No bomb will kill this child's grandparents. No bomb
will kill this child's uncles. And no bomb will kill
this child, who will raise to his mouth
some small morsel of food of which there is more
while bombs fall from the sky like dust
brushed from the hands of a stupid god and children
whose parents named them will become dust
and their parents will drape themselves in black
and dream of the tiny mouths which once reared
to suckle or gasp at some bird sailing by
and their tears will make a mud which will heal nothing,
and today I will speak no word
except the name of that child whose absence
makes the hands of her parents shiver. A name
which had a meaning.
As will yours.
Sunday
This whole weekend was great! I love living near the city and being able to participate in all the amazingness that it has to offer. Friday I finished work early and joined some friends on a visit to "The Hog Wallow" for some pool and live music. Saturday morning I woke early and biked, with a friend, to the farmers market, where our bicycles were valet parked. We bought pao de cajo from a Brazilian woman, fresh fruit from a little girl, and Belgian waffles from, well of course, a Belgian. So good. Then today after church I took my scriptures, a blanket, and a couple other books and enjoyed some afternoon reading in a couple different parks, before heading to hear Elder L. Tom Perry speak at the University of Utah. I didn't think to pull out the camera for most things unfortunately, but here are a couple pics.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Friday, October 14, 2011
Sunday, October 2, 2011
General Conference
Dare to be a Mormon;
Dare to stand alone.
Dare to have a purpose firm,
And dare to make it known.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Ghost Story by Matthew Dickman
So call me a nerd, but I get the poem of the day via e-mail each morning and today's poem struck a chord, so I thought I'd post it.
Ghost Story
by Matthew Dickman
for matthew z and matthew r
I remember telling the joke
about child molestation and seeing
the face of the young man
I didn't know well enough
turn from something with light
inside of it into something like
an animal that's had its brain
bashed in, something like that, some
sky inside him breaking
all over the table and the beers.
It's amazing, finding out
my thoughtlessness has no bounds,
is no match for any barbarian,
that it runs wild and hard
like the Mississippi. No, the Rio Grande.
No, the Columbia. A great river
of thorns and when this stranger
stood up and muttered
something about a cigarette,
the Hazmat team
in my chest begins to cordon
off my heart, glowing
a toxic yellow,
and all I could think about
was the punch line "sexy kids,"
that was it, "sexy kids," and all the children
I've cared for, wiping
their noses, rocking them to sleep,
all the nieces and nephews I love,
and how no one ever
opened me up like can of soup
in the second grade, the man
now standing on the sidewalk, smoke smothering
his body, a ghost unable
to hold his wrists down
or make a sound like a large knee in between
two small knees, but terrifying and horrible all the same.
Ghost Story
by Matthew Dickman
for matthew z and matthew r
I remember telling the joke
about child molestation and seeing
the face of the young man
I didn't know well enough
turn from something with light
inside of it into something like
an animal that's had its brain
bashed in, something like that, some
sky inside him breaking
all over the table and the beers.
It's amazing, finding out
my thoughtlessness has no bounds,
is no match for any barbarian,
that it runs wild and hard
like the Mississippi. No, the Rio Grande.
No, the Columbia. A great river
of thorns and when this stranger
stood up and muttered
something about a cigarette,
the Hazmat team
in my chest begins to cordon
off my heart, glowing
a toxic yellow,
and all I could think about
was the punch line "sexy kids,"
that was it, "sexy kids," and all the children
I've cared for, wiping
their noses, rocking them to sleep,
all the nieces and nephews I love,
and how no one ever
opened me up like can of soup
in the second grade, the man
now standing on the sidewalk, smoke smothering
his body, a ghost unable
to hold his wrists down
or make a sound like a large knee in between
two small knees, but terrifying and horrible all the same.
Lost and Found by David Hollies
The first few times
Being lost was frightening
Stark, pregnant
With the drama of change
Then, I didn't know
That everywhere is nowhere
Like the feeling when a ocean wave
Boils you in the sand
But as time goes by
Each occurrence of lostness is quieter
Falling from notice
Like the sound of trains
When you live near the tracks
Until one day
When a friend asks
"How often do you get lost?"
And I strain to recall a single instance
It was then that I realized
Being lost only has meaning
When contrasted with
Knowing where you are
A presumption that slipped out of my life
As quietly as smoke up a chimney
For now I live in a less anchored place
Where being lost is irrelevant
For now, only when there is a need
Do I discover where I am
No alarm, no fear
Just an unconscious check-in
Like glancing in the rear-view mirror.
Being lost was frightening
Stark, pregnant
With the drama of change
Then, I didn't know
That everywhere is nowhere
Like the feeling when a ocean wave
Boils you in the sand
But as time goes by
Each occurrence of lostness is quieter
Falling from notice
Like the sound of trains
When you live near the tracks
Until one day
When a friend asks
"How often do you get lost?"
And I strain to recall a single instance
It was then that I realized
Being lost only has meaning
When contrasted with
Knowing where you are
A presumption that slipped out of my life
As quietly as smoke up a chimney
For now I live in a less anchored place
Where being lost is irrelevant
For now, only when there is a need
Do I discover where I am
No alarm, no fear
Just an unconscious check-in
Like glancing in the rear-view mirror.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Monday, September 5, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Lake Powell
So, I went to Lake Powell for the first time this last week and it was amazing. I was afraid to get my phone wet, so I didn't take it along and, therefore, didn't get any pictures of my own. Thankfully, many other amazing photographers are out there and they have taken some incredible pics. Here are a few that reminded me of my trip.
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| http://www.flickr.com/search/?s=int&w=all&q=lake+powell&m=text |
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| http://www.flickr.com/search/?s=int&w=all&q=lake+powell&m=text |
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| http://www.flickr.com/search/?s=int&w=all&q=lake+powell&m=text |
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| http://www.flickr.com/search/?s=int&w=all&q=lake+powell&m=text |
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| http://www.flickr.com/search/?s=int&w=all&q=lake+powell&m=text |
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| http://www.flickr.com/search/?s=int&w=all&q=lake+powell&m=text |
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| http://www.flickr.com/search/?s=int&w=all&q=lake+powell&m=text |
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| http://www.flickr.com/search/?s=int&w=all&q=lake+powell&m=text |
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| http://www.flickr.com/search/?s=int&w=all&q=lake+powell&m=text |
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| http://www.flickr.com/search/?s=int&w=all&q=lake+powell&m=text |
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| http://www.flickr.com/search/?s=int&w=all&q=lake+powell&m=text |
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| http://www.flickr.com/search/?s=int&w=all&q=lake+powell&m=text |
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Italy
So, I decided that I wanted to take a break from all the medical non-fiction that I have been devouring over the last couple years and return to some simple entertaining fiction. In looking, I quickly settled on one of my cliche favorite authors: John Grisham. It, of course, turned out to be a great choice and The Broker, which is the book I chose, is a great read so far. It is, however, really making me want to go spend some time in Italy. So, instead of being alone in my longing, I decided to showing off some amazing photos I found to make you all feel the same way. Enjoy!
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| giampaolo macorig |
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| giampaolo macorig |
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| giampaolo macorig |
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| giampaolo macorig |
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| cubagallery |
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| cubagallery |
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| giampaolo macorig |
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| giampaolo macorig |
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| giampaolo macorig |
Friday, August 19, 2011
Ralph Waldo Emerson
What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.
Monday, August 8, 2011
John Milton
"The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.."
18 days of feet
A while back I listened to an interesting talk on TED.com that talked about 30 day challenges. I really enjoyed it and wanted to try it out. So, I wrote down several things I might like to try for 30 days. One of those was to take a picture ever day; and instead of just taking a picture, I decided I would take a picture of my feet doing something different in a different place each day. Making a kind of cool little journal of significant events. Unfortunately, I didn't finish the full 30 days after getting sidetracked with my MCAT test. None the less, I am very happy with 18 days I did do and am excited to start a new challenge.
(Note: I used my i-phone and the instagram app filters for each one of these pictures)
Day 1: At the gas station filling up, when I decided to really start taking pictures every day.
Day 2: Reading in the basement of my parents house
Day 3: Watching some woman's world cup soccer action in the basement
Day 4: Finishing my book in the park
Day 5: Out riding bikes around the state mental hospital
Day 7: A little plasma donation to pass the time and to get me some play money
Day 12: Night run by moonlight down Provo canyon with Jake and Catelin
Day 17: Living it up in SLC after finishing my test
Day 18: I love Hammock! Relaxing in Jake's backyard and listening to music at his farewell concert
Other feet pictures of mine I found:
(Note: I used my i-phone and the instagram app filters for each one of these pictures)
Day 1: At the gas station filling up, when I decided to really start taking pictures every day.
Day 2: Reading in the basement of my parents house
Day 3: Watching some woman's world cup soccer action in the basement
Day 4: Finishing my book in the park
Day 5: Out riding bikes around the state mental hospital
Day 6: Eating popsicles and playing lacrosse with the family, at my brother David's house
Day 7: A little plasma donation to pass the time and to get me some play money
Day 8: Enjoying some high quality music in the park with my friend Lauren
Day 9: Enjoying some Malt shop with my buddy Jake and Carli
Day 10: Shadowing Dr. Nokes in Radiology at UVRMC
Day 11: Watching "True Grit" at the Scera shell with Suzy and some friends
Day 12: Night run by moonlight down Provo canyon with Jake and Catelin
Day 13: Doing some bouldering with some friends at the quarry
Day 14: Free movies all day with Brady and Justin in Brigham City
Day 15: Church in Brigham City with the boyz
Day 16: Laying in bed stressing about the MCAT
Day 17: Living it up in SLC after finishing my test
Day 18: I love Hammock! Relaxing in Jake's backyard and listening to music at his farewell concert
Other feet pictures of mine I found:
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| Yellowstone |
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| Vegas |
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| Seattle |
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| L.A. (Huntington beach) |
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| BYU bean musium |
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| In the hospital after my new nephew was born |
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