Sick Days

Growing up, I was taught that as much, or more, can be learned outside the classroom as in. My dad, being the outdoorsman that he is, believed that nature, the woods and the mountains and the vast emptiness of the skies, were an environment ripe for learning. And so we learned. I learned that it’s better muster the strength to go to class when ill, in order to save your sick days for when you are best equipped to take advantage of their gift. The best “sick days” are the ones in which you are most healthy, lively, adventurous, and exuberant. The best sick days are the ones in which school and work are hours away and the only thing you need to be taught is whatever the world chooses to show you. The best sick days are when you wake up at 3am and drive through fading city lights to reach the thick and impenetrable darkness of the desert night, or when you find yourself in the salty playground of the ocean before the sun begins to peek over the cliff tops, and the waves reflect no light but the moon’s and the stars’. The best sick days are, indeed, the ones in which you are not sick, not even close.


It was with this in mind that Sarah and I boarded a train in yesterday’s morning light. We had a backpack and a camera, and school was right where it should be, miles away. Sarah had taken the GRE the day before, and we both felt that a mental health day was in order. We boarded the train and watched the lazy coast slip by, and I secretly hoped an animated Tom Hanks would take us by the hand and lead us to the roof for an even better view.

When the wheels screeched and slowed an hour later, we stepped onto the platform and into a new city. We wandered in search of a hearty brunch. Our feet took us up past the red-domed mission that loomed overhead, and eventually across to the river road where our noses told us we had found what we were looking for.

At a quaint home-turned-restaurant there was a wooden sign reading, “Ramos House Café.” We sat and let the morning breeze waft scents of fresh biscuits and eggs and apple-butter and bacon around us. A small card on the table told us the proprietor lived in the very house we were eating at, and we felt like long-awaited guests at the table of a most welcoming host. The food arrived in an elegant pile, if ever there was such a thing, and we savored the hot meal and sipped crisp melon-water from mason jars. And when we were done we walked off, satisfied and grateful for the small and timeless pleasures of life, like the lingering taste of a perfect breakfast on your tongue.

We passed the rest of the day in slow movements. From the café our feet carried us to a park where we stared at the sky ‘til our eyes watered, and we laughed with our bellies.

We pretended to be architects and built a house of paper and ink, while drinking coffee from cups covered in snowflakes and carolers that reminded us our favorite holiday was on the horizon. And as the sun blinked its goodbye, and we grew hungry again, we stepped into a restaurant where time slowed almost to a standstill.

By the time we left the restaurant the earth had twisted us 2000 miles further from the sun, and its light was merely a fading memory. In the dark we wandered to a bench and read to pass the time until our train would take us homeward once more. We opened Traveling Mercies and random chapter by random chapter learned about the beauty of our imperfections and a woman’s struggle to live with God.

We moved to the platform where we first stepped into the city and continued to read. A freight train thundered by, and we huddled together to escape the reach of its grasping, windy fingers. Eventually, the headlights of a more amiable machine bent around the corner to us, and we climbed aboard. And with the sleepy mission town falling rapidly into our past, we gracefully slid over greased rails all the way home, basking in the quiet contentedness.

Beauty From Above

Earth | Time Lapse View from Space, Fly Over | NASA, ISS from Michael König on Vimeo.

Portraits of the Intangible

I've always had an obsession with the idea of childhood. In my head exists a grand notion of all its beauty, purity, wonder, and whimsy. Even during my own childhood I could sense that I was in a time to be treasured, even through its patches of bitter cold and sharp pains I could see how brightly it gleamed when the light hit it just right, when childhood was what it was meant to be. Even then, I grasped at my own youth like a buoy of joy in a sea of serious faces, and I dreaded growing up. I dreamt of Neverland, of Hook and the Lost Boys. I dreamt. 

A decade later, with all the scars to prove it, I still dream of childhood. Though I see it more clearly now for what it is. I understand that no one has ever experienced childhood as we all believe it should be, but I still cherish the idea of the thing.  I still hold deeply esteemed in my heart the essence of childhood as I wish it were. And I appreciate people who use their talents to bring that essence to life.

I recently found the blog of an Australian photographer who specializes in child portraits and goes by the name Jinky Art. Her images capture the spirit of what I believe childhood should be. Though her subjects may not possess the dreamy youth they seem to. They hurt, and they cry. They hear the bitter words between their parents, and their bed sheets have been tissues to dry tear-streaked cheeks and wounded eyes. They are beautiful babies with blossoming insecurities who will one day write Shakespearean tragedies with their lives. No, her subjects may not be as untouched by the woes of the world as they look, but their portraits nevertheless contain those qualities we long for in childhood: an air of whimsy and a whisper of the divine.

Somewhere Strange and New

I believe an update is in order. I don’t normally like to write blogs that simply relay the events of my life. Usually I’d rather use clever photos and carefully crafted vague words to give life to the things I’m feeling or to hintingly illustrate events in such a way that necessitates imagination on the part of the reader. I like whispering pieces of my story and leaving you to fill in the parts you couldn’t quite hear.  I like to believe in the lie of my own mystery. Normally, that is. However, as I’ve been absent for so long, and there’s much too much to catch up on for obscurity, I’ll be direct.

The biggest recent change in life is that I now have a girlfriend. She’s beautiful and fun and lovely and strong and compassionate and I could make this run-on last for pages and her name is Sarah and this is a picture of us recently.

Two weeks ago we traveled together for the first time. We turned a three-day weekend into five and flew to Mexico. Sarah studied abroad in Guanajuato, and was elated to return a place of such significance in her life. We spent our days winding through vibrant alleyways, and over rough and ancient cobblestone. The brilliant patchwork of the brightly colored homes formed something like a Kandinsky canvas on the hillsides, and the smells of food freshly prepared on the streets sizzled in our noses. We heard the sounds of Finnish voices singing in Mexico about love in English, and watched from a windy hillside a grim and fantastical performance elevated on stilts telling the story of a fisherman lost at sea, and the crowd through and in which they performed was a sea of flesh. We spent playful afternoon hours with young girls whose greatest desire was to be spun above our heads and to ride on our shoulders and to giggle uncontrollably and to force us to sing the Titanic song. And we ate, oh how we ate. With grease streaming over fingers and satisfied smiles we ate. 

And then we returned, to school and to family and to responsibilities...

and to dreams of absconding once more.

Wake Up To The Sound Of Your Fleeting Heart

I've been wanting to write so badly for so long, but I haven't found the time, and unfortunately I don't see that coming any time very soon. But, for the time being, watch this video, listen to this song, and maybe you'll love it like I do.

Regarding the Charade of the Serious Me

            I’ve always prided myself on my time management skills.  Or maybe it would be more accurate to say I pride myself on the way in which I prioritize how my time is spent. Somehow I’ve always found ways to include valuable space for leisure, reflection, and relationships. I’ve always put my friends before my work. I’ve always put my mental health before my grades. And yet, I’ve almost always done well academically as well as relationally. I felt as though I had some knack for finding the perfect balance, one in which I spend enough time working to be successful, but not too much to the point where I ostracize the people I love by lowering them on my priority list. I never understood the people who were unable to relax, the people who feel uncomfortable slowing down. I lived my life slowly, and I lived it well. I found time for surfing, long conversations on impractical subjects, reading for pleasure, silence, stillness, silliness, and much doing-nothing-ness. Finally, in my last year of college, I find myself tangled in the barbed web of endless motion. I have lost my silent time. I have lost my surfing time. I have lost my doing-nothing time. I have time for little more than the serious and the mundane and the seriously mundane. 

            I’m writing, not to complain, but rather to apologize to those whom I have previously judged for what I thought was a character flaw, but was, indeed, simply a necessity. I now understand your overwhelming feelings of being stuck in motion, never slowing. I now understand your discomfort with leisure. I understand your need to sometimes choose work over friends.  I now understand the feeling of being smaller than the list of this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that which must all be completed by yesterday, only to begin on the this and that which was due this morning. I’m sorry. I now understand.

            I’ve felt large. I’ve felt overwhelmed only rarely. I’ve felt my mind be expansive and far-reaching and free to imagine impractical things like rocket-ships and balloons. I’ve never felt smaller than the list before me, until now. My mind feels small. I haven’t believed-six-impossible-things-before-breakfast in weeks. My mind works so furiously on the reasonable and quantifiable that it has no time for the extraordinary.

            This Me is new and unfamiliar, and frankly, I don’t much like this Me. This new mentality has been born out of necessity, and it will die when necessity dies. For now I must keep up the charade. But I must be careful that it remains exactly that, a charade. May I only act so seriously if my inner self still possesses an awareness of the absurdity of such a serious Me. May the charade of all-things-adult once more give way to the childish philosophy of my true self. May I return to play; may I burn the suit I wear and the planner in my hand; may I bathe in the joy of the impractical and the imaginary once more.

Pumped Up Kicks

Rooftops & Invitations

There's something about rooftops, some mysterious quality that inspires imaginative thoughts. Maybe it's the connection to the open sky above, the view of the star-painted sky, the striking contrast to the flawless blue canopy. There's something brimming with romance and subtly hinting at mischief about them. 

I guess ... I just like rooftops.

"if you're partial to the night sky, if you're vaguely attracted to rooftops..."

Jamul

"I used to believe the skies were doorways home."

Bon Iver : Holocene

Mystery Solved

Yesterday I had dinner with my mom. At one point in our conversation I brought up something that had been bouncing around in my mind for some time.

"Mom, people tell me I'm a mystery. I don't get it."

Without batting an eye she countered, "Denny, maybe that's because you speak in riddles."

"huh. thanks mom"

Call Me Kerouac

On thursday I drove to Orange County to join in the company of friends in watching what I deemed as a significant and unfortunate milestone in the waning of my childhood... the end of Harry Potter.

The next morning I drove to Phoenix where I enjoyed time spent well with another dear friend over ping pong and air conditioning and beers and family friends and bananagrams and poolside conversations.

Between Orange County and Phoenix and San Diego were many hours spent in solitude. It was time for new music to be discovered and old songs to be sang to no one but myself and long searching prayers and way too many pee stops.

Somehow I ended up with nothing but driving pictures. Which, by the way, is probably more dangerous than texting and should be outlawed immediately.

On The Beauty Of Broken Time

On top of my bookcase I have three watches sitting on their display stands. The hands of each watch read 5:41.

            

It’s 10:33.

While I was in Spain all three of these watches drained their batteries. At first I simply added “watch batteries” to my to-do list … and then I wore one. I strapped the wristband on and left the house with a watch that was only accurate twice daily.

            

I’ve been home for over two months now, and the watches still have dead batteries. After wearing them for a while I was enlightened to their ironic beauty. They are a reminder that humanity takes time, a construct of our own minds, much too seriously. They remind me to not worry about the days slipping by. I’m growing old, but it has less to do with mechanical gears ticking in circles and more to do with the summer sun kissing my skin and the wind from the sea whispering, sometimes roaring, its love to me. The wrinkles on my face aren't from the spinning hands of clocks, but rather from deep, belly-aching laughter and honest smiles and sharp tears.

            

It’s a reminder to stop thinking about there and start focusing on here. There is only here, and there is only now.

            

A broken watch means you can stop time and live in this moment forever. It reminds you that this is the only moment that exists. There is no future. There is no past. Now is all that exists. There is only today.

           

            

The only moment in eternity is this one.

My God, It's Lonely Out There

Perspective

Fourth of July, from the outside looking in.

You Are a Tourist

Death Cab For Cutie released their new album, Codes & Keys, not long ago. The whole album is really good, but You Are a Tourist really struck a chord with me.

Listen and feel it too.

You Are a Tourist from Denny Moody on Vimeo.

"And if you feel just like a tourist
In the city you were born
Then it's time to go
And define your destination
There's so many different places to call home

Cause when you find yourself the villain
In the story you have written
It's plain to see
That sometimes the best intentions
Are in need of redemption
Would you agree?
If so please show me"

Surf Thugs

On Monday we got bored, so we decided to take the ski out to the point to see if we could find some surf. 

Before we left we thought a thug picture was in order.

When we got to the dock we realized three grown men on one jet ski is about as far from thug as you can get.

Runaway Words

I really like run on sentences,

the kind that seem to build speed as they go,

faster, faster, faster,

and it’s as if there’s too much power behind the words that are coming out,

and any attempt to slow them down with a period would be futile,

and the writer must be in a craze,

a fit of emotion that unstoppably forces the words out,

and he’s driving a semi-truck down hill and the brakes have gone out,

and there’s a wound that won’t stop bleeding,

and there’s a joy he just can’t shake, and the page is wet with tears,

and a rhinoceros has escaped from the zoo and is in a violent stampede through city streets,

and as the sentence builds it sounds like the bellowing of a runaway train approaching,

and the whistle grows louder louder louder louder,

until it hits you,

and you feel it

period

marooned

For the last week or so, I've been in the Mentawais. The Mentawais is an island chain off the western end of Indonesia.

 The surf has been magic and the water has been warm and the people have smiled and the sun has shined and the lightning has struck and the thunder has bellowed and the rain has brought rainbows and the sun has shined again and the children have flown kites and I've been barreled and they've been barreled and we've all laughed.

Unfortunately I've been out of the water for the past day or two due to a minor surf injury. But that just means I've had time for a lovely bit of reading. After finishing up the Count of Monte Cristo, which is now my favorite novel, I read The Perks of Being a Wallflower.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower is a beautiful first person narrative in the form of letters to the reader that tell the story of a boy named Charlie experiencing the joys and sorrows of his first year in high school.

Here's an excerpt.

I didn't know what to say.  Honestly, I was lost.
    

"Okay, Charlie ...  I'll make this easy.  When that whole thing with Craig happened, what did you think?" She really wanted to know.
    

I said, "Well, I thought a lot of things.  But mostly, I thought that your being sad was much more important to me than Craig not being your boyfriend anymore. And if it meant that I would never get to think of you that way, as long as you were happy, it was okay.  That's when I realized that I really loved you."
    

She sat down on the floor with me.  She spoke quiet.
    

"Charlie, don't you get it? I can't feel that.  It's sweet and everything, but it's like you're not even there sometimes.  It's great that you can listen and be a shoulder to someone, but what about when someone doesn't need a shoulder.  What if they need the arms or something like that? You can't just sit there and put everybody's lives ahead of yours and think that counts as love.  You just can't.  You have to do things."
    

"Like what?" I asked.  My mouth was dry.
    

"I don't know.  Like take their hands when the slow song comes up for a change.  Or be the one who asks someone for a date.  Or tell people what you need.  Or what you want.  Like on the dance floor, did you want to kiss me?"
     "Yeah," I said.
    

"Then, why didn't you?" she asked real serious.
    

"Because I didn't think you wanted me to."
    

"Why did you think that?"
    

"Because of what you said."
    

"What I said nine months ago? When I told you not to think of me that way?"
    

I nodded.
    

"Charlie, I also told you not to tell Mary Elizabeth she was pretty.  And to ask her a lot of questions and not interrupt her.  Now she's with a guy who does the exact opposite.  And it works because that's who Peter really is.  He's being himself.  And he does things."
    

"But I didn't like Mary Elizabeth."
    

"Charlie, you're missing the point.  The point is that I don't think you would have acted different even if you did like Mary Elizabeth.  It's like you can come to Patrick's rescue and hurt two guys that are trying to hurt him, but what about when Patrick's hurting himself? Like when you guys went to that park? Or when he was kissing you? Did you want him to kiss you?"
    

I shook my head no.
    

"So, why did you let him?"
    

"I was just trying to be a friend," I said.
    

"But you weren't, Charlie.  At those times, you weren't being his friend at all.  Because you weren't honest with him."
    

I sat there very still.  I looked at the floor.  I didn't say anything.  Very uncomfortable.
    

"Charlie, I told you not to think of me that way nine months ago because of what I'm saying now.  Not because of Craig.  Not because I didn't think you were great.  It's just that I don't want to be somebody's crush.  If somebody likes me, I want them to like the real me, not what they think I am.  And I don't want them to carry it around inside.  I want them to show me, so I can feel it, too.  I want them to be able to do whatever they want around me.  And if they do something I don't like, I'll tell them."
    

She was starting to cry a little.  But she wasn't sad.
    

"You know I blamed Craig for not letting me do things? You know how stupid I feel about that now? Maybe he didn't really encourage me to do things, but he didn't prevent me from doing them either.  But after a while, I didn't do things because I didn't want him to think different about me.  But the thing is, I wasn't being honest.  So, why would I care whether or not he loved me when he didn't really even know me?"
    

I looked up at her.  She had stopped crying.
    

"So, tomorrow, I'm leaving.  And I'm not going to let that happen again with anyone else.  I'm going to do what I want to do.  I'm going to be who I really am.  And I'm going to figure out what that is.  But right now I'm here with you.  And I want to know where you are, what you need, and what you want to do."
    

She waited patiently for my answer.  But after everything she said, I figured that I should just do what I wanted to do.  Not think about it.  Not say it out loud.  And if she didn't like it, then she could just say so.  And we could go back to packing.
    

So, I kissed her.  And she kissed me back.  And we lay down on the floor and kept kissing.  And it was soft.  And we made quiet noises.  And kept silent.  And still.

If you haven't read it, I recommend it. It's terribly sad and wonderfully happy, and it inspires you to participate in life and look at the world through new eyes.

I'll be home again in a few days.

Until then.

{u}

there's one in all of us

Tomorrow, like Max, I'll run away from home. I'll find a small boat on the edge of a vast sea and I'll set forth into the mystery of the wild unknown. I'll forget about reality for a while, but, like Max, I'll be back before long with the dust of adventure caked on my skin and the longing for a familiar bed aching in my bones.

A Plea to a Dreamer

Will you tell me a story?
Will you weave together impossible worlds
With barely possible words?
Will you take my mind from here to there,
To that world and the next?
Will you wield the power of story like a wand,
Creating life with a flourish of the hand,
Bringing death with the flick of the wrist?
Will you open my eyes to the beauty of your dreams?
Will you dream to me?
Will you paint planets with your words?
Will you make me believe in things unseen?
Please, will you tell me a story?

I'll listen if you let me
With raptured gaze and bated breath, I'll listen
I'll cry at the sad parts and laugh when I should,
But mostly I'll just listen
You have stories locked within yourself
I think that I can open you. I think I have the key
You have tales of adventure, of love lost at sea
You've lived through myths
You've touched nightmares
You've tasted fairytales
I want your story like you want to tell it
Trust me, I'll listen.
Please, will you tell me a story?

26.2/2

Last weekend San Diego hosted the Rock & Roll Marathon. My mom, brother, and I decided to give the half marathon a try. It was definitely a challenge, but a very rewarding one... by that I mean I got a medal.

On saturday we went down to the convention center to pick up our race numbers. I don't know why they gave me a number, I wasn't planning on racing anyone.

mmm, california.

4 am fuel up.

Sweaty. Weak. Exhausted. Victorious.

Do It Like McEnroe

This weekend I played tennis with my dad. Now I need a new racquet.

Wanderlust

Living at home again with my family is quite different than living abroad. Both are good in many different ways. 

On monday, memorial day, we decided to follow the rest of San Diego down to the beach. But instead of lounging in the sand we rented bikes in Coronado, rode to the Imperial Beach pier, had lunch at The Tin Fish, and rode back. After readjusting to home life, family days like these are nice. 

As I said, these days are nice. They're comfortable and warm, and I smile often. But as I smile, the angel, the enchantress, the siren named Wanderlust speaks to me. "The road is open to you if you take it underfoot," she seductively whispers, "There is adventure over the next white-capped mountain, in the next silent cove. The world is longing desperately to embrace you on its distant shores and wooded paths. Will you step into it?"

Unbored

Earlier today I was bored, so I decided not to be. I had an old t-shirt with a graphic that I loved, and I wanted to come up with a cool way of preserving it since the shirt was starting to get pretty ragged. I cut out the graphic and stretched it over a canvas. I like it.

Las Canarias

To those of you who were there, to those whom I promised a video, I'm sorry. I slacked on the videographing (definitely a word) and didn't take enough to truly capture the strange but excellent essence of that bewildering trip. But here's the little I did take. I miss you all. Enjoy.

Scandalous Snowbirds from Denny Moody on Vimeo.

Heavenly Steps

Today I saw stairs spiraling into the heavens, and I dreamt of where they might lead. I watched them twisting and where the rusted metal stopped, I could see gleaming lines of silver continuing the upward march toward the divine. Here and there along the twisted journey, great birds were perched and would leap into flight, twirling in the lofty heights, silhouetted before the brilliant sun. The stairs spun dizzyingly until they were beyond my vision, but just before they disappeared in an atmospheric speck, I seemed to perceive a door, to which the great stairs lead. The door stood open, welcoming, beckoning any and all who ascended to its unimaginable height to enter and touch the heart of its mystery. I could not see through the door, there my sight failed me, but my inner eye imagined the wonderful peace waiting on the other side, and the mere thought of it contented my soul, and I wept for joy upon joy.