Weeknotes: May 11–15, 2026
Monday, May 11
I lie down on the grass next to Islay, whose dark fur stores the sun's heat like a solar mat. Not for the first time, I try to memorize the feel of my dog's body, the shape of her head, her floppy ears, and gray muzzle. I hope I can give her a fun summer.
At the studio in Ann Arbor, Geoff and I mix tracks for my upcoming EP. One of them, a percussive instrumental synth piece, is giving me trouble. It needs one extra element, maybe not an actual part, but some kind of sonic layer. Earlier in the day I tried some random tones from the little Casio CT-1, then a few hoots from a clay ocarina. I'm grasping. A field recording of the local university alert system comes closest. Its repeating chimed notes match the song's key, but the recording is too clean. It needs to be scuffed up somehow.
Tuesday, May 12
There's a ruckus for much of the afternoon, as Donald clears out Apartment 2 for the incoming tenant. I inherit an armful of kitchen cast-offs: a small saucepan, a red-handled rolling pin, and four boxes of sandwich bags. There's also a neatly folded orange bandana laying on the counter. "I want the bandana," I tell him. I don't know why.
At the brewpub, I learn from my friend Kristin that Comerica Park's annual Magnum P.I. Day promotion was created by some of our old hometown friends. I had no idea. Every August, fans dress in Hawaiian shirts and fake (or not) moustaches like Tom Selleck's '80s detective who famously wore a Detroit Tigers cap throughout the series. Unless some of our players get healthy, Magnum P.I. Day might be one of the highlights of the season. It seems like 90% of the team is injured right now.
Wednesday, May 13
My mom and I are texting about the new Neil Diamond album. In the other room, Islay barks at a FedEx truck. I've accidentally left the dictation button on and when I look down at my phone, her barks are translated as "help help help help help help." I'm tempted to just hit send, but I put it into context first. I don't want to scare my mom.
Outside, the wind picks up. I check the weather app, which states: Cloudy today. High of 52°. With no shadow and no glare, cloudy days have their perks.
Reading Gavin Francis' meditative Island Dreams makes me think of islands I've loved. One year ago this week, I was on Heimaey Island off the southern coast of Iceland, hiking the Stórhöfði coastal path to visit Europe's largest puffin colony. Climbing a stile into a hilly sheep pasture at the end of the peninsula, I bumped into another solo traveler, an American landscape photographer named Francois. We completed the trail together, then drank beers at a picnic table near the harbor before catching the ferry back to the mainland. It was one of the happiest days I can remember.
Thursday, May 14
After work, I visit K, who has rented a dumpster to tackle her stagnant garage, frozen in time since the pandemic. From among the squirrel caches, scrap wood, and old furniture, I liberate a few items of my own: a pair of large wooden letters spelling TM, an old Coleman lantern, and a decaying garden gnome playing a concertina.
Later, in Gault Village, Misty's band has a rare rehearsal. I'm a little shocked to realize it's the first time I've played music with other people all year. I've been writing, recording, and doing some solo gigs, but nothing collaborative. I've hardly played bass at all, even though Serge loaned me his old Kay hollowbody a few months ago. I leave my jazz bass at home and bring that instead. It's a good fit for her music.
Friday, May 15
At my parents' house I seal their little cement pond pond and rebuild its ramshackle waterfall. While I work, my mom putters around her enchanted garden, gathering transplants for me to take home. Bee balm, wood poppy… "this one might be a weed," she says. I stay for dinner and manage to coax Islay out into the forest for a short walk.
Her energy and enthusiasm for walks has flagged over the past year. She turned 12 in March. Now, anytime she says yes, my heart explodes. Evening sun warms the path through the green-gold cathedral of trees. A pileated woodpecker startles ahead of us, large and unmistakable. I note the dead tree trunk where in 2002 I saw a great horned owl, which inspired me to buy my first Audubon guide and become a birder. The desire path connecting my parents' property with the main spur is disappearing for lack of use.