Weeknotes: September 22–26, 2025
Monday, September 22
I'm listening to the Tannahhill Weavers, a Scottish folk band who include a glossary of pronunciations and Scottish words on their lyrics sheets.
Some are logical:
Dinnae = don't know
Gane = gone
Tae - to
Twa = two
Wasnae = was not
Some less so:
Ken = know
Maun = may
Muckle = big
Trews = tartan trousers
Yin = one
I've loved this band since I first heard them on a Rykodisc compilation sometime around 1990. They were my gateway to Celtic music.
Out my office window the ground's quiet applause welcomes rain for the first time in a month. Later, at the pet store, the ceiling has sprung a leak and two dog pools have been pulled off a nearby shelf to catch it. On the equinox the world is liquid again.
Weeknotes: August 18–22, 2025
In my dream I'm a volunteer on a space station. I can't believe I got to go to space for free — I'll be the envy of all my friends. I move to one of the thick glass portholes and look out at the dark expanse. As my eyes adjust I see a large object resembling a human skull, obsidian black and tinted purple and green like the aurora. It's heading toward us and I immediately sense it's an alien spacecraft. I back away from the window and about a minute later feel the impact as it collides with us.
The next part of the dream is more benevolent, though bittersweet. I'm back on earth, trying to insert a folded wool blanket into a cupboard. My cat Briggs is in there, alive and seemingly in full health, though I somehow know there is a terminal illness within him. I pull him out and try to hold him, but he's not having it. Classic grumpy Briggs. While he lays on the rug cleaning himself, I marvel at his appearance. It's the younger, well-fed Briggs of feline middle age, not the haggard cat of his final days.
I wake with a co-mingling of fear and wistfulness. An alien encounter and a visit from my late cat. What a way to start the week.
Weeknotes: August 4–7, 2025
Monday, August 4
I dreamed I was in a sitcom. There was a daffy character who liked to get her hair cut at cheap department stores and carried around a little green book that was assumed to be some kind of positive affirmational text. Just before I woke up, another character went to spy on her while she sat in the department store salon. The big reveal was that the little green book was actually a gambling how-to titled Let It Bet — she had a severe gambling addiction. End of scene.
I drop off my car at the mechanic's for another pricey repair then catch a ride home from Donald. On the way back to Ypsi we stop at DJ's Bakery on Packard where I get a rainbow sprinkle doughnut to offset my automotive woes. Later, I bum a ride off my brother to go pick it back up. We listen to the Ghettobillies, an Ann Arbor band we played shows with in the last century. Our two bands had little in common except that we were both misfits with no obvious music scene partners — this and a shared sense of humor resulted in an oddball pairing and camaraderie that lasted several years.
About a half mile from the mechanic we come across a road block that wasn't there this morning. I release Jamie from his brotherly obligation and walk the rest of the way. In front of the violin shop where I worked for 15 years a fire hydrant is gushing a jet of water into the storm drain and the driveway is being dug up — there seems to be a broken water main. I have a long history of walking up and down this road which is also home to the studio where I have made every one of my albums. It's mostly industrial (S. Industrial Hwy.), but I have great affection for this part of town and particularly this road. It still feels like home.
Weeknotes: July 7–11, 2025
Monday, July 7
I dreamed my air conditioner had created ice deposits all around the house. The basement staircase was encased in a narrowing chute of ice like the walls of an old freezer. There was frost on my furniture, the ceiling, and clinging in the corners like hornet's nests.
I wake in a panic in my dry room. My first action of the day is to open all the windows and let the cool morning air circulate through my world.
I broke down and bought those new running shoes, but that was yesterday. Today, I'm shopping for some new kayak gear. My deck rigging has lost its elasticity and needs replacing. I also don't have a dock line, which would have been helpful over the weekend when I was hanging on to a half-submerged log to avoid drifting out from the lee of an old oak tree on Appleton Lake. I add a heavy duty dry bag to my order as if I'm going on a real adventure instead of paddling local segments of the Huron on weeknights.
Weeknotes: June 2–6, 2025
Monday, June 2
Monday morning, raring to go. Raring. I say it a few times to myself until it fractures into semantic satiation. Raring is defined as: very enthusiastic and eager to do something. Am I raring? To work? To write? To run?
In my dream I trekked through some hilly country — crystalline landscapes of thin ice beneath which shallow tributaries flowed. It was springtime and things were starting to turn muddy. Matt Jones was there with a horse and they were pacing back and forth to dig a channel in the rich black earth which quickly filled with natural spring water. They were building a moat so Matt could enjoy swimming laps like Roger Deakin. Later, in this same frosty spring country, I was attending a photography conference. I wandered naked into an old windowless farm shed and tried to take a self portrait, but the room was too dark. Next I tried to navigate a trail completely covered with a thick slab of ice. I was clothed again. Slowly and clumsily, I caught up with another photographer I'd seen skating along it earlier and began to flirt with her. She was still wearing her skates, but I slipped all over the place.
I'm woken by Islay, whining for her breakfast in the other room. I'm only slightly disappointed to be interrupted, because soon I will be raring.
Weeknotes: February 17–20, 2025
Monday February 17
Composing for hire remains a novel pursuit for me. I enjoy the challenge, but do it so rarely that I have to fight against my deep-rooted tendencies. I tend to overcomplicate things. Even when I'm writing instrumental music, I'm thinking about the overall structure and pacing of the arrangement, treating it more like a song than the mood-setting backdrop it sometimes needs to be. This piece I'm currently working on should flow unobtrusively behind a voice-over, but I'm struggling to keep it simple.
Repetition with very subtle dynamic shifts is what's called for, but I keep inserting rests, a bridge, and dynamic dips and swells. The first version I submitted had all those things and when I watched the rough cut, I was a little embarrassed; the piece itself is nice, but the extra parts felt obtrusive and showy. I then tried a version with a shorter rest and truncated bridge and it played a little better on the fine cut, but still wasn't right.
This morning I spend a couple hours on an edit that removes all chord changes outside the primary loop, but still has a sort of "bridge" moment about two-thirds of the way through. Why don’t I have it in me to kill that bridge? It’s not a pop song.
Weeknotes: January 6–10, 2025
Monday January 6
Outside the giant home decor superstore shreds of yellow caution tape flap like pennants, suggesting unknown drama. Scant cars punctuate the desolate parking lot. Grim is the word that comes to mind. In Chris Frantz's Talking Heads memoir (which I've stuck with, and am now enjoying) he recalls how Johnny Ramone used that word over and over to describe their shared 1977 tour of Europe ("Oh shit, man, this is gonna be grim").
I don't go to this store very often. It's one of those wastelands of excess that makes me feel edgy and cynical. It's like a blander Pier 1 without any curation, a shelter for the world’s decorative vases and wicker plant stands to live out their days in a heady fug of candle store aroma. I'm in the market for new bathroom rugs that will pair well with the tricky seafoam walls and faux driftwood floor covering I inherited when I rented the house. Last winter I spontaneously bought a complete set of grass green rugs and matching towels which I pretended to like for a couple days before recognizing I'd turned my bathroom into a 1980s Holiday Inn. January is when I'm most inclined to tackle these problems. Aren't we all working on our interiors this time of year?
Weeknotes: December 16–20, 2024
I guess I felt like writing this week. Happy Solstice!
Monday, December 16
My Christmas lights shine weakly against the gloom. After such a crisp start, December has retreated into rainy drear. At the supermarket I stand in the baking aisle looking for cardamom pods. The woman next to me is coming up short in her own spice search and we exchange friendly smalltalk about holiday busyness. A few minutes later she finds me in the next aisle waving in victory a small jar of ground cardamom. Such a sweet gesture, but I really want the pods. I thank her anyway.
After work I head back out into the drizzle on a longer set of evening errands. Just over a week until Christmas, but I'm thwarted on most of my stops. I do find the cardamom, though. I walk around Ann Arbor feeling dispirited, carrying only one of the several gifts I'd sought. I catch the last ten minutes of happy hour at Conor O'Neill's. I remember when this Irish bar opened in the late-'90s. It felt like an overly-commercial upstart on Main Street, but tonight I'm drawn to its well-established and unpretentious vibe. Some type of Harry Potter party must have recently happened; there are "Wanted" posters for Fenrir Greyback and "I solemnly swear I am up to no good" signs are tacked over several booths. I work on a pint of Smithwick's and write in my notebook, replenishing my cheer sip by sip.
A father with his young son approaches the bar asking if the North Pole mailbox has been taken down. The boy has a letter for Santa. The bartender disappears for a bit, then comes back to confirm said box is presently in the store room being prepped for delivery to the North Pole. He accepts the envelope on Santa's behalf, and moves off stage with a smile, ferrying away the kid’s hopes and dreams.
Weeknotes: September 16–20, 2024
Monday, September 16
There's a bad smell coming from somewhere on the porch. Is it just my overripe trash can? I'm standing out there sniffing, looking over the rail for a decaying rodent when CC pulls up. I guide her up the steps to "the spot" but she doesn't smell anything out of the ordinary.
We play through a handful of songs in the living room while Islay whines, begging for treats. Her brat summer continues. Many of our rehearsal tapes have insolent dog noises on them, like ambient feedback. She eventually settles down, head on paws, and listens from the couch.
CC and I revisit songs from previous albums and scale down a newer one from its full-band arrangement to duo format. We also add a few more short pieces which preface longer songs like sympathetic key siblings. In this way, our next set will contain about 20 songs in 45 minutes.
Weeknotes: July 8–12, 2024
Monday, July 8
In my dream I'm exploring a vast art deco hotel. It's mostly empty, either abandoned or in the offseason. Crates of interesting goods are stacked haphazardly around a casino-like room and behind the ornate bar I notice a beat-up cardboard box advertising a Casio keyboard model I've never seen before. What I pull out of it ends up being a gig bag containing an ornate handmade bouzouki, or maybe a cittern. Its strings are strangely paired with the middle ones in overstuffed clusters of three or four, all tuned in unison rather than octaves. I also notice the wood has rotted around the soundhole and on the back. A shame, as it's a beautifully designed instrument. I decide not to steal it.
I spend some time with Pretzel, my neighbor's three-legged cat, for whom I'm caring this week. He has barfed on his white couch blanket every day and every day I carry it down to the laundry room and re-wash it. I listen to Jake Xerxes Fussell's new album as I drive to Dexter to meet up with my cousins one last time before they depart to their respective homes in Pennsylvania and Florida. After dinner we visit our grandparents' grave where last summer we also laid some of their mom's ashes in a spontaneous little family ceremony. Then it's hugs all around and off we go into the furnace of a July evening. I put on some Hawaiian slack key music and keep all the windows down even on the highway.
Weeknotes: May 13–17, 2024
Monday, May 13
In my dream I'm on stage with State Park. Matt grabs an oversized megaphone and takes it over to his mic where he uncharacteristically adds blaring vocals to our song "Witches," then misses his horn cue at the end. After it's over we calmly discuss it for a minute as the crowd grows restless. Sensing this, I get on the mic and try to recover with some stage banter: "We were just making some notes. You guys like notes? I write tons of notes every day…"
After work I drive to Lowe's to buy one more 2"x8"x8' for a pair of Leopold benches I'm building. "Measure twice, cut once" is the old adage, but I fucked up one of the larger pieces on my first bench and now I have to buy another eight feet of lumber to gain the 33 extra inches I need for the second one. My versatile little Hyundai has transported plenty of lumber, but today a freak shift causes the board to bounce up off the dashboard and crack my windshield. The cost of this second bench just went up by several hundred dollars. It's a setback that would have sunk my mood most days, but the weather has been so nice and I'm enjoying my spring projects. I shrug it off and go home to set up my tools. I’ll sort the windshield out later.