Weeknotes: March 9–13, 2026
Monday, March 9
Esteban reclines on a peninsula of sunlight, his black fur illuminated and glossy. I pet him the length of his body and remember someone once telling me this reminds a cat of being groomed by its mother. Suddenly, it seems strange not to know anything at all about my pets' parentage. When we found Esteban, he was a feral kitten surviving in a drainage ditch outside K's office.
It was about a year after we adopted Islay, the runt of a litter of puppies being trampled over by her siblings in a crate at a Tractor Supply store. In my mind, their stories begin with me — typical human arrogance. Of course they both had mothers who cleaned and fed them until circumstances brought them into my life. How strange to call myself the parent of these wonderful little beings.
The temperature rises into the low 70s — a healing balm. After my run, I sit on the porch finishing Heather Rose's book, The Museum of Modern Love.
The purple house across the street is up for sale. I walked through it during a weekend open house, unlocking new rooms in the mental map of my surroundings. It's much more spacious than I expected. I wish I could afford to buy it — everything is so expensive right now.
I linger outside until the light begins to fade, listening to the sounds of my neighborhood: the see-saw tones of the bus door opening a block away, an eastbound train, a seagull calling over the river.
Weeknotes: March 2–6, 2026
Monday, March 2
The ancient editorial program we use for work is almost unusable this morning. We're in the process of beta-testing its successor, but right now I'm caught in the drying amber of the original's slow decline. While the next entry on my screen loads, I try to stay productive in other arenas, scheduling a band practice on my phone, using a different computer to send emails and design a logo. It's an ineffective and exhausting workflow; nothing gets done as well as it should.
Outside, the sun glares over bleached lawns — March's signature look. I take Islay for a walk and think about Jonathan Richman twirling his guitar and dancing snake-hipped at the edge of the Vickers Theater stage. On Saturday, Greg and I drove three hours across the state to the little town of Three Oaks to hear him play. At 74, Richman still seems so youthful and vibrant, a rare specimen of preserved health and creative spirit. I've always loved his self-titled 1989 record and of course the first Modern Lovers album. I figured he would be good live, but I had no idea how special and whimsical it would be. Halfway through the first song, I thought to myself: this is one of the greatest performances I have ever seen.
Before and after the show, Greg and I set up shop at the Tom Cat Tavern, just down the block. At breakfast the next morning, I realized I'd left behind my favorite woolen scarf, gifted to me by friends after their visit to Ireland. When we got back home to Ypsi, I called the Tom Cat and confirmed proof of life. Unless I can convince them to mail it back to me, I have another three hour road trip in my future.
At six o' clock I go for a run through town and listen to Alvvays. Molly Rankin's voice sounds like a beam of light. Behind the old Michigan Ladder Company building the moon rises, pale and full.
Weeknotes: November 3–7, 2025
Monday, November 3
It's hard sometimes to play fast, but we are a rhythmic species — if you practice enough, a fast part usually comes together nicely, at least in my experience. I think it's much tougher to play slowly. When there is more space between the beats, you have nowhere to hide — each note carries more weight and a whole menu of nuance opens up.
I've been trying to make some music that is very minimalist with few elements and plenty of negative space. The piece I'm working on is for two fingerpicked guitars, one playing a repeated chord pattern at a relaxed tempo and the other playing a very deliberate single note lead melody. More often than not, this is the kind of music I listen to around the house: sparse Nordic jazz records from ECM, solo acoustic guitar albums, ambient synth music, etc.
Most of the music I've released has been densely-arranged songwriter pop with clever arrangements, layered harmonies, and lots of percussion. I will make more of that, but I also want to challenge myself to see if I can scale down and still keep it interesting. It's making me a better, or at least a more thoughtful guitarist. Because there are no vocals and just one or two instruments, I'm thinking very hard about every note and asking questions like:
What part of my finger yields the best tone for this note?
If I can't finish this part today, will my fingernails be too long and sound slightly different tomorrow?
How long should I let these overtones ring?
Do I slide up to this note or hit it dead on?
A bit of vibrato heading into the rest?
Weeknotes: October 13–17, 2025
Monday, October 13
I'm drinking white wine and listening to Weather Report. It feels like a cliché, but I'm not sure why. Yesterday felt like Monday Jr. I worked so hard all day and kept the momentum going into today before falling into a slump.
At 3:00 I took apart my salt lamp and replaced the cord, plug, and in-line switch, a fairly simple household repair. Nothing. It didn't work.
When a lightbulb doesn’t go on, maybe it's the universe telling you you're done for the day. I didn't listen and instead tried to finish the baffling for my studio, stapling an old burlap coffee bag around an acoustic panel. Midway through, the tack gun jammed and I couldn't fix that either. Hello, wine.
Weeknotes: October 6–11, 2025
Monday, October 6
"Sophia, bring it back to starboard, you're too close to that kayak! Sorry, kayak."
I wave at the coxswain — Sophia's oar wasn't even close. I'm finishing an evening paddle, upriver from Argo Livery, almost, but not quite to Barton Dam, then back past Bandemer, the Huron's regional rowing hub. I figured I might run into some river traffic, but didn't expect to share this segment with eight full crews and their launch boats. At a wide bend, about a half hour upriver, I tucked into some reeds and enjoyed a beer while the university and high school crews rowed noisily by. The season is starting to fade, but the weather tonight is gorgeous. Maybe I'll still have time for a couple more paddles before winter comes.
Back at Argo, a string band has set up under the pavilion. When I put in, a man was tuning a double bass, but now they are eight or nine strong with fiddles, mandolin, a dobro, and several guitars. I dock to "Will the Circle Be Unbroken" and sing along quietly while stowing my gear.
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.