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: July 22–26, 2024
Monday, July 22
I drive to the optometrist to pick up my new lenses. After two weeks of squinting and headaches, I ease back into a world of stunning clarity. I almost expect to hear a fanfare as I slide them onto my face. On the drive home I stop at Dairy Queen and eat a chocolate-vanilla twist cone in my car while listening to pundits discussing President Biden's decision to drop out of the race. For the first time in months, I feel some hope. The path to November had become a funeral procession. Can Harris can pull off what shouldn't have to seem like some kind of miracle?
It's an otherwise desultory day of self-admin and catching up at work. At night I walk into town to see a show at Ziggy's, less because I want to, but because I think going out would be good for me. It was right move. Sitting on the stage floor, Sara Tea plays a hypnonic set of ambient autoharp drones and other manipulated sounds while landscape videos are projected on to a small board to her left. Michael C. Sharp follows her with radiant synth and guitar shimmers, and finally my neighbor, Golden Feelings, kicks off his summer tour, sending out sweet lotic tones from a small Mexican blanket-covered podium. It’s a perfect Monday show. Soothing experimental music, no vocals. I catch up with friends and discuss DJ-ing skate jams, breaking down in the desert, banjo museums, and Ray Lynch's Deep Breakfast.