Weeknotes: June 8–13, 2026
I waited too long to start my run. It's 5:30, and the air is stifling as I head up Forest toward campus. On Lowell, a green Subaru beeps acknowledgment. It's Annie. Her birthday was yesterday. A mile later on Hamilton, two musicians, tenor sax and drums, play hard bop through an open window. East down Spring, and over the bridge past Huron Landing, I detour to avoid a family of geese on the sidewalk, their five goslings still in fuzzy adolescence.
The peppy chiptune announcement of an ice cream truck looms behind me. As the driver pulls abreast, he leans out his window and hollers "Whassuuuup!" I'm tempted to flag him down — maybe I could stick my head in his freezer. When I catch up with him at the intersection of Prospect and Cross, his speaker begins playing Beethoven's “Für Elise.”
Home is a relief. I sit at my table with a towel around my neck eating cold watermelon. Out the kitchen window, my 12-year-old neighbor feeds bread crusts to a mallard who has wandered into our driveway.
Weeknotes: May 25–29, 2026
Monday, May 25
It's Memorial Day, the symbolic launch of American summertime. The weekend's cool rain is replaced by abundant sunshine. I take apart, then reassemble the contents of my shed, listening to the Grateful Dead and drinking strong coffee. It takes about three hours, but is so satisfying to have done.
Next, I butcher my first watermelon of the year and pack its red cubes into a Tupperware container for my neighbors' cookout. The house on the opposite side is also having a party, which spills onto my lawn. Everyone looks so happy, the neighborhood exhales vibrancy.
Across the street, a converted shuttle bus with two bikes strapped to its rear is parked. Its passenger entrance is wooden house door with a large 15-pane window, brass doorknob, and dead bolt. A band van or nomadic workers? I sit on a lawn chair in my neighbors' backyard, drinking beer and chatting with friends. Around, and sometimes between us, kids play football. At about eight o'clock I make my exit, citing a drained social battery.
Weeknotes: March 16–20, 2026
For this week only, It This Something? is reimagined as a zine! An assignment for my Publication Design class prompted this exercise which, apart from scanning the end results, required no computers or electronic devices of any kind. I spent a very pleasant Saturday morning with my Olympia manual typewriter, Polaroid Sun 660, date stamp, X-Acto knife, cutting mat, rubber cement, a couple pens, and my overburdened paper morgue. It was quick and messy, and therefore well outside my comfort zone. Many thanks to my instructor Ingrid Ankerson for fostering the opportunity and to my friend Nick Azzaro for encouraging me not to bail on it when I was about to pivot to something different. I also made a classic black and white photocopied edition, but opted to scan the original version for this post.