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: 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.