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: April 14–18, 2025
Monday, April 14
Islay lifts her sweet face and peers over at me from her end of the couch. I lean over to hug her and she gives a few contented snorts before re-composing her limbs into an endearing tangle across her dog bed. I've promised myself I'll take her camping again this summer. It's been six or seven years since she slept in a tent and gave me the worst poison ivy rash I've ever had. We'll have to stay vigilant, but I want to make sure she gets more adventures outside our neighborhood. How many summers does a little dog have?
I ran my six mile route earlier in the day and it inspired a mood of supreme confidence and ambition which I haven't felt in a while. Those rare triumphal runs make all the ordinary everyday runs feel like part of a greater plan you knew you had in you all along. In my head I plotted out my next four marathons, one each month in a different city. I'll train harder for these races than I ever have before, all while going to school, working full-time, and recording a new project. What's more, I'll manage to shave 25 minutes off my PR and finally qualify for Boston. No problem. I carried this ambition back to my doorstep, inhaling the spring's first pollen, certain my strength of conviction would last.
Weeknotes: April 7–11, 2025
Monday, April 7
C-G-D-G-B-D. It's a version of C Wahine, a Hawaiian slack key tuning I'm playing around with this morning. The low C vibrates against the back of my guitar and into my chest like a Pacific frequency. Outside a pale blue sky is flooding the weak clouds in a slow diffuse throb.
During a Zoom meeting we discuss a now-beleaguered company that we used to be a part of and it depresses me. I break for lunch and listen to a podcast dissecting last night's season finale of The White Lotus. In late afternoon I put the Tigers game on the radio. The entire homestand against the Yankees has been rescheduled because of the cold weather. Early April night games are a gamble in the Midwest. Two weeks into the season and the team is playing really well. I'm excited about them. They beat the Yankees 6–2 and who doesn't love to beat the Yankees?
I go for a drive, chasing the evening light and listening to Michael Rother's calm, radiant music. At Mary McCann Preserve, I hop back and forth over muddy lanes to get to the rail line at the back of the property. A dozen or so inert train cars are linked together on the track and have been there since I discovered this park during the pandemic. I'm collecting photos using different lighting strategies for my photography class, trying to find my way around manual mode. Right now I feel uncreative and pressed for time and I wonder how many lame photos of rusting train cars and derelict factories the instructor has to sift through every year from novice students like myself. They must be the G, C, and D chords of photography.