Weeknotes: September 1–5, 2025
Monday, September 1
Labor Day lines up with the first of the month in satisfying synchronicity. I'm off work and just back from my trip to Marquette, so really it feels like the eighth day of the previous week. I started school last Monday — two classes, one of them entirely online — and ran my marathon on Saturday. Here's what I learned: don't underestimate yourself.
All summer long I struggled to gain momentum. My training felt sluggish and ineffective, and I wasn't even sure why I was still doing it. I spent the past month tempering my expectations, convincing myself I was grossly undertrained. I slept poorly the week of the race. The drive north, which I usually love, felt like an upstream slog against holiday weekend traffic. I arrived in Marquette later than I wanted to and had generally written off my chances of finishing in under four hours.
The sun rose through the mist in Turner-esque drama. I shivered in the dawn chill at the starting line, trying to summon my usual race day excitement, wondering how I’d find the motivation needed to carry myself the distance. Four miles into the race I was still searching for motivation, yet somehow maintaining a brisk 7:40 pace. I’d started out in the front third of the field, assuming I’d fall back pretty quickly. I did, but not by much. By mile nine I’d settled into a groove and came to a surprising realization — I had grit. A whole wellspring of it earned from 11 previous marathons and 16 years of running.
Having a clear motivating factor is helpful, but sometimes you just have to rely on your guts and put one foot in front of the other.
I hit the wall early around mile 17, and had to lean pretty hard on that grit to get me through the last nine miles, most of them along sunny, placid Lake Superior. At mile 26, the finishing chute appeared before me with the great bulk of the Yooperdome just behind it. I found my kick and sprinted the last 200 meters with a smile on my face, passing another runner a few feet ahead of the finish line just for the hell of it. It was one of the best races I've ever run and I was only a few minutes off my PR. I had completely counted myself out before I even started. In hindsight, how could I not know I had this in me? Sometimes you just have to go through it to come to a simple truth. It felt like a turning point in what has been a rather desultory year.
Back in Ypsilanti my legs still ache, but my head feels better. My attitude has improved and I can feel some creative momentum building. If I can make a comeback like I did in Marquette, I wonder what else I can do?
Weeknotes: June 23–27, 2025
Monday, June 23
It's a Field Notes field trip. Those who know me know of my love for this brand and their wondrous little notebooks which I carry with me everywhere I go. For years I've wanted to make a pilgrimage to their Chicago headquarters and today is my day. They are having an open house ahead of their “first, and likely only” film festival tonight at the Music Box Theatre and I've convinced Greg to join me on this road trip which kicked off yesterday at Wrigley Field. The Cubs lost in a 6-14 home run derby against Seattle. The heat was brutal, but it was a bucket list venue for both of us, as was the Sunday night jazz show at the Green Mill.
I open the Futura-branded black metal door at 401 Racine and am immediately greeted by owner Jim Coudal. I think I expected a brisker turnout of fellow Field Nuts, but am pleasantly surprised by the casual scene. After browsing some rarity editions, we hang out with Field Notes creator Aaron Draplin, a fellow Michigander now based in Portland, Oregon. I met him once before back in February when he did a demo at the Ann Arbor District Library. It turned out he was a Great Lakes Myth Society fan, so Greg and I present him with one of our dwindling vinyl copies of Compass Rose Bouquet. His mom, who lives not far from my own parents, is also there and we chat with her about politics and our favorite Northern Michigan spots. I also meet Bryan Bedell, a fellow music head and founder of the Vespa Club of Chicago, who is also one of Field Notes' designers. It's all so warm and convivial and I leave with an even greater affection for the company.
At the film festival later that night, they screen 31 of the short films they've made to launch their quarterly special editions. The room is lively and I feel at home among these like minded enthusiasts of esoterica. Aaron and Jim introduce the first set of films, many of which I've already seen as part of their newsletter announcements over the years. During intermission Bryan and filmmaker Steve Delahoyde crack jokes, then invite the 400+ attendees to join them at a nearby bar afterward. Having graciously enjoyed some facetime with them earlier, we decline and have a low-key nightcap at the Gman Tavern a few blocks east.
Weeknotes: June 2–6, 2025
Monday, June 2
Monday morning, raring to go. Raring. I say it a few times to myself until it fractures into semantic satiation. Raring is defined as: very enthusiastic and eager to do something. Am I raring? To work? To write? To run?
In my dream I trekked through some hilly country — crystalline landscapes of thin ice beneath which shallow tributaries flowed. It was springtime and things were starting to turn muddy. Matt Jones was there with a horse and they were pacing back and forth to dig a channel in the rich black earth which quickly filled with natural spring water. They were building a moat so Matt could enjoy swimming laps like Roger Deakin. Later, in this same frosty spring country, I was attending a photography conference. I wandered naked into an old windowless farm shed and tried to take a self portrait, but the room was too dark. Next I tried to navigate a trail completely covered with a thick slab of ice. I was clothed again. Slowly and clumsily, I caught up with another photographer I'd seen skating along it earlier and began to flirt with her. She was still wearing her skates, but I slipped all over the place.
I'm woken by Islay, whining for her breakfast in the other room. I'm only slightly disappointed to be interrupted, because soon I will be raring.
Weeknotes: May 5 – 9, 2025
Monday, May 5
I'm spending another morning with Pink Floyd, this time working on a review for the Live at Pompeii soundtrack that came out last Friday. I re-familiarize myself with some biographical material and stumble upon their early single "Point Me at the Sky." I'd completely forgotten about this song, a fantastic bit of late-'60s psych-pop with shared vocals between David Gilmour and Roger Waters. I loved it when I was young, though it was a rarity that could only be found on bootlegs. I credit Wazoo Records in Ann Arbor with introducing me to the bootleg scene. They had a special cassette section where, if you knew what you were looking for, you could find strange compilations of unreleased live material, non-album tracks, and other oddities from a multitude of artists.
I still have a David Bowie compilation with a photocopied cover that includes a version of him singing "All the Young Dudes," the song he wrote for Mott the Hoople which, incidentally, was the first song I ever learned how to sing and play on guitar. I'd been playing for a couple years by that point, but didn't yet fashion myself a singer. I was about 12 when my guitar teacher, Mike Lutz, taught me how to play "All the Young Dudes," and it was the most complex chord sequence I'd learned to date. I remember feeling a great sense of satisfaction once I'd managed to separate my unformed voice from my strumming which felt like a creative version of patting your head while rubbing your belly. Before that, I assumed I'd be the guitarist in a band with someone else acting as lead singer, as was the custom in most of the hair metal bands I listened to at the time. Being able to handle both was a revelation to me. I can see now that I've followed that path ever since. I love collaboration, but if I can find a way to take care of something on my own, that's how I will probably do it.
Later on, I take my guitar to the luthier for what I've now accepted to be its regular seasonal adjustment. I've had this Martin 000-15M for two years now and its mahogany body is so much more sensitive to humidity and weather shifts than my old birdseye maple Shenandoah. I played that guitar hard for 30 years and, apart from replacing the bridge about ten years in, barely ever had it worked on. It's as sturdy as they come. The new 000-15M fluctuates all over the place, though when the action is right, it's a joy to play and hear. I hope it settles into itself at some point, just like I did.
Weeknotes: June 10–14, 2024
Monday, June 10
Morning Glory Report
This year’s varieties:
Heavenly Blue
Celestial Mixed
Flying Saucers
Scarlet O'Hara
Seeds Sown (Indoors): April 10
Seedlings Planted (Outdoors): April 30
Notes:
Flying Saucers are this year's overachiever, the first to reach the fencetop summit. The plant is split between two vertical trainers with one vine about 4" ahead of the other. The Celestials are in hot pursuit with thicker, hairier vines that are maybe 6" from the summit. Heavenly Blues' slender vines are about ⅔ up the twine with Scarlet O'Hara having only just begun her climb.
I say it's not a contest, but I go out and check their progress every morning, a favorite summer ritual that's about to be paired with A.M. raspberry picking. With nowhere to else go, the Saucers are about to become airborn, flaunting their windblown freedom. I spend an hour stringing up aerial trainers from the fencetop to eye hooks on the side of the nearby shed. If they continue to grow well, it will create a woven green trellis above the evolving Fronds Lounge.
Weeknotes: April 8–12, 2024
Midday, driving south down the backroads of Monroe County. Apparently I'm not the only one making a last ditch sojourn to Toledo to watch the solar eclipse in its totality. What should be an hour's drive takes nearly two and a half and I'm not sure if I'll even make it by the astrological deadline at 3:12 PM. In a driveway near Ida two women in lawn chairs facing a hop garden look skyward through welding masks. I listen to NPR's special coverage of the eclipse's progress across North America, feeling solidarity with all the other umbraphiles chasing this once-in-a-generation event. The sky darkens and I approach the Ohio state line with only about 20 minutes until showtime. I'm fully prepared to pull over wherever I am even if it's on the shoulder of I-75, though I'd prefer not to. Despite the eclipse traffic (a term I'd never considered until today), I'm enjoying the adventure and at 3:05 I’m racing south on Summit St., blasting Holst's "Mars: Bringer of War" at top volume, windows down, cackling like an idiot. With just minutes to spare I arrive at Cullen Park on Lake Erie's westernmost point, where a crowd of hundreds is already celebrating. Skidding into a beer & bait drive-thru, I invent a parking spot, grab my dark glasses, and hop across the street to lay in the grass, leaning my back against the park's blue boat launch sign. As the disc of the moon slots dramatically into place, erasing the final thumbnail of orange, I remove my glasses and stare bare-eyed and dumbstruck at what looks like a gaping black hole in the sky. It’s absolutely astounding. The crowd erupts in joyful applause as the temperature drops and together we share nearly two minutes of unified wonder. I can’t believe I’d considered skipping this. Despite spending most of the day in my car this is so fucking worth it!