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: April 29 – May 3, 2024
Monday, April 29
I'm sleeping with the windows open again and the birds wake me around 5:30. It's always robins. The local harbinger of early morning. There are days when I'd like to sleep in longer, but spring feels especially friendly right now and I'm happy to hear my neighborhood come to life. The lilacs on my street are in bloom and the volunteer tulips next to the sidewalk have risen to attention. Rain showers move through as frequently as trains. Everything is leafing out and I'm into all of it.
I listen to Mdou Moctar's wild Funeral For Justice album while Islay and I meander up the street. She pauses and sniffs every invisible station while I vibe to the North African guitar shredding lighting up my synapses. After work I sit on the bed and email venues, trying to put together a small weekend tour in July. Soliciting gigs a thankless task, but I'm trying to keep my calendar relatively vibrant, so I soldier through it.
As evening rain comes and goes, I record a demo of a song I wrote in 2022. I have so much unreleased material right now, I'm trying to get it all down and figure out what to do with it. It's humid and warm and I keep the studio window open, allowing the night sounds to permeate the tracks.
Afterwards I watch Top Chef. I'm not much for reality TV, but I started watching this show for first time last spring while ramping up for my album's release. It became an easy stress reliever and now I just enjoy it. Kristen Kish is still getting her rhythm down as host, but I like her. And I like that the new season is in Wisconsin, a state I have a lot of affection for.