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: May 18–22, 2026
My attention has been focused elsewhere this week, and what writing I’ve done feels lackluster. I'm not going to force it. Please enjoy this Weeknotes anthology of bullet points, lists, and images.
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.