Weeknotes: February 9–13, 2026
Monday, February 9
On the television, a hulking blue-clad figure slips down the mountain, video drones screaming overhead, capturing the bird's eye view of his 80mph descent. "He's loose as a handful of sand," says color commentator Steve Porino. At six feet tall, Italian skier Dominik Paris is a mountain of a man, nicknamed "King of Bormio" for the number of World Cup wins (seven) he's claimed in this locale. He's also the frontman for groove metal band Rise of Voltage. Despite his dominance in alpine skiing, he's never made the podium in any of his four previous Olympic appearances. This is his fifth and final shot. He takes home the bronze.
Weeknotes: January 19–23, 2026
Monday, January 19
I dream intensely, though when I wake, I can't remember any details. While the dark recedes, I stand with my coffee at the window, watching a snow squall whip down the street. Today is Martin Luther King Jr. Day — no work or school, though I end up devoting time to both.
In the afternoon, I drive into town to buy ink cartridges for my printer. Arctic winds shoulder my little car as I try to stay in my lane amid the blowing snow. Minutes later, sunlight pierces my dirty windshield — it's a day of extremes.
Weeknotes: December 8–12, 2025
On top of my day job, schoolwork, and the countless creative tasks I assign myself every year, I’ve picked up a side hustle as a Door Dash driver to earn some extra holiday cash. It’s a lot, but it has helped me pay off a few unexpected bills and offered some security I need right now. A few nights ago, I was navigating up an icy path, delivering some sandwiches to Glencoe Hills Apartments, when a woman stopped me. “Hey. Slow down.”
Her voice barely registered. “What?”
She looked me in the eyes. “Slow down. You’re gonna get there.”
I paused, mumbled a thank you, then hustled forth to complete my delivery. Later in the week, as I was careening toward year-end burnout, I thought again about the encounter. Maybe she’s just a keen observer of body language, but something about my energy must have seemed manic enough for her to flag me down.
As we tumble into the heart of the holidays, it’s a good reminder to take a breath and allow yourself a little grace. I’ve got some leave coming up and I’m going to hit pause on Weeknotes for the rest of the year. If the mood strikes me, I may toss up a bit of miscellany, but otherwise, I’ll see you in 2026. Cheers! -TM
Weeknotes: October 20–23, 2025
Monday, October 20
Through trial and error, I think I've traced the signal hum to my outboard preamp, a Golden Age Pre-73 MKII. It was recommended to me by Fred Thomas and was integral to my last two albums. Maybe it just needs a new power supply — that would be the best case scenario. More impactful is the loss of my primary condenser mic, an old Studio Projects C1 I bought in 2006 and use for almost everything I make. Like all my gear, it's a budget piece, but it has survived nearly 20 years of abuse and performed beyond all expectations. I'll likely get both items repaired, but I can't afford it right now.
So, with my two workhorses out of commission, I'm left with what I've got. I think of the old adage "the best tool is the one in front of you." I have a handful of other mics, but nothing that really fills the role that the C1 does. I could borrow a decent condenser mic from a friend, but a part of me welcomes the limitations of making do with what's on hand. That’s where creativity starts.
During rush hour, I'm running down a hill toward a busy intersection. There's a car in the northbound lane facing me with its hazard lights on and another in the southbound left turn lane, also stopped. Several people are crouched in the middle of the road picking up some type of debris while evening traffic diverts around them. I assume it's broken glass from a collision, but as I approach, I see the road is scattered with what looks like an entire box of nails. Bending to help, I ask one of the good Samaritans how they got there.
"No idea. I wondered if it was a sabotage campaign from a local tire company," she jokes.
Some of the nail heads have already been driven into the soft asphalt and I have to pry them out with my fingernails. But, just think of all the punctures we're preventing.
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: 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: August 11–15, 2025
Monday, August 11
I didn't expect to grieve so heavily for Briggs. I hadn't lived with him for four years when he died, but his passing stirred up emotions I didn't realize I'd been harboring. My brother says "cats are different, they span multiple eras." He's right. Briggs was the last connection to several different parts of my life.
This morning I'm a little more myself. I listen to Robert Shaw Chorale's ridiculous, but transcendent Sea Shanties album, then Jules Shear's debut. Next up is Joan Shelley's beautiful self-titled album from 2017. I get halfway through the first song then remove it from the platter. Too sad.
The past couple of nights I've found unexpected comfort watching social media clips of the Oasis reunion tour. They were never a band I cared about. I wasn't into the songs and the constant in-fighting and drama always put me off. Now, I’m drawn to the sense of bonhomie surrounding this tour. Massive stadiums drunk on lager and nostalgia, shouting out every word, the Gallaghers seemingly getting on well. I open my Instagram feed to videos of Liam balancing a tambourine atop his bucket hat and Noel in a button-up polo shirt looking like a weekend dad-rocker. I’m oddly moved by all of it. Are Oasis our saviors?
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.
Weeknotes: July 14–18, 2025
Monday, July 14
The aggressive plant growing up the side of my house is a trumpet vine. I didn't plant it, but I've watched it multiply over the past few years until it finally produced a series of red trumpet-like blossoms. I didn't know what it was until I saw those same flowers in the community garden at Frog Island Park and finally looked it up. At least it’s native.
Through the haze of Canadian wildfire smoke I walk up to a brewpub to read my Icelandic detective novel in which the characters are suffering similarly smoky skies from a volcanic eruption. Up the gravel track through Frog Island, a man is stretching his legs on the soccer pitch and blasting Latin music from a boombox. At the other end a group of kids are sitting cross-legged on the concrete amphitheatre stage. Apart from the smog, it's a perfectly lazy summer night in Ypsilanti. I think about how happy I've been living in this town over the past four years.
Inside the brewery a man is speaking to a packed house. A keyboardist sits behind him. I order a beer and ask the bartender what's up. "It's opera night. We're actually closed for a private event, but I'll serve you." The man begins singing and I escape out the side door to sit in the little beer garden overlooking a very subdued Depot Town. Two tables away a woman is quietly crocheting some type of garment. Otherwise, the place is deserted. I read my book and people-watch. A train passes. A mezzo soprano threatens the glass window. There’s a round of applause. It’s a soothing blend of sounds.
Walking home along the ridge I notice how low the river is. Out in the thigh-deep channel a fly fisherman casts his line. To my right, down in the park, two dogs run full tilt across the fresh cut grass.
Weeknotes: July 7–11, 2025
Monday, July 7
I dreamed my air conditioner had created ice deposits all around the house. The basement staircase was encased in a narrowing chute of ice like the walls of an old freezer. There was frost on my furniture, the ceiling, and clinging in the corners like hornet's nests.
I wake in a panic in my dry room. My first action of the day is to open all the windows and let the cool morning air circulate through my world.
I broke down and bought those new running shoes, but that was yesterday. Today, I'm shopping for some new kayak gear. My deck rigging has lost its elasticity and needs replacing. I also don't have a dock line, which would have been helpful over the weekend when I was hanging on to a half-submerged log to avoid drifting out from the lee of an old oak tree on Appleton Lake. I add a heavy duty dry bag to my order as if I'm going on a real adventure instead of paddling local segments of the Huron on weeknights.
Weeknotes: June 30 – July 4, 2025
Monday, June 30
The door whispers closed and I am entombed in a lobby of implied wealth. Its forest green rug, dark wood paneling, and brass fixtures signal the superiority of this bank branch over the others I usually visit. Through a second door I emerge to the faint strains of "Space Oddity." The immaculate teller compliments my fragrance and I stand a couple inches taller. I'm just a guy in a baseball cap and concert t-shirt depositing my weekend gig money, but a little theater goes a long way. I carry this confidence into subsequent transactions with the clerk at World Market and the young mechanic who runs the engine code on my 13 year old Hyundai.
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.