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: March 16–20, 2026
For this week only, It This Something? is reimagined as a zine! An assignment for my Publication Design class prompted this exercise which, apart from scanning the end results, required no computers or electronic devices of any kind. I spent a very pleasant Saturday morning with my Olympia manual typewriter, Polaroid Sun 660, date stamp, X-Acto knife, cutting mat, rubber cement, a couple pens, and my overburdened paper morgue. It was quick and messy, and therefore well outside my comfort zone. Many thanks to my instructor Ingrid Ankerson for fostering the opportunity and to my friend Nick Azzaro for encouraging me not to bail on it when I was about to pivot to something different. I also made a classic black and white photocopied edition, but opted to scan the original version for this post.
Weeknotes: July 28–August 1, 2025
Monday, July 28
Site 41 at Brevort Lake Campgrounds. It's on the quieter, wilder side of the lake and comes with a small corridor leading to a secluded window of access framed by shady cedars and bisected by a tall white pine. After a dawn swim I lay in the hammock I've strung up next to this window and read my book. A mallard and her nearly-grown brood glide by. An eagle’s reflection slips across the water's surface. A loon makes its tremulous, watery call. Chipmunks race up and down the cedars.
A few hours later our group of nine is paddling down the Manistique River through eleven unpopulated miles of the Seney Wildlife Refuge. It's a stunning bit of wilderness, though none of us was prepared for the unrelenting swarms of deer flies that circle our heads for almost the entire trip. There's a lot of swearing and waving of hats mixed with determined nature-going. We gut it out and survive to drink whiskey around the fire later. Out on the lake the loons' calls sound like a closing ceremony. LOL — Lots of Loons.
Weeknotes: July 1–5, 2024
Some weeks words don’t come easy. I’m settling for brevity this week. Quicknotes, 100 words or less, which is rather fitting, given my opinion of July.
Monday, July 1
I feel frustrated. Nothing big, just in a general sort of way. 20 years ago I released my first solo album, Summer Cherry Ghosts. I'd meant to write an elaborate post celebrating its anniversary, but just can't seem to summon the energy. Every year July arrives with great expectations, but I never seem to meet them. Honestly, it's one of my least favorite months of the year. Here is an empurpled essay I wrote about that album several years ago.
Weeknotes: June 17–21, 2024
Monday, June 17
The start of my marathon training schedule coincides with a miserable heat wave. It's early morning runs or none at all. I'd expected the work on the Spring St. Bridge to be a summer-long endeavor, but as I'm about to make my detour, I see cars crossing in both lanes. To my left is a dirt lot that alternately serves as a staging area for construction crews and a depot for piles of compost in the summer. As I pass, a large earth mover uses its basket to push an aluminum rowboat across its expanse. The bridge looks unchanged; I'm not even sure what they repaired.
Although it's good news for this leg of my run, my satisfaction is tempered by the knowledge that they have already closed off the LeForge Bridge, which I cross even more frequently. LeForge is my gateway out of town, on foot or by car, and also offers easiest access to the river. Just east of the Pen Dam, it's where I put my kayak in. I've lived in river towns before, but never been so affected by their crossings as I am here.