Weeknotes: April 14–18, 2025

Monday, April 14

Islay lifts her sweet face and peers over at me from her end of the couch. I lean over to hug her and she gives a few contented snorts before re-composing her limbs into an endearing tangle across her dog bed. I've promised myself I'll take her camping again this summer. It's been six or seven years since she slept in a tent and gave me the worst poison ivy rash I've ever had. We'll have to stay vigilant, but I want to make sure she gets more adventures outside our neighborhood. How many summers does a little dog have?

I ran my six mile route earlier in the day and it inspired a mood of supreme confidence and ambition which I haven't felt in a while. Those rare triumphal runs make all the ordinary everyday runs feel like part of a greater plan you knew you had in you all along. In my head I plotted out my next four marathons, one each month in a different city. I'll train harder for these races than I ever have before, all while going to school, working full-time, and recording a new project. What's more, I'll manage to shave 25 minutes off my PR and finally qualify for Boston. No problem. I carried this ambition back to my doorstep, inhaling the spring's first pollen, certain my strength of conviction would last.

Tuesday, April 15

It's Dave's birthday. We've been friends since before my memories began, so he's pretty much family. We were neighbors in downtown Brighton and have remained close for nearly all our 48 years. I send him a message with the same birthday wishes I assume everyone over 40 desires: that it be uncomplicated and drama-free. 

At work I assemble a composite biography for a grunge revivalist band who changed their name in the mid-2010s, then promptly broke up. They have now reformed and recorded a new album, but our content on them is scattered between two out-of-date profiles. When I'm finished I assign the byline to the staff rather than myself; it contains copy from three different editors. I think it reads well, but this is what AI now does in three seconds. How long will I be able to keep my job?

On the turntable is Midnight Oil's Diesel and Dust. My brother and I saw them at the Michigan Theater on the Blue Sky Mining tour and they were fantastic. Peter Garrett was a magnetic frontman. After the show someone outside the theater sold us cheap bootlegged t-shirts out of a trash bag and when our Mom washed them a couple days later, they shrunk to about half their former size. I listen to "Dreamworld" and look out at the rain falling on my paper yard waste bags. I've lugged them out to the curb for two consecutive weeks trying to guess when the city's waste collection will begin. They've only just dried out from the last rainfall. 

Wednesday, April 16

It's been about a week since I resumed my daily meditation practice. I don't do much, just ten minutes every morning using the Headspace app. I used to use Andy's voice as my guide, but lately it's been Eve or Dora, one of the resident Americans. It's probably too soon to tell if it's making a difference in my daily life, but I do think I'm a little calmer, or at least more aware of when I'm spiraling out. This morning's session is a little weak. I'm distracted, though not irritated, and I manage to wrangle it in and end the session on a high note.  Afterward, I make a list of some of the intrusive thoughts at the forefront of my mind right now. It's just a stream of consciousness bullet point list, but quickly gathers into about eight or ten items, which are just the tip of the iceberg. Living isn't simple these days.

The city came and collected my yard waste bags, by the way. Cross that one off the list.

Thursday, April 17

Here he comes, screamo FedEx guy raging down my block in his big aggro boombox of a truck. I kind of love him. Whatever gets you through the work day. I've spent the morning listening to Polo & Pan, the stylish French electronic duo. I loved their first two albums. On this new one, they’ve worked with more American and English-singing collaborators, which isn't what I come to them for. Still, there are still some solid tracks, particularly the Francophone ones. I give a lot of non-English pop acts a pass because I can't tell when the lyrics are bad. 

I keep thinking about a concept I landed on during last night's photography class. It's going to be the subject of my final assignment, though I think it could snowball into something more substantial if I developed it over the next few months.

After work I sit on a bench in the backyard eating half a pint of Jeni's Brown Butter Almond Brittle ice cream, savoring every spoonful. The sun warms my face and I smell the grass growing beneath my feet. A perfect moment. Later, John and I meet up for Kit's last night hosting trivia at the pizza joint. We're a team two and our hearts just aren't in it. We miss the second and third questions, then just make shit up for the rest of the match, phoning it in. Last place. Kit’s playlist consists of songs about endings, telegraphing his departure, which he has not yet made clear to the audience. I make my own departure during Ringo's drum solo on "The End." 

Friday, April 18

I catch an early screening of The Tuba Thieves, Alison O'Daniel's fascinating film about our relationship with sound and listening. Most of its cast is deaf and the entire film is subtitled, mostly in ASL. The sound design, however, is visceral and intense. Worth experiencing in a theater. It kicks off day two of IFFY, our miraculous little international film festival run by my friend Donald and a few other other friends who live on my block.

At twilight, I'm out on Michigan Avenue shooting photos for my final class project when I run into Tom and Matt. They're standing outside the Tap Room and they shanghai me indoors for a pickleback. I despise pickles, but Tom is having none of it. He's buying. I submit and watch the reverse image of the Tigers game in the bar mirror, washing down the foul brine with a beer. The party breaks up and I manage to shanghai Tom over to the arts center for IFFY's late screening. It's a double shanghai, canceling each other out. We watch a program of short body horror films, my favorite of which is Priscilla Galvez's A Fermenting Woman. When it's over, we carry on drinking at the festival afterparty down in the lower gallery.