Weeknotes: April 21–25, 2025
Monday, April 21
I'm up earlier than usual and tip-toe into the kitchen to make coffee, trying not to wake Islay. If I make too much of a fuss, she will activate into breakfast mode and we'll have to begin our whole morning ritual. I turn the radio on low and learn that Pope Francis has died. I'm not religious and the Catholic church is historically controversial, but I liked this pope. For 13 years he was a voice of empathy and compassion to a large global flock. For him to die during a period of such fractious leadership is a blow to the world. He was an outlier amid his lineage and I'm afraid his successor will be much more conservative. That's how the pendulum is swinging right now. I visited the Vatican in 2018. I stood in St. Peter's Square and toured the Basilica. It's a place of awe and reverence, even for secular people like me.
In Massachusetts, it's Patriot's Day, the running community’s holy day. For 129 years, the Boston Marathon has been held on this day. I've never attended, nor qualified to run it (yet), but I love to follow the sport's oldest annual race. Like many, I was delighted when Des Linden, an American runner from Michigan, won in 2018. I read her memoir last year and this morning she announced that this would be her final professional marathon.
I keep the race broadcast on in the background while I work. Kenyan John Korir distances himself from the pack early on and it's his to lose. He finishes well ahead of any competitors and 13 years after his brother Wesley Korir, making them the first pair of siblings to wear the laurel wreath. The women's race is more dramatic with Kenyan Sharon Lokedi keeping pace with her teammate, the reigning Boston champion Hellen Obiri, until the final mile. Obiri is known for her kick, but it never comes and Lokedi pulls away, shattering the women's course record at 2:17:22.
Tuesday, April 22
I wake with Allan Sherman's "One Hippopotomi" going through my head. "What is half a pair of scissors? It's a single sciss!" So dumb, but I remember a drunken night many years ago when my brother and I decided his album My Son the Nut was worth a spin. I don't know why it's in my subconscious right now.
On my way to class I listen to a podcast Dave recommended called Valley Heat. I'm only about ten minutes into the first episode, but it seems to be a guy in L.A. describing in great detail the goings-on in his neighborhood, beginning with the drug drop he suspects his pool guy of operating from his recycle bin. I could get into this. I like weird minutiae.
In early evening, while I'm mowing the lawn for the first time this year, I see a neighbor across the street trying to cut down a big 8" tree limb with a bow saw. This dead tree is on the easement directly across from my house and has been an eyesore since I moved in. Apparently, the city has been called numerous times, but no one will claim responsibility for pruning or removing it. I enlist Nick next door to fetch his chainsaw and make quick work of it. Together we pool our resources and manage to successfully fell the huge limb into the only safe space it can go. As it hits the concrete it shatters into hundreds of wooden pieces which we harvest for our backyard fire pits.
Wednesday, April 23
Today is World Book Day. I’m reading two Icelandic tomes borrowed from the Ypsilanti District Library. One is The Blue Fox, a slim novel by the author known as Sjón which, despite its mere 112 pages, jumps around quite a bit. A phrase that struck me and one that pertains to World Book Day is “hopeless bibliomaniac." I can identify with this. Books are the building blocks of my home and head, lining every wall in every room. Last weekend I built yet another auxiliary bookshelf, this time for the bathroom. The other book I’m reading is The Windows of Brimnes, an eloquent, but chatty memoir by the late Minnesotan Bill Holm who lived part-time in Iceland. A phrase I liked by him was "the melancholy quotient," a term offered by a cousin to describe a clutch of family photos of deceased relatives. When he passed them on to Holm, he admitted to having extracted their "melancholy quotient." Many photos, particularly the older ones from film cameras, give me a melancholy quotient which seems to increase as I age.
Thursday, April 24
I listen to William Tyler's intense new record, Time Indefinite, a much more abstract and ambient rendering of the instrumental guitar music he's been making for the past decade. I've been a fan of his since Modern Country came out in 2016 and finally got to see him play live at Third Man in Detroit a couple years ago. I doubt many of these new tracks will be playable live. "Star of Hope" might be the most beautiful track he's ever recorded.
Much of the afternoon and early evening is spent working on the final project for my Typography class which ends next week. We've each been assigned a typeface for which we will design a type specimen book — minimum of ten pages in InDesign — offering comprehensive examples of it in a variety of uses. Mine is Grappa, a pointy-serifed typeface with an early-20th century feel, nine weights, and a large bouquet of alternates and swashes to choose from. It's a lot of work, but after some trial and error, I finally establish my color palette and overall look and feel. The rest will come together over the weekend.
Friday, April 25
A quarter of the way up the half mile incline on Superior Road I find myself keeping pace with a turkey. He's on the opposite side of the fence parallel to the road, keeping an eye on me. There is some tree cover between us, but I see him in the gaps, running about 10 or 15 feet ahead of me. I like this stretch of road, even though it's busy with narrow margins. I run against traffic on the left shoulder, darting out into the road when the overgrowth forces me to. Lost in thought, no headphones, just the slapping of my feet and the passing cars. Eventually the turkey runs out of real estate and we part ways. A couple miles later I'm on my way back downhill on a different road. I don't mind this segment, but it's less interesting heading southbound out of the country and into the city. Halfway down the hill I pass a shaggy-haired teenager pushing a bike up the shoulder. He’s like a mirage from another era and looks like a 15-year-old Todd Rundgren. Just before we meet, he mounts the bike and wobbles past, giving me a goofy smile.
At home I listen to the Motors and Mott the Hoople. My A-Z listening project is starting to wear out my stylus and I worry I'll need to replace it before I'm done. Scott stops by to deliver an apple fritter from Dom Bakery and a mixtape he made me for my birthday back in January. It's on an old Maxell UR 90 — original sticker labels, noise reduction box checkmarked — with a hand-drawn cover and songs mostly sourced from 7" singles. Tucked inside the case between the cassette and J-card are five fortune cookie fortunes bound with a green paper clip. The top-most fortune reads: "You have a deep appreciation of the arts and music." It's like a Wes Anderson movie prop and in fact its title — “My job is… little sounds” — is a reference to Bottle Rocket. Scott's mixtapes are legendary and I'm excited to listen to it over the weekend. I made him one a couple years ago for his birthday, reviving this tradition we both used to love so well.