Weeknotes: April 28 – May 2, 2025

Monday, April 28

Taking a break from my A-Z listening, I put on Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon, an album so famous I sometimes forget to listen to it. Growing up, Floyd was hands-down my favorite band. My early fandom coincided with their Roger Waters-less revival, and in 1988 my parents took me to see them play at the Palace of Auburn Hills. I was 11 and my neural pathways were wide open for the pomp of a big art-rock stadium show. The lasers, lights, projections, fog machines, flying pigs and airplanes, and most of all the music… I assumed that's what all rock shows would be like from that point forward. Between us, my brother and I collected all of their albums, read articles in guitar magazines, and learned everything we could about Floyd's different eras, from Syd Barrett's woeful decline into mental illness and the deep experimentation of the early-'70s on into the peak commercial period that stretched from Dark Side to the The Wall. 

I'm remembering all this because I saw the new 4K cut of Pink Floyd at Pompeii – MCMLXXII on the big IMAX screen yesterday and it blew my mind all over again. When I saw the Becoming Led Zeppelin documentary at this same multiplex in February, I was one of about eight paying customers and expected something similar for Pompeii film. I was a little shocked when the theater filled almost to capacity with rowdy, excited fans for a Sunday matinee. After the slow-zoom opening shot of the band beginning "Echoes" in the empty Roman amphitheatre, it kicked into close-ups of David Gilmour and Rick Wright harmonizing and they became my favorite band all over again. 

Today the neighbors are getting a new roof. There's a lot of hubbub on the block. I run five miles and officially kick off the training schedule for my next race which is at the end of summer. I prefer running in the shoulder seasons, but this one fits my schedule and I've never run it before. A new challenge.

Tuesday, April 29

I take a quick pause from work to do the morning's dishes and while I'm washing my hands at the kitchen sink, I have a sudden idea for a song. I rush over to my guitar and write most of it in about 15 minutes, which rarely happens to me. I'm writing in G lately. It makes my voice feel sonorous in a way I like. For a while I just couldn't get out of A. Sometimes you go through phases with keys and chords. On the EP I put out last year, I used the same Eb to F bridge on almost every song. I couldn't stop myself. Anyway, I have to get back to work, so I'll revisit this new song later today or give it the overnight test to see if it's worth anything.

It's the final week of classes before summer break. I'm now a full school year into this experiment and, given my previous opinions about college, I'm impressed I've stuck with it. A lowly associates degree is hardly the brass ring, and at the rate I'm going — eight credits per semester is all I can manage — it will take me longer than two years, but as long as I continue to feel engaged, I'm going to keep at it. But not during summer. I need a break. I have songs to write, miles to run, places to go, and projects of my own to design. 

Wednesday, April 30

There is a volunteer red tulip that rises up every year in the middle of my yard. I've accidentally mowed over it a couple times in the past, but right now it's in peak existence. It’s about ten inches in from the sidewalk and its partner is a tree of heaven behind which sits a large slate-colored stone so smooth it looks like a film prop or one of those fake rocks you hide a house key under. I've actually checked — it's a real stone. Next to the driveway the hyacinths are done, but the irises and peonies are beginning to bud. Jeanne planted them a few years ago during her brief tenure in apartment two. They appear like a gift every year.

The neighborhood lilacs are in bloom. I run past them, then double back to pause for a longer inhale. When I have my pocket knife with me, I'll clip off a few blossoms to bring home and put in a vase. I'll hammer the woody stems to allow better absorption of water, just like my mom taught me. When I leave my final photography class at 9:00 PM, the cool, dense spring air feels like a portal to another reality. I stand in the parking lot breathing deeply, inhaling its fragrant bouquet in the nautical twilight. 

Thursday, May 1

It's May Day. My mom will have already left flower baskets at her friends' doors by the time I'm at work. The weather is cool and rainy as I head out for my last class of the semester. It still feels strange to be back in the rhythm of an academic calendar. It gives summer a potency I haven't felt in a while. 

I have trouble unwinding after class and work, so I go for an evening bike ride. I stop at Wyrd Byrd to see what Shawn is up to. There's an anthology of Swedish metal in the window and a nice hardback copy of Michael Leigh’s Velvet Underground book, but I'm just browsing. I ride up Washington past Mary's house and the nexus of gas stations and party stores, then down Spring Street to Waterworks Park where a little league baseball game is underway. I cross the footbridge over the river onto the bike path then stop for a while on the bluff opposite the disc golf course. The weather has warmed up and the sun is out. It's a perfect spring evening, definitively verdant.

Heading north on Grove near Jimmer's house, I cross Michigan Avenue to get my first ice cream cone of the year from Dairy Queen. A soft serve chocolate-vanilla twist, the classic. When I pull up, a kid, maybe seven or eight, greets me with that unflappable candor some little boys have. Five minutes later I'm sitting on a bench next to the DQ's Little Free Library — painted red and white to resemble the building — when the same kid passes by with his brother and father. "Enjoy your ice cream cone," he tells me. Maybe he's just starting summer break too. 

At home I drink a small whiskey on the front porch and watch a rainstorm roll in. Is there anything better?

Friday, May 2

It's my brother's birthday. His cookout invitation reads "it will be overcast and gloomy, just how I like it." At the Dollar General in Saline only the self-scan kiosk is open and the woman ahead of me has a full cart. I am buying a single gift bag for $1. Unprompted, she brings up the tariffs, complaining how they will affect her farm which hosts events in the summer, but is suffering from cancelled bookings. The clerk chimes in that it's only going to get worse. At the vet, Islay's heartworm and flea medication is up $5 from last month. 

I stop by the office to pick up a hoodie and some promos that were left there for me. Fred is working at one of the spare desks. We live only a mile apart, but because we mostly work remotely, I haven't seen him once this year. We update each other on our creative and personal endeavors, and chat about friends we have in common. One of the band's he plays in has landed a high profile gig in upstate New York later this year. I’m glad for him. I mention my impending Iceland trip and receive various tidbits of advice from my other colleagues. "Do you have compression socks?"

Before heading over to Jamie's cookout, I bundle up some kindling from Dr. Pepper, the old white pine that our parents recently had cut down. Aromatic qualities aside, I thought it might serve as a nice little ceremonial token to burn while our family gathers around the fire. I leave the twined-up bundle on my porch while I walk Islay and notice a tick on my arm. A parting gift from Dr. Pepper?