Weeknotes: August 18–22, 2025
Monday, August 18
In my dream I'm a volunteer on a space station. I can't believe I got to go to space for free — I'll be the envy of all my friends. I move to one of the thick glass portholes and look out at the dark expanse. As my eyes adjust I see a large object resembling a human skull, obsidian black and tinted purple and green like the aurora. It's heading toward us and I immediately sense it's an alien spacecraft. I back away from the window and about a minute later feel the impact as it collides with us.
The next part of the dream is more benevolent, though bittersweet. I'm back on earth, trying to insert a folded wool blanket into a cupboard. My cat Briggs is in there, alive and seemingly in full health, though I somehow know there is a terminal illness within him. I pull him out and try to hold him, but he's not having it. Classic grumpy Briggs. While he lays on the rug cleaning himself, I marvel at his appearance. It's the younger, well-fed Briggs of feline middle age, not the haggard cat of his final days.
I wake with a co-mingling of fear and wistfulness. An alien encounter and a visit from my late cat. What a way to start the week.
Tuesday, August 19
The morning is overcast and rainy — a preview of autumn. I open all the windows and let the cool wind cleanse my house. It ruffles the rabbit's foot fern on my desk. Islay dozes on the bed and I listen to John Southworth’s rainy music while I work.
Later, I shift focus to a recording project I need to finish. I'm writing the theme music for a podcast K will launch next month. Her producer is editing the first two episodes and so far I've only given him a placeholder mix. I challenged myself to write it without guitar. Instead, I started with a beat on my old Yamaha drum machine, then wrote the rest of it on bass. It sounds a bit like Devo, whom we saw in Detroit back in June.
My mood plummets as evening approaches. I feel irritable and I'm not sure why. Maybe I should get out of the house. After a failed shopping trip to replace my tattered race shorts I sit in my car in the rain wondering what to do. The summer is winding down and I know I'm being hard on myself. I'll be back at school on Monday, this time without the novelty of a 30 year gap between semesters.
Wednesday, August 20
"Are you a fierce decision maker?"
A brief pause, then, "I'm a fast processor."
It's early evening and we're hanging out in my backyard. I've felt out of step the last couple weeks and my neighbors are talking me through it. They're both artists, they understand how detrimental a down phase feels to a creative person.
I'm neither a fierce decision maker, nor a fast processor. I hem and haw. I research, retreat, and circle back. Sometimes I deliberate until the opportunity has passed me by and becomes a moot point. Eventually I get somewhere and am usually able to produce something I'm proud of, but it takes time and a lot of emotional energy.
When I do get locked into a project, the mechanics seem to speed up because I spend more time doing and less time thinking about doing. Everything snowballs. This is an ideal situation, but one I'm rarely able to sustain for long. By the time my momentum slows back down, I'll hopefully have created the bulk of the work and can polish it off at my more considered pace.
On good days I'm convinced my next up phase is right around the corner. That may be true — I have a lot of competing ideas right now and all it takes is for one of them to catch.
Meanwhile, my backyard pep talk concludes with friendly encouragement to get out of my comfort zone. It's the most oft-prescribed nugget of wisdom, and one we all know to be true, but it still bears repeating from time to time.
Thursday, August 21
I drive into Detroit on the pretense of selling some records to a local shop, but my friend, the owner, isn't in. Mostly, I just want to get out of Ypsilanti for a few hours. I park downtown and walk past the Westin on Washington where I spent one expensive night in 2009 on the eve of my first marathon. I tossed and turned with anxiety, but the next day changed my life.
I shoot some photos with my Sony and head up to Woodward to look for glasses at the Warby Parker store. My prescription is changing and I need to get a new set of frames into the rotation. Over a beer at a faux English pub on Clifford I text my modeling photos to the band thread and ask their opinion. The chunky black frames get some love, but thoughts are mixed about the large wire frame ones — Jeffrey Dahmer is mentioned.
The Shepherd gallery closes as soon as I arrive in Little Village, so I decide to have another beer at Collect Beer Bar before heading home. They have an indoor basketball hoop and Arctic Frost Gatorade on tap. I ask the bartender about it and they actually mix it from powder, carbonate it, and put it in a keg. Driving out of town, I see a large colorful mural (Detroit is full of them) on Riopelle. It says "We got Good Things Ahead." I'm ready.
Friday, August 22
On River Street I keep pace with a funeral procession. I'm running on the west side of the street, trying to gauge if they are headed for Highland or Saint Johns Cemetery. Ahead of me the hearse turns left into Highland, so I pause a respectful distance from the gate to allow the dozen or so cars to enter uninterrupted. A half mile later on Clark I pass Woodland Cemetery, abandoned since the mid-'60s, now reclaimed by the forest. Just past it, I hear my name and crane my neck around trying to locate the source. It's my friend Emmet in the yard of a house I've never noticed before. Is it his?
Against my better judgement I chance a late afternoon trip into Ann Arbor, then realize the students are back. I take every townie shortcut I know of, but a clear path eludes me. On Division in standstill traffic I watch a man inside a glass-windowed vestibule leaning over an instruction manual, trying to assemble a large yellow industrial fan. He looks perplexed. I finish ⅔ of my errands, before abandoning the rest of my mission.
Tonight I've been invited to a bonfire to celebrate a friend's half-birthday. I buy a birthday card and cut it in half, then ask Siri to send me a reminder six months from now to deliver the second half.