Weeknotes: August 31–September 4, 2026
Monday, August 31
Fall semester begins. From now until mid-December, my weeks will be front-loaded — a three-hour online Michigan History course, Monday nights, followed by Foundations in Digital Video, Tuesday and Thursday mornings, on campus.
I laid low in August, savoring my free time as summer faded out. I thought I was ready, but now I’m not so sure. After working all day on a screen, I wonder if I’ll have it in me to tack on three more hours at the end of a long day.
I log in to the Zoom classroom. It's very casual — I’m glad I’m not the only one trying to keep a dog entertained. The instructor is getting over a cold. About two hours in, she starts pausing every 30 seconds to take a long drink of water and cough. I can hear her voice going ragged, and it triggers my own sore throat anxieties. We end early, a mercy for her and the students.
Only two semesters to go. In eight months, I think to myself, I will be done with all this.
Tuesday, September 1
At the end of the night, I sit on my couch, eyes closed, listening to the Clientele:
I lost myself, I vanished in a brief, ecstatic rain
Raising a spoonful of butter pecan ice cream to my mouth, I think what if I just didn't get it all done? It's always an option. I'm taking care of the basics: food, water, shelter. I do my job, take care of my pets, my people, my house. I get a modest amount of exercise. The ever-scrolling task list stamped to my inner vision is entirely of my own making. I could do less, or none at all. But I won't. I'm just readjusting to the new schedule.
Wednesday, September 2
At 3 a.m., I'm wide awake. I bring my laptop to bed and sit in the dark, working on an article for the Observer. Sleep comes, eventually, but at dawn, Islay is at the back door, whining to be let out. She barfs in the backyard, and the day begins.
I take a break from work to walk around the block. It's late morning, before the heat becomes too beastly. A few houses down, John and Judy invite me onto their porch, and we catch up on neighborhood gossip.
Thursday, September 3
At 3 p.m., I look out onto the lawn, and think about mowing it. 40 minutes later, I'm shooing the pets down into the basement. Outside, the tornado sirens are howling and the university alert system repeats it its eerie bing-bong, over and over. When I dial up the weather app, the radar looks gnarly. A tornado has already been spotted west of us.
Islay has spent time down here, but Esteban has never been in the basement before. He is also howling, but rallies to explore its dusty corners. Cautiously, he pokes his black head out from between two boxes — his sweet little face is covered in white cobwebs, and his whiskers are a mess of skewered debris.
By 4:20, it's all over. We got off relatively easy. Our power stayed on, though my brother and my parents lost theirs. There are some downed branches in the yard, quite a few green-hulled walnuts, and the usual flooding in the street's nadir. I put on my raincoat and clear the storm drain with a stick. I'm glad I didn't mow the lawn.
Friday, September 4
"My god, mums!" I realize I've said this aloud. I don't know why I'm surprised to see them lined up outside the supermarket — it's early September, this is their time. I usually buy a couple for the front porch, along with an ornamental cabbage, but it was 94° on Wednesday. I'm not yet ready to face chrysanthemums.
