Weeknotes: February 16–20, 2026

Monday, February 16

Before my A.M. class, I break my routine and just play guitar for an hour. It has a regenerative effect, and I spring to life like Popeye with his spinach. For the first time in weeks I feel creative and capable, ready to face the day. 

Later, I drive into Kerrytown to spend the remainder of a gift certificate at a shop that sells a mixture of art supplies and eclectic home goods. Of practical use to me is a small box of Kaweco fountain pen refills. Otherwise, the items I buy are unnecessary, but attractive in a way I can only explain to myself. A silver candle snuffer with a hinged bell and a sheet of tiny stickers depicting a mysterious city. 

Tuesday, February 17

The Year of the Fire Horse begins in fog and gloom which burns off by midday. The lunar calendar horoscope calls for a year of passion, risk, and dynamic change. My friend Jesse writes in her post today about transformation and shedding the skin of the previous year’s Wood Snake. So far, this winter has felt anxious and a little paralyzing, but maybe the Fire Horse has something more planned for me. I keep thinking about my intention to aim higher. Not as high as the moon, necessarily, but to set the bar at least one notch above where I would usually put it. I’m trying. Maybe a little too hard.

Wednesday, February 18

Welcome to Gloomtown. A rainy drear erodes the last of the snow, most of which has disappeared over the past week. Last night, while I was out, Islay pulled Alan Moore's Do Design off my bookshelf and ate the cover along with most of the lower half. Another one bites the dust. It’s a mixture of winter boredom and separation anxiety which has increased as she’s gotten older. I try all day to coax her out on walks, but she only wants treats. We’re working on it. Though, now I'm worried that no book in the house is safe. Poor Islay — I hope she had fun, at least.

I hesitate to toss it into the recycle bin. A defaced book still has value as collage material. Thumbing through its remains this morning, a photo of filmmaker Derek Jarman's Prospect Cottage in Dungeness catches my eye. I'd forgotten about this. The little I know about Jarman is through the lens of other artists, namely the U.K. band Modern Nature, who are named after his 1991 book, written at this very cottage. I also know a few of his music videos from the '80s (the Smiths, Pet Shop Boys, Wang Chung). I paste the mangled page into my notebook for further reflection.

A bright photo of Jarman and Prospect Cottage to disrupt a gloomy week.

Thursday, February 19

I’m seventh in the queue at the South Industrial bus stop.* A man wearing large black headphones is shouting along with his music. His friend laughs and says just as loudly “Okay, tone it down, death metal!”

Following the week’s trend, it’s another gloomy morning as we trundle up Eisenhower, then through Briarwood Circle. I could get off here and work at the company office next to Red Robin, but I’d rather go home to my cozy desk and my pets. At the Meijer on Carpenter Road, Headphones and his crew disembark with an enthusiastic "Okay, let's do this!"

I remain on Route 6 until it terminates at the Ypsi Transit Center, then walk the few blocks home. At five o'clock, the mechanic calls to say he found nothing wrong with my car. 

* Overt nod to DW and Walknotes.

Friday, February 20

A news alert in the lower left corner of my screen announces: Wind Advisory starting soon. With my eyes I confirm the tree branches beginning to quake outside my window. 

I study for my math midterm, then take care of some assignments for work. Next week I'm reviewing a new album by Athens, Georgia-based guitarist Shane Parish. He has adapted a collection of songs by English electronic duo Autechre for solo acoustic guitar. This type of esoterica is precisely my wheelhouse.

After lunch, I walk up to the bus station and repeat yesterday's journey in reverse. During the ride I read a chapter of M. Wylie Blanchet’s charming memoir, The Curve of Time, about summers spent sailing the Inside Passage with her children in the 1930s. There’s a great little bit where she reluctantly promises her two sons she’ll write a children’s story about Henry the Whale who got stuck in Sechelt Inlet after passing through the Skookumchuck Narrows. Struggling to begin her tale, she writes:

Peter and John finally went to bed, and I sat there alone—perfectly miserable, with a whale—named Henry—on my hands. I thought of trying to get rid of him, but it was too late for that—I even knew what he looked like. Beyond that I knew nothing; and I stuck at that point for ages. One night, when there was still nothing to read, John started to cry… “Well, put the period at the end,” he sobbed. “That will be something anyway.” So, for some time, there was a big, round, black period, patiently waiting on the last page—and John felt a little happier.

Starting is always the hardest part. I’d never thought of puncuating the ending as incentive to eventually reach it.

At seven o'clock I put on my coat and go for a long walk. I've just lost an hour’s work on a recording because I don't understand the new software I'm using and think I’ve overloaded my CPU. The cuatro and mellotron parts I tracked are somehow corrupted and I don't know where anything is or how to do all the editing I'm used to doing in Pro Tools. The barriers to actual creativity feel so daunting right now. Maybe I just need to play my guitar for an hour and go to bed.