Weeknotes: July 13–17, 2026

Monday, July 13

Another heat wave arrives, as if reporting for its week-long residency. I write the forecast in my notebook, just to see the temperatures all neatly lined up in my own handwriting. Around two o'clock, I relent, button up the house, and turn on the air-conditioning. In icy privilege, I sit on my bed and work, back propped against a pillow. 

Later, at the brewpub, I get to know a couple I met earlier in the summer who are relatively new to Michigan. Both are fascinating — erudite and well-traveled, with a bundle of interests that bisect my own. They tell me about living in Antarctica and cycling across the U.S. We discuss running, writing, and Howard Frank Mosher. I note with satisfaction both are notebook carriers, and as we trade book recommendations, my Japanese brass pen gets passed back and forth across the table. 

Tuesday, July 14

After work, I drive south down I-75, past Monroe to Luna Pier. I place my towel and flip-flops in the sand near the concrete barrier, then wade out into Lake Erie's cool brown expanse. Michigan doesn't share much of the smallest Great Lake, but of the scant shoreline available, this faded beachside town is my preferred access point. Many years ago, I wrote a song about it, though for reasons I can't really explain, when I finally put it to tape, I had it translated into French.

I swim out beyond the buoys and gaze eastward into the heart of the lake. Two white sails in the distance and, just visible through the haze, Toledo Harbor Lighthouse perched on its nest of rocks. Behind me, laughter, a radio playing country music, and the hum of the highway. This is my third Great Lake in three weeks and, so far, the least rustic of my swims. I don't mind the pontoon boat at anchor down-beach, the pods of splashing teenagers, the sunbathers, or the young mom dangling her toddler's feet in the water — somehow, it all feels reassuring. It's a hot July evening and we're all grateful for this incredible resource. 

Wednesday, July 15

Outside my window the thermometer is in the high-90s and the air is growing hazy from the wildfires up in Ontario. Walking to the corner store to buy a bottle of cranberry juice, I pass a runner huffing and puffing in the midday sun. I want to shout at him: go out first thing in the morning, dummy, not at 3:00! 

On my way home, I make eye contact with a small spotted dog on the opposite side of the wide avenue. It's off-leash and collarless, with no human in sight. I linger and keep looking back to make sure it doesn't dart out into traffic. Just this morning, in her memoir, Bread of Angels, I read Patti Smith's grief-stricken account of watching her childhood dog, Bambi, get hit by a car. Her description of Bambi's deer-like face reminded me of Islay, my own sweet, deer-like dog. All of a sudden, the spotted dog sticks up its tail and trots purposefully around the back of the corner house as if to reassure me it lives there. 

In my kitchen, I fancy up my cranberry juice, pouring it into a tumbler with one of the large square ice cubes I usually reserve for cocktails. Seismic fissures appear when the cool liquid hits the ice. The small explosions offer a temporary thrill. As I sit drinking it at my desk, Misty texts the band thread to say the gig we've been rehearsing for is off. She's had a rough July.

Thursday, July 16

I crash into the day on just a few hours of sleep. For about 12 years I have taken a Unisom SleepTab every night before bed. I first started using it during a period of severe anxiety, and even though it claims not to be habit-forming, a habit formed. Every now and then I'll try to wean myself off, but inevitably suffer enough consecutive nights of insomnia to send me running back to my doxylamine succinate. There are worse addictions than taking a daily antihistamine, but I'd love to be able to sleep unmedicated again. For a short time, I experimented with some THC sleep gummies from a local dispensary, but found myself waking up at 2 AM, high as a kite. A few weeks ago, as I swallowed my pill in a tent on Lake Huron — away from my white noise machine and the familiar urban somnolence — I again wondered if I could kick the habit. I spent a couple weeks tapering down to a half tablet, then on Tuesday went off completely, and was rewarded with a night of surprisingly deep sleep. Last night was a different story.

Islay, hearing the rustle of a candy wrapper, visits me in the kitchen, anticipating a treat of some sort, which I of course give her. Not candy, but a proper dog treat. Outside, the wildfire smoke has developed into a poisonous miasma with AQI readings in the mid-400s. All across the Great Lakes and parts of the East Coast, people are sharing grim photos of their own smoky vistas. On my way to the dentist's office this morning, I stood for a moment watching a haggard-looking rabbit resting in my driveway. I wore my N95 mask, on my way from one cool air-filtered space to another, but the poor creatures of this world have to gut it out, just trying to survive the day. It's hard to stay optimistic. 

Friday, July 17

Sheltering indoors, doom-scrolling, struggling to re-establish my sleep patterns. This week has taken it out of me.