Weeknotes: July 20–24, 2026
Monday, July 20
Five years ago today, I moved to Ypsilanti, Michigan. I had already spent a couple days trying to get my apartment set up, but July 20 was the night I made it official. After a long day, I drove over to my friend Ashley's birthday party out near Ford Lake, knowing afterward I could just go home and crash in a place that was all my own. I've made so many friends here — these have been some of the happiest years of my adult life.
At seven o' clock, I walk up to Wax Bar and meet J & J for a celebratory cocktail. The Alan Parsons Project is playing on the radio — there are maybe seven or eight other patrons. I sip my mezcal negroni and gaze out across the alley, watching a woman stop and smile in front of the pet store. The shop cat must be lounging in the front window.
Walking back from the bar, I meet on our well-traveled street the family of my neighbor Matt, who announces as we pass "this is my family!" I reply just as vaguely, "Hello, I'm the neighbor, two or three houses down." Poking out of my mailbox is a signed copy of Robyn Hitchcock's second memoir, Stranded in the Future.
Tuesday, July 21
In the company database, I come across a bio which describes an artist as “preposterously prolific.” I'll never be accused of that, though I do feel surprisingly productive today. A succession of small tasks, managed with efficiency, builds a sense of goodwill that helps lift me out of my July doldrums. I read an interview with René Redzepi, founder of Noma, and pause at this quote: Happiness is work, it doesn't come to you. You really have to work for it.
I don't know if I agree that happiness doesn't sometimes come to us on its own, but I do think that fostering its conditions takes a bit of field work. Today is evidence of this — getting my shit together has always brought me a sense of well-being and pride, which is a platform for happiness. Sometimes I find happiness through relaxation and letting go of tasks, but more often I generate my serotonin through action and creation. Sorting things out is fun to me. A rainy morning spent doing self-admin can bring me as much joy as swimming in a lake. They are different sides of the same coin.
Wednesday, July 22
Before the workday starts, I pick up my guitar and unexpectedly write a bridge for a song I started in New Zealand 11 years ago. It's been a long haul for this one, but progress is progress. Outside, the wildfire smoke has dissipated, and the AQI sits at a relatively benign 22. I go for my first run in eight days — the cool, clean air feels incredible.
At night, I watch the documentary Women & the Wind, about three women in their 20s sailing an old wooden catamaran across the North Atlantic. It's beautifully filmed, very organic, with a Bohemian attitude toward clothing and slightly feral allure.
It agitates in me the wanderlust that is always there, but now strains under the silt of early middle age. I still go on micro-adventures and full-on vacations whenever I can afford them, but lately, the epic, chancy road trips of my 20s seem far-distant. The untethered journeys in beat-up old cars which also served as my lodging. I had no reassuring cell phone, GPS, or even a credit card. And this all took place on land. Would I have the guts these women had to cross an ocean in a rickety sailboat? There's still time to find out.
Thursday, July 23
In their June newsletter, Field Notes announced a contest with a simple brief: take a photo of one of their notebooks near a river of your choice and send it to them with a brief description of the location. My imagination immediately sparked to life, and I spent the next two days building a small toy boat out of scrap wood which proudly bore a Field Notes notebook as its sail. I then brought it on two different camping trips, staging photo shoots along the way.
My submission:
Crafted out of spare parts in my Ypsilanti shed, the Minor Award is a 12" ship modeled after the one my granddad built for me in early 1980s. His was of similar size and fence-plank shape, painted silver with a dowel rod mast and a sail made of duct tape. While nodding to the spirit of its ancestor, the Minor Award has been upgraded with an authentic Field Notes Expedition sail which also doubles as its captain's log. Adding a bit of Northwoods flair, a pinecone festoons the stern. It is pictured here sailing the Black River in Alcona County, Michigan, about a half mile from its mouth at Thunder Bay, Lake Huron.
Forgive the nautical pun, but I think I may have gone overboard. Despite constructing my own vessel, I did not win the contest. I did, however, spend a couple carefree mornings tinkering in my shed, building a whimsical toy which, whenever I look at it, makes me smile.
Friday, July 24
At Wyrd Byrd I buy Issue #7 of the U.K. zine Weird Walk. As usual, its design is stunning and I notice the print quality improved since their early issues. I'm glad to see there are enough weird walkers out there to keep them in strong ale and cardstock. There are articles on forest synth (a subgenre of dungeon synth), the "vibes" of megalithic stones, and one titled The Folklore of Cheese. In relation to his experimental 2023 novel Cuddy, Benjamin Myers writes about the enchanted isle of Lindisfarne: With the rising sea as a daily barrier, Lindisfarne is controlled by the magnetic forces of the moon; a form of magic if, like me, you barely understand the physics of it all.
During my own weird walk home from the book store, I pause on the embankment to look down at the Huron. The water is low enough that the stone and cinder block fire pit, built on the bare river bed during the last drought, is again uncovered and appears to have been recently used.
Reading:
Men Explain Things To Me - Rebecca Solnit
I Know This To Be True - René Redzepi
Stranded in the Future - Robyn Hitchcock
Weird Walk Number Seven
Listening:
Lido Pimienta - Caribeyna
Genesis Owusu - Redstar Wu & the Worldwide Scourge
Steve Gunn - Daylight Daylight
Pearl & the Oysters - Monkey Mind
Watching:
Women & the Wind
Underland