Weeknotes: March 9–13, 2026

Monday, March 9

Esteban reclines on a peninsula of sunlight, his black fur illuminated and glossy. I pet him the length of his body and remember someone once telling me this reminds a cat of being groomed by its mother. Suddenly, it seems strange not to know anything at all about my pets' parentage. When we found Esteban, he was a feral kitten surviving in a drainage ditch outside K's office. 

It was about a year after we adopted Islay, the runt of a litter of puppies being trampled over by her siblings in a crate at a Tractor Supply store. In my mind, their stories begin with me — typical human arrogance. Of course they both had mothers who cleaned and fed them until circumstances brought them into my life. How strange to call myself the parent of these wonderful little beings.

The temperature rises into the low 70s — a healing balm. After my run, I sit on the porch finishing Heather Rose's book, The Museum of Modern Love. 

The purple house across the street is up for sale. I walked through it during a weekend open house, unlocking new rooms in the mental map of my surroundings. It's much more spacious than I expected. I wish I could afford to buy it — everything is so expensive right now. 

I linger outside until the light begins to fade, listening to the sounds of my neighborhood: the see-saw tones of the bus door opening a block away, an eastbound train, a seagull calling over the river. 

Tuesday, March 10

The first few mornings after Daylight Savings begins are rough. You spend two months getting accustomed to the incremental dawn light, then, BAM! — a hard reset into darkness that feels like a slap in the face. I doze for a while in a morning dream about ordering beignets from a cafe in New Orleans. Eventually, Islay's wet nose tells me it's time to get up. I put on side one of Laura Mvula's Pink Noise to spark me into the day.

Walking downtown, I re-cross part of my earlier running route and return Heather Rose to the library. At Ypsi Hardware I buy a box of LED light bulbs which, when installed in my bathroom, turn out to be daylight rather than soft white. The transformation is so jarring that I laugh out loud. When we control so little of the world, we must own our aesthetic choices. Tasteful lighting is everything — I cannot survive these horrible bulbs. 

Wednesday, March 11

 A.M.

My Hyundai limps the six miles to the garage where I again leave it with the mechanic. For weeks, I've been plagued by intermittent stalling, dips in power, and a wonky RPM gauge. Exasperated, I finally fed the symptoms into an AI query, which suggested a bad crankshaft position sensor, whatever that is. 

From the garage, I walk a quarter mile through spring rain to the tailor who mends my jeans. The sidewalk is striated with retreating earthworms which I take care to avoid stepping on. At the bulk food shop I buy dried cherries, rice, and a pound of coffee. Crossing back over the tracks behind Community Auto Wash, I'm the only person at the South Industrial bus stop. I think about Denise in London who will now be working remotely. I've so enjoyed reading about her daily commute. 

P.M.

"Hi, Jimmy."
(pause)
"I'm on stage in Ann Arbor, Michigan."
(raucous applause)
"We just wanted to send you a message."
(cue the piano…)

Patti Smith holds her phone out to the room while 1600 of us sing "Happy Birthday" to Jimmy Iovine. After hanging up, she sings her 1978 hit "Because the Night," which he produced.

Thursday, March 12

Islay has had a pancreatic flare up for the past two nights, which means I've had almost no sleep. Midday, I rally to meet up with Jesse and Greg for lunch. We walk the railroad tracks up to Thompson & Co., then visit the Depot Town antique shops where Jesse finds a vintage Uncle Wiggily board game for her mom. While Greg drives her back to Detroit, I try to catch up on work, but I'm just too zonked.

I almost fall asleep on the bus ride back to the mechanic. I try to read a book, but can't focus, and settle instead for 30 minutes of absent window-gazing. Reunited with my car, I have just enough energy to buy groceries and cook Islay a bland meal of boiled chicken, potatoes, carrots, and rice to settle her stomach. 

 Friday, March 13

It's Friday the 13th, which for once lives up to its reputation, delivering ill winds and misfortune. 60mph gales rattle the house, pinballing debris against telephone poles, and felling trees all over town. Over the din I hear the whining of two-stroke engines — chainsaws already at work clearing downed limbs. A tree falls on my friend Catherine's home, destroying her chimney. Another big pine goes down three houses away, bisecting the sidewalk and just missing a neighbor's house. 

I work diligently, but distractedly all day without ever leaving the house. At seven o’ clock I chance a walk into town past traffic signals blown horizontally. Overhead, a poor mallard makes no progress in the sky — he just hovers in place over the road. Each time I leave a windbreak, I have to tamp down my hat, lest it become part of the storm. Limbs sway violently and the cold needles the gaps in my jacket. To the west, the sunset is just as dramatic, terminating in a pink whorl behind the water tower. 

Tucked safely inside Wax Bar’s stout brick harbor, I drink a negroni and write a postcard to my favorite yellow scarf, care of the Tom Cat Tavern in Three Oaks. I want to let it know I haven't abandoned it.