Weeknotes: May 19–24, 2025
Monday, May 19
I reach for the clutch, but it's not there. I'm back in my automatic Hyundai. I had just gotten used to driving a manual transmission again and forgot how much I enjoyed it. I've scheduled a buffer day to recover from my vacation. I'll log in to work tomorrow, but today is for catching up on personal affairs.
I feel the rejuvenation that good travel brings. I'm happier with a more optimistic outlook and a heightened creative fervor I haven't felt all year. I hope I can make it last. When I got home yesterday afternoon my neighbor had mowed my lawn. If you are lucky enough to live next to good people, your life will be infinitely easier. My morning glory seedlings survived, but I missed the rest of the purple irises and most of the lilies of the valley. The giant pink irises are in full bloom, though, and the peonies are getting close.
I drive my brother and his girlfriend to the airport, returning the favor he did for me last week. They're off to Maine for a week of birds, lighthouses, and coastal wandering.
Tuesday, May 20
The weather turns cold, colder than most of my days in Iceland. My post-vacation brain is still fizzing with ambition and I take a break from work to register for the Marquette Marathon on August 30. Something at the end of summer to look forward to. I buy tickets to the Field Notes Film Festival in Chicago next month. I might also try to catch a Cubs game.
Of the two remaining jewel box ballparks, I've only been to Fenway in Boston. Despite my proximity and my family's Chicago heritage, I've somehow never been to Wrigley Field. My parents' families were White Sox fans. Of course, I grew up watching games at Tiger Stadium and in 2002 I managed to see the Yankees play at the old ballpark in the Bronx before they moved to their updated digs across the parking lot.
I head out to Brighton to help my parents with some yard work. Afterward, we sit around the fireplace drinking gin and I tell them stories about my Iceland trip. It's a cozy, convivial evening, and I'm old enough now to recognize its specialness. The bittersweet savoring of middle age has begun. On my drive home the Tigers are up 4-0 against the Cardinals, our nemesis from the 2006 World Series. Later, I'm unwinding in front of the TV when my dad sends me a text, "Game is tied, bottom of the eighth." When I check back in, they've won it, preserving their status as the best team in baseball. My dad writes "I wonder how many one-run games they have this year." The answer is 17.
Wednesday, May 21
I work on a data report and listen to the Paley Brothers and Robert Palmer. I'm well into the back half of my A-Z vinyl census. I think it will last me until mid-summer. What will I listen to after that? All my CDs? It's another cool, overcast day that turns to drizzle at the end of my run. I'll make soup later.
I return from shopping to find Islay has defaced another one of my books. This time it's T.F. Powys' strange allegorical novel, Unclay, which I'd recently resumed reading. The cover, part of the spine, and pages 1–12 are now on a journey through my dog's digestive tract. I could keep going, but I’ll admit I was only kind of into it. I'd really have to summon some vigor to enjoy reading this now-mangled paperback. Last month she got a hold of Benjamin Myers' wonderful The Offing, but thankfully I'd already finished it. I did like its cover, though. Islay's other victims have included Ann Leckie's Ancillary Justice — I had to go to the library to read the missing chapter — and Howard Norman's My Darling Detective. There were only a few missing pages from that one and I think I got the gist of the story without them. Just before my vacation, she ate half of the Field Notes journal I'd been using. That one really stung — she ate only the pages I had written on, leaving the rest intact. I hate to lose any part of a journal. I can never predict when she is going to protest my absence. My house is full of books and sometimes they get left on tables or nightstands. What can I do?
Friday, May 23
I message with a musician I know who has become a devoted runner over the past couple years. She's training for Detroit in the fall and asks about my own training plan. It's a pretty basic one, but it works for me and I've customized it over the years to fit my intentions, which aren’t always the same. I didn't run a race last year, so for Marquette, I just want to finish and feel good about it. I'm not really spending any time on speed training or hill reps. I’m mostly just accumulating mileage. It's a flat course and right now I'm just running at my natural pace which seems to fall between 8:45 and 9:10. Some years I’m trying to get faster, but this year I just want to participate.
More interesting to me are my friend's views on what running has done for her mental well-being. As people who have spent much of our adult lives playing in bands — a team sport, and often a disfunctional one — we both seem to have found unexpected personal fulfillment in this solo athletic pursuit. She described running as "revelatory" and "empowering" and I couldn't agree more. I have learned so much about myself from long distance running. It changed my life and made me a better, more creative artist.
Saturday, May 24
The sun is out, flaunting itself, with warmer temperatures on the way. The three day weekend is spread out before me like open water. I listen to Penguin Cafe Orchestra's masterpiece "Music For a Found Harmonium" and drink strong black coffee, also a masterpiece. I read Walknotes and write Weeknotes. My Saturday ritual.