Weeknotes: October 13–17, 2025

Monday, October 13

I'm drinking white wine and listening to Weather Report. It feels like a cliché, but I'm not sure why. Yesterday felt like Monday Jr. I worked so hard all day and kept the momentum going into today before falling into a slump.

At 3:00 I took apart my salt lamp and replaced the cord, plug, and in-line switch, a fairly simple household repair. Nothing. It didn't work.

When a lightbulb doesn’t go on, maybe it's the universe telling you you're done for the day. I didn't listen and instead tried to finish the baffling for my studio, stapling an old burlap coffee bag around an acoustic panel. Midway through, the tack gun jammed and I couldn't fix that either. Hello, wine.

Tuesday, October 14

Neighbor: Shot in the dark. Beers outside in the next 10 to 15?

Me: Yes.

Neighbor: Dope. We'll be out shortly.

I’m done with work and have at least a dozen windows open on my laptop, researching classes for my next two semesters. The design courses have been a joy, but I have to start ticking off General Education requirements like Everyday College Math and Composition I in order to complete the degree and maintain my scholarship. My running tally of credits-needed is scrawled on the back of an envelope. I could use a beer.

Ten minutes later I'm laughing with my friends, cheering on a tiny silkworm as it ascends an invisible strand to the shed roof. “Climb! Climb! Climb!”

We talk about the neighborhood, our pets, and horror films. Nick sends me home with his rare vinyl copy of the Howling II soundtrack by Steve Parsons. I cook dinner to "Your Sister is a Werewolf" and "Death Dwarf."

Wednesday, October 15

Over the past two months I've been trying to hone my studio space into a more streamlined creative suite. It's the only room I have for recording, but it's very small and is also my office (and now Esteban's bathroom). Along with my large wooden desk, it contains almost every instrument and piece of gear I own. I recorded the final 20% of my self-titled album here as well as the Last Known Address EP, but it's a tight squeeze and has never been a comfortable recording space. 

Great albums have been made in smaller rooms, but I'm very particular about my habitat and in the four years I’ve been here, I've found it to be a barrier to music-making. Pulling out an amp or setting up a mic stand makes it feel like instant chaos and kills what spontaneity I might have felt.

To combat this, I've treated the room like a ship's cabin, adding custom shelving wherever I can to get things off the floor and stow each item neatly. Recently, I invested in a pair of boom arm mic stands which clip onto the edges of my desk. I've wired mic cables around the room and arranged my gear rack within arm's reach. When I get an idea, I want to be able to quickly adjust one of the pre-set mics and press record without the hassle of "setting up the room." My workflow should be easily shiftable from writing and designing to recording. 

This morning I put it to the test and tracked some acoustic guitar parts for an instrumental idea I had last night. Despite some mysterious signal noise, the act of recording felt pretty seamless. Not perfect, but better than it was.

Thursday, October 16

Last week at the hospital gift shop I noticed a rack of greeting cards anticipating National Boss's Day on October 16. Jamie and I decided to buy one for our boss as a joke, but also because we love him. We each signed it and since Mom was also there, she signed it too, thanking him for employing her two sons. I mailed it out on Tuesday — it should arrive today. If you’re lucky enough to have a good boss, tell them so.

It's now three weeks since Esteban moved in with me. He seems happy enough, but I wish I could get him to fill out a survey. You just never know with pets. 

I take the broken salt lamp to Ypsi Hardware. Cre fixes it in under five minutes. He’s a lamp whisperer.

Friday, October 17

Add Robert MacFarlane’s Is a River Alive? to Islay’s gallery of mutilations. It’s laying cover-less on the rug when I return home from the bar, its endpapers shredded and scattered across the room. Her first hardcover edition, wrested from my nightstand and chewed with conviction.

I was excited to own this book — I’m about 3/4 of the way through and enjoying it very much. I’ll finish it, of course, but its mangled form will join Benjamin Myers’ The Offing and Ann Leckie’s Ancillary Justice in the closet of dog-eaten books I refuse to throw away. She’s never ingested a hardcover before. I go to bed anticipating the wet pile of barf and cardboard that will inevitably marinate on the living room rug. Sorry, Robert.