Weeknotes: October 27–31, 2025

Monday, October 27

Outside the pub the evening sky is lavender. A crew of runners, all in costume, piles up at the crosswalk, laughing and jostling on a Halloween fun run. I think I'll take the long way home.

At the bend on Norris I slip through the chain fence and walk past the old depot. To my left a man is chasing his laughing son down the hill on Maple Street. Everywhere, people are smiling. I am too. It's late October and I've been reading Ray Bradbury. Here's a gem from his introduction to the 1999 edition of The October Country:

Skeletons are wondrous ramshackle items that birth themselves when the humans they wore go away.

Ray loved skeletons. I wonder if his is glad to be unburdened of its mortal obligation.

Much of Depot Town is closed on Monday. With its silent barber shop, old brick facades, and ornate central clock, it resembles Green Town, Illinois, the fictional midwestern town where Bradbury set masterpieces like Dandelion Wine and Something Wicked This Way Comes.

At Schultz Outfitters I cross the street and disappear down the stairwell into Frog Island Park. Out on the pitch a group of friends are playing a pickup soccer game — coats are scattered across the terraced bleachers. A brown and white dog lays curled up, watching its human play. On the other side of the path the embankment leads down to the river. The stone firepit, built on the dry riverbed during summer’s drought, has been reclaimed by the rising water.

At the Forest Street bridge I lean over the rail to take my favorite photo. A man passing on the sidewalk says "I love that shot too." Another passerby comments "this summer was the lowest I've ever seen the river. I was worried about fish getting trapped in shallow pools."

"But look at it now," I say.

Tuesday, October 28

The guitar instrumental I'm recording is still nameless. I have a working title for the Pro Tools session, but it's just a placeholder. Titling an instrumental track is a special challenge, not to be mishandled. Songs with lyrics often suggest — or even demand — what they should be called, but an instrumental is more nuanced. Unless you have a subject in mind when writing it, it could go anywhere. An interesting title is a chance to influence how the music will be perceived. I keep a hoard of potential phrases and titles for this reason.

I wrote the simple chord sequence while watching M. Night Shyamalan's The Village, and it was logged in my Voice Memos as "The Safe Color" (yellow). Many of the instrumental fragments captured on my phone are identified by situation ("Cat Drama"), location ("Lake Dubbonet"), or what I was watching ("Quickfire Challenge"). Charming as these descriptors are, they will be jettisoned if the piece develops into a proper song. 

Wednesday, October 29

The sky over the preserve is a marbled gray with portholes of blue. The pale cornfield behind the Marten Road entrance has already been harvested, marking a tidy border against the dirt parking lot. To the left of the trailhead a small maple erupts in a yellow-orange magma of leaves. 

Lately, Islay's enthusiasm for neighborhood walks has been scant, so I've driven her ten miles away to enjoy somewhere a little more organic. She trembles with fear whenever I put her in the car these days. It's a new behavior and I don't know the cause — we're almost always going somewhere she likes. I keep one hand on her while we drive and she seems to calm down after about 15 minutes. Ushering a dog into old age is heartbreaking. 

Pittsfield Preserve is a succession of fields leading abruptly into woods, then back into fields again. It's not gradual — each section is like stepping into a different department. I wouldn't call it one of Ann Arbor's crowning jewels, but I've always been fond of this area of farm, field, and hardwood. The weather is comfortably chilly and I'm wearing my favorite canvas jacket. Islay trots happily by my side, reading the geography with her nose. My troubles fall away.

I'm supposed to go hear my friend Chuck play ambient synthesizer music tonight, but he messages me to say that he's fallen ill and had to cancel the gig. Instead, I carve my pumpkin and roast its seeds. It's the last week of October and I'm doing October things. 

Thursday, October 30

I set my jack-o'-lantern on the front porch and light the small votive inside. It will have at least one, maybe two nights of glory before the squirrels begin eating it. 

Friday, October 31

Halloween is almost a formality here — Ypsilanti is a year-round spooky town. Along with our resident herb apothecary and crystal peddler, we have a number of witchy, occult-related shops, and costumes are not uncommon outside of October. Twelve foot yard skeletons stay up all year, festively garbed to celebrate whatever holiday is in season. Even at Christmastime, we have a Krampus festival.

My jack-o'-lantern survived the night, its orange flesh so far unbothered by squirrels. I replace its votive and head out in my hastily-assembled Log Lady costume. I was going to stick with the prickly pear cactus sweater I wore to last weekend's costume parties, but made a last-minute improvisation when I heard Scott was dressing as Twin Peaks villain Bob. My heavy knit cardigan is more Jeff Lebowski than Margaret Lanterman and I don't have her red-rimmed glasses, but with log in hand, it's recognizable enough. 

Despite the nice weather, it's a slow night in Normal Park where we help my brother serve his trick-or-treaters from a black plastic cauldron of candy. Bob looks extra creepy with his long silver hair and denim jacket offering candy to tween girls and mini Spidermans. Jamie is in a black football jersey, number 666, wearing dark facepaint. He is “Jared Goth,” the Chris Gaines to Detroit Lions quarterback Jared Goff. Jenny, with her antennae and red bulging eyes, is Mothman. Only once am I recognized — a chaperoning mom out on the lawn asks "are you Log Lady from Twin Peaks?"

Vindicated.