Weeknotes: October 5–9, 2026
Monday, October 5
From halfway up the block, a slender stream runs down Forest Avenue. The utilities authority has placed an orange traffic barrel at the source, as if to say "yes, we know," and yet they’ve allowed the leak to persist for over a month. It's wasteful, of course, but I also find this clear little stream beautiful.
It’s like a pop-up water feature. An ephemeral waterway, caressing the curb and ferrying locust leaves down to the intersection where they pool in a damp amber mat. I stop for a while and stare, mesmerized. It's the same feeling I get from watching a fire. Flickering flames and moving water. There is so much artifice in the world, but it’s the basic elements that always draw us in.
Tuesday, October 6
Sleep won't come. Or rather, it won't come back after. In the dead of night, I read a couple chapters from my friend Tony's new fantasy novel, then toss and turn some more, the ship of my mind sailing from port to port.
I think about wayfinding, and remember the act of giving and receiving travel directions. Before GPS, when someone came to visit, we offered them a detailed list of street names, landmarks, and estimated distances. I have a sudden longing to ask someone at the end of the night "Are you good? Do you know how to get out of here?"
Reminding someone you love how to get back to the main road feels like an ancient custom.
Wednesday, October 7
At the cinema, I meet up with my friend John to watch the remastered 40th anniversary IMAX screening of Queen: Budapest. I know plenty of other Queen fans, but John and I can really get into the weeds.
Time-lapse footage of the stage being built and the Népstadion filling with fans is soundtracked by the intro to "One Vision." As it reaches its crescendo, the screen cuts to Brian May hitting the opening chord, and we're off.
It's July 27, 1986, about a year after Live Aid. Queen are one of the first rock bands to play a show behind the Iron Curtain. They are at the peak of their powers, and yet, after this tour, the four original members will never play live again. Only a handful of shows remain after Budapest. In five years, the Cold War will end and Freddie Mercury will be dead.
Watching him prowl the stage, the picture of vitality, it seems impossible. They were one of the world's greatest bands. I choke up during the breakdown in "Hammer to Fall," when they sing "what the hell we fighting for" in four-part harmony. I always do. This is as close as I'll ever get to seeing my heroes play live.
Thursday, October 8
"Donny was a good bowler, and a good man."
I dragged myself to class, wishing very much for a day off to just work and do my job. I was on verge of bailing, but bucked up and arrived on campus in the nick of time. In the parking lot, I say hi to Marina, a former classmate from my design courses. When I get upstairs to the video lab, there's a substitute instructor. Damn — I should have bailed.
It's an audio workshop day, and I stand around with three other students, taking turns recording each other reading dialogue from a menu of movie scenes, I choose Walter's eulogy for Donny from The Big Lebowski.
"And so, Theodore Donald Karabatsos, in accordance with what we think your dying wishes might well have been, we commit your final mortal remains to the bosom of the Pacific Ocean, which you loved so well. Goodnight, sweet prince."
(cue wind gust blowing Donny's remains into the Dude's face)
Friday, October 9
Under the dressing room’s harsh fluorescent glare, I catch a glimpse of myself in second mirror and think "fuck, is that what the side of my head looks like?" I’m at Macy’s, shopping for jeans. Of course, no two pairs are the same, and what worked last time isn’t a guarantee for today’s body. I return home, deflated, with a pair of Levi’s and many doubts.
In the beer garden a block from my house, it’s karaoke night. A guy is really going to town on "I'm a Believer.” There are so many better Neil Diamond songs. I wonder how much money he has made on that alone.