Weeknotes: July 7–11, 2025
Monday, July 7
I dreamed my air conditioner had created ice deposits all around the house. The basement staircase was encased in a narrowing chute of ice like the walls of an old freezer. There was frost on my furniture, the ceiling, and clinging in the corners like hornet's nests.
I wake in a panic in my dry room. My first action of the day is to open all the windows and let the cool morning air circulate through my world.
I broke down and bought those new running shoes, but that was yesterday. Today, I'm shopping for some new kayak gear. My deck rigging has lost its elasticity and needs replacing. I also don't have a dock line, which would have been helpful over the weekend when I was hanging on to a half-submerged log to avoid drifting out from the lee of an old oak tree on Appleton Lake. I add a heavy duty dry bag to my order as if I'm going on a real adventure instead of paddling local segments of the Huron on weeknights.
Weeknotes: June 30 – July 4, 2025
Monday, June 30
The door whispers closed and I am entombed in a lobby of implied wealth. Its forest green rug, dark wood paneling, and brass fixtures signal the superiority of this bank branch over the others I usually visit. Through a second door I emerge to the faint strains of "Space Oddity." The immaculate teller compliments my fragrance and I stand a couple inches taller. I'm just a guy in a baseball cap and concert t-shirt depositing my weekend gig money, but a little theater goes a long way. I carry this confidence into subsequent transactions with the clerk at World Market and the young mechanic who runs the engine code on my 13 year old Hyundai.
Weeknotes: June 23–27, 2025
Monday, June 23
It's a Field Notes field trip. Those who know me know of my love for this brand and their wondrous little notebooks which I carry with me everywhere I go. For years I've wanted to make a pilgrimage to their Chicago headquarters and today is my day. They are having an open house ahead of their “first, and likely only” film festival tonight at the Music Box Theatre and I've convinced Greg to join me on this road trip which kicked off yesterday at Wrigley Field. The Cubs lost in a 6-14 home run derby against Seattle. The heat was brutal, but it was a bucket list venue for both of us, as was the Sunday night jazz show at the Green Mill.
I open the Futura-branded black metal door at 401 Racine and am immediately greeted by owner Jim Coudal. I think I expected a brisker turnout of fellow Field Nuts, but am pleasantly surprised by the casual scene. After browsing some rarity editions, we hang out with Field Notes creator Aaron Draplin, a fellow Michigander now based in Portland, Oregon. I met him once before back in February when he did a demo at the Ann Arbor District Library. It turned out he was a Great Lakes Myth Society fan, so Greg and I present him with one of our dwindling vinyl copies of Compass Rose Bouquet. His mom, who lives not far from my own parents, is also there and we chat with her about politics and our favorite Northern Michigan spots. I also meet Bryan Bedell, a fellow music head and founder of the Vespa Club of Chicago, who is also one of Field Notes' designers. It's all so warm and convivial and I leave with an even greater affection for the company.
At the film festival later that night, they screen 31 of the short films they've made to launch their quarterly special editions. The room is lively and I feel at home among these like minded enthusiasts of esoterica. Aaron and Jim introduce the first set of films, many of which I've already seen as part of their newsletter announcements over the years. During intermission Bryan and filmmaker Steve Delahoyde crack jokes, then invite the 400+ attendees to join them at a nearby bar afterward. Having graciously enjoyed some facetime with them earlier, we decline and have a low-key nightcap at the Gman Tavern a few blocks east.
Weeknotes: June 16–20, 2025
Monday, June 16
"Those metal things you smash with a hammer to secure a loop of metal cable?"
"Ah, I know what you're talking about. Ferrules?"
"Yes! Pity the ferrule."
I'm at Ypsi Hardware where they translate pedestrian into practical. I leave with two small ferrules, costing $3.10. It's the summer of thrift. I want to spiff up the yard, but I'm trying to rely on stuff that's free, cheap, or already in my possession. Last Saturday was the College Heights neighborhood yard sale, the sequel to Normal Park's where I procured the two metal fish now swaying in my garden. Held back-to-back on the first two Saturdays of June, College Heights is usually as lively as its predecessor, though it seemed to me a little diminished this year.
On the ride there I found a $20 bill on campus and took it as a good omen. I spent $2 on a lemon muffin from a platter of homemade pastries on Roosevelt Street. Next, I bought a bird feeder I didn't need for $5, and immediately regretted it. I cruised down beautiful Cambridge Street, one of my favorite little neighborhoods in town, then west to Collegewood where, leaning against a tree with a "free" sign attached, was the hammer rail of a small upright piano. Jackpot.
Unlike last week's fish, this prize could not be transported under one arm or strapped to my bike rack. I hammered out several fevered messages to nearby friends with cars and Greg was my first responder.
Tonight's goal is to mount the piano hammers along the back fence behind my fish. With a pair of old tin snips I slowly maul the end of some steel cable that was once a zipline leash system I'd bought for Islay. She hated it and after only a year it was mercifully knocked down by a large branch during an ice storm. I stuff the frayed ends of cable through my two ferrules and smash them closed, creating a wire mount on the back of the hammer casing. With these three whimsical items — the two fish and the piano guts — I now have the beginnings of a sculpture garden.
Data Loop
In January, Denise suggested that, since I am such a collector/connoisseur of personal data, I should make a data visualization project for one of my graphics courses. When I admitted I didn’t know what this was, she introduced me to a fascinating world of creative people representing data sets in the most unique ways. I was particularly bowled over by Nicholas Felton’s Feltron Reports and Giorgia Lupi and Stefanie Posavec’s irrisistably charming Dear Data project.
Midweeknotes: June 10–11, 2025
The wooded sections on either side of the tracks between the end of Railroad Street and the bridge near Forest are the nearest bits of wild, untended land. There is a small homeless encampment down the adjacent riverbank and on the other side a storage facility and neighboring weed shop. Where I grew up in Brighton, I had acres of recreational state forest directly behind my house where I could hike, explore, and forage interesting sticks or logs. Here in town, I have the overgrown railroad tangle with its choking vines and trees of heaven. I walk with my bow saw and backpack, passing an abandoned suitcase, its contents scattered mournfully among the ballast — a shoe, a couple shirts, a large hot pink bra. The usual faded beer cans and food packaging litter the margins. Further along I locate a couple downed branches that fit my needs and carry them the few blocks to my backyard.
Weeknotes: June 2–6, 2025
Monday, June 2
Monday morning, raring to go. Raring. I say it a few times to myself until it fractures into semantic satiation. Raring is defined as: very enthusiastic and eager to do something. Am I raring? To work? To write? To run?
In my dream I trekked through some hilly country — crystalline landscapes of thin ice beneath which shallow tributaries flowed. It was springtime and things were starting to turn muddy. Matt Jones was there with a horse and they were pacing back and forth to dig a channel in the rich black earth which quickly filled with natural spring water. They were building a moat so Matt could enjoy swimming laps like Roger Deakin. Later, in this same frosty spring country, I was attending a photography conference. I wandered naked into an old windowless farm shed and tried to take a self portrait, but the room was too dark. Next I tried to navigate a trail completely covered with a thick slab of ice. I was clothed again. Slowly and clumsily, I caught up with another photographer I'd seen skating along it earlier and began to flirt with her. She was still wearing her skates, but I slipped all over the place.
I'm woken by Islay, whining for her breakfast in the other room. I'm only slightly disappointed to be interrupted, because soon I will be raring.
Weeknotes: May 26–30, 2025
HAIKU EDITION:
Monday, May 26
9:35 AM
High school marching band
Fires up "You're a Grand Old Flag”
I watch from my bike
11:20 AM
Summer tools sorted
The shed's condition is now
Satisfactory
2:30 PM
Just above the dam
Two eagles on the river
Warm sun on my back
A Story About a River
I live just a couple blocks from the Huron River. If you’re a regular reader, you may know something about my fondness for it. I cross it almost every day either on foot or by car or bicycle. I paddle my kayak on it. I like to stand in the middle of the Forest Street bridge and watch the river’s progress through Frog Island Park. I was born on a bluff overlooking the Huron at old St. Joe’s in Ann Arbor, and for most of my life have lived within a few miles of some segment of it. It’s my home river.
Earlier this year I was asked to compose a piece of music for the Huron River Watershed Council, Southeast Michigan’s oldest environmental group. I’ve worked with them before, many years ago, when Great Lakes Myth Society was hired to play at a couple of their fundraisers. They’ve been stewards of the river for over half a century. My friend Donald Harrison was hired to film a short video celebrating HRWC’s 60th anniversary, and he collected hours of gorgeous river footage which was whittled down into this succinct three-minute piece for which I provided the soundtrack. Donald’s wife, Jeanne Hodesh, came onboard to do the voice-over which we recorded in a makeshift vocal booth at my house. It’s a collaboration with people I love, made sweeter by the fact that it promotes a cause very close to my heart. We need the HRWC and groups like them now, more than ever.
Civil Twilight
According to the National Weather Service, civil twilight “begins in the morning, or ends in the evening, when the geometric center of the sun is 6 degrees below the horizon.” I learned this phrase from Denise Wilton’s Walknotes and was immediately smitten by it. When, in early April, it was announced that the final project for my photography class would be a subject of my own choosing, “Civil Twilight” was the immediate frontrunner.
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.
Iceland: The Sweet Sunny North
That title, “The Sweet Sunny North,” refers to a pair of Norwegian folk compilations by David Lindley and Henry Kaiser, though I thought of the phrase often while traveling through Iceland. I arrived in this subarctic country appropriately layered, anticipating the wind, rain, and mercurial weather shifts I’d spent months reading about. After the fifth straight day of sun, it was clear I’d landed during a fluke season. This was confirmed on my last day in Reykjavík by a pair of young Icelanders in a gift shop who proclaimed it their sunniest spring in years.