Weeknotes: February 24-28, 2025

Monday February 24

I spend the morning listening to Robyn Hitckcock's Eye. I think it’s one of his solo benchmarks and it prompted in me an early appreciation for the merits of an acoustic album. I'm going to Kentucky to hear him play this weekend. I've seen him four other times, but it's been a while. There are few other artists whose careers I've consistently followed and admired for so long. 

When I was 15 my brother took me to see Hitchcock with his erstwhile band the Egyptians in Royal Oak. They were at their brief commercial apex, having just stumbled into a minor hit with "So You Think You're in Love" from Perspex Island, an album that, until recently has remained "out of print" in the streaming world. It's not his best (Queen Elvis is my favorite), but it's the point where my adolescent self arrived in his career. I had just begun to pay attention to album credits and I remember noting the producer's name, Paul Fox; he had produced XTC's Oranges & Lemons two years prior. His name came across my radar again in the mid-'90s, helming Semisonic's first LP. 

The Egyptians show we saw was in February 1992 and afterward we waited out in the cold behind the theater to ask Robyn for an autograph, which he graciously, if somewhat obscurely, gave. In black marker he inscribed on my ticket stub a capital R with a circle around it. It's still tucked under the CD tray of my copy of Element of Light.

Today, the sun is shining and the snow is melting in rivulets down both sides of the street. I listen to a grim Icelandic detective novel on my headphones. As we walk, Islay insists on hitting every snowbank, examining the dense neighborhood thaw. In the muddy driveway she stands for minutes on end, head cocked, nose gently twitching. Spring must be intense for a dog; such olfactory abundance.

In the evening CC and I rehearse a new song. Between illness, work, and school, I've been playing less often than I'd like and the act of harmonizing with another person feels especially welcome. I expect us to sound a little rusty, but we've played together for long enough now that it all comes together rather quickly.

Tuesday February 25

Most of the snow is gone, pooling into windblown reservoirs over the saturated yards and sidewalk slabs. Coats are lighter, faces are wearing sunglasses, heads going hatless, fingers gloveless. I gamble with my slip-on Vans and hop over a slush pile and puddle to get to my car. 

Typography class begins with a kerning exercise that makes me think of Macrodata Refinement. Watching Severance has been one of the few highlights of this troublesome winter. I loved the first season when it premiered three years ago and have gone all in for season two. After each episode I read the post-episode reviews on AV Club and Slate, then listen to the various podcasts, including the official one from Adam Scott and Ben Stiller. Having a good, engrossing show during dark times is helpful. We all need escapism sometimes. 

Later I walk around in the sunshine, taking photographs. I wear my old Hunter rain boots and slosh confidently into an ankle deep puddle at Frog Island. Cold water seeps into my left boot. I've sprung a leak. At home in the backyard I notice the beige plastic bag trapped on a high walnut branch about 30 feet up. It's been there all winter. The thought occurs to me that it might remain there as long as I live in this house. 

Wednesday February 26

A non-musical stress dream wakes me. They are almost always about uncomfortable gig scenarios, but last night's was a more general low-grade nightmare. The sun is gone and with it the warmth of the past two days. In mid-afternoon it snows the biggest flakes I've ever seen, like crumpled tissues parachuting into a wet assemblage on the grass. Out my bedroom window woman in an orange coat stands beside her car, covertly gathering a snowball. She turns, hand behind her back, smiling sweetly at the man who steps out of his house to greet her. Without warning, she attacks and they chase each other down the sidewalk, laughing. 

Thursday February 27

I'm in a rush to finish my work so I can get to a dinner invitation out in Dexter. A phone call from K catches me off guard. These days we mostly text or video chat on Marco Polo. Sometimes I think about the before times, when a phone rang and I could just pick up and say "hello?" The uncertainty wasn't a big deal. I didn't get my first cell phone until I was 25 and I was pretty reluctant to use it. Now it's just a small computer I mostly use for other things.

I've been so on edge lately, unexpected phone calls trigger my emergency reflex, but I needn't have worried. She’s just checking in on me. It almost feels like an old fashioned gesture and I'm touched by it. We fill each other in on our days, then I bang out the rest of my work and I’m out the door.

In Dexter we drink scotch and Boddington's in the garage then enjoy a home cooked Indian meal inside the cozy farmhouse. I'm busier than usual these days, but If I don't accept invitations or make my own social plans, I'll just lose myself in work. Friends and important.

Friday February 28

I gas up, put a quart of oil in my car, then pick up my concert posters from the print shop. At the co-op I buy a pound of my favorite coffee. It's still overcast, but the weather has warmed up again. While making lunch I slice right through the callus of my right forefinger which bleeds for ten minutes. Typing and playing guitar will be tough for a few days. One digit over, my sad warped fingernail is still healing from an infection. February won't go quietly. I'd like to say it's only my hand that had a bad month.