Weeknotes: January 20-24, 2025
Monday January 20
When he received the Nobel Peace Prize, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. said this:
"I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. This is why right, temporarily defeated, is stronger than evil triumphant.”
Tuesday January 21
Classes have been cancelled because of the frigid temperatures and sub-zero wind chill. I'm disappointed. I could use a diversion today. This is Michigan, we're no strangers to foul weather. Instead it's work, more work, studying from home, and a bit more of myself than I need right now. But, the sun is out, refracting off the ice, creating sharp-edged shadows on my studio wall. Winter light is a comfort.
I make a grocery run, just to get out of the house. As the sky fades to a pink blush behind the trees I think of the artist Rachel Saloman O'Meara who illustrated the cover for our 2007 album, Compass Rose Bouquet. I don't remember how we found her. It was the days of MySpace and Blogger, and Greg and I were actively searching for someone outside our local circle to work with. Rachel was based in Brooklyn and had painted this series we liked of bare trees contrasted against bruised sunset washes. This was 18 years ago, but I still think of her at least once every winter whenever I see a particularly lovely Rachel sunset. I look her up online and find she's still in Brooklyn, now deep into a career in ceramics, making great progressive art.
Wednesday January 22
I finally set about building the drop leaf standing desk I've been making for my studio wall. It's like a Murphy Bed, but a desk. A Murphy Desk. It's small and unobtrusive, made of simple pine that will fold down flat against the wall when not in use. My studio is like a ship's cabin, everything stowed in its proper place, as efficient a space as I can make it.
Classes are cancelled for the second day in a row. I was really looking forward to my evening photography class. Instead, I drink gin and tonics and assemble an inspiration board for our first photo assignment while half-watching a British detective show.
I'm reading a book about Islay (the Scottish island, not my dog). It was a Christmas gift from K. Two winters ago, around this same time, I read a different book about Islay called Whisky Island: A Portrait of Islay and its Whiskies by Andrew Jefford. The Jefford book was a delight; dense and full of personality with wondrously purple prose. This new book, A Passion for Whisky: How the Tiny Scottish Island of Islay Creates Malts that Captivate the World by Ian Wisniewski, is so far a more clinical read. I miss Jefford's jaunty prose, though Wisniewski is a good teacher. I'm surprisingly enraptured by his detailed descriptions of feints, phenols, mash tuns, washbacks, lyne arms, and the entire fermentation and distilling process. Jefford described these too, in his own romantic way, while also adding dashes of local color including historical, geological, and geographical portraits of the island itself.
Here is what Jefford had to say about Islay's Kildalton region:
"It is a landscape of prettiness and intricacy, a jewel box in which moss, grass, lichen, and leaf lie teased together, dew-sodden or dripping with fresh rain, their tones incessantly filleted then filled by the milky blue felt of an invasive sea."
Other notable Jeffordian compound adjectives include "moon-beckoned," "sex-hungry," and "snake-lively."
Wisniewski, on the other hand, plays it straighter, largely dispensing with the preamble and getting right down to whisky business. Despite his dearth of pull quotes, I also appreciate his more pragmatic tone and am learning quite a lot.
Thursday January 23
My old HP printer is on its last shaky leg. Like Voldemort's wand at the end of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, it spits out the ghosts of its last three or four victims before getting down to the task at hand. Out come last month’s set lists and lyrics sheet I no longer need. By the time its recapitulation is complete, the toner cartridge is a dry husk. I think our relationship has come to an end.
I head out early to campus to print a stack of documents at the library. Most are class-related, but I also print this weekend's set lists along with a graph showing Islay's (my dog, not the Scottish Island) DNA makeup. The Embark kit was a Christmas gift from J & J. I don't really care much about dog breeds; mutts have always been my heroes. We always figured Islay was some kind of hound/beagle mix, but I was surprised to learn that her highest percentage is actually Boxer with Treeing Walker Coonhound and Beagle a close second and third. She certainly has the strength and sturdiness of a Boxer, though her tall skinny legs always remind me of a deer. But, mostly she's my little dear.
Before rehearsal, I install the finished Murphy Desk on the wall next to my studio closet. It looks like a homemade piece of IKEA furniture which I suppose is what I was going for.
Friday January 24
At Parker Mill, the creek cuts through a chasm of ice underneath the Geddes Bridge before disappearing again under its winter coat. There is another small pool of rushing water a little further downstream near the little island where Islay and I play in the summer. I step gingerly onto the frozen mass just above it and remove the lens cap of my Canon SLR, recently borrowed from the school photo lab. If I slip and damage this lens, it'll be bad news for me.
15 minutes later I'm in my car crawling towards Gallup Park where an accident is repelling westward traffic. We all see the maneuver we’ll need to make when we get to the front of the line. As each car reaches the emergency barricade it makes a three point reverse turn and heads back up the hill. It's all quite orderly and kind of mesmerizing. Finally, it's my turn and I detour back up to Glazier Way listening to an Irish detective novel.
I step into the eyeglass shop an hour before closing. Three women in navy blue lab jackets are leaning on stools examining their phones in the room's bright expanse. I greet them all with uncharacteristic panache. "How's everybody doing tonight?"
"Honestly, I'm hungry" says one of the three. "I'm just being honest. You asked." Then, after a pause, "I like your gloves." While they are tightening my frames, I glance around the room. The checkered blue and black floor tiles are filthy with a day's worth of dried slush and sidewalk salt.
A few blocks away I buy a Lonely Planet guide to Iceland at the indie book shop.
“When are you going?”
"I'm hoping I'll be inspired to buy my airfare after getting this book."
She immediately opens my book and spends the rest of the transaction commenting on the photos of volcanic fields and glaciers, grilling me about this trip to which I haven't yet committed. Neither of us notices the failure of my credit card and I'm sent on my way without a receipt. Moments later she's chasing me down the block to come back and run the card again.
On the drive home I use a supermarket gift card I've been hoarding since Christmas to help buy a bottle of Bruichladdich. I can't keep reading this Islay (the Scottish island, not my dog) book without having a good single malt in the house.