Joshua Sauvageau 2/16/25 Joshua Sauvageau 2/16/25

On This Day: 2/16/16

I tried that scarf thing once and I ended up looking like Helen Mirren.

Every so often, I’ll dip back into my Morning Pages to find an entry from this day in my history, and reproduce it here.

Dear god, another two weeks have elapsed since last I cracked open this journal. It’s been a month since I moved into my new apartment, and it is finally starting to feel like mine, yet I haven’t spent much time there, except to sleep. Two weeks ago, I taught four yoga classes, and last week I taught three—seven total from Wednesday to Wednesday, that on top of my 40+ hour per week day job. Add that to band practice and recordings and I’m feeling maxed out.

Yesterday, finally, I had a true day to my Self, and I got a lot accomplished. I did some freelance audio editing, fit in a good run at a fast 6’54/mile pace [holy shit, I actually cannot believe I ever ran that fast for any length of time], and played a show with As 40 Sleeps at fucking Phyllis’ Musical Inn. Lord, how I despise that place. But before our show, I walked down the street to eat a sandwich at Jerry’s. While I was sitting there, feeling pissed off that we were playing so late (midnight!), a gent sat down next to me at the bar.

You are really pulling off that scarf, my man.

“Oh, thanks!” It was the one that Hailey (my 15-year-old niece) crocheted me for Christmas, and I told him so.

Yeah, he said, I tried that scarf thing once and I ended up looking like Helen Mirren. I laughed—hard—and we had a good, long conversation about Wicker Park in the 1990s, the gentrification of Chicago, Ron Carter, Michael Jackson, House music, day jobs, playing with soul goddammit, the devaluation of art and attention in the age of social media, etc. He was a really interesting and thought-provoking dude. We exchanged business cards before I excused myself to Phyllis’. His name was Jevon Jackson, apparently a really well-known House DJ in Chicago for decades. He told me to hit him up some time. What a cool dude.

*Liz Phair in Wicker Park in the 90s. Photo by* *Marty Perez*

That conversation with Jevon really made me love/hate our set at Phyllis’.

I loved it, in that our conversation truly informed my musicality that night. I think I played with more soul (goddammit) and more awareness than I usually do, and especially with this band [compared with my performances with MIDWEST^]. And I hated it in that I was acutely aware of the people who were dancing to our music: snobby young sons and daughters of wealth, who were sneering through a night out, not at the fancy bars and restaurants they (no doubt) frequent, but making the extra trek to rip Schlitz at one of Chicago’s dwindling “dive” bars. I guess what I’m trying to say is I felt like a fraud, playing music for a bunch of bigger frauds.

*Milwaukee, North and Damen in 1988. Photo by* *Jeff Wassmann*

I want to live as authentically as possible. I want to live authentically, if possible.

Be authentic. Be real. Single-task whenever possible. Keep an eye on the finish line, but don’t forget to watch the ground passing underfoot.

*Alexis, myself, and Jack Brett. Photo by Crystal Lynn circa 2016*

[^My former band MIDWEST’s music below:]

Joshua Sauvageau 1/26/25 Joshua Sauvageau 1/26/25

January 2025 Recap!

Happy New Year, dear readers.

How long do you leave your holiday decorations up? On a New Year’s Eve walk with Churro, I counted several limp Frasier Firs piled up next to garbage cans. I heard on the radio that January 6 is one “traditional date” for taking down the Christmas tree and removing the lights from the eaves. My birthday is January 7, so in our home, Mom always left the decorations up until January 8, at my insistence. This year, we took ours down on the 18th. I always prefer to hold out longer than most, because winter is just so damn long. The darkness is so damn long. Christmas and the New Year come so early in the winter. What’s the rush to remove all the lovely decor?

For me, this month has been marred by trepidation. Trepidation about the state of our country and of the world. Trepidation about Mother Nature. Trepidation about social media and about AI. And—least importantly of all—trepidation about writing.

Social media use is on the decline it seems. At least in the circles I run in, the Meta-verse has become too odious to endure. Hear hear. It’s about fucking time. For someone who posts as often as I do (which is on the order of twice a day!), I am at last abandoning Facebook and Instagram. Threads was initially lauded as a viable alternative to X, but I am already tired of it’s vacuous algorithm. The fate of TikTok seemed sealed for a moment, but I’ve never understood the attraction, nor had any interest in creating an account. I spent some time this month starting up a Bluesky account and a Substack—which I’ve been putting off for too long. And I’ve been communicating with other friends on Discord and Signal. My only reason for remaining on the old-fashioned Facebooks and Instagrams was to keep in touch with my friends and family. Those platforms have obviously become less about connection and more about unchecked aggression, anonymous trolling, and an obscene amount of marketing for sub-standard consumer goods. YOU know what I’m talking about. Part of the reason I wanted to start this website was to spend less time on social media, and ideally, bring some of you along with me. (Thanks for reading this, by the way)

Speaking of my Substack, I posted a few older pieces there: a poem from 2022, a flash fiction piece from 2021, this prose piece from the same year, and a relatively new poem.

With the inauguration and all, I felt it fitting to post this Propagandhi song which I covered/recorded in 2020. It describes the gravitas our “leaders” should experience, but too often do not.

Nipples-deep

>>

Nipples-deep >>

Running? Yes. I’m nipples-deep in training for a spring 50k, which my Trail Pushers Alysha and Tommy dragooned upon me. Seriously, I’ve been needing the nudge to sign up for something longer than a 10k, so I was grateful to hear that they were signing up and urged me to join them. It will be my first ultra since Tommy and I ran the Grand Canyon in 2019. The 2025 Ice Age 50k takes place May 10, two weeks after Leah runs the Big Sur Marathon.

Another race that has been on my radar since 2018 is the Superior Trail Race. This one takes place north of Duluth, through scenic Crosby Manitou State Park, up through the Caribou Highlands and finishing in Lutsen. I haven’t run a 50-miler since September 2019, but I put my name in the hat for the lottery. On 1/18 I was notified of my acceptance to the race(!), which takes place September 6. Looks like a boatload of training coming up in 2025.

In keeping with the theme of trepidation, I applied for acceptance at a writing retreat here in our fair state. The Tofte Lake Center hosts two week-long residencies—one in June and one in September. It’s been a decades-long dream to spend time in nature, writing—without the distractions of work or social media (see above). I won’t be notified one way or the other until May 1.

I have also been working on a long-form essay to post here, dealing with my somewhat traumatic New Year’s Eve 2016. However, I’m not sure I am ready to share this one with the world yet.

I took myself to see a $5 matinee showing of Nosferatu on my birthday. I highly recommend it. I was particularly struck by the sound design as well as the camera-work and lighting. The last scene is beautiful and will haunt your dreams.

I’ve also been shooting film, and playing with double-exposures. Here’s one of my favorites that came from processing my most recent roll:

While I haven’t written much, I have made some bonkers videos over the past couple of months. I bought a 35mm / f0.95 lens last summer, Leah gave me a sweet little Aputure light for my birthday, and I’ve mainly been filming these abominations in order to get some post-production reps on both DaVinci Resolve and ProTools. Incidentally, I HATE shooting and editing 9:16—another symptom of our society’s hopeless addiction to TikTok and our devices. Make Landscape Sexy Again!

One clear highlight for the month was a visit from four dear Chicago friends: Tommy, Margaret, Alysha, and Chris. They were here in the Twin Cities for the annual Pond Hockey Tournament on Lake Nokomis. Tommy and I went on a couple of runs, wandered around the Como Conservatory and Zoo for the first time, and saw Frank Black at First Ave (Tommy’s first time there). We all cheered Chris’s hockey team, the Skateful Dead, and drank Labatt 1% over 18” of frozen lake ice. It’s always a special occasion when we can get together, along with our Saint Paul friends, Peter and Kristen, but this visit deserved a proper toasting, so we had cocktails at Gori Gori Peku (a Japanese whiskey bar), followed by a stunning meal at Owamni. I am still doubled over in pain from laughing, which is typical whenever this group assembles.

With all the trepidation in our individual lives and in the world, it’s nice to recall that spending time with loved ones can ease the burden—however fleetingly. Until next time, try to find peaceful moments and stay well, friends.

Joshua Sauvageau 1/19/25 Joshua Sauvageau 1/19/25

It Happens

Mute sailboats bob at the edge of the earth, like opal pyramids pointing towards Heaven. The vast maw of the lake sucks the sound from the city.

The balance is off.

Here, your mind is a wide open prairie on a smooth spring morning. This is your favorite place: there are no distractions, no work, no phone, no music; only momentum.

You exchange pleasantries with another swimmer as you wade in, knee-deep. “How is it?” You ask her.

“Nice this morning. Not too cold. Not wavy.” She bends an arm back to unzip her wetsuit. “Cops pulled a body out just as I was arriving.”

“What? You’re kidding.” You stand stunned, heels sinking into the silty bottom.

She shrugs. “It happens. Enjoy your swim.”

The city slouches heavily on one shoulder. The low commotion of early morning traffic noise, like a fog that never dissipates, is punctured by the roar of motorcycles or the lamentation of an ambulance. Engines and rubber and tons of steel clatter and rumble along Lake Shore Drive, an eight-lane highway that spoons the shoreline.

On your other shoulder, the soft, quiet pull of a gauzy sky. Lake Michigan is a slate flag undulating in a brisk breeze. The head of a golden retriever glides closer to shore, stick firmly clenched in jaw. Mute sailboats bob at the edge of the earth, like opal pyramids pointing towards Heaven. The vast maw of the lake sucks the sound from the city.

The balance is off.

You wade deeper, pulling the drawstring of your wetsuit zipper up your spine. You fasten the velcro tab at the nape of your neck. You dip your hot pink latex swim cap into the lake and open it up, turn it inside out, then stretch it over your head. The brightly-colored cap highlights your whereabouts for boats and for the lifeguards who will arrive later when the beaches begin to crowd with vacationing families and suburban teens.

Waist-deep, you bend your knees and stretch the rubber collar of your wetsuit to let the lake in. The cold water shocks your flesh. Your heart skips two beats. You spit into your goggles, rinse them, and suction them to your face, inhale deeply and thrust forward. Your arms crawl, pulling you through the lake, legs kick rhythmically, toes pointed to maximize efficiency. Your heart rate spikes. Five strokes, breathe—you open your mouth at the corner to keep from swallowing a wave. Five strokes, breathe—the odd intervals keep you looking at alternating sides.

To your left is the steel-reinforced concrete lake wall, slimy and barnacled. Above it, the Lakefront Path: an artery often clogged by bicyclists, runners, sightseeing tourists, and sauntering downtown workers staring at their phones. Beyond that is Lake Shore Drive and seven-figure condos with floor-to-ceiling windows which glint in the glow of a rising sun. In the afternoon, the skyscrapers cast deep shadows into this stretch of lake. To your right, an empty expanse of harbor. “The Playground” will soon fill with idling powerboats, piloted by spoiled north shore kids. They wear floral-print board shorts and monokinis, and spend hours sipping Old Style or White Claw, flashing toothy selfies for Instagram.

Most days, the lake is cloudy and you can’t see five feet. Here, disaster lurks. Your head is up more than down, looking around for stronger swimmers who might barrel towards you through the din like an eighteen-wheeler rounding a switchback on a narrow mountain pass. You watch for drunks on Sea-Doos, veering too close to shore. You imagine the aftermath: concussed and drowning, no lifeguards nearby to save you. Far-fetched, sure, but possible—it happens.

Today though, the lake is crystalline. In the close hug of your wetsuit, through foggy goggles, you see the downed light post resting on the bottom. You wonder what kind of car wreck launches a light post that far: careening over a guardrail and past a sloping concrete beach, fully fifty yards from Lake Shore Drive. You shiver through a cold pocket and try to regain your rhythm—five strokes, breathe, five strokes, breathe. Garbage litters the rocks, twenty feet below your nose. You see shapeless plastic and metallic things, sun-faded and sand-covered; beer bottles, soda cans, and an entire park district trash can. You spy a solitary fish sucking between stones and debris. It’s a sallow and pitted creature, not even worth a second glance. You become tangled in a fishnet of weeds, so you pause briefly, treading water as you remove them from your face and between your fingers. Your wetsuit buoys you; you bob at the surface like the beacon that marks your turnaround point. You think again about the body. It happens.

The waves push and pull. You gain speed. Your arms are tiring, shoulders burning with the effort. Your neck is raw where you mismatched the velcro. You find your rhythm. You no longer need to count your strokes to breathe. It happens: your body remembers. It’s like writing a letter to an old friend, or fingering a C-major scale on your junior high trumpet.

A pair of swimmers pass you on their way back to shore. You envy the efficiency of their stroke, the power in their arms. You rock gently in their wake. You sneak a peek back—they’re already disappearing into the distance.

You crawl towards the marker, the furthest you’ve made it this season. The waves are getting choppy as you take a wide turn around the beacon and head towards the beach. Eight hundred meters down, eight hundred to go.