Weeknotes: August 11–15, 2025

Monday, August 11

I didn't expect to grieve so heavily for Briggs. I hadn't lived with him for four years when he died, but his passing stirred up a emotions I didn't realize I'd been harboring. My brother says "cats are different, they span multiple eras." He's right. Briggs was the last connection to several different parts of my life. 

This morning I'm a little more myself. I listen to Robert Shaw Chorale's ridiculous, but transcendent Sea Shanties album, then Jules Shear's debut. Next up is Joan Shelley's beautiful self-titled album from 2017. I get halfway through the first song then remove it from the platter. Too sad. 

The past couple of nights I've found unexpected comfort watching social media clips of the Oasis reunion tour. They were never a band I cared about. I wasn't into the songs and the constant in-fighting and drama always put me off. Now, I’m drawn to the sense of bonhomie surrounding this tour. Massive stadiums drunk on lager and nostalgia, shouting out every word, the Gallaghers seemingly getting on well. I open my Instagram feed to videos of Liam balancing a tambourine atop his bucket hat and Noel in a button-up polo shirt looking like a weekend dad-rocker. I’m oddly moved by all of it. Are Oasis our saviors? 

Tuesday, August 12

On my porch I find a folded sheet of graph paper addressed to me. Written in pencil and neatly centered in all-caps, the note begins "DEAR TIM, I HEARD THAT YOUR CAT RESENTLY PASSED AWAY. I HOPE YOU FEEL BETTER…" 

It's from my 12-year-old neighbor — his parents must have told him I was having a hard time. None of them ever met Briggs, but they love Islay and they are good, thoughtful people. He goes on to invite me over to visit his cat Charlie anytime. He has also drawn a picture of a cat, printed and signed his name, and dated it. I immediately put it on my fridge door under a photo of Briggs.

When I text his parents, they know nothing about it. He made this gesture entirely on his own. What a sweet kid.

Wednesday, August 13

After getting her nails trimmed at Pecto, Islay and I take a walk through County Farm Park. In the community garden a guy is giving his German shepherd a drink from a hose labeled "Not Potable Water." Cicadas fill the air with their electric feedback. A couple sitting on a bench gives us a shy nod. We're only partway up the trail, but Islay is already panting in the heat. She's 11 and in good health, but after losing Briggs, my pet anxiety immediately increased. It's strange how grief alters your perception of the living. 

At night I lay in bed and engage with my other recent video obsession, TV newsroom bloopers.  I need a laugh and watching professionals lose their composure on a live broadcast is so disarming. I rewatch Erin Conrad's hot mic classic, "I so pale" — her recovery is kind of remarkable. I really love the ones who lose their shit completely. When you see candid, debilitating laughter, it's almost impossible not to join in. 

Thursday, August 14

 19 miles. My last long run before the race. It's not my best, but it's less of a slog than last week. I get it done first thing in the morning. The rest of the day is all about work. I allow myself to recover, then tackle my assignments, practice my solo set, practice my bass parts, and do laundry. I visit Lowe's, then replace the leaky shower hose and the kitchen smoke/C02 alarm. In the evening I'm genuinely tired. I don't mind these days. I like to work.

Friday, August 15

"Can we offer you a nice rock in these trying times?"

It’s written in chalk on a sandwich board outside World of Rocks, our local mineral peddler. I'm going to City Hall to renew my annual parking permit. I pull into a space on Huron next to a beat-up two-headed parking meter festooned with a pair of Christmas wreaths. 

After cleaning out my car, I meet up with coworkers for our monthly happy hour session. Over beers we discuss Devo, Dionne Warwick, and the Danish String Quartet. I'm with two violists. The viola gets a bad rap sometimes, but I love that dark middle register. 

At home I put on a record by the Shrine Steel Band. On the cover are 12 Puerto Rican men lined up on a beach behind an array of steel drums. Palm trees wave in the background. The men are dressed in black slacks, red collared shirts with frilly yellow and green sleeves, and maroon Abou Saab Temple fez hats. The liner notes describe in mock praise the group’s prowess, boasting a membership of “an electronics engineer, automobile distributor, salesman, electrical contractor, attorney, merchant, postman, and manufacturers’ representatives, but NO MUSICIANS (no offense fellas).” On the back is an address for the Shrine Club headquarters in San Juan.

I groan as they clang their way through a version of “Guantanamera” — it will be my head for the next three days, at least.