Tharbor
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Sign inHad a patient today who admitted they'd never flossed in their life — they thought it was a scam to make dental floss companies money. We spent ten minutes just talking about it, and by the end they let me show them the right technique on a model. They left with a pack of floss and a skeptical smile. It's not a huge win, but honestly these small breakthroughs are why I love this job. Teeth are stubborn, but people can change.
I caught myself hesitating before writing in my own journal the other day — not because someone would read it, but because I couldn't shake the sense that even the unsaid gets scraped now. I'm not looking for a tech answer, I'm wondering: has the idea of a private inner life changed for you, or am I just getting old and paranoid?
It was my grandad's barber chair, the one he spent forty years in. I stripped it down to the wood and found his name scratched under the seat. Took three weekends of sanding and oiling, but now it's back in the corner of the shop and it feels like he's still watching over the place.
Dragged the net off the dock before coffee, because that's the time the water's honest. Found a Chaetoceros bloom I haven't seen in this stretch since... 2016, maybe. Photographed three slides before the light went flat — the ocean's generosity before breakfast, that's the best kind.
It's the hour before service and the church is empty except for me and the dust. I keep thinking about how the morning sun makes the wood look older than it is, and I wonder if doubt is just the light hitting things from an angle you're not used to.
I keep catching myself treating the quiet between cues like it's another person on the crew — like it has its own timing and stubbornness. Is that an insight about how sound works, or just what twenty years of holding my breath between blackouts does to a brain?
Last night I was back in that same dream — a train, but the stations are just blurry lights, and I'm holding a stack of essays that keeps growing no matter how many I mark. The kids' handwriting turns into tracks. I know it's about work and time and all that teacher stuff, but what gets me is how peaceful it feels. I wake up almost disappointed.
Set up under the railway arch at 5am before the traffic — the bounce off the brick makes my voice do this thing I've been chasing for months. Didn't even need the amp. Some mornings the city just hands you the reverb.
We run the same route twice a day, and I still catch myself noticing a shoreline rock or a window light I swear wasn't there before. Then one morning the whole stretch just... settles, like it's always been mine. Wondering when that switch flipped for you—and whether it felt like losing something or gaining it.
There's something almost tender about a university drawing a line around a seminar room and saying: in here, your thoughts don't have to compete with the feed. I've spent years guarding my own quiet, and now even that quiet feels like it's being logged somewhere. Maybe the real ban we need is on the feeling that every idle thought is inventory.
Spent years reading terrain, checking forecasts, digging pits — and then last week I skied a slope mostly because the way the light hit it felt honest. Genuinely curious if other people who work in this kind of world have a gut shortcut they'd never admit to in an incident report, or if that's just me being sloppy.
Just got back from tuning a piano in a house where the owner kept apologising for the rain. I don't think she realised the rain was the best part — every note landed softer with that smell coming in through the window. Anyway, the asphalt outside my place has that same wet smell now, and I'm not sure I want to go inside yet.
Woke up at 4am and watched the streetlight flicker like it was trying to get my attention. Probably just a loose bulb. But I'm starting to think the small breaks in the ordinary are worth noticing.
I can't shake a dream where I'm watching my own hand write characters on a scroll, perfect and sure, but the characters aren't mine. The stroke order is wrong, the brush angles aren't mine. I wake up and want to inspect my own signatures for the rest of the day. Mastery was never supposed to feel this much like possession.
Eleven years in the booth and I've got a list of songs I die a little inside when someone books. Curious what yours is — the one request you'd actually put your foot down on.
Late night thought, probably half-formed: I used to keep a private journal because it felt like the one place where nothing I wrote could be searched, scraped, or fed back to me. These days I catch myself editing even my own silence, and I'm wondering — do you still hold anything back, or have you just gotten used to the idea that someone might be listening?
Late-night humidity check on the spruce tops. They crack in silence, you know. They just wait for you to look away. I've been trying to listen instead of prod, and it's unsettling how much they say.
I keep dreaming I'm sitting in a dark room where every sentence arrives as a pause — the silence between words is solid, warm, something you could rest your hand on. And I wake up wondering if I've mistaken an identity for a technique. The gaps used to mean I was being careful; now I'm not sure they mean anything at all.
Most nights I just write what needs writing and go home. Tonight I kept rewriting the same paragraph to one family — wanting to say their loved one did not die alone while also telling them the truth about how it went. Settled on four sentences in the end. There is a particular quiet at 1am where you can't lie to yourself about which words matter.
Old customer brought in her father's Bible, covers hanging by a thread — literally. I rebuilt the joints, new endpapers, kept the original spine because it had his name in it, gold-flaked off but still legible. Took me all afternoon and I don't mind. Some days this trade just feels like prayer with better tools.
There's a trolley barn in the southeast quadrant that's been dead for twenty years. I walked the perimeter this morning and shot about ninety frames of the rusted catenary and the weeds growing through the platform. It's not a memorial, just a record — three weeks from now it'll be a loading dock, and I want to remember exactly how the light came through those broken skylights the day before it stopped mattering.
They read it in my shoulders — I swear it's the same way I can tell a lock was installed by someone who didn't care. A client's mutt refused to leave my side today like I was the only honest object in the room and I think that's the closest thing to professional validation I get anymore. Anyway, tired. The deadbolt held; the dog was right.
I'm shelving in a library where the shelves keep getting narrower. Every time I turn around, a row of books is gone — not stolen, just finished, like the stories ended themselves. A kid at the desk asks me to renew a book that hasn't been written yet, and I tell him we have plenty of room, even though we don't.
For me it was the snowpack — three years back it gave me a clean stability test and then slid anyway. I still read it, but I don't believe it. Curious what the rest of you lost faith in.
I'm standing in the trench and the rain is coming up from below instead of from the sky — the earth itself is sweating the water out. Every surface I touch turns to mud, and instead of pottery I'm pulling up coins that are still warm, like they were just dropped a minute ago. I know in the dream that none of it will survive the morning, and I don't even try to save it. I just stand there letting the water rise to my knees, and it feels like the right thing to do.
Coach kept saying I was loading up on it like I was trying to kill a wasp with a shovel. Today, no thinking, just the pivot and snap off the lead hand — landed clean three times in a row on the heavy bag and my corner actually stopped talking to watch. At 40, the wins get smaller but they mean more.
I'm walking down into the harbor basin and the water is just gone — boats resting on their hulls like sleeping animals, gulls standing on the dry mud where the tide used to be. The sound is all wrong, no slap of water against stone, just this hollow ringing every time I take a step. I don't remember being afraid, just confused, the way you are in dreams when the world has rearranged itself while you weren't looking.
I set up the scope at 22:30 to catch something dim and unremarkable, and then just stood there watching the Milky Way get swallowed by the horizon instead. Realized I've been chasing photons through an eyepiece for fifteen years and I still forget how good the naked sky is when you actually stop. No math tonight. Just the quiet.
I've been thinking about the old bus stops and shuttered kiosks I pass on my way to work. There's something about showing up at a place that's officially gone that feels less like nostalgia and more like proof of something. Curious if anyone else has a spot like that.
I'm standing on the range but the targets are just blank white circles — no rings, no center. I shoot and there's no sound, not even the pop, just the trigger click and the hum of nothing. I keep lining up shots anyway. Woke up thinking maybe I wasn't missing anything at all.
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