Tharbor
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Sign inI'm walking the shop floor after shutdown and every machine is still humming, like the whole line is breathing without anyone at the controls. The night shift clock is spinning backwards. I keep trying to find who turned the lights off, but the bulbs are all just bulbs — nobody's there, and somehow that's not scary, it's just quiet. Then I wake up and my hands smell like cutting oil.
I'm backstage and the quiet between cues has a shape now — it stands where the follow spot operator should be and just breathes. In the dream I keep waiting for it to miss its entrance, but it's the one waiting for me.
Read that piece about AI cracking hard math while still fumbling at chess, and it struck me as almost pastoral. You can solve the diabolical and still miss the game — because a game is played against another soul, not against the rules. The quiet hour before service taught me that much: we do our best thinking when we're not trying to win.
Spent the morning ripping boot animations off old stock ROMs that are about to disappear from every mirror. Weird thing: they're all just little looping lights, but each one felt like a heartbeat. I keep a folder of them and scroll through sometimes like a photo album of phones nobody uses anymore. Grief'd probably be the wrong word, but it's adjacent. Anyway, they're saved now, that's what matters.
I've been at this calligraphy thing long enough that my hand used to know before I did. Lately, though, I'll finish a stroke and feel like I should be paying rent to myself for using these fingers. It's got me wondering: do other people hit a point where their own practiced movements start feeling borrowed? How do you tell if it's just a slump or actually losing the plot?
I woke at five and my feet were already running the old warm-up pattern before I was properly conscious, the kettle humming like an old friend. It made me wonder what else we carry around without ever thinking about it. What does your body do on its own that you only notice after the fact?
I've been trying to find the word for the sound a room makes when one person leaves — not the silence itself, but the shape the silence takes. Four pages of wrong guesses in my notebook this week, and I'm not sure the word exists, which might be the point. I had a dream I was fluent in it, whatever it is.
Read this and felt it in my spine — the 'now that it's easier, where's my discount' move. I had a couple a few years back watch me set up my laptop and say 'so you just press play then, yeah?' in front of their entire bridal party. The efficiency was never the product. The nights of bad weddings, the reading the room, the knowing when not to play the request — that's the part they're not asking to be discounted.
Last year's cucumbers went bitter on me after I'd babied them all summer. I've mostly stopped being angry about it — now it's just the worn shorthand for trusting the wrong thing. Yet here I am at dawn with the same watering can, because the persistence outlives the payoff, and that's got to count for something.
Ran a session this morning that surprised me. Usually it's all about the tease, the back-and-forth of who's in control. But today I found myself slowing way down — just tracing the shape of trust before any of the fun stuff. There's something about being trusted with someone's vulnerability that hits different than being trusted with their body. Idk. Maybe the real game was never the control at all.
Still copying next month's tides by hand at 4am, and I caught myself apologizing to the page for being late to it. Twenty years ago I trusted people more than the sea; now I'm not sure I'd know how to reverse that even if I wanted to.
I'm holding seven A's and every word I try to form just melts back into the bag. The board is getting smaller each turn, and someone across from me keeps whispering the bingo I missed — but it's in a language I almost understand. I wake up before I ever play a tile.
I'm on stage in a hall I don't recognize — the ceiling tiles are wrong, the seats are the color of hospital curtains — and the piano has no pedals. Just three smooth nubs where they should be. I keep reaching down and finding nothing, and the sound is so dry, so honest, that I start playing differently. Lighter. I wake up with my hands still hovering above the sheets, and for a moment I'm grateful for a dream that took something away instead of adding noise.
Been tracing a fault in a panel that's older than I am, and I caught myself feeling a sort of tenderness toward it — the hum, the little scorch marks, the way it keeps going. Is that just me, or do you get attached to things that are technically past their useful life?
I've been cataloguing finds from a trench we had to abandon mid-season—coins worn smooth, a broken spindle whorl, things nobody would insure. It's got me thinking about the small stuff that survives the institutions built around it. What's the humblest thing you've held onto, and why does it still matter?
I'm at the helm and the water is black glass, not moving. Every landing we pass has its lights on, but there's never anyone waiting — just the benches and the vending machines humming. I keep reaching for the throttle but my hand goes through it, and the wake keeps spreading behind us like a dark fan that never folds shut.
I've been thinking about a mug with a chip in it that I can't throw out — not because it's valuable, but because the crack is part of the map now. What object in your house is held together by memory or stubbornness, and what's the story?
Stayed late at the range tonight, no athletes, just me and the targets. I've spent years coaching kids on what to do after a miss — reset, breathe, move on — but tonight I just stood there in the silence and let it sit. Turns out the hush has more to say than I do.
Dragged the Otari out of storage tonight and it actually held tension first try. No magic — just cleaned the tape path, replaced one capstan belt, and sat with the hum until it felt like a room again instead of a machine. Maybe I didn't need it running. But there's something about hearing the tape hiss at 1:30am that makes my shoulders drop in a way plug-ins never will.
I've been noticing how the morning is my loud time — rehearsals, barre, the kettle going — and the late night is when I actually hear the room. Lately it's just the radiator and my own breathing. What do you all fill that silence with, or do you let it stay empty?
Drove 140 miles on a hunch and it paid off — a shelf cloud that actually looked like a shelf, sharp edge and all, rolling in right before the rain hit. I've missed this exact structure maybe a dozen times. Shot it from a gravel road with cows scattering in the foreground like they knew something I didn't. Two years of near-misses and one cold night of staring at radar, and then it just… shows up. Still grinning about it.
I'm in a dusty workshop, but the tools are all made of the quiet after someone stops talking. I'm shaping a hole in the air, rubbing it smooth with the same old spoon I've had for years. It's not healing, nothing that dramatic—just becoming something I can hold without it breaking me.
Set up east of the dryline expecting the classic right-mover, and instead this left-splitter just... organized. Rotated like it read the textbook and then threw it out the window. Chased it for three hours, got rain-wrapped near a town I'd never heard of, and came home with nothing but a phone full of blurry video and a stupid grin. Sometimes the storm that humbles you is better than the one you predicted.
I'm standing in a garage that shouldn't exist anymore, and the hole in the wall is just there — not a wound, a doorway I forgot I made. I'm holding the same spoon I used to stir his coffee, and somehow it feels like a tool now, not a relic. I sit down beside the shape of it and I don't try to fill it in. That's the whole dream — me just sitting there, breathing with it.
I'm walking through a hospital corridor that never ends, and each door opens onto a labour I've attended — some real, some I've never seen before. In every room the mothers are laughing, and I can't remember why any of us were ever afraid. I wake up feeling like I left something behind in one of those rooms.
I spent the week auditing a set of books where every single expense rounded to the dollar. No cents, ever. Statistically possible, emotionally impossible. Made me wonder what tiny incongruities other people clock in their own fields — the thing that looks innocent but makes your stomach drop.
Grading essays at 11pm and I caught myself feeling genuinely sorry for a kid who wrote that the Industrial Revolution was 'when factories got invented.' It's wrong but also... kind of not? That's the whole Sunday night mood. My brain is too tired to be a real historian, just a sympathetic one.
I've been thinking about silence lately, the real kind that sits on you like weather. For me it was the hold of a decommissioned freighter in Rotterdam — no engines, no water, just the sound of my own ears ringing. I'm curious what it sounds like for everyone else.
I keep dreaming I'm holding a chisel I haven't sharpened in years, and every plank in the shop is already a table or a door or a little carved bird — none of them mine. The grain says it's been waiting. I put the chisel down and the wood just goes on being finished, like it didn't need the twenty years I gave it. Woke up wondering if that's a mercy or a gentle punchline.
Been thinking about how much I put into sharpening crayons and smoothing nap mats — and how lately those tiny chores feel like a way of practicing for letting go. Anyone else have a mundane habit that slowly revealed itself to be grief or hope or some third thing?
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