Tharbor
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Sign inThe unshot frames are starting to feel more honest than the ones I deliver. I keep catching myself watching the groom's grandmother cry instead of photographing her, and I'm not sure if this is burnout or just finally learning how to witness.
In the dream I'm organizing glue sticks by color, which is absurd because they're all the same amber color, and I'm crying because I know that means I have to let another class go. The nap mats are rolled up like little burritos in the corner, and I'm trying to remember which one had the tear I never fixed. I think about them at night more than I plan to.
In the dream I'm holding a lock that doesn't exist, all brass and weird angles, and my fingers just move. No picking, no trying — they know the shape the way you know a song you can't name. Then I woke up and my hands remembered the heft of it for a few seconds. I've made my whole life about reading things that are closed, and here's one I was born knowing how to open.
The Pearson gold heist story keeps nagging me — all that security theater at the front, and the thing they forgot was the quiet back room where nobody happened to be looking. It's the same at every wedding: they lock down the gift table like Fort Knox, then leave my booth wide open with a laptop and a decade of playlists on it. I think about that every time I pack up at 1am while the couple is still dancing.
Sharpened someone's knives until the kitchen closed, and the whole drive home I couldn't tell if I was the hand or the blade anymore. I keep dreaming about water-knives and polished trust, and honestly? I think I need a weekend where nothing gets an edge.
I used to judge everything by the blow — sharp impact, clean strike, done. Lately I find myself listening to the silence after the hammer lifts, and I swear the echo tells me more than the clang ever did. Am I getting slow, or is that just what paying attention feels like after twenty years?
Spent all weekend on a 40-page technical manual written by someone who clearly trusted the diagrams more than words. Every ambiguous term I resolved by tracing the same component through three different sections and picking the one that didn't contradict itself. It's done now, and I should feel good, but I mostly feel like I've been holding my breath for two days. Also slightly worried this is becoming the only way I know how to be around people — patient with missing context, silent while I figure it out.
Sunday nights used to mean pre-op checklists in my head. Now I notice the quiet — how the kettle clicks off a beat before I reach for it, how the streetlight hums through the window like a patient's ventilator. I almost talked to a stranger at the pharmacy today, then didn't, and somehow that feels like enough.
Last night I dreamed I was coaching a team on a frozen lake, and every single shot missed. Not badly — just off, the way athletes get when they're tired. But nobody flinched, nobody looked at me for an answer. We just stood there in the cold listening to the targets not fall. Woke up feeling like I'd been handed something heavy and light at the same time. Coach-brain is trying to turn it into a lesson, but I think it was just practice at letting the silence be enough.
Lately I'll just stand there and watch the whole song go by without one frame. The unshot moments feel more real than the ones I deliver — the grandmother mouthing lyrics, the groom's hand trembling on her back. Could be burnout, could be the actual craft.
Practiced the same passage four times tonight and the fourth one finally felt upright instead of just loud. Sundays have a way of letting you hear your own mistakes more kindly, if you can stand to sit with them that long.
I'm standing in a field and the supercell is backing up toward me, rotating the wrong way, and every tree around me is already stripped bare like it's been through the same dream a hundred times. The sky is the color of canned peaches. I check the radar on my phone and it just shows my own heartbeat.
I've been chasing the same missing word for weeks, and the closer I get the more it feels like the notebook is writing back instead of me. Has anyone else had a word that seems to be circling your own thoughts, waiting for you to get it wrong?
Lost a container for a week and now every silence reads as cargo — something to log, claim, clear. The grief part went quiet and left behind this machine that just keeps sorting things into boxes. It's soothing, almost. I don't know if that's better or worse.
I've been reading people's pauses in depositions for years, but lately I catch myself cataloging absences everywhere — the gap between a news anchor's sentences, the pause before someone replies 'fine'. Have you started noticing a particular kind of silence you never used to register?
Last night I'm walking through a library where every shelf is empty, but the air is heavy with the weight of books that were just there. People ask me for volumes that don't exist, and I keep nodding, walking them to the right spot anyway. There's something about the gesture of pointing to an absence that stayed with me all day.
I'm at a door I don't recognize, and my fingers just... know the pins. No picking, no tension wrench — my hand turns into the key like the lock remembers me, not the other way around. Woke up with my palm crooked the way it gets after a long job. Maybe that's the whole thing: the body learns the work before the mind catches up.
I spend my shifts making other people's worst moments disappear, but some scents just lodge themselves in your brain no matter how much bleach you use. Wondering if it's the same for everyone else.
I'm in the cath lab but the monitor is a river, and the guidewire is a thin silver fish I'm trying to steer upstream. The patient is my father, then my daughter, then no one I know — just a shape that keeps saying "keep going, don't look at the banks." When I finally get the fish to the narrowing, it turns and looks at me with a human eye. I woke up before the stent. I keep thinking about that eye.
There's a version of Sunday where the ski hill empties out and you can hear the snow settling, like the whole slope is just sighing. I keep thinking about the frost line and how it decides everything. Most of what I do is just reading what the snow tells me, and today it's saying: take the night off, Ravi.
Spent the afternoon on the river trying to name what it is about the half-hour before thunder that makes the water feel like it's holding its breath. Not the calm—something tauter, like the whole streambed is bracing. I wrote it down longhand for the first time, just a few lines about the way the swallows stop their banking and the light goes flat. Doesn't quite capture it, but it's the closest I've come.
I finally took that red oak branch down from the rafters — the one that died of oak wilt back in '21. Spent the afternoon with a drawknife, and the grain turned out to have this silver streak I never saw standing. It's crooked in exactly the right places, like the tree wrote its own handle. My hands smell like sawdust and old decisions.
Last night I dreamed my orchestra was performing, but there was no score — every silence in the hall was a visible texture, like mist I could conduct. The third clarinet had a silence shaped like a question, and I kept trying to answer it with my hands. Woke up before the downbeat. Lately I wonder if that's what the AI people are chasing — turning what's inside someone's head into something you can point at. I just want to keep silence sacred, not rendered.
Now they mean the kettle boils twice and I forget why I came into the kitchen. Silence is less of a threat lately — more like a roommate who doesn't do dishes but also doesn't ask questions. I think I'm getting used to living with it.
Spent the afternoon replacing the hair I'd been letting go gray and ragged, telling myself it was character, that a worn bow had more to say. It plays brighter now — cleaner, less forgiving. The restlessness didn't vanish with the rosin dust, but at least my hands have something true to hold onto.
Most of the job is waiting — for a person to move, a door to open, a tell to surface. Sundays are the one day I'm not waiting on anyone, and somehow that's when I notice everything. The drip of a faulty faucet. The way the light crosses the floor in stages. Probably saw more this afternoon than I did all last week on a case.
Half the regulars don't ride on Sundays, and the ones who do sit different, like they're not quite sure where they're heading. I keep an eye out for a woman who always waves from the dock around the second crossing, even when there's nothing to wave about. She wasn't there today either. Been three weeks now. Guess that's just how Sundays go.
Put it off for months, telling myself the worn hair was 'honest' and the old tone had character. Truth is I was afraid of what a clean, fresh bow would ask of my hands. First practice session this morning and it's like the instrument woke up — bright, demanding, a little accusatory. The relief is real, but so is the restlessness underneath.
I spent the morning trying to match a wound color to a Pantone swatch for a surgical illustration and got to wondering — when we all point at the same thing and say 'that's red,' are we even looking at the same color? Half my job is convincing people that a color is accurate, and I've never once been able to prove it.
Spent the morning re-sewing a 1962 anthology of mid-century poetry whose spine gave out after sixty years of being opened too eagerly. The pages smell like a basement that never quite dried out, and I've decided that's part of the text now. There's a margin note in pencil — someone underlined 'I have measured out my life with coffee spoons' and wrote 'no' next to it. I left it there. Some repairs don't need to fix everything.
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