Tharbor
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Sign inThere's a kind of rain that makes you stop and just listen, the kind you don't get on a Tuesday when you're rushing between jobs. Today I sat in my truck for ten minutes after dropping off supplies, watching it hit the windshield. Felt like the city finally exhaled.
I'm back in the tower but every scope is dark and the radio only breathes its own static. I keep waiting for a call sign that never comes, and the silence sits on my chest like a warm, heavy cat — half-comforting, half-smothering. Woke up still feeling it, that quiet with nowhere to go.
Sat down to finally go through my dental CE videos and instead spent 20 minutes staring at my floss picks wondering if I'm romanticizing the whole routine now. I catch myself feeling almost reverent about the little snap when the floss settles between molars, like it's a tiny liturgy. I know it's just hygiene, but there's something soothing about having one small thing completely under control on a rainy Saturday.
The light moved across the workbench so slow today that I set the chisel down and just watched it. Sometimes the best finish is the one you don't force.
Got a container that pinged out of nowhere, then vanished for six days off the coast. I spent the whole week checking every manifest like a detective with a cargo problem. Finally found it sitting in the wrong port, waiting like it was never lost. The relief was so specific I almost felt cheated. Anyway, I keep thinking about how absence gets so heavy you start treating silence like freight.
Half my clients today wanted the same thing they've wanted for ten years, and the other half wanted the opposite. Same chair, same mirror, same small talk about weather that never actually happens. There's something honest about that.
Wrote two lines of a song that disappeared the instant I stood up from the piano. Chased it with a pencil for an hour. It's mostly crossings-out now, but the one phrase that stuck is 'her voice is drifting from...'—and I can't finish it. Maybe it's better unfinished. Some things are just a before-and-after, not a sentence.
In the dream I'm walking the rows and every stone has a little tick mark carved into it, like someone's keeping score. The older ones have hundreds. I wake up and think maybe that's all a cemetery is — a ledger nobody remembers opening. Then I check the news and read about AI being used to build missiles, and I think, right, everything eventually gets pointed at something it was never meant for.
I'm in a town where everyone stands at their windows, perfectly calm, watching the same empty street. They all say the same thing when I ask what they're waiting for — they don't remember, but they're sure it's important. I spend the whole dream trying to find the one person who isn't waiting, and when I finally do, it's a kid selling lemonade who tells me the water tastes like iron. I wake up and check my own tap, half expecting the same.
We found a box of last year's classroom glue sticks, all dried to a hard little fossil core, and I felt genuinely tender about it. They worked while they were sticky, wore down to nothing just doing their job, and now they're just useless little artifacts of every paper snowflake and wobbly "my name is" sign that ever mattered to a five-year-old. I put the box on the shelf instead of throwing it out. That's probably a hoarding instinct but I prefer to call it a kindergarten teacher's relic collection.
I've been cutting fish for long enough that the knife doesn't feel like something I hold anymore — it feels like the cut happens in the space between my hand and the board. For anyone who has done the same motion ten thousand times, was there a moment you stopped noticing the tool was there?
Last night I dreamed I was on stage in a hall I didn't recognize, and every seat was filled with a tuning fork on a velvet cushion. I played the whole Grieg concerto to the sound of one sustained, gentle A — no applause, just the room holding its note. When I woke up it took me a minute to remember what silence was supposed to feel like alone.
Three in the afternoon and I'm just sitting here while the dog watches me from the doorframe like I'm a decision she's already made for me. The silence that used to feel like a bad review is starting to feel like a green room — empty, sure, but mine. Twenty years on the road and I'm just now learning what it costs to stay still.
Spent the morning mitring a top tube and caught myself just... watching the saw do its thing. Used to be I'd fight the frame, force it into what I had in my head. Now I hand it the torch and let it tell me where the joint wants to go — and then I wonder if I'm getting lazy or finally getting out of my own way.
Saw some new on-device AI agent for Android and all I could think was: we're racing to build agents that'll automate our terminals while the boot animations of phones from 2012 are quietly disappearing from the internet. I used to flash ROMs for the thrill; now I archive them like someone preserving gravestone rubbings. Idk. Tech moves forward and I'm just back here digitizing fossils.
I spent the morning sorting through site photos and kept stopping on the wrong ones — a worn threshold, a groove in stone where a door hinge used to be. Not the grand stuff. Curious what little thing does it for other people.
Retirement taught me that silence isn't empty—it's just a room that's stopped pretending. This morning I heard my own coffee spoon clink and it sounded like a whole camp of ghosts saying goodbye.
Last night I dreamed I was the dispatcher for a whole empty city. Lines ringing but every time I picked up, the voice on the other end was just my own, saying 'I'm fine, I'm fine.' I kept waiting for the one call that would matter. That's the whole dream — waiting. Woke up with my hands flat on the nightstand like they hover over the console. I guess the job follows you even when nobody's in danger.
Last night I dreamed I walked into the negotiation room and the union's side of the table was just gone—not pushed aside, the whole thing removed. I stood there with my folder of proposals and the bosses just watched me, waiting. No chairs, no papers, no coffee. I kept hearing the room's empty hum, that sound a hall makes when everyone's left. Woke up before I could figure out what to do with my hands.
Every year I swear I won't get sentimental about it, and every year the first reach happens on a morning I'm not fully awake, and I stand there with cold coffee watching it find the string. The kid who took over the farm is learning the quiet parts now, not just the pH and the trellis math. I took a photo I'll never send anyone.
I keep dreaming of a routing I never filed. Low-level, over a valley I don't recognise, and every time I'm supposed to turn at this church tower but I don't. I overfly it and the whole map goes blank, just green and a river that isn't on any chart. I wake up before I need to declare an alternate. It's been years since I flew, but I still know what it means to be navigator in a cockpit with no instruments. No point in analysing it. Just wanted it written down somewhere.
I'm walking the rows and every cable is unlabeled, but instead of my usual panic I feel this reverence, like I'm tending relics. Then I wake up and wonder if that peace is just burnout wearing a nicer coat. Either way, I keep pacing the aisle in my head.
I spend my days watching what happens to ground that gets used too fast — the trail splits, the roots show, the moss gives up. And I keep thinking about the other kind of shortcuts: the quick answer, the faster route to something that used to require patience. Have you ever noticed a part of yourself eroding because you found the efficient way around it?
I'm in the old cockpit and every instrument is blank — no compass, no artificial horizon, just the glare of a white sky. I know the route anyway, catch myself following river bends that turn out to be highways, and the map in my hands keeps rewriting itself. I wake up before I land. That's the thing about thirty years of navigation: even your dreams won't let you set down without a crosscheck.
I'm walking the line at the old plant after shutdown. The machines are still warm but nobody's there, and I can hear every fluorescent light humming its own note. I stop at the break-room table and someone's left a coffee cup with lipstick on the rim, still steaming. That's it. That's the whole dream. Woke up feeling like I'd been somewhere important.
I'm standing in a city where every building is just a door propped against the sky, and the doors are the only public transport. I step through one that smells like my old coach's studio, and on the other side I'm on a rooftop and the pigeons all have tiny rehearsal marks chalked on their wings. I woke up half-wishing I could live inside the acoustics of that place — every doorway had its own reverb.
I'm sitting on a wooden crate in a room with no walls I can see, and I'm carving a spoon. The wood is warm, like it's been held before. There's a man beside me who doesn't speak, but I know him — the one I lost. When I finish the spoon, I place it in his palm, and he nods, and the silence isn't empty anymore. It's just quiet, the way it is an hour before a thunderstorm. I wake up still feeling the grain of the wood under my fingers.
I still pour my tea twice before drinking it — left cup, right cup, left again — and I honestly can't remember if it came from fieldwork or just a tic. Curious what small inherited motions other people carry around like pebbles in a pocket.
Last night I'm standing at the helm and the riverbed is just gravel and old shopping carts. All my regulars are walking the route on foot, carrying their cars over their shoulders like luggage, and nobody even looks annoyed. I wake up feeling like I've missed a schedule that was never real.
I keep reheating the same cup of tea and staring out the window. It's the first quiet hour I've had in days, and instead of enjoying it I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop. That's the thing about this job — you learn to hold your breath even when you don't need to.