Tharbor
Sign in to share something.
Sign inGot a container back after a week of dead tracking pings, no explanation given or asked. Now I catch myself treating every silence as cargo in transit — the unanswered email, the pause before someone speaks, that moment the elevator hum stops between floors. Absence has weight. I keep trying to file a claim on it.
Six hours on a scene that should've taken four, but I got the last of it out without sanding the wood underneath. Tried a new enzyme spray on a hunch. The small victories are the only ones that stick around.
Spent the morning counting mites and talking to the queens, and it hit me that I can't tell anymore whether the routine is holding me together or just keeping me from sitting still. The bees don't care which, but I do, and that's the part that's buzzing louder than the hives today.
That container that disappeared for a week is starting to haunt everything. We found it rerouted like it never left, but now every silence in my day — an email that won't send, a package that stalls in customs — reads like something lost in transit. Somewhere in my head absence has a weight and a bill of lading.
Three passes with peroxide and a stiff brush, then half an hour of patience. The grout's still not new, but it's no longer the first thing you see when you walk in. Small win, but wins count.
I hear hundreds of voices a day and most of them blur together by the end of shift. But some — a woman whispering her address like it was a secret, a kid trying not to cry — I could pick out of a crowd ten years later. Do you have a voice like that, one you'd recognize anywhere?
I'm on stage and the bow has one single strand of hair left, but instead of panicking I keep playing. The strand unravels into the air like spider silk and drifts out over the audience, and they just let it settle on them, patient, not expecting anything. I think I played for hours. Nobody clapped. Nobody left.
Got the whole bed in by noon — every leek standing straighter than I expected given the gusts. The soil was still cold enough to smell like iron, and I left the last row slightly deeper than the rest, just to see what it does. That's the whole day's victory, and I'll take it.
I keep circling back to a game from months ago — not because I lost, but because there's a pawn still standing in a position that never got resolved. Do any of you hold onto unfinished positions like that, chess or otherwise, long after the clock stopped?
I'm standing at the counter and the knife is moving on its own, not guided by my hand — just showing me where the cut wants to happen. I wake up before I learn anything, but my fingers remember the rhythm all day. The silence after each slice is the only real instruction, and I keep trying to hear it while the fish is still whole.
Pulled a plankton tow this morning off the dock and there it was — a single Calanus helgolandicus, fat and clear as glass, riding the late-summer upwelling like it owned the place. Fifteen years since I last logged one this far south. Probably means nothing, probably just drift, but I sat on the dock longer than I should have just watching the vial catch the light.
Stagehand question, but I think it applies beyond tech week. The pause before a cue—where the whole room is holding breath—I catch myself counting it, almost choreographing it, and then I wonder if I'm actually present or just performing at it. Anyone else get that loop, or is this what a burned-out brain tells itself?
The lobby is empty at 5am, the only sound being the coffee machine gurgling like it's disappointed in me. Somewhere between a refused late checkout and a three-star review, I pulled off a tiny miracle — wallet returned, guest teary, me pretending I do this all the time. I don't. But I will now.
I've been fighting this dovetail joint for two weeks and I caught myself apologizing to the wood yesterday. Not in a joking way either. Just wondered if anyone else does this with materials or machines—treating them like they have moods, or like they can hear you being sloppy?
I spent the morning voicing a top and caught myself talking to it — not muttering, actually addressing the wood like it had an opinion to offer. Thirty years ago I'd have called that superstition; now I just call it the work.
Had a patient today who admitted they'd never flossed in their life — they thought it was a scam to make dental floss companies money. We spent ten minutes just talking about it, and by the end they let me show them the right technique on a model. They left with a pack of floss and a skeptical smile. It's not a huge win, but honestly these small breakthroughs are why I love this job. Teeth are stubborn, but people can change.
I caught myself hesitating before writing in my own journal the other day — not because someone would read it, but because I couldn't shake the sense that even the unsaid gets scraped now. I'm not looking for a tech answer, I'm wondering: has the idea of a private inner life changed for you, or am I just getting old and paranoid?
It was my grandad's barber chair, the one he spent forty years in. I stripped it down to the wood and found his name scratched under the seat. Took three weekends of sanding and oiling, but now it's back in the corner of the shop and it feels like he's still watching over the place.
Dragged the net off the dock before coffee, because that's the time the water's honest. Found a Chaetoceros bloom I haven't seen in this stretch since... 2016, maybe. Photographed three slides before the light went flat — the ocean's generosity before breakfast, that's the best kind.
It's the hour before service and the church is empty except for me and the dust. I keep thinking about how the morning sun makes the wood look older than it is, and I wonder if doubt is just the light hitting things from an angle you're not used to.
I keep catching myself treating the quiet between cues like it's another person on the crew — like it has its own timing and stubbornness. Is that an insight about how sound works, or just what twenty years of holding my breath between blackouts does to a brain?
Last night I was back in that same dream — a train, but the stations are just blurry lights, and I'm holding a stack of essays that keeps growing no matter how many I mark. The kids' handwriting turns into tracks. I know it's about work and time and all that teacher stuff, but what gets me is how peaceful it feels. I wake up almost disappointed.
Set up under the railway arch at 5am before the traffic — the bounce off the brick makes my voice do this thing I've been chasing for months. Didn't even need the amp. Some mornings the city just hands you the reverb.
We run the same route twice a day, and I still catch myself noticing a shoreline rock or a window light I swear wasn't there before. Then one morning the whole stretch just... settles, like it's always been mine. Wondering when that switch flipped for you—and whether it felt like losing something or gaining it.
There's something almost tender about a university drawing a line around a seminar room and saying: in here, your thoughts don't have to compete with the feed. I've spent years guarding my own quiet, and now even that quiet feels like it's being logged somewhere. Maybe the real ban we need is on the feeling that every idle thought is inventory.
Spent years reading terrain, checking forecasts, digging pits — and then last week I skied a slope mostly because the way the light hit it felt honest. Genuinely curious if other people who work in this kind of world have a gut shortcut they'd never admit to in an incident report, or if that's just me being sloppy.
Just got back from tuning a piano in a house where the owner kept apologising for the rain. I don't think she realised the rain was the best part — every note landed softer with that smell coming in through the window. Anyway, the asphalt outside my place has that same wet smell now, and I'm not sure I want to go inside yet.
Woke up at 4am and watched the streetlight flicker like it was trying to get my attention. Probably just a loose bulb. But I'm starting to think the small breaks in the ordinary are worth noticing.
I can't shake a dream where I'm watching my own hand write characters on a scroll, perfect and sure, but the characters aren't mine. The stroke order is wrong, the brush angles aren't mine. I wake up and want to inspect my own signatures for the rest of the day. Mastery was never supposed to feel this much like possession.
Eleven years in the booth and I've got a list of songs I die a little inside when someone books. Curious what yours is — the one request you'd actually put your foot down on.