I Miss Ask Jeeves

This weekend in Austin we’re getting those beautiful overcast skies that make you want to stay inside and watch movies. You know the kind — the sky is gray, the air is quiet, and suddenly the idea of leaving the house feels completely unnecessary. Honestly, I’m looking forward to it. A rainy weekend, a couch, maybe a blanket, and a good movie is one of life’s simplest pleasures.

Which brings me to something strange I’ve been feeling lately.

I’ve had this sudden urge to buy a Blu-ray player again.

I know, I know. It sounds ridiculous. We live in a world where essentially every movie ever made is floating around in the cloud somewhere, available instantly on demand. But lately I’ve been thinking about physical media again — Blu-rays, CDs, tapes. You already know how I feel about vinyl. There’s something about holding the thing in your hands, sliding it out of a case, placing it on a shelf, that makes the experience feel more intentional somehow.

Maybe that’s why I never really got on board with e-readers. I’ve always been a book person. I like pages. I like margins. I like the weight of a book in my hands. Something about the physical object slows the experience down in a way I’ve always appreciated.

Lately I’ve been wondering if this renewed interest in physical things is connected to how much of life now exists online.

The other day I was scrolling through old photos — as one does — and I stumbled across a picture my mom had sent me years ago. It was our very first computer setup at home. The thing was glorious in that late-90s way: a giant CRT monitor, the beige tower with a CD drive, and a little external desktop microphone sitting on the desk.

I posted the photo on Instagram, and my mom texted me a little while later saying she remembered exactly why she had taken that picture.

It was the first time we logged onto AOL.

When she said that, I swear it felt like someone kicked a soccer ball into my stomach. Pure nostalgia.

Because suddenly I remembered something that feels almost impossible now: the internet used to be a place you had to go to.

You sat down at the computer. You logged on. You browsed around for a while. And then eventually you logged off and went back to the rest of your life.

It wasn’t everywhere.

Some of you reading this probably don’t even remember that era, which is a slightly strange thing for me to realize as I write it. But there was a time when the entirety of human existence wasn’t digitized and living in the palm of your hand. You couldn’t ask a robot to proofread your paper. You couldn’t instantly Google whatever random thought popped into your head.

You had Ask Jeeves.

And boy did Jeeves take his time.

If you wanted to watch a show, you checked the TV Guide and waited for it to come on. If you wanted to hear a record, you put the record on. If you wanted to go online, you physically went to the computer.

Now everything is immediate. ChatGPT this, Google that, ask Siri something. Instagram, Reddit, Facebook, LinkedIn, TikTok — an endless stream of information and noise that follows us everywhere we go.

And don’t get me wrong — I love technology. Truly. Having access to the entire history of recorded music at the press of a button is still something that feels miraculous to me.

But I also think something subtle has changed along the way.

We’ve trained ourselves to expect immediate results. If we try something once and it doesn’t work right away, we assume we’re not good at it. If we can’t master something quickly, we move on to the next thing.

Creativity doesn’t really work that way.

The things that end up meaning the most to us — learning an instrument, making art, building something with care — tend to move at a much slower pace. They require repetition. Patience. Time spent failing quietly before anything good starts to emerge.

I suppose that’s part of why I’ve always been drawn to slower things.

Books instead of screens.

Vinyl instead of playlists.

And, in many ways, the kind of music I make.

Ambient music, at its best, isn’t really asking for your attention in the way so much of modern media does. It’s more like an invitation. A small pocket of space where things can unfold a little more slowly.

Which, now that I think about it, might be why the idea of buying a Blu-ray player again suddenly feels appealing. Not because I need one. But because the ritual itself feels nice to imagine — choosing a film, putting it on intentionally, letting the experience unfold without scrolling or multitasking or checking my phone every five minutes.

Maybe that’s all I’m really chasing.

Not nostalgia exactly.

Just a slightly slower rhythm.

And honestly, that’s probably the same instinct that led me to make the music I make in the first place.

If you’d like to hear the newest piece of that, my new EP drift is out now.

What the Olympics Taught Me About Devotion

Over the weekend, while traveling to visit family, I accidentally watched a lot of the Olympics.

“Accidentally” meaning — it was just on. And I stayed.

I haven’t watched the Olympics in years. Not for any particular reason. They just hadn’t crossed my path. But this time I found myself completely transfixed.

Holy crap.

It is absolutely insane what humans are capable of.

These are people operating in the top fraction of a percent of humanity. Professionals who have dedicated their lives — truly their lives — to something most of us would consider obscure.

I kept turning to my brother-in-law and asking, “How does someone even discover they’re good at something like curling?”

Not just good. World-class.

And then beyond that — how do they love it enough to give themselves to it? To wake up early. To fall. To lose. To repeat. For years.

The drone shots behind the bobsled and speed skating really put things into perspective. That’s where you can feel the speed. The danger. The razor-thin margins between victory and heartbreak.

They are superhuman.

But here’s what actually got me.

I teared up.

Not because of the gold medals.

But because I watched two downhill skiers finish their runs — both completely exhausted, having just given everything they had. The results flashed on the board. One rejoiced. The other was crushed.

And yet — they turned to each other and embraced.

Different countries. Different languages. Years of rivalry.

Mutual respect.

It hit me harder than I expected.

Because underneath all of the flags and national anthems and commentary, what I was actually witnessing was devotion.

Years of quiet, invisible devotion.

Devotion Is Invisible Most of the Time

We only see the podium moment.

We don’t see the 5:00am practices.
The injuries.
The self-doubt.
The repetition.
The years when no one was watching.

It made me think about craft in general.

About anyone who gives themselves to something long enough that it shapes who they are.

As I sat there watching, I felt something quietly familiar.

Not in an ego way.
Not in a “compare yourself to Olympians” way.

But in a “this is what dedication looks like” way.

I’ve been playing guitar since I was twelve years old.

Long before I could really play it.

Long before I understood scales or modes or tone or discipline.

I just knew I was drawn to it. To the way it felt in my hands. To the sound vibrating through wood and air.

I’ve been chasing sound ever since.

Recording in bedrooms.
Looping in Astoria apartments.
Sitting in front of speakers adjusting a reverb tail by half a decibel.
Vintage synths humming in the background.
Field recordings captured on walks.
Sessions where nothing worked.
Sessions where everything clicked.

No medals.
No podium.

But devotion all the same.

The Long Arc of Showing Up

When I think about it, I’ve dedicated my life to sound.

Not in a glamorous way.
In a consistent way.

The kind where you show up whether you feel inspired or not.
The kind where you keep refining your ear.
The kind where you move through burnout.
Through addiction.
Through grief.
Through doubt.

Two months ago today, our sweet Nala passed.

Time since then has felt both instantaneous and eternal.

My brain has been in survival mode.
Just getting through.

And yet — even in that fog — I’ve still shown up to the studio.

Not because I had to.
Not because of an algorithm.
But because it’s what I do.

It’s my craft. It’s my way of processing. It’s my version of training.

Devotion doesn’t always look dramatic.

Sometimes it looks like quietly sitting at a piano and letting one chord ring.
Sometimes it looks like scrapping a mix and starting over.
Sometimes it looks like releasing ambient music without expectation.

Respect for the Ones Who Show Up

Watching those athletes embrace each other reminded me of something simple:

When you’ve given yourself to something fully, you recognize that same dedication in others.

It’s not about winning.
It’s about the shared understanding of what it took to get there.

There’s something deeply human about that.

In a world that feels increasingly divided — politically, socially, digitally — I found myself unexpectedly moved by the simplicity of respect.

Different countries.
Different ideologies.
Same sacrifice.
Same discipline.
Same love of craft.

And it made me think about the creative community, too.

Every artist I admire — whether ambient composers, film scorers, modular synth explorers, or painters — has devoted their life to something intangible.

We may make wildly different sounds.
We may hold different beliefs.
But underneath it all is a shared devotion to making something honest.

We Are All Training For Something

Maybe not the Olympics.

But something.

Maybe it’s parenting.
Maybe it’s healing.
Maybe it’s sobriety.
Maybe it’s building a life aligned with your values.
Maybe it’s simply trying to be a decent human in a loud world.

I think what moved me most was remembering that beneath the noise, we are all training for something.

We are all trying.
We are all tired sometimes.
We are all giving more than people see.

And when we remember that, it becomes a little easier to extend grace.

To embrace instead of divide.
To respect instead of diminish.

Devotion Over Division

The Olympics didn’t make me patriotic.

They made me reflective.

They reminded me that dedication is sacred.
That craft is worthy.
That respect is powerful.

And they reminded me that even in grief, even in uncertainty, even in survival mode — I am still devoted to what I do.

Not because it makes me special.

But because it keeps me human.

And maybe that’s the point.

We are humans.
All going through things.
Trying to do our best.

And if we can meet each other there — in the shared understanding of effort — maybe we’ll be alright.