Creating Emotion with Reverb & Delay: The Heart of Ambient Music

If there's one thing I've learned in making ambient music as Six Missing, it's that sound alone isn't enough—emotion lives in the space around the sound. That’s where reverb and delay come in. These two effects are the heart of how I shape emotional texture and movement. They’re not just tools; they’re mood shifters, sculptors of space, and conveyors of feeling.

Ambient music, by nature, doesn’t rely on melody or rhythm in the traditional sense. It relies on atmosphere, tone, and depth—and reverb and delay are essential for building that immersive world.

Why Reverb Matters

Reverb simulates space. It tells your brain how big a room is, how far away a sound might be, or whether you're hearing something in a cathedral, a cave, or under the surface of water. But in ambient music, reverb isn't just about creating a sense of space—it's about dissolving boundaries.

I often use long, lush reverb tails that stretch notes into eternity, letting them drift and blur into one another. This creates a kind of sonic fog that softens edges and makes everything feel connected. It’s a way of letting a sound linger emotionally, like the echo of a thought or a feeling you can’t quite shake.

The Emotional Weight of Delay

Where reverb creates space, delay creates memory. A delayed sound is a reflection, a moment that repeats and transforms over time. In ambient music, I love using delay not just for rhythmic echo, but for the emotional weight it carries—a voice or guitar note bouncing back like a memory you keep returning to.

Delays can be short and subtle, like the feeling of déjà vu, or long and unpredictable, like the passage of time. I often use tape-style delays or analog units that introduce gentle imperfections—flutter, warble, degradation—that make the echoes feel more human.

How I Use Reverb & Delay in Six Missing

One of the ways I build emotional space in my music is by stacking multiple reverbs. I might use a shorter room reverb to emulate a physical space or proximity—something that brings a bit of presence and intimacy—and then layer it with a long, washed-out tail that lets everything dissolve into the atmosphere. This contrast helps create depth, giving the sound both weight and lift, grounding it while allowing it to drift.

In my studio, I’ve built a signal chain that includes vintage delay pedals, reverb units, and modular effects chains that allow me to sculpt space in real time. Some go-to tools include:

• Boss DD-20 in looping mode for cascading echoes.

• Meris Mercury7 for reverb that sounds like it’s from another galaxy.

• EarthQuaker Devices Avalanche Run for dreamy stereo ambiance.

• Analog tape machines to create natural tape delay and saturation.

When I'm creating, I rarely hear a dry sound and say “that’s it.” It's usually once the sound is bathed in reverb or bouncing through delay lines that it starts to feel like Six Missing.

Why It Matters

In a world that’s loud, fast, and sharp-edged, ambient music offers a place to slow down and soften. Reverb and delay create that softening effect. They let sounds blur into one another, letting listeners rest in the spaces between.

Whether I’m designing a track for meditation, nighttime reflection, or a deep emotional dive, these tools allow me to shape an experience that’s not just heard—but felt.

If you’re curious about how these textures play out in real time, check out my playlist Meditative Moments, where reverb and delay are woven into every track to help you slow down, breathe, and just be:

🎧 Follow & Save Meditative Moments

Until next time,
Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

Returning Home: Reflections on Family and Self Through Sound

Spending time with family is never just about the visit—it’s about the history, the patterns, the quiet moments that stretch between conversations. It’s about returning to a version of yourself you thought you outgrew, only to realize how much of it still lives in you.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on how being around family can be its own kind of meditation. There’s something about sitting across from your parents, seeing your mannerisms reflected back at you, hearing a familiar tone in someone else’s voice—and realizing, that’s me too.

The Mirror of Family

Being home—physically or emotionally—means stepping into an environment that shaped you. It can be comforting. It can be challenging. Often, it’s both. You catch glimpses of the traits you’ve carried forward: maybe a stubbornness, a certain way of handling stress, a deep sense of care. And then there are the things you’ve tried to unlearn, the parts you’re gently rewriting in yourself.

It’s not about judgment. It’s about awareness. Noticing the echoes of your upbringing in your adult self and asking, Do I want to keep this? Or do I want to shift it?

The Practice of Patience

Family dynamics aren’t always easy. Old stories resurface. Roles we thought we shed reappear without warning. But what I’ve learned is that these moments, though sometimes difficult, are invitations—to slow down, to respond rather than react, to extend the same compassion we offer to strangers back to the people who raised us.

In that way, being with family becomes a practice, one not so different from meditation: sit with it, breathe through it, notice what comes up, and let it move.

How Ambient Music Mirrors This Process

There’s a parallel for me in the ambient music I create as Six Missing. So much of ambient composition is about space, patience, and reflection. There’s no rush. No hard start or stop. Just the slow unfolding of texture, the subtle shifts that ask you to notice rather than chase.

Just like in family relationships, there’s room for tension and release, for moments of dissonance and deep harmony. Sometimes a single drone or melody line will repeat and shift so slightly that you don’t realize it’s changed until you’re fully immersed in something new.

Creating this kind of music has taught me to listen more closely, to be with what’s present without needing to fix it—a skill that’s just as important when navigating the nuances of family.

An Invitation to Reflect

If you’re spending time with family, or even just thinking about your roots, I invite you to approach it like you would a quiet piece of music:

• Pause. Notice what emotions arise.

• Listen for what’s beneath the surface. Not everything is loud or obvious.

• Allow space. Sometimes just being together is enough.

And if you need something to help ease into that reflective space, I’ve curated a playlist called Meditative Moments, full of ambient tracks that hold space for introspection, including subtle field recordings and gentle textures that mirror these emotional landscapes:

🎧 Follow & Save Meditative Moments

Whether you’re sitting with your parents at the kitchen table or alone with a memory, know that the process of noticing, reflecting, and evolving is sacred. And you don’t have to rush it.

Until next time,
Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

How Field Recordings Bring Ambient Music to Life

One of the most fascinating aspects of ambient music is its ability to transport listeners—to create a sense of place, mood, and emotion without the need for traditional song structures. One of the ways I love to achieve this in Six Missing is through field recordings—capturing and integrating real-world sounds into my compositions.

Field recordings have the power to ground music in something tangible, making it feel more alive, more connected to the world around us. A subtle breeze, the distant hum of a city, or the soft rhythm of waves can add a level of depth and atmosphere that synthesizers alone can’t always achieve.

What Are Field Recordings?

Field recordings are sounds captured from the real world, whether from nature, urban environments, or even unexpected mechanical sources. They can be used to:

• Enhance texture – Adding organic layers that blend with electronic elements.

• Evoke emotion – Creating a sense of nostalgia, serenity, or mystery.

• Define space – Making music feel like it's unfolding in a specific location.

• Introduce unpredictability – No two natural sounds are exactly the same, making each recording unique.

The Emotional Impact of Real-World Sounds

Music is deeply tied to memory and sensory experiences. A simple field recording—like birdsong, distant thunder, or the echo of footsteps—can instantly transport listeners to another time or place.

Think about how certain sounds make you feel:

• Rain on a window – Often associated with warmth, introspection, or solitude.

• Distant traffic at night – Evokes a sense of movement, longing, or the quiet energy of a city.

• Wind moving through trees – A feeling of openness, calm, and deep connection to nature.

These aren’t just sound effects—they’re emotional triggers that help shape the experience of the music.

How I Use Field Recordings in My Music

For Six Missing, field recordings are a key part of my sound. I like to incorporate:

• Subtle textures beneath synth drones – A faint, almost imperceptible environmental noise can make a piece feel more immersive.

• Natural reverbs and echoes – Capturing how sound interacts with different spaces can add an organic depth that studio reverb can’t replicate.

• Looping fragments of real-world sound – Sometimes, a repeating rhythm of a distant train or dripping water can act as a percussive or meditative element.

I’ve always been drawn to the interplay between synthetic and organic sounds—how a processed, filtered synth pad can feel like it belongs in the same world as the rustling of leaves. It’s this blending of human-made and natural sound that makes ambient music feel truly alive.

Field Recording in Ambient Music History

Many ambient artists have embraced field recordings to create immersive worlds in their music:

• Brian Eno incorporated environmental sounds in his early ambient works, making the listening space itself part of the experience.

• Hiroshi Yoshimura used recordings of water and nature to enhance the meditative quality of his minimalist compositions.

• Chris Watson, known for his work in sound ecology, brought high-fidelity nature recordings into the world of ambient and experimental music.

How to Start Using Field Recordings in Your Own Music

For artists and producers who want to explore field recordings, here are a few tips:

1. Use your phone or a portable recorder – You don’t need expensive equipment to start; even a simple phone mic can capture compelling sounds.

2. Be intentional with sound selection – Find recordings that evoke a mood rather than adding noise for the sake of it.

3. Layer recordings subtly – Blending them under synths, pads, or reverb can create a feeling rather than being the focal point.

4. Experiment with processing – Stretching, reversing, or filtering recordings can transform everyday sounds into something surreal.

Experience Field Recordings in Ambient Music

If you want to explore how field recordings create depth and space in ambient music, check out my Meditative Wind Down playlist:

🎧 Follow & Save Meditative Moments

This playlist features carefully curated tracks that highlight the beauty of field recordings in ambient music, blending organic textures with deep, immersive soundscapes.

Field recordings remind us that music isn’t separate from the world—it’s part of it. Every sound, every breath, every subtle movement of the air is music waiting to be heard.

Until next time,
Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

The Role of Silence in Ambient Music

In music, we often focus on the notes, the melodies, and the textures that shape a piece. But in ambient music, silence is just as important as sound. The spaces between the notes, the pauses, the moments of stillness—these are what give the music its depth and emotional resonance.

I’ve always been drawn to the power of space in sound. Silence in ambient music isn’t empty; it’s an active presence, shaping the listener’s experience and allowing the music to breathe. Some of my favorite ambient compositions use silence as an instrument itself, creating an ebb and flow that mirrors the natural rhythms of life, breath, and thought.

Why Silence Matters in Ambient Music

Silence in music is often misunderstood. In more traditional compositions, silence might serve as a pause between phrases, a way to create tension before resolution. But in ambient music, silence is part of the texture, allowing the listener to experience sound more deeply.

Think about how a deep breath can change your perception of a moment. Silence in music acts the same way—it resets the mind, allowing space for reflection, for feeling, for simply existing within the soundscape. Some of the ways silence functions in ambient music include:

• Creating a Sense of Space – Silence allows the music to expand, giving the listener a sense of vastness, as if the sound exists in an open landscape.

• Encouraging Deep Listening – With fewer elements competing for attention, silence invites the listener to focus on the subtleties of sound.

• Allowing for Emotional Impact – The absence of sound can be just as moving as a soaring melody, creating moments of introspection.

• Mimicking Natural Rhythms – Just as the world has its own cycles of activity and stillness, silence in ambient music reflects that natural balance.

How I Use Silence in My Music

In Six Missing, I intentionally leave space within my compositions, allowing each note, drone, or texture to fully unfold before moving on. Some of my tracks use long decays, where the tail end of a reverb slowly fades into near silence, while others leave open gaps between tones, letting the silence itself feel like part of the arrangement.

I also experiment with field recordings that capture natural quiet—the soft hum of a distant landscape, the nearly imperceptible shift of wind through trees. These elements create a sense of presence, where the silence feels alive rather than absent.

The Influence of Silence in Ambient Music History

Many pioneers of ambient and minimalist music have explored silence as a core part of their work:

• Brian Eno embraced space in his compositions, particularly in Music for Airports, where silence plays as much of a role as the drifting piano tones.

• Harold Budd often spoke of “soft pedal” playing, where the space around the notes carried just as much meaning as the notes themselves.

• Japanese ambient composers like Hiroshi Yoshimura and Midori Takada used silence and subtlety to create deeply meditative listening experiences.

Listening With Silence in Mind

The next time you listen to an ambient track, focus on the moments of stillness. Notice how the silence isn’t just absence but an intentional presence, shaping how the music is perceived. Try incorporating silence into your own listening habits—whether it’s pausing between tracks, sitting with a song’s natural fadeout, or simply listening more deeply to the spaces within the sound.

For those looking for an ambient playlist that embraces these elements, I’ve curated Meditative Wind Down, featuring tracks that highlight the beauty of space and stillness in music:

🎧 Listen to Meditative Wind Down

Silence isn’t just the absence of sound—it’s an invitation to listen more deeply.

Until next time,
Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

The Moog Minimoog: My First Vintage Synth & A Spiritual Connection to Sound

There are certain instruments that feel more like guides than tools—ones that don’t just produce sound but seem to speak a language of their own. For me, that instrument is the Moog Minimoog Model D.

This wasn’t just my first real-deal synthesizer—it was my first vintage synth, the one that truly unlocked my love for analog sound design and changed how I approached music forever. It was also the first time I ever made a big investment in an instrument, and I’ll admit, I hesitated. The price tag made me nervous, but Hanna encouraged me to go for it. She knew—before I even did—how much I would connect with it, how much it would shape the sound of Six Missing.

She was right. The Minimoog has since become a staple of my work, making its way into nearly every Six Missing track.

A Synth That Feels Alive

There’s something undeniably human about the Minimoog. From the moment I first played it, I realized that this wasn’t just an instrument—it was a living, breathing sound machine. Its oscillators have a warmth and richness that feel organic, as if the sound is growing and evolving in real-time.

The Minimoog is known for its thick, unmistakable bass tones, but what drew me in was its ability to drift between the earthly and the otherworldly. It can sound as grounded as a cello or as vast as the cosmos. The way its filter moves, how it subtly reacts to the slightest changes in touch, makes it feel alive.

That’s what I love most about vintage synths—the unpredictability, the imperfections, the way they breathe. No two performances on the Minimoog ever sound exactly the same, which makes it feel like a true collaborator in my creative process.

A Spiritual Connection Through Bob Moog

After I bought the Minimoog, I became fascinated with Bob Moog himself. I watched a documentary about his life, and something about the way he spoke about sound resonated deeply with me. He didn’t just see synthesizers as machines—he saw them as something spiritual, something alive.

Moog believed that synthesizers weren’t just tools for making music but instruments that connected us to something greater than ourselves. He spoke about sound in a way that felt almost sacred, as if music wasn’t just something we create, but something we uncover—something that already exists in the ether, waiting to be heard.

That idea is central to Six Missing. My music has always been about creating a space—about capturing something just beyond reach. The Minimoog, with its almost mystical ability to bridge the electronic and the organic, fits perfectly within that philosophy.

The Sound of Six Missing

Since that first moment with the Minimoog, it has shaped my sound in ways I never expected. It has been the foundation of so many Six Missing tracks, whether subtly tucked into the atmosphere or leading the way with deep, resonant tones.

The way it interacts with effects—reverbs stretching it into infinite space, delays warping it into something ethereal—makes it an essential tool in crafting the textures I’m drawn to. It’s not just about the notes it plays; it’s about the space between the notes, the movement, the way the sound lingers and evolves.

The Synth That Almost Wasn’t

Looking back, I’m grateful Hanna gave me that final push to go for it. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the things we hesitate on are the very things that will shape us the most.

The Minimoog wasn’t just my first vintage synth—it was the beginning of a deeper relationship with sound itself. And I know that relationship will continue to unfold with every track I create.

Until next time,
Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

How Ambient Music Can Help Children Wind Down for Sleep

As I continue exploring the impact of ambient music on relaxation and sleep, I recently learned about an unexpected way my music is being used—my sister plays my ambient compositions for my nephew at night as part of his bedtime routine.

It turns out, ambient music isn’t just for meditation, deep focus, or adult relaxation—it can be a powerful tool for children as well. The gentle, evolving textures and soft frequencies provide the perfect backdrop for winding down, creating a calm and predictable nighttime atmosphere.

Why Ambient Music Works for Kids’ Sleep

Children, especially toddlers, thrive on consistency and routine. The process of transitioning from an active state to rest can be difficult, particularly for young children with high energy levels. Music acts as an environmental cue, signaling to the brain that it’s time to slow down and prepare for sleep.

Unlike traditional lullabies, ambient music is non-intrusive, free of lyrics, and allows for a natural, gradual shift into relaxation. Studies show that soothing soundscapes help regulate cortisol levels, the hormone responsible for stress, while encouraging the production of melatonin, the hormone that controls sleep cycles.

How Music Supports a Healthy Bedtime Routine

By incorporating ambient music into a child’s nightly routine, parents can create a soothing, predictable transition to bedtime. Here’s how it helps:

• Creates a Calming Atmosphere – The slow-moving sounds help ease the nervous system into a restful state.

• Encourages Mindful Breathing – The lack of sharp transitions or sudden shifts allows children’s breathing to naturally sync with the music’s slow pulse.

• Blocks Out Household Noise – Whether there are older siblings, street sounds, or general distractions, a soft ambient playlist provides a gentle sonic cocoon.

• Becomes a Sleep Association – When played consistently, ambient music can become a subconscious signal that bedtime is near, making it easier for kids to fall asleep over time.

A Simple Bedtime Routine with Ambient Music

If you’re looking to incorporate ambient music into your child’s bedtime routine, try this approach:

1. Start playing the music 20-30 minutes before bedtime – This gives your child’s body time to respond to the sounds.

2. Keep the volume low – The music should be a background presence rather than an active focal point.

3. Pair with other calming activities – Reading a book, dimming the lights, and limiting screen time will reinforce relaxation.

4. Let it continue playing after they fall asleep – The steady sound can help prevent night wakings by maintaining a consistent sleep environment.

Music for the Next Generation

Hearing that my nephew listens to my music as part of his bedtime routine has been one of the most rewarding surprises of my journey as an ambient artist. Knowing that something I’ve created is helping others—not just adults but also children—reinforces my belief that music has the power to shape our emotional and physical states.

If you’re a parent looking for a gentle, peaceful way to support your child’s sleep, try adding ambient music to their nighttime routine. You might find that it helps create a sense of calm and predictability, not just for them, but for you as well.

🎧 Try my Sleep & Ambient Music Playlist

Wishing you (and your little ones) a restful night.

Until next time, Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

The Science of Sleep: How Ambient Music Helps You Rest

Sleep is one of the most essential functions of the human body, yet for many people, falling and staying asleep is a nightly challenge. In a world filled with screens, notifications, and overstimulation, winding down can feel impossible. That’s where ambient music for sleep comes in.

I’ve always been drawn to the way sound shapes our mental and emotional states, and over time, I’ve come to appreciate just how powerful ambient music can be in preparing the body and mind for deep rest. The science backs it up—listening to calming music before bed can help slow your heart rate, reduce stress hormones, and even enhance brain function while you sleep.

How Music Prepares the Body for Sleep

Our bodies are deeply attuned to rhythm. Slower tempos, gentle drones, and evolving soundscapes signal to the brain that it’s time to transition into rest mode. When we listen to low-frequency tones and soft, sustained notes, the parasympathetic nervous system kicks in, lowering heart rate and blood pressure, which naturally promotes relaxation.

Some studies suggest that music around 60 beats per minute (BPM) aligns with the body’s resting heart rate, creating an entrainment effect that encourages deeper sleep cycles. This is why ambient music for relaxation often features minimal rhythm or a slow pulse, allowing the brain to gently synchronize with its natural bedtime state.

The Brain’s Nightly Reset: How Sleep “Bathes” the Mind

While you sleep, your brain isn’t just resting—it’s actively working. One of the most fascinating processes is the glymphatic system, which “washes” your brain with cerebrospinal fluid, removing toxins that accumulate throughout the day. This nightly cleansing is crucial for cognitive function, memory consolidation, and mental clarity.

Listening to ambient music during this process can create a sound environment that enhances the brain’s ability to reset. By reducing external noise and providing a steady, gentle background, ambient soundscapes help limit disturbances and keep the nervous system in a relaxed state throughout the night.

The Science-Backed Benefits of Ambient Music for Sleep

Research has shown that listening to soothing music before bed can:

• Decrease stress and anxiety by lowering cortisol levels

• Improve sleep quality and reduce time spent awake during the night

• Encourage deep, restorative sleep by slowing brainwave activity

• Aid in memory consolidation by enhancing neural processing during REM sleep

How to Incorporate Ambient Music into Your Sleep Routine

If you’re looking to experiment with ambient music for better sleep, here are a few simple ways to integrate it into your nightly routine:

1. Start 30-60 minutes before bed – Begin playing ambient music as part of your wind-down routine to cue your body for sleep.

2. Keep the volume low – Music for sleep should be just above the threshold of hearing, acting as a gentle backdrop.

3. Avoid abrupt changes in sound – Choose tracks that flow seamlessly without sudden shifts in dynamics or tempo.

4. Use a timer or looping playlist – Set your music to play for a specific duration or allow it to run throughout the night for uninterrupted rest.

As someone who creates ambient music, I love hearing how people use these soundscapes in their daily lives. If you struggle with sleep, try incorporating ambient music into your routine and see how it affects your rest.

My Ambient Music for Sleep Playlists

If you’re looking for something to try tonight, I’ve curated a playlist featuring my own music and other sleep-friendly soundscapes:

🎧 Sleep & Ambient Music Playlist

I hope this helps you find the stillness you need. Sleep well.

Until next time, Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

Discovering Japanese Ambient Music: A Journey into Sound and Space

I’ve always been drawn to ambient music, but my recent exploration into Japanese ambient music (Kankyō Ongaku) has been something entirely different—both deeply inspiring and incredibly meditative. As someone new to this world, I’m finding myself captivated by the way these artists utilize field recordings, minimalist compositions, and environmental soundscapes to create something that feels like breathing room for the mind.

A Brief History of Japanese Ambient Music

During the late 1970s and 1980s, Japan saw a flourishing of ambient and minimalist music, much of it falling under the term Kankyō Ongaku, meaning "environmental music." Unlike traditional ambient music in the West, which often focused on pure electronic textures, Japanese ambient artists integrated elements of nature, traditional instrumentation, and everyday soundscapes to craft immersive sonic environments.

This movement was influenced by Western ambient pioneers like Brian Eno, yet it took on a distinctly Japanese approach—one deeply rooted in the country’s cultural appreciation for space, impermanence, and the beauty of simplicity.

Artists That Defined the Genre

Exploring this world has led me to some incredible artists, many of whom have redefined my understanding of how music interacts with time, space, and emotion. Here are a few that have stood out:

• Hiroshi Yoshimura – Perhaps one of the most well-known names in Japanese ambient music, his 1982 album Music for Nine Postcards is a masterpiece in minimalist soundscapes, blending delicate synth melodies with an almost weightless atmosphere.

• Midori Takada – A composer and percussionist, her 1983 album Through the Looking Glass remains a landmark in experimental ambient music, combining gamelan-inspired rhythms and organic textures to create something otherworldly.

• Satoshi Ashikawa – His album Still Way (Wave Notation 2) is a defining work of environmental music, where each note is intentional, and silence plays just as much a role as sound itself.

• Yasuaki Shimizu – While known for blending avant-garde jazz and classical elements, his work also drifts into ambient territory, creating cinematic and expansive compositions.

The Art of Space and Silence

One of the most fascinating aspects of Japanese ambient music is its ability to create an experience beyond just sound. Field recordings of water, birds, wind, and urban life are often woven seamlessly into the compositions, making the listener feel like they are inside a living, breathing soundscape.

Unlike much Western ambient music, which often builds upon dense layers of sound, Japanese ambient music embraces negative space, allowing room for silence and subtlety. This intentional use of space makes the music feel almost meditative, providing a sense of stillness even as it moves forward.

How This Music is Inspiring My Own Work

The more I listen, the more I find myself influenced by these ideas. The way these artists use repetition, natural sound, and slow movement resonates deeply with how I approach my own ambient compositions. There’s something profound in letting the music breathe, in letting it simply exist rather than trying to force it somewhere.

As I continue learning about this genre, I find myself paying more attention to the role of silence in music, the textures that field recordings add, and the emotional impact of restraint. There’s a quiet beauty in allowing sound to unfold naturally, and that’s something I hope to carry into my own work.

A Playlist for Exploration

If you’re curious about Japanese ambient music, I’ve put together a playlist featuring some of these artists. Whether you’re looking for something to accompany meditation, deep focus, or just a moment of stillness, I highly recommend diving in.

🎧 Japanese Ambient Playlist

This is just the beginning of my journey into this world, but already, it’s reshaping the way I think about sound. If you have recommendations or thoughts on this genre, I’d love to hear them.

Until next time, Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

Time, The Trickster: Five Years in a Blink

Time is wild. It bends, stretches, compresses, and warps in ways that make no logical sense. Five years in Austin have disappeared in what feels like a blink, yet somehow, the move from Astoria to Austin in February 2020 still feels like it just happened. It’s as if my body is here, but some part of me is still walking those familiar streets, weaving through the hum of the city, past bodegas and brownstones, caught in the echo of a place that never fully lets go.

And then, just like that, another February arrived. This time, February 2024, not with a cross-country leap, but with a milestone—closing on a new house and studio. A full circle moment. But how could five years have evaporated like mist, while other moments—waiting in a doctor’s office, a flight delay, the last minutes of an unbearable meeting—feel like they stretch into eternity? The contradiction of time is maddening, mesmerizing.

The Illusion of Time

Some argue that time doesn’t actually exist. That it’s a construct we’ve wrapped ourselves in, like a blanket woven from sunrises and deadlines. Physicists have made cases that past, present, and future all exist simultaneously, that time isn’t linear, but something more fluid—something our minds simply perceive as a straight line because that’s the only way we can process it.

And yet, we live by the clock. We measure, we count, we celebrate anniversaries, we mourn the years that slip away too fast. Time is both real and unreal, both rigid and elastic.

The Fast and the Slow

If time were absolute, then five years should always feel like five years. But the human mind doesn’t work that way. Time moves at the speed of experience. When we’re immersed in something new, when our senses are overloaded, when we’re present, time expands. It becomes vast. That’s why childhood summers felt endless, why a single month in a new city can feel like an entire era.

But routine compresses time. Days blur. Wake, work, eat, repeat. The rhythm of familiarity tricks us into believing that time is slipping through our fingers. Maybe that’s why Austin still feels new—because in between, the world paused. Just weeks after moving, the pandemic rewrote everything. Time became even stranger, a limbo between what was and what would be. And now, stepping into this next chapter, it feels like I’ve finally hit play again.

A Moment to Breathe

I don’t know if time exists, not in the way we think it does. But I do know that it doesn’t wait for anyone. And if the last five years have taught me anything, it’s that being present—truly here, truly awake in the moment—is the only way to slow it down. Not by trying to hold on, but by allowing each moment to be fully lived.

So here’s to five years that passed in a blink. Here’s to the next five, and whatever strange, beautiful, impossible way they unfold.

Until next time, Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

Letting Go of Hyper-Productivity: Why Rest is Essential to Growth

For years, I believed that the only way forward was through constant movement. More output, more progress, more pushing through. Rest felt like wasted time, an indulgence that I couldn’t afford if I wanted to build something meaningful. But over time, I’ve realized that hyper-productivity isn’t sustainable—it’s a fast track to burnout. And ironically, slowing down has been the key to unlocking more creativity, clarity, and fulfillment in my work and life.

The Illusion of Constant Motion

Somewhere along the way, we were taught that success is about doing more. We glorify the grind, wear exhaustion like a badge of honor, and convince ourselves that if we just push a little harder, we’ll reach some imagined finish line. But the reality is, creativity and well-being don’t thrive in a state of depletion.

I’ve spent years operating at full speed, measuring my worth by how much I could accomplish. But I started noticing something: the more I forced productivity, the less inspired I felt. The more I filled every moment with tasks, the less I could hear my own intuition. You can’t create from an empty well. The body, the mind, and the creative spirit all need time to recover.

Slowing Down to Speed Up

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned—one that I’m still learning—is that rest isn’t a pause in progress. It’s part of it. When I step away from the pressure to constantly produce, I allow space for ideas to unfold naturally. The best insights don’t come from forcing creativity; they come from letting it breathe.

Whether it’s taking a long walk, meditating, or simply allowing myself to do nothing for a while, I’ve found that slowing down actually speeds up my ability to create with intention. Some of my most profound musical ideas have come not while actively working in the studio, but while staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. Stillness is where sound is born.

Rest is a Form of Trust

There’s a level of trust required to step back and believe that you’re still moving forward. Rest isn’t laziness; it’s faith in the process. It’s understanding that ideas need time to incubate, that not every moment needs to be filled with action.

As I embrace this, I’ve started to redefine what productivity means to me. It’s no longer about checking off a never-ending to-do list but about creating in alignment with my energy. Some days, that means writing and recording for hours. Other days, it means walking away and giving my mind time to reset. Both are valuable. Both are necessary.

The Music of Stillness

This shift has influenced my music, too. The ambient compositions I create are about space—about what happens in the pauses between notes. Silence is just as important as sound. In many ways, learning to embrace rest in my life has deepened my understanding of stillness in music. It’s in the quiet moments that we find clarity, both in art and in ourselves.

Moving Forward with Intention

I’m still unlearning the idea that worth is tied to productivity. It’s a process. But I know now that slowing down isn’t a setback—it’s a strategy. Rest is what allows us to show up fully, to create from a place of depth rather than depletion.

So if you’re feeling stuck, drained, or uninspired, maybe the answer isn’t to push harder. Maybe it’s to step back, breathe, and trust that you’re still on your way.

Until next time, Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

Six Missing: The Ghostly Encounter That Inspired My Name

Some moments never leave you. They linger in the back of your mind, shifting and reshaping over time, but always present. My ghostly encounter was one of those moments, and it ultimately led to the name Six Missing—a name that now defines my music, my sound, and the unseen layers of existence I explore through ambient composition.

A Haunted Recording Session

Years ago, my band and I traveled to West Chester, Pennsylvania, to record an album at a studio near the Brandywine Battlefield, a site steeped in Revolutionary War history. The property had an eerie stillness to it, an almost unsettling quiet that seemed to hum beneath the surface.

We stayed in a small cottage on the grounds, separate from the main studio. Late one night, after a long session, I realized I had left something behind in the control room. I made the short walk alone, stepping into the darkened space, where the only sounds were the occasional creaks of an old building settling into the night.

As I retrieved my gear and turned to leave, a sudden, overwhelming sensation crept over me—an unshakable feeling that I was being watched. The air felt thick, pressing against my skin like static before a storm. I hurried back to the cottage, convincing myself it was just my imagination. But what happened next made me question everything.

A Presence in the Night

I climbed into my bunk, trying to shake the unease, when the silence was broken by the slow creak of the screen door opening. My body froze. I strained to listen, waiting for the sound of footsteps—someone from the band, maybe—but there was nothing. Just an emptiness stretching through the dark.

Then, without warning, a piercing, ice-cold sensation shot through the center of my back. It was as if something—someone—had pressed into me, sending a wave of despair and weightlessness through my entire body. I tried to move, to turn, but I was completely paralyzed. A deep, sinking feeling overtook me, a sensation I can only describe as slipping into the void.

I don’t know how long it lasted, but at some point, I remembered something I had seen on a ghost hunting show—speak with authority, take control. Summoning every ounce of strength, I forced out the words: LEAVE ME ALONE.

The moment I spoke, the weight lifted. My breath came back in a rush, my limbs unlocked, and the air in the room shifted. Then, just as clearly as before, I heard the screen door creak open again—and then softly close.

The Missing Six

The next morning, I hesitantly brought it up to the rest of the band, expecting them to laugh it off. But one of them turned pale. He had woken up in the night and heard the door open too, thinking it was one of us stepping outside.

Later, curiosity got the best of me, and I started researching the area. That’s when I came across the historical records—six soldiers from the Battle of Brandywine were documented as missing. Their bodies were never found, their stories lost to time.

I couldn’t shake the connection. Whether what I experienced was tied to them or not, it felt like more than a coincidence. The idea of something unseen but present—of spirits lingering just beyond perception—stayed with me. It resonated deeply with how I think about sound, about atmosphere, about the spaces between notes where emotion truly lives.

The Sound of the Unseen

When I started releasing music under the name Six Missing, it wasn’t just a nod to that night. It was about everything the experience represented: the unseen, the unknown, the way sound and memory intertwine. My ambient compositions aim to capture that—textures that feel both present and distant, melodies that drift like echoes through time.

There’s something powerful about what exists just beyond our reach. Whether in history, in memory, or in sound, the missing pieces often tell the most compelling stories.

That’s what Six Missing is about—creating music that lingers in the in-between, that resonates in the quiet spaces, and that, maybe, just maybe, touches something beyond what we can see.

A Soundtrack to the Unexplained

If you’ve ever felt something inexplicable—an eerie presence, an unshakable familiarity with a place you’ve never been—then you understand the feeling I chase in my music. My compositions are not just about melody or harmony; they are about atmosphere, memory, and the spaces in between.

I want my music to be a soundtrack for those moments when reality feels just a little thinner, when time slows, and the unseen world brushes against our own. Whether you listen for meditation, for deep focus, or simply to lose yourself in sound, know that you are stepping into that same ethereal space—where stories linger, where echoes fade, and where the missing are never truly gone.

Until next time, Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

Finding Stillness: How Ambient Music Helped Me Through Addiction, Anxiety, and Depression

For much of my life, I struggled to find stillness. My mind was constantly racing—sometimes with thoughts I didn’t want, other times with an overwhelming sense of unease. I turned to alcohol as a way to quiet the noise, to numb the weight of anxiety and depression that felt impossible to shake. What started as a temporary escape became a cycle I couldn’t break. It wasn’t until I found my way back to music—specifically ambient music—that I began to understand healing in a new way.

The Weight of Addiction

Addiction is deceptive. It doesn’t happen all at once—it creeps in slowly, disguising itself as relief, as control. For years, I convinced myself that alcohol was helping me manage my anxiety, when in reality, it was fueling it. The more I drank, the further I drifted from myself.

Anxiety and depression have a way of isolating you, making you feel like you’re stuck in a loop that no one else can understand. The drinking only made that loop tighter. At my lowest, I realized that I was trying to escape my own mind, but I didn’t know how to exist without the distractions I had built around me.

Rediscovering Sound as Healing

Music had always been a part of my life, but during my struggles with addiction, I lost my connection to it. The urgency of traditional songwriting—the need for structure, for lyrics—felt suffocating. I needed something that allowed me to just exist, something that didn’t demand anything from me.

That’s when I truly discovered ambient music. The first time I listened to Brian Eno’s Music for Airports, I felt something shift. The absence of a defined rhythm, the way the sounds stretched out into infinity—it was exactly what I needed. There was no expectation, no pressure, just a space to breathe.

As I started creating my own ambient music, I realized how much it mirrored my own recovery process. The layers of sound, the slow evolution of a piece over time—it all reflected the patience and presence that sobriety required. Ambient music taught me that healing wasn’t about erasing the past; it was about allowing things to unfold naturally, without force.

The Power of Deep Listening

One of the most valuable things ambient music has given me is the ability to truly listen. In the past, I used alcohol to drown things out—to escape discomfort. But ambient music does the opposite. It invites you to sit with the discomfort, to observe it without judgment. It allows you to recognize that emotions, like sound waves, rise and fall—they aren’t permanent.

This shift in perspective changed everything. Instead of resisting my anxiety, I started using music as a way to move through it. I experimented with vintage synths like the Moog Matriarch and Korg PS-3100, exploring textures that felt soothing rather than overwhelming. I built looping layers of sound, letting each note breathe, much like I was learning to do in my own life.

Music as a Meditation

As I deepened my sobriety, I found that making music became a form of meditation. The repetitive nature of looping, the way a delay pedal could stretch out a sound indefinitely—these elements mirrored the stillness I had been searching for. I began to understand that healing isn’t about distraction; it’s about presence.

Meditation had always been difficult for me in the traditional sense, but ambient music became my way in. I found solace in sound, using it to center myself when my thoughts felt too heavy. Floating in an expanse of synth waves, I could detach from the need to control everything and instead just be.

Creating for Others

The more I created, the more I realized that this music wasn’t just for me. People began reaching out, telling me that they used my music for their own moments of stillness—for studying, meditating, even coping with their own struggles. That connection reminded me why I started making music in the first place.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that healing isn’t linear. Some days are harder than others, and that’s okay. But finding something—whether it’s music, movement, or meditation—that brings you back to yourself is invaluable.

For me, that’s ambient music. It’s not just sound; it’s a space, a refuge, a reminder that even in stillness, there is movement.

Moving Forward

Now, over a decade into my sobriety, I look back on my journey with gratitude. I know that I wouldn’t be here without music, without the ability to lose myself in sound and find clarity in stillness. Ambient music helped me rebuild my relationship with myself, and it continues to be my guide.

Wherever you are in your own journey, I hope you find something that gives you space to breathe, to listen, and to simply be.

Until next time, Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

The Gear That Shaped My Sound (Part 1)

The Gear That Shaped My Sound

Every artist has a toolkit—an array of instruments, effects, and processes that define their creative language. For me, that toolkit is built on texture, space, and the unpredictability of sound. Six Missing wouldn’t exist without the instruments that have shaped my sonic world, from vintage synths to looping techniques that stretch time itself.

The Role of Vintage Synths

For better or worse, I have a lot of gear—and I happen to love it all. To prevent this blog from running too long, this will likely turn into a multi-part series or a recurring feature to cover all my gear babies. Synthesizers have been at the heart of my exploration into ambient music. Early in my journey, I discovered that not all synths are created equal—there’s something undeniably human about vintage analog gear. Their slight imperfections, the unpredictability of their oscillators, and the warmth of their tone make them feel alive.

Some of the most influential synths in my setup include:

• Moog Matriarch – A semi-modular powerhouse that allows for deep, organic sound design. The way its filter interacts with evolving patches has been central to my compositions.

• Moog Minimoog Model D – One of the most legendary synthesizers of all time, its unmistakable tone brings warmth and character to any track.

• Korg PS-3100 – A polyphonic monster with rich modulation possibilities, perfect for creating vast, evolving soundscapes.

These synths have become more than just tools—they're collaborators in my creative process, each adding its own voice to the sonic conversation.

Delay & The Art of Sound-On-Sound

Before I ever touched a synthesizer, I was obsessed with delay pedals. There’s something hypnotic about hearing a note repeat, degrade, and take on a life of its own. This obsession led me to experiment with sound-on-sound looping, a technique where repeated layers of sound evolve organically over time.

Some of my go-to delay and looping tools include:

• Boss DD-20 Giga Delay – My introduction to long-form looping, allowing me to create lush, evolving textures with extended delay times.

• Strymon El Capistan – A tape-style delay that captures the character of vintage tape echoes, adding warmth and unpredictability.

• EarthQuaker Devices Avalanche Run – A pedal that blends delay and reverb into one ethereal wash of sound, perfect for ambient compositions.

By layering loops with subtle modulations, I create evolving atmospheres that feel immersive and organic, allowing each piece to develop naturally over time.

The Studio Workflow

Though I started with Pro Tools, I transitioned to Ableton Live in 2018 and never looked back. Its non-linear workflow makes it perfect for experimenting with loops, textures, and unpredictable signal chains. Whether I’m routing synths through a chain of analog delays or resampling a field recording into granular synthesis, my approach to recording is fluid and exploratory.

At the heart of my studio is an ethos: let the sound guide the process. Whether it’s a synth patch that unfolds in an unexpected way or a delay trail that becomes the foundation of a new piece, I embrace happy accidents. It’s in those moments of unpredictability that the real magic happens.

Why Gear Matters and Doesn't

At the end of the day, gear is just a means to an end—but the right tools can unlock something deeper. That said, I could accomplish this with far less gear, and I fully acknowledge that. If you're just starting out, don’t feel pressured to amass a collection—some of my favorite pieces of music started with just a single instrument and a simple effect. The process takes time, and the journey should be fun. Experiment, learn what works for you, and remember that creativity isn’t about how much gear you have—it’s about how you use it. Each synth, pedal, and effect in my setup has shaped Six Missing in its own way, providing the textures and colors that define my sound. While I’ll always experiment with new tools, it’s the ones that inspire me to listen differently that truly matter.

Until next time, Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

Meditation & Music: The Sound of Stillness

Meditation & Music: The Sound of Stillness

Stillness isn’t the absence of sound—it’s the ability to hear what’s already there. That realization changed the way I approached both meditation and music. For years, I struggled with traditional meditation, finding it difficult to sit in silence while my mind raced. It wasn’t until I discovered sound as a meditative tool that I truly understood what stillness could be.

The Role of Sound in Meditation

Meditation doesn’t have to mean complete silence. In fact, sound can be one of the most powerful gateways to a meditative state. Ambient music—particularly its evolving textures and long-decay reverbs—acts as an anchor, allowing the mind to settle while still engaging with the world in a different way.

I’ve always been drawn to the idea that music can create space—both physical and mental. The warm, evolving tones of vintage synths like the Moog Matriarch and Korg PS-3100 provide a sense of depth, a sonic environment that allows the listener to step outside of the constant noise of daily life. This is why ambient music pairs so well with meditation: it doesn’t demand attention, but it provides a space to simply be.

Sensory Deprivation & Deep Listening

One of the most profound meditative experiences I’ve had came through sensory deprivation therapy. Floating in a completely silent, weightless environment removed all distractions, forcing me to become deeply attuned to my own internal rhythms. I noticed every breath, every heartbeat, and—most interestingly—the way sound continued to exist in my mind even when external noise was absent.

That experience changed how I compose music. It reinforced the idea that silence is never truly empty, and that music isn’t just something we listen to—it’s something we feel. Now, when I create, I think about how the listener will experience the space between the notes just as much as the notes themselves.

Music as a Tool for Stillness

The beauty of ambient music is that it doesn’t rush you. It’s not trying to reach a climax or resolve a melody—it simply exists, evolving at its own pace. That’s what makes it such a powerful tool for meditation, deep focus, and relaxation. Whether I’m composing or listening, I find that ambient soundscapes provide a kind of structure for stillness, guiding the mind into a state of openness without force.

Some of my favorite moments in creating Six Missing have come from improvising with nothing but a synth and its filter, letting the tones shift naturally. There’s something about the way sound interacts with time that feels meditative in itself. It reminds me that everything is in motion, even in stillness.

Creating Soundscapes for Meditation

Many listeners have shared that they use my music for yoga, journaling, or simply winding down at the end of the day. I love that. It reinforces my belief that music can serve as a tool for well-being. It’s why I take such care in crafting evolving soundscapes—ones that don’t just fill space, but create it.

If you’re looking to incorporate music into your own meditation practice, start by focusing on how sound makes you feel. Pay attention to the way certain tones resonate in your body, how different textures bring about different emotional states. There’s no right way to meditate with music—just listen, breathe, and let the sound guide you.

Until next time, Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

Running Toward Clarity: My Relationship with Exercise

Running Toward Clarity: My Relationship with Exercise

For a long time, I never saw myself as a runner. It seemed like something other people did—athletes, morning warriors pounding the pavement before sunrise. But as with many things in life, the path toward running wasn’t about becoming someone else; it was about discovering another side of myself. Over time, running became more than exercise—it became a form of meditation, a way to clear my head, and, in many ways, a companion to my music.

Running as Meditation

I lace up my Nike running shoes and step outside, feeling the familiar comfort of well-worn gear. There's something about the ritual of putting on the same shoes, the same lightweight jacket, that signals to my mind: it’s time to move. The first time I truly connected with running was during a difficult period of my life. I had already been exploring meditation through music, using ambient textures and looping techniques to create space for reflection. But sitting still wasn’t always enough. My mind felt restless, and I needed movement.

When I started running, I realized it was another form of meditation—one that engaged my entire body. The rhythmic pattern of footsteps, the steady inhale and exhale, the feeling of air moving through my lungs—it all became a part of the process. Just like in music, repetition created a trance-like state, a place where thoughts could pass through without overwhelming me.

Soundtracking the Stride

Music plays a huge role in my running. Some people run to high-energy beats, but I’ve always gravitated toward ambient soundscapes and evolving textures. The slow-building nature of ambient music mirrors the gradual unfolding of a long run. It keeps me present, allowing me to focus on each step instead of the miles ahead.

I started curating my own playlists for running, often including some of my own compositions. The textures of vintage synths like the Moog Matriarch and Korg PS-3100 add depth to the experience, creating a sense of movement even when I’m standing still. The resonance of a long-decaying reverb or a gently pulsing delay feels like the perfect companion to an early morning run, when the world is quiet, and everything feels open.

The Discipline of Distance

Much like making music, running requires discipline. Whether it's committing to a long-distance run or breaking in a new pair of Nike running shoes, consistency matters more than perfection. You don’t always feel like doing it, but you show up anyway. Some days, the miles feel effortless; other days, every step is a battle. But consistency matters more than perfection. That’s something I’ve learned through years of composing, tweaking, layering sounds, and trusting that the process will lead somewhere meaningful.

The same goes for mental clarity. Some days, my mind is racing, tangled with thoughts I can’t quite sort out. But running—just like ambient music—has a way of untangling things. It’s not about pushing harder; it’s about surrendering to the process, allowing thoughts to rise and fall like waves, letting the motion itself become the therapy.

Movement & Music: A Lifelong Connection

In the same way that music became a tool for healing in my life, so did running. They are both acts of creation—one through sound, the other through movement. They require patience, presence, and an openness to the journey.

I never set out to be a runner, just like I never set out to create music that others would resonate with. But sometimes, the things we don’t plan become the things that shape us the most.

Until next time, Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

Struggles & Sound: How Music Helped Me Through Addiction

Struggles & Sound: How Music Helped Me Through Addiction

Music has always been more than just sound to me—it has been a refuge, a guide, and, at times, a lifeline. When I look back at my struggles with addiction, I see the moments where music became more than just an outlet; it became a way to ground myself when everything else felt uncertain. It was through sound that I found a path forward.

The Weight of Addiction

Addiction doesn’t happen all at once—it creeps in, slowly entangling itself into the fabric of daily life. What starts as an escape can become a dependency before you even realize it’s happening. I found myself caught in that cycle, searching for relief from the anxiety, the restlessness, and the ever-present feeling of being unmoored.

For a long time, I didn’t acknowledge the weight of it. Addiction is insidious because it convinces you that you’re in control, that you can stop anytime you want. But the truth was, I had lost control, and I needed something to pull me out of the spiral.

Finding Solace in Sound

Music had always been there, but during my lowest moments, it took on a new role. It became a constant, something I could rely on when everything else felt uncertain. The repetitive patterns of looping, the slow evolution of soundscapes—these elements mirrored the process of healing. Each note, each delay, each subtle shift in tone reminded me that change was possible, that growth was happening even when it wasn’t immediately noticeable.

Ambient music, in particular, became a safe space for me. The expansiveness of it—the way it allows the mind to drift, to breathe—helped me navigate the chaos within. I found comfort in the slow movement of synth pads, the warmth of analog textures, the unpredictable yet soothing quality of vintage synthesizers like the Moog Matriarch and Korg PS-3100.

Creating as a Form of Recovery

As I started to heal, I turned to creation as a way of processing everything. The sounds I crafted weren’t just compositions; they were reflections of what I was experiencing—anxiety, release, stillness, and renewal.

Six Missing became, in many ways, a reflection of this journey. The project was never about making traditional songs but about creating a space where sound could serve as a form of meditation, both for me and for those who listened. I realized that if music could help me find moments of clarity, it might do the same for others navigating their own struggles.

Music as Therapy

There’s a reason sound therapy has been used for centuries—certain frequencies, textures, and rhythms can calm the nervous system, reduce stress, and even help rewire thought patterns. Though I didn’t set out to create “healing music,” I began to recognize its therapeutic qualities.

I started receiving messages from listeners who told me they used my music to cope with anxiety, to focus, to feel less alone. That connection reminded me that music is communal, that even in our most isolated moments, we are never truly alone.

Celebrating Sobriety & Moving Forward

This April, I am celebrating 11 years of sobriety. It’s a milestone that reminds me how far I’ve come and how music has played a crucial role in my recovery. Each year reinforces that healing is possible, and that creativity can be a powerful force in that journey.

Moving Forward

Recovery is not a straight path. It’s a continuous process of learning, of unlearning, of discovering new ways to exist in the world. Music remains a vital part of that process for me. It serves as a reminder that even in the most difficult moments, there is still beauty to be found, still space to breathe, still sound to anchor us.

As I continue creating, I do so with the hope that my music provides others with the same solace it has given me. Whether you’re listening for relaxation, meditation, or simply to escape the noise of the world for a while, I hope you find something in it that resonates.

Until next time, Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

Resources for Support:

• If you or someone you know is struggling with addiction, help is available. Visit SAMHSA’s National Helpline or call 1-800-662-HELP (4357).

• If you’re experiencing thoughts of self-harm or suicide, reach out to the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline by dialing 988 or visiting 988lifeline.org. You are not alone.

Without Mind: A Journey Into the New Record

Without Mind: A Journey Into the New Record

Every composition begins with a feeling—sometimes vague, sometimes overwhelming. Without Mind was born from a moment of deep stillness, a rare clarity that felt like an absence of thought yet full of presence. This record is an exploration of that space: where the mind quiets, and the sound takes over.

The Inspiration Behind Without Mind

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what it means to truly let go, to allow myself to exist in a space beyond constant analysis. We spend so much time processing, reacting, thinking—sometimes to the point of exhaustion. Without Mind is an attempt to capture what it feels like to step away from that cycle, to dissolve into something larger than the self.

Much of this idea was inspired by my own experiences with meditation and long runs. Those moments when everything clicks, and I’m not consciously moving but rather being moved, are where the inspiration for this piece came from. The music is meant to reflect that weightless, effortless state of just being.

The Creative Process

The writing process for this record took place during a time when I was tasked with creating music for ketamine-assisted therapy sessions. This unique experience deeply influenced the sonic landscape of Without Mind, leading me to explore textures and frequencies that could facilitate introspection and deep emotional processing. This piece started with a simple drone on the Moog Matriarch, combined with heavy use of eurorack/modular synths throughout the writing process, its shifting harmonics setting the foundation for the track’s sense of motion. From there, I layered in evolving textures from the Korg PS-3100, its polyphonic richness adding depth and space.

Rhythmic pulses emerge subtly, built from looping delays and granular synthesis techniques in Ableton Live. Instead of defining a rigid tempo, I let the sound evolve organically, following the natural rise and fall of the harmonics rather than forcing them into a strict structure. This approach allows the piece to breathe, mirroring the ebb and flow of thought when the mind is at rest.

The Sound of Stillness

I’ve always been drawn to the concept of stillness in sound—not silence, but the kind of stillness that comes from being fully immersed in a moment. The way a long-decaying reverb hangs in the air, or the way a low drone fills a room with warmth, creating a space that feels almost tangible.

Without Mind is an invitation to experience that stillness, to let go of whatever occupies your thoughts and simply listen. It’s a track that doesn’t demand anything from the listener, only that they exist with it, breathe with it, and allow themselves to be within the sound.

A Preview of What’s to Come

This record is part of a larger creative exploration I’m working on—something that continues the themes of presence, release, and deep listening. As I continue to refine these ideas, I hope to create more spaces where music isn’t just something we hear but something we experience.

For now, Without Mind is a moment of pause, a breath in sound form.

Until next time, Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

The Origins of Six Missing: A Project Born from Exploration

The Origins of Six Missing: A Project Born from Exploration

Six Missing was never meant to be a project—it was simply a personal exploration of sound. But, like many of the most meaningful creative endeavors, it took on a life of its own. What started as looping guitar textures in a quiet room grew into an immersive sonic world, and over time, it became clear that people connected with it in ways I never anticipated.

The First Explorations

Before Six Missing had a name, it was just me, my guitar, and an obsession with delay. My first real experiments with looping came from playing with an EarthQuaker Devices Avalanche Run, a pedal that immediately reshaped how I thought about sound. There was something hypnotic about the way loops stacked on top of each other, morphing and dissolving into infinite variations. That feeling of endless possibility became a central theme in my work.

In those early days, my setup was minimal—just a handful of pedals and a Fender Deluxe Reverb. But I found that simplicity gave me room to explore, to push the limits of what I could create with just a guitar and a delay loop. Over time, my experiments expanded. I brought in more effects, more layers, more intention. Eventually, my sonic palette grew beyond guitar-based looping into something more expansive.

The Shift to Synths & Ambient Soundscapes

As I refined my approach, I realized that I wasn’t just interested in playing music—I was interested in sculpting sound. That shift led me to synthesizers, which opened up an entirely new world of textures. My first synth, a Korg Minilogue, was an introduction into synthesis, but it was my discovery of vintage synths that truly changed everything.

The Moog Matriarch, Moog Minimoog, and Prophet-6 were my first foundational synths, shaping the sound of Six Missing. These instruments had a warmth and character that modern synths often lack, and each one brought a unique voice to my compositions. The imperfections—the slight warbles, the unpredictable modulation—made the sound feel alive. It was around this time that Six Missing began to take form as more than just a series of experiments.

The Name & The Meaning Behind It

The name Six Missing came from an eerie, almost supernatural experience in West Chester, PA. I was staying at a friend’s studio near the site of the Battle of Brandywine, and late one night, I felt an overwhelming presence—something I couldn't explain. It was as if I was being watched, and for a brief moment, I felt a cold sensation press against my back. It wasn’t until later that I learned about six soldiers who were unaccounted for from that battle. The experience stuck with me, and when it came time to put a name to my music, Six Missing felt inevitable.

Finding an Audience

For a long time, these pieces were just for me—an outlet, a meditative process. But when I started sharing them, something unexpected happened: people resonated with them. Listeners told me they used my music to focus, to meditate, to calm anxiety. It became clear that Six Missing wasn’t just about me—it was about creating space for others to feel something, too.

When I officially released my first collection of ambient compositions, I was floored by the response. The music found its way to people who needed it, and that encouraged me to keep going. I leaned further into the emotional core of the project, refining the way I approached sound design and composition.

What Six Missing Represents Today

Today, Six Missing is more than just an experiment—it’s a way of being. It’s a reminder that music can be a space for reflection, for stillness, for deep listening. Every piece I create is rooted in the idea of giving listeners a moment to breathe, to reset, to simply be in the present moment.

This blog will continue to explore the themes that have shaped Six Missing, from my struggles with addiction to my relationship with running, meditation, and self-discovery. Music is the thread that ties it all together, and I’m grateful to share this journey with you.

Until next time, Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

Who I Am & Why I Make Music

Who I Am & Why I Make Music

Music has always been a way for me to process the world—its beauty, its weight, and the in-between spaces where emotions live. From my earliest memories, sound fascinated me. I was drawn not just to melodies but to the textures of sound, the way it could envelop you like a warm embrace or stretch out into the distance like a horizon at dusk. That fascination never faded; it only deepened, eventually leading me to create Six Missing.

A Sonic Beginning

My journey started with the piano, my first instrument. While I found traditional lessons slow-paced, I quickly discovered that I could play by ear, and that felt far more natural. But it wasn’t until I stumbled upon my Uncle Chuck’s 1964 Gretsch Clipper in my grandparents’ attic that my love for music truly ignited. Surrounded by stacks of vinyl records, I felt an instant connection to the instrument, sparking a passion that would guide me for years to come.

Like many guitarists, I was shaped by classic rock, and Led Zeppelin’s IV was my gateway. The moment I heard the solo in “Stairway to Heaven,” I was hooked. But it wasn’t just the guitar work that fascinated me—it was the atmosphere, the space between the notes, the way sound could transport you.

The Path to Six Missing

As I grew, my musical tastes evolved. I explored delay pedals and looping, captivated by the infinite layers they could create. My first pedals—a Jekyll & Hyde distortion, a Zoom 606 multi-effects unit, and eventually a Boss DD-6—opened the door to soundscapes that felt boundless. By the time I transitioned to synths, beginning with the Korg Minilogue, my focus had shifted from traditional songwriting to immersive sonic exploration. Discovering vintage synths like the Moog Memorymoog and the Juno-60 further deepened my understanding of texture and space, shaping the sonic identity of Six Missing.

But the defining moment for Six Missing came in Astoria, Queens. What began as a simple guitar looping project evolved into something deeper. Encouraged by friends, I released my early ambient explorations, and the response was unexpectedly encouraging. It was clear that people connected to this music—not just as entertainment, but as a space for meditation, deep focus, and healing.

Why I Create

For me, music is more than sound—it’s a means of connection, a way to navigate the complexities of being human. I’ve found that ambient music, in particular, holds a unique power. It allows the mind to wander, to rest, to breathe. It can offer solace in moments of anxiety, a moment of stillness in a chaotic world.

That’s why I create. Whether it’s for someone meditating, studying, or simply needing a pause from the noise of everyday life, my goal is to craft soundscapes that offer space—to think, to feel, to just be.

This blog will be a place to share my journey—how Six Missing came to be, the struggles I’ve faced, and the inspirations that continue to shape my sound. If you’re here, I hope you find something that resonates with you.

Until next time, Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

I Am Not a Runner

I am not a runner.

Or at least that’s what I told myself as a kid.

Then again into my middle school years.

And yet again as a young adult.

And pretty far into adulthood, too.

If that’s what I kept telling myself, then it must be true. I am not a runner.

Growing up with a father who was a runner, I always saw how much he wanted me to be active. He ushered me outside into sports when I would’ve rather been inside with my imagination - and then in later years, with my guitar.

Once I had to start showing up to baseball practices and games, I realized quickly that I had no desire to become good at sports. It just wasn’t in my makeup. All that running. All that…outsideness.

Despite not being a runner I would, in fact, try running every so often.

Once every few years I would go for a run and hate it, chalking it up to being out of shape and not wanting to feel tired. In gym class, I would push my improv skills to the limit in an attempt to avoid running that dreaded mile around the faux-asphalt loop in the sun. “Uh coach, I think I pulled something and can’t really run today. So, coach, my lunch period was just before this and I ate a lot, I can’t run on a full stomach!” Eventually, when they did catch me off guard and force me to do the run, I would have moments during the second loop where I’d maybe glimpse what it felt like to have a small rhythm in my stride… but it was quickly replaced by the pounding of my heart in my ears and my wheezing breath. I’d get all in my head about the fact that I was running and not just allow myself to be running.

Post the gym-class mile, I never really gave running another chance.

As far as I was concerned, it was settled: I am not a runner.

I had not yet learned that maybe the stories I tell myself, or conversely, the “truths” I avoid thinking about, can be changed…maybe…

Let’s now jump ahead to late 2009. I was living on my own about two and a half hours north of NYC and I was finally getting really good at something - drinking.

In fact, I was so good at it, that I could even manage to do a lot of other things halfway decent while keeping my drinking uninterrupted. I was succeeding at my job, I was gaining notoriety for my music production skills, and I was even hanging onto relationships. But from the corner of the room in my mind, I was also watching myself completely and totally flush my whole life’s potential down the drain.

Barely hanging on…doing just enough to succeed? Was that really all I wanted out of this short little adventure we have earthside?

I decided that those were thoughts for another day - better to stuff them into the mind-closet and keep the bottle around because the bottle made me “feel better” and those thoughts of actually being better made me feel, well, not that way.

Drinking actually allowed me to feel at ease and quiet my overactive mind, so I suppose that was why I was getting so good at it–I thought I was helping myself. And to borrow a term so many alcoholics use, I was self-medicating.

But after a while, the thoughts I not-so-neatly stuffed in the closet started pounding on the door and demanding my attention. I’ll spare you the vignettes of ups and downs; the failed attempts at sobriety and the relapses once, twice, third-time's-a-charm type of thing, as they were as you would picture them - awful and not fun or successful for very long.

The clock raced forward and through the good fortune of meeting a person who truly saw me for me, relocating south to vibrant NYC, and taking ownership of my addiction (I am an alcoholic), I put the bottle down once and for all. I’m pretty proud to say that as of today, I’m ten years, one month, and twenty-two days sober and have zero plans on interrupting that life-decision.

So okay, I got sober. And suddenly, I realized…days are pretty long, aren’t they? And wow, getting up early before work means I actually have time to do some things. And holy crap - it stays light so much longer in the summer - what should we do!?

My partner and I began walking. We loved walking. Still do, actually.

And since we were living in NYC, we could spend the entire day aimlessly walking, never getting bored thanks to the ever-changing landscape that is the greatest city in the world. There would be times we’d walk in total silence for a few blocks and other times we’d be unable to stop talking…and okay, there were definitely some times I’d get the silent treatment for making us walk that extra block to make it to the subway station that was, unbeknownst to me, closed for the weekend for reasons only the metropolitan authorities could rationalize. But we were in-motion, and that was feeling good.

On weekends, we would grab bagels and coffee and head down to the park. From “our park bench” we’d watch people running by us, working out and jogging, some training, others joyfully strolling. While I, wiping cream cheese out of my beard, sat there and thought about how much better they were at taking care of themselves than me. “Maybe one day,” I’d think.

Finally, after many weekends on the bench and with a newfound exuberance for life, discovered as I continued to make my way out of the fog of alcohol, I decided that that one day could easily become today.

I grabbed the dusty running shoes I’d been keeping for that one day and laced them up, tossed on some sweats and…damn, this is hard.

It was as hard as I remembered. I had instant flashbacks of gym class excuses and all I really wanted to do was sit back down and eat that fluffy bagel and maybe give it a go again another day.

But I decided I wasn’t going to give myself an out like I’d done so many times before. I really wanted to try this.

iPhone apps had come a long way since I first got my phone and after some quick searching in the App Store, I found an app called Couch to 5k. It sounded up my alley so I downloaded it and gave it a try. Its purpose was to bring you from sitting on the couch…to running a 5k. (I love a clear mission and company name.) It had me running intervals - one minute jog, two minute walk. Another minute jogging, another two minutes walking, and so on. I paired it with music on my phone and hey, this isn’t so bad. I got through the first run and somehow didn’t want to die! Even better, I didn’t collapse!

But like anything - the adrenaline of starting something faded fast and on day five, I was huffing and puffing around the track again. But I made an agreement with myself, and I would not give up on this until I hit the 5k. So, hush negative thoughts! And keep going!

That reminder to myself seemed to work as I began going for a run every day.

I was even finding that I actually wanted to make time in the day to get back to the track. I really couldn’t wait to get out there - I was accomplishing something and this time it was good for me!

Before long, I did it - I ran my first 5k without stopping.

From there, what happened was exponential. (If you will, imagine a supercut montage with pumping drums and a triumphant guitar lick playing off of horn melodies and FIREWORKS!)

…You get the point. Time passed.

I began finishing a run on the track and thinking, hey, maybe I could run half way back home instead of walking. Soon after that, maybe I could run all the way home. Before I knew it, the track could no longer hold me and the distance I craved. I was widening my runs to include a jog from my apartment to the track, around the track, through the neighborhood and back home. Quickly I was learning how to lock in on runs - I was finding that sweet spot of stride and pace and breath and music and visuals and HOLY SHIT AM I MEDITATING?!

5k, which once was my goal, became my “slow day” - my baseline! Wow.

Now I was elevating to eight miles, ten miles, and wait a second…what’s a half marathon again? Well, hell yeah let’s keep going! I couldn’t believe my eyes as my watch logged 13.1 miles on a run.

Did I really just do that? Was I the same person who was putting away a pumpernickel-everything with vegetable cream cheese eighteen months ago?

This solo half marathon was unintentional- I really was just so locked in to the joy of it, that I just kept…going.

It seemed as though this story I told myself of not being something could potentially change. It didn’t have to stay “true”. Maybe it had never been true.

Because by all counts, I was a runner.

I started pushing myself to hit a sub-six minute mile - something I literally never thought I could or would do. Yet there I found myself on a rainy morning in Astoria, Queens - the soundtrack from Stranger Things pumping in my ears - flying down past the cars and cabs, watching buildings fly by, and I felt present with it all. Purely joyful.

I discovered the meditative aspect of running.

I was combining exercise and meditation in this blissful combination of mindful exercise. I was letting thought fall away and I was just being. I was running just for the fun of it.

My relationship with running continued to grow and remained an overall positive experience until I left NYC.

At the beginning of 2020 my partner and I packed up and moved to Austin.

We didn’t know a soul in Austin.

And we more or less picked a rental out of a hat in a neighborhood we hoped was good.

But we were on board for whatever came our way and were excited for a change.

A few months later, we found ourselves months into a global pandemic, trapped inside both for safety and because of the brutal, endless heat of an Austin summer.

Slowly, my running fell apart. I couldn’t get up early enough or stay up late enough to beat the heat. Neighborhood runs were different from city runs. The isolation of the pandemic was taking its toll.

And before I knew it, I went entire months without even lacing up my running shoes.

Truthfully, even writing about this part of the journey is difficult.

I struggled for a while to come to terms with the fact that I had lost something that I held so dearly to me. Something that was so unexpectedly wonderful. Something that made me feel so good and so in control of myself and my life. Just like that - it was gone.

And there I found myself again, mentally back on the park bench with a metaphorical bagel in my hand while I told myself again–like those years running in NYC had never even happened– “I am not a runner.”

Recently, my father came to visit and on a walk together, he was telling me how the process of recovering from a recent surgery has been.

He’s been a runner all his life, and we were reflecting on what it means to slow down - something neither of us are good at.

And while on our walk, he told me why he loves running: because you “can’t do anything else but be on the run.” I was a little dumbfounded at how simple that was. And when he said it, something clicked for me. I have been making ambient and meditative music as an artist called Six Missing for the past seven years and I never really thought about linking the meditation mindset to that of someone who has never knowingly meditated in their life… My Dad.

I told him he's actually been meditating his entire life and he didn’t even realize it. Because in meditation you can only really just be where you are.

We connected over our mutual love of that feeling, and it gave me a little burst of energy to perhaps try this running thing again. Because one of the biggest teachings of meditation is to “begin again.”

Maybe I could begin again.

So here it goes.

I’ve decided I’m going to start slow, give myself that foundation that I need in order to get back into the swing of it. I put together a playlist on Spotify that has some of my favorite meditative and ambient pieces from both myself and artists I admire to make for a meditative run. I thought it could be something to help me tune out the noise of my head and take in my surroundings.

We may never be able to go back in time to what once was. But we can move ahead with all those experiences in our pocket. So really, this is a love-letter to anyone who has started and stopped something in their life.

Even if I stopped running for a while, that doesn’t make me not a runner.

My story has changed a lot and I’m sure it will continue to evolve. But for now, I’m changing it once more.

I am a runner.

See you out there.